by Evelyn James
“Oh,” said Clara, not sure what else to say.
“You don’t know us, Miss Fitzgerald, but we know of you. We would like to talk about a mutual problem we have,” the spokesman for the little party said.
Clara took another long look at her visitors. She did not normally encourage unsolicited calls to her home from strangers, especially the sort of strangers who looked as though they knew what the inside of a prison cell was like, but she sensed this was very important, so she ignored her usual rule.
“You best come in.”
She stood back to let the five men enter, only then noticing that Mrs Robson from across the road was staring at her house with a mingled look of horror and astonishment on her face. Clara gave her a cheery wave.
“Meeting of the Brighton Chess Club Committee,” she told her drily and then shut the door fast.
She escorted her unsavoury guests into the dining room, where they could all take a chair around the table. There was a warm fire burning in the grate, and she could see that at least two of the men were drawn to it with the unthinking desire only a perpetually cold man can possess.
Annie appeared in the doorway, glanced at the men and, to her credit, did not act surprised or concerned.
“You’ll be wanting six teacups then,” she said steadily, and then with a decisive nod to herself, “and plenty of toast and bacon.”
She departed to her task.
“Gentlemen, please be seated and tell me what has brought you out to my house on this bitterly cold morning,” Clara said. “What mutual problem do we share?”
The lead man, who was wearing a threadbare waistcoat and had tattoos across the backs of his dirty hands sat in the chair at the far end of the table, looking a little uncomfortable in the tidy dining room. He cleared his throat conscientiously.
“I’m Harry Lombard,” he said. “I suppose I am spokesman for our unhappy band. This is John and this is Jonny, we call them that to tell the difference.”
The two respective Johns, sitting on Harry’s right, nodded their heads to Clara.
“This here is Joe and lastly we have Sam,” having made the introductions, Harry relaxed. “We know about you, Miss Fitzgerald, we know you is an honest and good-hearted person. When poor Mervin Grimes ended up in that carnival as a mummified… mummy, you made the effort to find out what had happened. You didn’t have to, police didn’t care. He was a criminal and they were glad to be rid of him, but you helped bring him justice. And you did the same with Jenny. You found out what became of her and caught her killer.”
“Only, I could not lay my hands on the person who ordered their killing,” Clara said softly.
“That’s not the point, you did what you could. Other people wouldn’t have even battered an eye. Mostly, those folks in power, think we are nothing. What does it matter if another of those wastrels gets himself killed?”
Clara was reminded of a conversation she had recently had with Inspector Park-Coombs, where he had remarked the gang trouble was being ignored by his superiors as it only affected those of a lowly class. Though not Park-Coombs’ attitude, she knew all too well the truth behind the words Harry was saying.
“That’s why we have come here,” Harry continued. “Hoping we can be of use to one another. This new gang that has appeared in Brighton, the one you tangled with, well, it is making our lives a misery and we don’t have anyone we can turn to.”
“Police don’t care,” John muttered.
“This gang is like nothing we have dealt with before. If you are not with them, then you are seen as the enemy. A man can’t get on with his own plans. They make people disappear and we don’t know if they are alive or dead, they made Sam’s cousin disappear,” Harry pointed to Sam.
“One night he was just gone,” Sam explained, when he spoke he revealed he was missing his front teeth. “He was harmless, no call for it.”
“These people threaten our families. They have muscled in to all our patches, pushed us around and demanded loyalty to their boss, who we have never met. And they are not even Brighton boys, they are Londoners, and their boss is foreign!” Harry spoke with growing alarm as he recounted his plight. “Oh, some of our lads have joined them, but they are looked down upon by the others, the ones who came from London. They get all the rotten jobs and are treated like dirt. You know, we are used to being seen as scum by the police, by the posh folk, but to be treated like scum by those who are the same as you is a kick in the teeth!”
There was a rally of agreements from the other men at the table. Clara listened with sympathetic ears.
“I don’t like this gang any more than you do,” she said. “They are a threat to our entire town, unfortunately, those who should know better do not see that.”
“We hoped, Miss Fitzgerald, that if we worked together, we could do something about it,” Harry said carefully. “We have considered our own position and we know we cannot do anything alone. There is not enough of us to fight this gang and, truthfully, none of us wants a war starting up in the streets, one that could hurt our families.”
“No, violence is not the answer,” Clara agreed. “We have to be more subtle than that.”
Annie then appeared with a platter of buttered toast which she presented to the men.
“You fellows need to eat up,” she told them in her motherly tone. “It’s bitter out there. The bacon and tea are coming.”
The men stared at the platter with a mixture of surprise and hesitation. None of them wanted to be the first to dig in. They were almost too scared to move, as if they would be making a huge social error plucking a piece of toast from the pile.
“You better start eating before Annie returns,” Clara informed them with a smile. “Else she will take offence and think her toast isn’t good enough.”
Harry managed a grin and reached out for a slice. Swiftly his comrades followed and by the time Annie returned with a plate loaded with crispy bacon and a pot of tea, the men were consuming her toast like there was no tomorrow. She seemed satisfied.
