Mr Sparks

by Danny Weston

  ‘But he is,’ said Quinn quietly. ‘He got away from us, after all.’

  ‘But not like this,’ complained Wilkins. ‘That’s not fair.’

  Quinn sneered. ‘Fair? It’s not a game, Wilkins. It never has been.’ He was looking now at the open trunk, with particular attention to an empty drawer in the very centre of it. ‘And if I’m not very much mistaken …’ He went to the trunk, crouched down and examined the drawer. Then he tried all the other compartments, pulling each of them open and dragging out the contents. ‘They’ve both gone,’ he said finally.

  Wilkins turned away from the bed. ‘But ’ow is that possible?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean, both?’ asked Aunt Gwen, who had watched the entire routine from the doorway. ‘There was only Mr Schilling in the room.’

  Quinn lifted his head and looked at Aunt Gwen. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘Mr Schilling had a companion. The two of them were … inseparable.’

  ‘But he checked in alone, I saw to it myself. And … are you saying that Mr Schilling is … dead?’ asked Aunt Gwen, mouthing the last word with some reluctance. ‘In my hotel?’

  Quinn looked annoyed at this. ‘Miss Morgan, I can assure you he’s dead wherever he happens to be.’ He got back to his feet and walked to the centre of the room where a scatter of discarded clothing and a blue fabric bag were lying on the carpet. He poked at the latter with the toe of one shoe.

  ‘What’s this?’ he wondered.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Aunt Gwen.

  ‘Odd?’ echoed Wilkins, walking over to her.

  ‘Those clothes. They look like … well, they look like Owen’s things.’ Aunt Gwen came forward. She stooped, picked up the wash bag, unbuttoned it and peered inside. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘These are most definitely his.’

  ‘Owen?’ echoed Quinn. ‘You mentioned him earlier …’

  ‘My nephew! That’s why I thought you were here in the first place. He’s gone missing, you see. I went to wake him up this morning and he wasn’t in his room. No sign of him anywhere.’

  Quinn regarded the scattered clothes thoughtfully. ‘Right. And … how old is … Owen?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s twelve, nearly thirteen.’ Aunt Gwen buttoned the wash bag. ‘Now I think of it, he did seem to be spending a lot of time up here with …’ She waved a hand in the direction of the bed. ‘Him. And you have to ask yourself … what are the boy’s things doing in here? I noticed the suitcase had gone from his room, this morning, but—’

  ‘A suitcase?’ growled Wilkins. ‘How big?’

  Aunt Gwen scowled and held her hands out three feet apart to indicate a size. ‘About so big, I suppose. Why does that matter?’ The two men exchanged looks. This seemed to mean something to them.

  Quinn moved closer. ‘Do you have any idea where the boy might have gone?’ he asked.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Oh, come along, madam, he’s your nephew. You must have some idea what goes on in his head. Where are his parents?’

  ‘His father’s dead. His mother – my sister – she’s …’

  ‘She’s what?’ asked Wilkins impatiently.

  ‘Well, if you really must know, she’s in an asylum. The North Wales Lunatic Asylum in Denbigh.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Come to think of it, Owen was only pestering me about her yesterday.’

  ‘Pestering you?’

  ‘Yes. Saying he wanted to go and visit her. But I told him, it’s not really convenient just now. Here, you don’t think …?’

  Again, the two men looked at each other. ‘We really must be going,’ said Quinn. He and Wilkins started towards the door.

  ‘Just a minute!’ protested Aunt Gwen. ‘You can’t leave.’ She pointed with evident reluctance towards the bed. ‘What about him?’

  ‘What about him?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Well, what should I do?’

  ‘If I were you, I’d call the police,’ he said.

  ‘The … but … I thought you two were …’

  ‘Police?’ murmured Wilkins. ‘Can’t imagine what gave you that idea.’

  ‘Because you … you said … you were after a criminal. You gave me the impression that you were … official.’

  ‘Sorry about that, I’m sure,’ said Wilkins.

  ‘And … what am I supposed to tell the police? That some old fellow has died of a heart attack?’

