May raised an eyebrow. “I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“You’ll like this one. I’m thinking of including it on my next guided tour of London. At the end of the nineteenth century, some music hall performers purchased a puny little horse called Magpie, and used its race winnings to help the London poor and Eastern European refugees. One rainy day, a day not unlike this, a couple of the owners were returning the soaked Magpie to its stable when a passing bus driver asked what it was. They replied that it was a trotting pony. ‘Trotting pony?’ mocked the driver. ‘It looks more like a bleedin’ water rat!’ From that remark was born the Grand Order of the Water Rats, a show-business brotherhood presided over by Prince Philip and Prince Charles that performs charitable works irrespective of race, creed or colour. Not bad work for a run-down boozer behind a railway station.”
“Perhaps it’s important that someone should remember things like that,” said May.
“Indeed. So long as somebody remembers, the city remains alive.”
“I’ve been thinking about the PCU all week,” May admitted with a sigh. “It’s the others I feel sorry for. Where will they go? I don’t suppose the Met will want any of them back. Why are gifted individuals always forced out by the mediocracy?”
“True. If you’re a woman, or senior, or Muslim, you’ll only ever get so far. They make sure of that. But we’ve done all our best work in our later years. Men only come to their senses in their fifties, around about the time that most housewives go mad. They realise what they’ve lost and what they can still achieve.”
“On the way over here I was thinking about the years we spent in the rooms above Mornington Crescent tube station.”
“I’m going to miss the place. We had some fun there, didn’t we?”
“You mean when we weren’t blowing it up, hiding wanted criminals in its cupboards, freeing groups of illegal immigrants, burying evidence, falsifying documents and telling dirty jokes to members of the royal family?”
“It was all for the public good.” Bryant was wide-eyed with innocence, but it was a look that would have fooled no-one. “Although I’ll admit I’m quite surprised that the ministry didn’t pay someone to knock us off, simply for being a constant source of embarrassment to them.”
“I heard you took Dan Banbury back to the supermarket in Whidbourne Street the other day.”
“Yes, I thought I’d search for signs that the pub had been installed there. He told me they were pretty easy to spot once he knew where to look. Screw-marks, scraps of tape and paintstencil marks. Of course, the building had originally been converted from a pub to a shop, so it required very little effort to turn back time for an evening. They simply placed painted flats over the lower half of the extended shop windows and whacked some plant-holders on top. We can’t press charges on the store owner, as it seems he was pressured into co-operation by people from Theseus. Some kind of bureaucratic error to do with his immigration visa. I’d love to have seen the look on Harold Masters’s face when Pellew told him what he wanted next. Masters was over a barrel by that time. What could he do but comply with Pellew’s request?”
“He’ll take the fall for all of this, you wait and see. He’s the perfect scapegoat. A dazed, embittered academic, trapped into compounding a series of crimes by proxy. How convenient for everyone.”
“I can’t feel too sorry for him, John. He chose his path long ago. I shall enjoy writing up the case for my memoirs.”
“And to think we would never have uncovered any of this if you hadn’t decided to wander home half-sloshed,” said May.
“I just wish I could remember what happened to Oswald Finch’s ashes,” said Bryant, “because that was really where it all – oh, my God.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve just remembered what I did with them.”
“What you did with them?”
“I’ll admit I was a bit drunk. I was standing at the bar staring at that ghastly cheap urn, thinking about how much Oswald would have hated being in it, and decided he should have a better home.”
“Oh no.” May clenched his teeth, preparing for the worst.
“I unscrewed the lid and took out the contents. The ashes were in a plastic bag. I was going to transfer him to Alma’s tulip vase. I thought he’d be happier in there.”
“Why didn’t you just take the urn home with you?”
“I hated it. I threw it into the bin behind the bar.”
“What did you do with his ashes, Arthur?”
“I put them in the only bag I could find. The one Janice had bought for the office.” Bryant tried to suppress a laugh, but it escaped and grew until May too understood what had happened, and found himself joining in.
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
49
The Colour of Blood
Arthur Bryant stood before the illuminated glass case containing the holy relic, and knew that he had discovered the answer to an extraordinary conundrum.
