Bryant & May_Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Bryant asked, trying to see over his partner’s shoulder.

  They stepped inside and walked about, examining the vehicles, peering into the interiors and dropping to the floor to see beneath them. May walked to the rear of the garage, tried one of the car boots and found it unlocked.

  ‘Six cars, and every single tyre has been slashed, even the spares,’ he said. ‘It would have taken time and determination to do this. We need to get everyone out of the house right now.’

  ‘Think, John,’ said Bryant. ‘That’s what whoever did this wants us to do. We’ve revealed our true identities. The longer we stay here, the more chance we have of catching them.’ He turned to the groundskeeper. ‘Fruity, can you make the house safer?’

  Fruity scratched so hard at his woollen cap that Bryant was afraid lice were leaping for safety. ‘I could chain the main gates shut, and perhaps someone could keep all the doors and windows bolted, but that’s not up to me. If you want you can put Monty in my gatehouse. I could make up a bed for him.’

  ‘No, if anything happens to him it’s my responsibility,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ll contain the problem in the main house if you can deal with the perimeter. John, I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked May.

  ‘To the ashram,’ Bryant replied. ‘To see if they really are a cult.’

  32

  * * *

  HIPPY HIPPY SHAKE

  War Is Not Healthy For Children and Other Living Things

  Make Love Not War

  Keep on Truckin’

  Woodstock – 3 Days of Peace & Music

  Power to the People

  The damp dayglo posters were peeling from the walls of the Mongolian yurt. ‘It was amazing, man, I went – I was there just a month ago and I still can’t believe it. Tomorrow night we’re going to land on the moon.’

  ‘They landed on the moon in July,’ Bryant pointed out.

  ‘Oh, cool. Then maybe next year it’ll be, like, Neptune. We’re going to spread love and joy to other planets.’

  The pale, lank-haired young man in the Indian headband touched his Woodstock poster with immense tenderness. He said his name was Donovan, and ill advisedly employed American slang with an Oxbridge accent. ‘You had to be there, man. The bands, the people – so many people. The whole thing was a gas. I dug it all, the mud, the rain, the music, the hassles. What a summer! What a time to be alive! The greatest rock festival of all time, and men walking on the friggin’ moon!’

  ‘And Charles Manson,’ said Bryant. Donovan was sitting cross-legged on the earth floor, something Bryant was not about to do in his string-tied Noël Coward trousers, so he stood awkwardly in the mire.

  ‘Come on, man, do you see a poster saying “Death to Pigs” here? We’re for peace, not violence. Did you see Easy Rider? It’s the establishment that wants us dead, not the other way around.’

  Further back in the tent somebody overheard Donovan and began picking out ‘The Ballad Of Easy Rider’ by the Byrds.

  ‘How did you get to Woodstock, Mr Donovan?’ Bryant asked. ‘That’s in America somewhere, isn’t it?’

  ‘My folks paid. They’re breadheads, they can afford it. Here.’ He handed his joint to Bryant.

  ‘I’m on duty, and I’d be breaking the law, just as you are.’

  ‘Laws don’t mean anything. What’s illegal one year is legal the next. You have to look at the bigger picture, man.’ He cupped his hand and blew into it, opening his fingers. ‘Poof, there go your laws, all blown away.’

  ‘Did you go with Lord Banks-Marion to India too?’

  ‘Of course. I’d follow him anywhere.’

  ‘You know that’s what members of cults say, don’t you? They swear blind allegiance to their leader.’

  ‘No, no.’ Donovan shook his blond locks vigorously. ‘You don’t understand – it isn’t like that. We’re a collective.’

  ‘But he’s the one who lets you stay here.’

  ‘No, the planet belongs to all of us. Mother Earth gives all her children permission. Although Harry gives us pocket money.’

  ‘Did Lord Banks-Marion really marry an Indian girl?’

  ‘Well, they held a symbolic ceremony with all these orange flowers. We told him it wasn’t legal,’ Donovan admitted. ‘Some of the locals threatened to, like, kill him. My father’s in the Foreign Office. He pulled some strings and got Harry out. Please, come and sit.’