  Quinn looked at her, his expression grave. ‘You may tell them whatever you wish,’ he said. ‘As to the cause of death, that will be for them to decide.’ There was a brief silence. Then he smiled and said, ‘Lovely meeting you.’ And he and Wilkins went out of the room and down the stairs to the exit. They were about halfway down, when Aunt Gwen strode out onto the landing, her hands on her hips. She stared indignantly after them.

  ‘Another thing,’ she said. ‘Who’s going to pay for the room?’

  Quinn and Wilkins walked a short distance along the promenade until they got to the place where they’d parked the car. It was a black Daimler Phaeton, custom made, and Wilkins’ pride and joy, even though the vehicle actually belonged to Quinn. Wilkins took great pleasure in driving it though. Some people he’d met had expressed their disapproval that he should agree to drive a German car so soon after the Great War, but he took no notice of them. As far as he was concerned, there wasn’t another automobile to match it anywhere in the world. He unlocked the door and climbed in behind the steering wheel, while Quinn settled himself in to the passenger seat. They sat for a moment in silence.

  ‘I really thought we ’ad him for a moment,’ murmured Wilkins.

  ‘Yes, But we’re still close. I can feel it. They can’t be more than a few hours ahead of us.’

  Wilkins frowned. ‘You think that’s where they’ve gone? The asylum?’

  ‘It seems to make sense. You know how Sparks operates. He latches on to the vulnerable ones, finds out what it is they want, then offers it to them. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. If the boy wanted to see his mother, of course the creature would use that.’ Quinn reached into his pocket and took out a revolver.

  Wilkins glared at it. ‘I really wish you hadn’t brought that along,’ he said. ‘You know I don’t like guns. And besides, I really don’t see the need.’

  Quinn sneered. ‘You’re hardly in a position to lay down any demands,’ he said. But he opened the glove box and dropped the gun into it. ‘The gun was for the old man,’ he explained. ‘Just in case he had some kind of weapon, hidden away. I hardly think we’ll need it for a twelve-year-old boy.’ He closed the glove box and looked at Wilkins. ‘You know how to get to Denbigh?’

  ‘I’ll find it,’ Wilkins assured him. He seemed to think for a moment and then laughed quietly.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘That woman.’ Wilkins jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the hotel. ‘Thought I was still with the police.’ He laughed again and this time, Quinn laughed with him, but only for a few moments. Then his gaze hardened and his mouth rearranged itself into a tight, unforgiving line.

  ‘Denbigh,’ he said.

  Wilkins started the engine, put the car into gear and drove away.

  6

  Debut

  The train trundled rhythmically through the Welsh countryside and Owen sat gazing thoughtfully out of the window, as a seemingly endless parade of green fields and hedges slipped past him. After a long and boring wait at the station, he had managed to secure a seat on the first train of the day, which turned out to be surprisingly busy for so early on a Sunday morning. He’d felt rather strange handing over the money for his fare at the ticket booth, strange and horribly guilty, knowing that the money he proffered for payment had belonged to poor Mr Schilling, who lay dead in his bed back at the Sea View hotel.

  Owen wondered if Auntie Gwen had discovered the body yet. He knew that she’d already be aware of her nephew’s absence, that she’d have realised the moment she came up
to his room to give him his usual early morning shout at seven o’clock. He trembled to think what she might be saying about him now or what she would be doing to ensure that he was brought right back to her. Auntie Gwen was not the sort to let go of something she wanted and she did want Owen, even if it was only as an unpaid worker.

  He glanced warily up at the luggage rack above his head, where he had stored the suitcase. For the time being at least, Mr Sparks was keeping quiet, which was a good thing, since Owen wasn’t the only traveller in this compartment. The seat opposite him was occupied by a stout mother and her two young children, a boy and a girl of around seven or eight years old, who for reasons best known to themselves, were staring at Owen as though he had a black smudge on his nose. Each of the children had a large bag of sticky sweets and they kept popping one after another into their mouths and sucking noisily. On the seat beside Owen, sat a middle-aged businessman dressed in a sober black suit. He had stern, ruddy features and a drooping black moustache. He was absorbed in a Welsh language newspaper and seemed to take no interest at all in his fellow travellers.