“Now, what is this all about?” She asked, producing cups and saucers from the sideboard.
Clara was about to say it was nothing, as she was trying to keep Annie out of the gang business, but Harry was feeling voluble and spoke first.
“We hoped Miss Fitzgerald would help us deal with this gang causing disruption and misery to our lives,” he said. “The police don’t care. We have been left to suffer.”
Annie arranged the cups and saucers on the table, a frown gracing her face.
“Why don’t the police care?” She asked, her question addressed to Clara.
“Actually, the local police do care,” Clara said. “That is, Inspector Park-Coombs is very concerned about this trouble. Unfortunately, his superiors have tied his hands, refusing to give him the resources he needs to stop this gang.”
“Why?” Annie asked.
Clara gave a regretful sigh.
“Because this gang currently only affects people of Harry’s class, and for some people that makes the whole thing unimportant.”
Annie huffed.
“People are so narrow-minded,” she grumbled. “Fortunately, we are not like that, are we Clara?”
Clara smiled at her friend.
“No, we are not.”
“Seems to me,” Annie continued, now pouring tea for each of the men, “that if you can’t make the higher ups concerned for the wellbeing of the people they should care about, then you will just have to make them think this gang is threatening the people they do worry about.”
“The gang boss is clever enough to avoid that,” Harry said grimly. “They are sticking to harassing us.”
“I didn’t say it had to be true,” Annie said carefully. “I said you just had to make them think this gang threatened the higher-ups.”
Clara brightened up as Annie’s words rang in her head.
“Oh Annie, that is genius! Yes, we make them think this gang threatens the important people of Brighton,
then they will crush it as fast as they can.”
“But how?” Harry asked, a faint glimmer of hope on his face, but he was too used to disappointment to allow it to take root just yet.
Clara gave this some thought.
“We need to do something in the name of this gang, make it seem that they have committed a terrible crime that cannot be ignored,” Clara found her eyes wandering around the room for inspiration. She paused on the morning edition of the Brighton Gazette. There had been a front-page article about a pre-Christmas pageant to be held at the Brighton Pavilion in honour of some visiting dignitaries. Clara picked up the paper.
“We kidnap someone,” she told her assembly of criminals. “We kidnap someone important.”
She was rather pleased that all the men gave her a look of utter aghast, though Annie merely nodded in approval.
“Kidnapping?” Harry declared. “We can’t do that!”
“I think we can,” Clara insisted. “Of course, we shall not really kidnap anyone. The kidnapped person shall be in on our little plan. We must find the right person, someone willing, and once we have snatched them away, we make it very clear it was the work of this new gang. The police will have to act, they will have to crush the gang to save face.”
“They did say you were a little crazy,” Harry still had his mouth open in amazement.
“I take that as a compliment,” Clara smiled. “It is audacious, I admit, but we have to do something dramatic to make the police act. If we carry on as we are, nothing will be done, and others will suffer.”
Sam had become quiet; it was obvious his thoughts had turned to his missing cousin.
“I’ve never kidnapped anyone,” Jonny said, looking a little flushed by the suggestion.
“We shall need someone with experience and with the manpower to help us,” Clara nodded. “I was thinking of Brilliant Chang.”
“Brilliant Chang?” Annie said before any of the men could.
“I know Chang is in town and I know he will be keeping up to speed with this gang trouble by using local informants. He wants this gang crushed as much as anyone else. They challenge his authority,” Clara folded her arms and sat back in her chair, waiting for someone to speak.
There was a long silence.
“Brilliant Chang can help us. With any luck, knowing his contacts, he will be friendly with one of the dignitaries coming to this pageant and will be able to recruit them to our cause. Without him, I don’t think this can succeed,” Clara pressed them, making the situation plain. “I won’t lie, this business is somewhat beyond me, just as it is beyond you, we need Chang’s help and he has a vested interest in seeing this gang destroyed. So, what do you say?”
Clara waited patiently for their response.
After their silence had extended an unhappy length of time, the man named Joe gave a sort of snort that indicated he was going to speak.
“I say we do it,” he said in barely a whisper.
His comrades cast him surprised looks, and it was obvious he was the last person they would expect to agree to work with Chang.
“And what about everyone else?” Clara asked her guests.
After another long pause, there were mutters of agreement.
By now the party had consumed the toast and bacon and had slurped their way through the tea. It seemed their meeting was at an end.
“I shall speak to Chang and as soon as I have a reply, I shall contact you,” Clara said to Harry, he seemed the leader of the group and the one she should coordinate with. “How can I reach you?”
“My Uncle Alfie works as a porter at the train station. You can give him a message to pass to me,” Harry suggested. “I think it wise if we keep our distance, yes?”
“Yes,” Clara nodded. “Working through intermediaries is safest. Thank you for coming to me, gentlemen, and for trusting me.”
Everyone rose and started for the door. Sam paused.