  Bryant looked about for somewhere dry and clean to perch. Finally he opted for a stack of dog-eared back issues of the International Times. He sat with a wince of pain. In all this damp his hip had started to throb.

  Donovan noticed how awkwardly Bryant was balancing himself. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I’m getting arthritis,’ Bryant replied, rubbing his leg.

  ‘Bummer. You’re too young.’

  ‘My doctor said it can hit at any age. There’s nothing I can take for it.’

  ‘That’s not true, man.’ Donovan withdrew a hand-rolled tube from an Old Holborn tobacco tin and lit it, passing it across. ‘Try this.’

  ‘What is it?’ Bryant suspiciously sniffed the air.

  ‘Sinsemilla. Seedless Mary Jane. It’s medicinal. A cure for the symptoms of arthritis, except the Man doesn’t want you to know.’

  ‘Medicinal?’ Bryant squinted doubtfully at the reefer.

  ‘Sure, man. Ask any doctor. It’s been used to ease arthritis since, like 2800 BC.’

  ‘Really?’ Bryant took a tentative puff and coughed.

  ‘You have to hold it down,’ Donovan warned. ‘My father looked into the Indian girl’s case. Harry thought he could help her by getting her out of the country. He was trying to do a good thing, but the marriage was disallowed ’cause it wasn’t registered. They were trying to make it all about paperwork, not love. So he had to leave her behind. And I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t about sex, man. Harry just gets a bad rap because he’s a freedom lover.’

  ‘What about the girls here?’ asked Bryant, his voice rising an octave as he exhaled. ‘My partner met a lady called Melanie. What about her? Is she free to leave?’

  ‘Of course, what do you think this is, a prison? She doesn’t want to leave. She doesn’t have anywhere to go. Her folks kicked her out. Her old man beat her up. She came here because she’s in love with Harry. She’s following her heart. The world doesn’t understand …’

  ‘The world has laws to protect girls from being exploited by unscrupulous older men. Who’s in charge of this camp?’

  Donovan shook out his hair. ‘It’s not a camp, man, and no one is in charge. We don’t believe in hierarchies. Harry’s made some mistakes but the stories about him aren’t true.’

  Bryant took another puff, managing not to cough. ‘Let me put it another way. Do you know who comes and goes here?’

  ‘New members have to be voted in by everyone.’ Donovan pointed back to various bodies buried in sleeping bags. ‘There are seven of us plus the kid and that number hasn’t changed in months.’

  ‘Then it should be easy to get names and addresses from you all.’

  ‘We’re here to be free, not to be hassled by conventions.’

  ‘But Harry gives you money. Do you grow your own food? Where do you get your clothes? What about medicine? Education? Or do you just rely on your benefactor to keep supplying everything?’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t understand,’ said Donovan.

  ‘I’m really trying to,’ said Bryant with conviction. He took another drag on the joint, not realizing that he was supposed to return it. ‘I can’t name a single utopian society that has ever worked. I want to comprehend how your vision of the future operates without a patron at the top of it.’

  ‘That’s because you work for the Man,’ Donovan insisted. ‘But you could still drop out if you really wanted to. Don’t be a part of the system unless you can change it. Look around you. The moon and stars don’t belong to anyone
; the trees are free.’

  ‘Actually the trees belong to Lord Banks-Marion and I imagine the Americans have claimed the moon as their own,’ said the detective, ‘but I take your point. Part of me rather likes the idea of dropping out.’ He sat back and studied the rainbow-striped roof of the yurt. ‘I couldn’t, though.’

  Donovan sucked at the end of the joint and pinched it out. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It goes against everything I was taught. Work hard, keep your head down, do what you’re told. Your father was in the Foreign Office. Mine was a street photographer who ran bets on the side. He ended his days sitting by the window drinking, barely able to move from his chair. He hated me being a copper.’

  ‘Then you don’t owe your old man anything.’

  ‘Don’t I? Shouldn’t I ask myself why he was like he was?’ Bryant struggled upright. ‘It’s been interesting talking to you, Donovan. I must go now. I feel quite squiffy.’