  Owen found himself reviewing the events of the last day with a faint air of disbelief. Not for the first time, he thought about leaving the train at the next station and abandoning Mr Sparks to his fate. Nobody would have blamed him for doing such a thing. And yet, even though the impulse was there, he somehow felt completely incapable of acting upon it. It was as though he somehow felt responsible for Mr Sparks – as though the dummy was his son or his brother or some other family member. Which was ridiculous when you thought about it. After all, he was no more than a lump of cleverly carved wood. Though, if that was the case … how was he able to talk? And think? And even move around a little, all without the help of a human operator? None of it made any sense.

  ‘Tickets, please!’ Owen looked up to see a uniformed conductor entering the compartment, a burly fellow with a handlebar moustache. Owen fumbled in his pocket for the ticket he’d purchased back at Llandudno station. As he held it out for inspection, he felt horribly nervous, imagining that the guard would somehow recognise him and say that the ticket had been purchased with a dead man’s money. But the conductor just gave Owen a jovial smile and used a metal punch to stamp the ticket.

  ‘Denbigh,’ he observed. ‘What takes you there, lad?’

  ‘This flipping train, obviously!’ said a voice from above Owen’s head and the conductor looked up in surprise, before glancing around at the other passengers. ‘Who said that?’ he asked the occupants of the compartment, but received nothing more than baffled looks for his trouble. He returned his gaze to Owen and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Was that you?’ he asked sternly.

  ‘No, sir,’ Owen assured him.

  ‘It was me,’ said a high-pitched voice and now everyone turned to look, open-mouthed up at the luggage rack. ‘And I tell you what, I’m nearly suffocating in here! Owie, lift me down for a moment, I need some air.’

  ‘I … I can’t,’ protested Owen, aware of his face reddening.

  ‘Of course you can.’

  Now the conductor looked outraged. ‘Whoever’s up there, I hope you have a ticket,’ he said. ‘It’s an offence to ride on a train without one,’

  ‘I don’t need a ticket!’ said the voice. ‘Owie, get me down from here!’

  Owen looked around the compartment with a sinking feeling. Now everyone was staring at him as though he’d done something terrible and he remembered how he’d felt when he’d first heard Mr Sparks’ voice coming from inside the trunk. His face burning, he stood up, pulled down the suitcase and unlatched it. He took Mr Sparks out from his nest of clothing and sat him on his knee, dumping the empty case by his feet.

  The reaction from the other passengers was dramatic. The conductor looked relieved, the businessman astonished and the mother and her two children quite simply delighted. The children were so surprised they’d even stopped eating sweets for a moment.

  ‘Well, you certainly had me fooled,’ the conductor told Owen.

  ‘That wasn’t difficult,’ observed Mr Sparks shrewdly. ‘You look like you’d need help to tie your shoelaces.’

  There was a moment of deep silence, while the conductor looked offended. Then he seemed to relax a little and he smiled. ‘Very clever,’ he told Owen. ‘But … aren’t you a bit young to be doing an act like this?’

  ‘Erm … no, not really,’ said Owen. ‘I … I’ve been doing it for a while now.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Sparks. ‘He isn’t as young as he looks.’

  ‘How old is he?’ asked the little boy.

  ‘Older than you and younger than me,’ Mr Sparks assured him. ‘Mind you, don’t believe a word he tells you.’ He snapped into one of his little ditties. ‘Owen Dyer, Owen Dyer, he’s a rotten little liar. He says he’s just as old as me, but we all know he’s ninety-three!’ He cackled delightedly and his small audience laughed along with him. ‘I lied about the age,’ he added. ‘He’s really seventy-four but it didn’t rhyme!’

  ‘You’re a funny-looking fellow,’ observed the woman.

  ‘True,’ agreed Mr Sparks. ‘But then, I’m made of wood. What’s your excuse?’

  The lady gasped in mock outrage. ‘How dare you?’ she shrieked but Owen could see that, deep down inside, she was actually delighted by his impudence.

  ‘I dare, madam, because being made of wood means that I can get away with all sorts of things that you lot would never say.’

  ‘For instance?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Like for instance, that rouge you’re wearing on your cheeks …’

  ‘What about it?’ asked the woman, mystified.

  ‘It’s a bit overdone, isn’t it? Did you apply it with a trowel? Was it a bet to see how much you could apply in one sitting?’