“Thank you for the toast and bacon, miss,” he said to Annie. “And the tea. Why, that reminded me of the sorts of breakfast my old mam used to make, rest her soul.”
Annie beamed with pride. Sparked by Sam, the other men all gave their thanks to her and remarked how lovely the food had been. Clara saw them to the door, wished them well and watched them disappear into the cold morning.
Annie stood behind her.
“What delightful men,” she said.
Clara chuckled to herself.
Chapter Seven
Clara was abysmally late arriving at the gates of the funfair to meet Captain O’Harris. She had run the last few streets, trying to convince herself she could somehow reverse time and eradicate the fifteen minutes she was late by. When she finally came to a halt at the gates, she was puffing hard, hat askew and cheeks burning hot. Clara had not done a lot of running since school, and she certainly had not run back then in kitten heels.
Captain O’Harris was smiling at her in amusement.
“Clara Fitzgerald, hell must have frozen over, because you are late for an appointment!” He declared in great humour.
Clara lightly backhanded his arm.
“Oh, shut up,” she glared at him before a smile crept across her face. “I think I might be dying.”
“Take a lot more than a brisk run to kill you off,” O’Harris chuckled loudly. “Dare I ask what detained you?”
“A committee of Brighton’s underworld’s finest desperate for help,” Clara shook her head. “And Annie was determined to feed them toast and bacon until it came out of their ears.”
“Annie has a big heart,” O’Harris grinned. “Desperate for help?”
“The gang trouble,” Clara shrugged. “A lot of people feel the police don’t care and I can hardly say I blame them.”
O’Harris’ face darkened.
“On that I can concur.”
O’Harris still smarted from the fact that one of his clients at the home had been accused of murder by the police, when it should have been obvious that he was the victim of a serious crime. In any case, O’Harris had lost his faith in the boys in blue.
“Have you recovered sufficiently to see Clark?” He asked as Clara leaned against a handy lamppost and fanned her face.
“Yes, any further ideas on how to help him?” Clara pushed away from the lamppost and straightened her coat and hat.
“I have spoken to my doctors and they are all agreed that the first thing we need to do is figure out what really happened in that tent last night and then get Clark to accept what occurred. Only then will he be able to tap into his recent memories.”
“Right,” Clara said, feeling that was something of a tall order. “Well, we have the knife. Best we start by seeing if anyone recognises it.”
They headed for Clark’s caravan, passing between stalls that were closed for the time being. It was too early for the funfair to be expecting paying visitors, and most of the vendors were still soundly asleep. A couple of burly men were mooching around, looking important. Clara guessed they were security, patrolling the funfair for anyone sneaking in. They gave Clara and O’Harris a fierce look and she smiled back brightly, offering them a wave. Whether Maven had told his security thugs about Clara, or whether her demeanour convinced them she was meant to be there, they certainly seemed to accept she was allowed to wander around and disappeared behind the carousel without a backward glance.
“Pity they weren’t around when Clark was under attack,” O’Harris murmured.
Clara had followed the vanishing goons with her eyes to make sure they were really gone; she jerked her head back to him.
“Pity we have no witnesses at all. Clark’s tent was rather out of the way.”
“Guess he preferred to avoid too many visitors when he was not performing.”
“More likely Maven knew he was not a main attraction outside of his gunslinging act and reserved prime space for his money-making stalls,” Clara said.
They meandered their way to Clark’s caravan, getting lost once or twice. Clara coul
d smell fried onions and coffee lingering in the air, and the faint hint of gunpowder used to make colourful explosions in some of the acts. The wind was cold and whipped fragments of paper around them.
“Ever thought that funfairs are awfully depressing places when they are closed,” she said.
“Like a lot of places that need the buzz of people milling about to make them feel right,” O’Harris nodded. “Schools, hospitals, even shops, feel wrong when they are empty. I suppose that is because they only exist to serve people.”
Clara turned a corner around a duck shoot game and came face to face with a giant wooden bear that was roaring at her. She jumped at the sight and O’Harris laughed again.
“I was not expecting it,” Clara grumped, feeling embarrassed.
“I thought you said this place felt depressing, not scary.”
“You weren’t at the last funfair where a murdered man was on display as an Egyptian mummy,” Clara pointed out. “There is something a little surreal about these places, a bit creepy.”
“They are just tents and sideshows,” O’Harris patted her shoulder. “In a week’s time this will all be gone, and we shall be walking across the grassy cliffs again.”
Clara nudged past the bear and was relieved to see Clark’s caravan ahead. There was smoke feeding out of the chimney and that gave her hope that Clark was feeling better and making an effort to remember where he was. She knocked on the door.
It was not Clark who opened it, but Polly wearing a tatty day dress and a shawl about her shoulders. She smiled at Clara.
“Back bright and early.”
“How is Clark?”
Polly glanced over her shoulder, into the caravan.
“Better,” she said cautiously. “Still can’t remember a thing, but he seems more accepting of that now. I was just making him some breakfast.”
Clara did not remark that it was close to eleven, she guessed the funfair folk had a different timescale to her.