  As he staggered back into the house, the enormity of what he had done began to prey upon his mind. ‘John,’ he called, pulling his partner into the great hall, ‘I’ve been bad. I’m a bad person.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked May. ‘Have you been smoking dope?’

  Bryant leaned against a bust of the Duke of Marlborough. ‘I lied. We could get out of here. We could find a way through the road at night, after manoeuvres have finished. We could get the Canterbury constabulary to take over, but I don’t want them to. If they do, we’re finished. We’ll never get another chance.’

  ‘You don’t think we can solve the case.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He swayed against the statue. ‘I thought it would be more – what do you call one of those cases that opens and shuts?’

  ‘An open-and-shut case.’

  ‘That’s it. I thought it would be one of those. But it’s more complicated.’

  ‘You can’t back down now, Arthur,’ warned May. ‘I’m in this with you.’

  ‘Then you’ll hold the line with me?’

  ‘I already said I would.’

  ‘Oh, stout chap, not that I ever doubted you. “Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.” Have you eaten? I could eat a horse, or at least the parts of the horse that, er, can be eaten.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  Bryant brushed himself down and stood erect. ‘Ask me again on Monday morning.’ He slapped May on the back and tacked towards the dining room, Lavender.

  The housebound guests had finished eating and had gathered in the library once more, but now the mood was sombre and awkward. Nobody wanted to be there. Pamela and Norma slapped playing cards on the table between them. Vanessa sleepily tried to concentrate on a book. Wilson paced about nervously, worrying at a fingernail. Lady Banks-Marion had her eyes closed and looked pained, as if she was having a bad dream.

  Harry took it upon himself to apologize to the gathering. ‘I’m frightfully sorry about the way the weekend has turned out,’ he announced, as if it was merely a matter of bad weather having halted the shooting. ‘I believe we’re waiting for Canterbury Constabulary to get here. Meanwhile, the police want us to stay put.’

  Before anyone could respond, Monty appeared in the doorway in his dressing gown. ‘I don’t know about anyone else but I need a bloody huge drink.’ He headed smoothly to the bar, as if guided by rails. ‘I was just talking to the groundsman. What’s this about the cars being vandalized?’

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid,’ said May, secretly cursing Fruity. ‘Someone’s slashed all the tyres.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Wilson. ‘Are we under attack?’

  ‘It seems that way, Mr Wilson. We appear to be living in a scenario from one of Miss Claxon’s novels.’

  ‘If that were true we’d have guessed the identity of the killer long before now,’ said Wilson tartly.

  ‘I’ve been going through my husband’s belongings, looking for anything that might help us,’ Norma Burke announced. ‘I knew Donald would be spending time with his lawyer, so I planned to work on a scrapbook of his achievements while I was here, just for something to do.’ As if realizing that the admission sounded pathetic, she hurried on. ‘I don’t know if it will help but I have a folder of photographs and press articles you can look at.’

  Bryant tottered into the room. He had mustard smeared down his shirt front, but seemed in better shape for having consumed a few calories. ‘May I see?’ he asked, seizing upon the folder with interest.

  He laid it out on a side table and went through the contents. Donald Burke appeared outgoing and intense in early snapshots. In one press photograph he was shaking hands with the Lord Mayor of London as Norma beamed by his side. In another he stood raising a glass at a banquet, next to a portly elder statesman who, Bryant realized with a shock, was Winston Churchill. In the final pages of the unfinished scrapbook were blurred stills of Burke several years later, overweight and fending off the press, his head down, refusing eye contact. It seemed that as his businesses became ever more successful his own dissatisfaction increased.

  ‘Couldn’t we walk to the village now that the army exercises have finished for the night?’ asked Pamela Claxon.

  ‘Assuming we can get across the flooded roads, what good would it do?’ Bryant responded hastily. ‘It’s too late to reach anybody. Our unit doesn’t have a switchboard and tomorrow’s Sunday, so nothing’s open.’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to make the best of things,’ said Lady Banks-Marion, placing a small silk cushion behind her back. ‘Perhaps a rubber of bridge?’