  The woman gasped and for a moment, seemed speechless. ‘Well, really!’ she said at last, clearly not as delighted as she had been before.

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Mr Sparks. ‘Really. As in really not the kind of thing that suits a woman of your age!’

  ‘Mummy, I don’t think he’s very nice,’ said the woman’s daughter.

  ‘And I suspect you’re a little brat,’ said Mr Sparks, ‘but because you have blue eyes and blonde hair, you’ll probably get away with it all your life.’

  Now Owen was aware that the woman was looking at him accusingly and felt prompted to try and referee the conversation.

  ‘N … now then Charlie,’ he said. ‘That’s … a bit unfair. There’s no need to be rude to people.’

  ‘Oh my goodness, it actually talks!’ exclaimed Mr Sparks. ‘For a moment there, I wasn’t sure which one of us was the dummy.’ He turned and waggled his eyebrows at Owen and suddenly, the boy thought he knew exactly how Mr Schilling must have felt, being blamed for all the awful things that Mr Sparks came out with.

  ‘Charlie, please don’t—’

  ‘I thought we spoke about this earlier,’ interrupted Mr Sparks. ‘Only my friends get to call me Charlie. I haven’t quite made my mind up about you. What are you, Owen Dyer? I wonder … Are you friend or are you foe? Will you stay or will you go? Are you stupid? I don’t know!’ He made a little bow to the other passengers. ‘People, welcome to my show!’

  Owen didn’t know what to say to that.

  ‘That’s quite a good technique you’ve got,’ said the man in the suit, speaking for the first time.

  Owen turned to look at him. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘But if you don’t mind me saying, your lips are a bit of a giveaway.’

  ‘I … beg your pardon?’

  ‘Your lips. They move a bit when the dummy’s talking.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Owen.

  ‘Oh yes, undoubtedly.’ The man was staring at him challengingly. ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong. You’re very good for your age. But I’d say you still have a lot to learn.’

  Owen felt a sudden rush of annoyance. Why would anybody say something like that when it clearly
wasn’t true? ‘Well,’ he began, ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Who are you?’ interrupted Mr Sparks, staring at the man.

  ‘Me?’ The man shrugged. ‘I’m … just a travelling salesman.’

  ‘And what do you sell, exactly? Apart from free advice for ventriloquists?’

  ‘Er … I … sell furniture, if you must know.’

  ‘I see. And what’s your name, Mr Travelling Salesman?’

  ‘It’s Harold. Harold Stables.’

  Mr Sparks turned back to look at the woman and children opposite. ‘This is the tale of Harold Stables, who manufactured chairs and tables. He thought himself a clever chap, but kept on talking loads of—’

  ‘Charlie, no!’ interrupted Owen. He looked at Mr Stables and laughed nervously. ‘I’m terribly sorry, he says these things and I can’t seem to stop him.’

  ‘Yes, very amusing,’ said Mr Stables, though he didn’t look in the least bit amused. ‘As I said, you’re quite good, but—’

  ‘Fancy yourself as a bit of an expert, do you?’ asked Mr Sparks.

  ‘Er … no, not at all. I’m merely saying that I can see the lips moving, so—’

  ‘Sounds like a challenge to me! We clearly need to make things more difficult.’ He looked at the two children for a moment. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you two greedy little pigs stop stuffing your faces and feed Owie some of those sweeties? Go on, as many as you like. Then we’ll see how he does.’

  The children looked at their mother as though seeking permission, and when she reluctantly nodded, they jumped off their seats and started pushing sweets into Owen’s mouth, until they could get no more in. Owen tried to protest but to no avail. He sat there, embarrassed, his cheeks distended. Now the children moved back to their places and watched expectantly.

  Mr Sparks waggled his eyebrows and began. ‘Mrrrfff!’ he said. ‘Glubble flurp snarggle glott.’

  The businessman smiled triumphantly. ‘See? Not so easy is it?’

  ‘Only kidding!’ roared Mr Sparks. ‘Let me see now, what would be a fair test? Oh yes!’ He began to chant as loudly as he could. ‘Round the rugged rocks, the ragged rascals ran! She sells seashells by the seashore! The Leith police dismisseth us! The Leith police dismisseth us! The Leith police—’