  The lights went out. The dark was oppressive and total. Vanessa gave a yelp of surprise.

  May rose to his feet. ‘Arthur, stay here with Monty. Where is your fuse box?’

  ‘It’s behind the kitchen, in the basement,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll do it, I know this house in the dark.’

  He and May made their way along the corridor leading to the rear of the hall. Here, all ornamentation ended as they crossed into an old flagstone passage. Water could be heard dripping around and above them. In darkness the house settled into its surroundings, reasserting itself, as if seeking to remind the guests who was really in charge.

  ‘Hang on.’ Harry reached into a cupboard and found a metal torch. ‘It often happens when we get heavy rain. The wiring needs replacing.’

  On the wall of an alcove where the boots and umbrellas were stored hung a grey steel cabinet. Harry opened it and checked inside, examining the orderly ceramic blocks with lengths of copper wire running through them. None of them looked burned or blackened. ‘That’s odd. It’s not the fuses.’

  ‘Is there a generator?’

  ‘No,’ said Harry. ‘It never worked properly so I took it out. We switched to the mains supply when they ran new cables over from Crowshott. I couldn’t see that we’d need the old generator any more, what with the upkeep …’

  ‘Then there must be a break in the cable,’ said May. ‘How does the line get to the house?’

  ‘It runs under the fence at the end of the property and comes into the ground floor behind Snowdrop.’

  ‘I’m sorry – you have to remind me.’

  ‘The billiard room. Do you think someone could have found a way in and cut it? How would we know?’

  ‘We’ll be able to see part of the line that runs from the house to the street junction box.’

  They headed back to the library just as Alberman arrived with lamps and bundles of candles. ‘Alberman, can you make sure every corridor and room has a light of some kind?’ asked May. ‘And perhaps you would confine the staff to their rooms for now, just so we can keep track of everyone.’

  Alberman hesitated, not used to taking orders from outsiders. ‘You had better do as he says,’ Lady Banks-Marion decided as she accepted a lamp. The candles were set about the room, lending it a sepulchral air.

  ‘I think someone should walk to the village and see if the power’s out everywhere or if there are any phones w
orking,’ said Pamela. ‘It’s half past nine. There may still be someone about.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Bryant agreed. ‘I’ll go.’ He turned to May. ‘John, can you stay here and look after everyone?’

  ‘We don’t need “looking after”, Mr Whatever-your-name-is,’ said Lady Banks-Marion. ‘We simply need to know when the professionals are arriving to tell us what exactly is going on.’

  ‘I’m sorry you don’t consider us professional,’ said Bryant, buttoning up his raincoat and accepting a torch from Harry. ‘I hope that in the next few hours we may earn your trust. If we fail now, the consequences are unthinkable.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s more at stake than you realize or care about, your ladyship. The investigation will end in Kent, but its consequences will be felt in Hackney.’

  Leaving the huddled guests in considerable puzzlement, Bryant turned up his collar and headed out into the drizzle.

  33

  * * *

  PRETTY WOMAN

  As the only street light in the lane had gone out, Bryant was forced to light a torch. Even in the rain he heard nightjars and song thrushes sheltering in the hedgerows, but no sound of any vehicle reached his ears. He had started to detest the countryside by day, but walking through it at night proved truly unsettling. The wind buffeted his back. He could see the tops of the trees moving against the clouds. Something in the next field emitted a terrified shriek, bringing him to a halt. There was a frenzied scuffling in the long grass right beside him that made him leap back.

  He thought of a film he had seen a few years earlier, Night of the Demon, and imagined a great dark creature clawing its way through the woods towards him.

  ‘I will never smoke that stuff again,’ he promised aloud. He dug an Aztec bar from his pocket and devoured it as the rain tipped down his neck.

  The street lamps in Crowshott village glowed brightly, but there was no one about. The shops were shuttered and the only house light was the one illuminating the swinging sign above the Goat & Compasses. Bryant paused beneath it, bashed the rain from his hat and entered.