His hands shook with the knowledge of something so incredible. “I’m the only other one who knows,” he told May, “the only other person to figure it out, and it’s all because of something Harold Masters said.”
They were back in the British Museum, far beneath the sound of pattering rain, in chambers filled with artefacts few tourists bothered to examine.
“The mythic ancient pubs, like The Jerusalem in Britton Street and the Rose and Crown in Clerkenwell, they don’t reveal the secret. What I’m looking for isn’t hidden in either of them. The Crown isn’t a crown of thorns, just regal adornment. The so-called clues are mere puzzle-games for students of folklore. Harold knew all along, you see?”
“No, I don’t see at all,” May admitted. “You’re being a very confusing old man. You told me you saw him to ask about the blood of Christ. I knew the subject had been bothering you ever since we investigated that street gang, the Saladins. How – what – did he know? And why on earth would he agree to tell you?”
As Bryant had predicted, the bewildered Masters now found himself in the dock for crimes he had not committed, but with the weight of Britain’s security forces behind his prosecution, he did not stand a chance in hell of being vindicated. With the PCU closed down and disbanded, its investigating officers could give him no help.
Bryant turned his attention back to the glittering relic. “Masters has probably known about this for quite a while; that’s what started his extra-curricular research projects and brought him to the attention of Theseus in the first place. What a terrible burden of knowledge he faced. He’d discovered the fabled blood of Christ, and knew he could never bring it to anyone’s attention. He told me why himself, only I was too stupid to understand at the time.”
“You mean that’s it?” said May. “That peculiar thing in the case? Why isn’t it better protected? Why aren’t there hordes of prostrate nuns around it?”
“Because nobody else knows it’s here. They think it’s something else entirely.”
The reliquary was bottle-shaped, elaborately jewelled and gilded, surrounded by enamelled angels, arches and sunbursts. May craned forward to study the inscription on the side that read Ista Est Una Spina Corona Domini Nostri Ihesu xpisk. He noted the small plaque attached to the casing. “It says this is the Holy Thorn reliquary belonging to Jean, Duc de Berry, created between 1400 and 1410. It was built to house Christ’s crown of thorns from the Crucifixion.”
“Yes, but there’s a mystery behind this strange object that has never been solved.” Bryant gave him a knowing look. He loved having the ability to enlighten others. “It began with the construction of an imperial crown decorated with four of the original thorns from Christ’s head, but some time later the crown was broken up and its component parts were re-used to make more treasures. The gifting and possession of such items was capable of wielding immense political influence. So four new separate reliquaries were assembled – only three of them were created by forgers. The only way to tell them apart wa
s by looking at the enamelled backs of the doors, there, see? The fake versions don’t have those.” He thumped a forefinger on the glass, indicating the centre of the jewelled reliquary.
“Here the story gets murky, because nobody knows what happened to this thing between the time it was constructed and when it came into the possession of the British Museum in 1898. Ignore the sapphires, pearls and rubies in the setting, ignore the trumpeting angels and the rather lurid scene of the Last Judgement which surrounds it, not to mention those gruesome cherubs raising the dead, and you’ll see that there’s a crystal window at its heart. Just in case you miss the point, there’s an inscription that reads ‘This is a thorn from the crown of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Ista Est Una Spina Corona Domini Nostri Ihesu xpisk. Xpisk? Why not Cristi, the Latin for Christ? Well, there’s certainly a thorn in there. Or is that what it is? Did you remember to bring your Valiant with you?”
May dug in his pocket and produced a huge red-topped cinema flashlight, while his partner kept an eye out for guards.
“Now, point it very carefully at the crystal.”
May shone the torch over the centre of the reliquary. The jewels responded to light by revealing a deep lustre of indigos, ivories, scarlets. “What am I looking for?”
“Not the thorn itself, but the edges where it meets the surrounding encrustation of precious metals.”
Shining the flashlight at the centre of the reliquary, he opened up its dark heart. A glinting line appeared, like a fine molten seam. “There’s a defect,” he said. “It looks like a very faint crack. Oh. I think I understand what you’re getting at.”
“Yes,” said Bryant softly, crouching beside his partner, “it’s not a thorn at all, is it? It’s oxidisation. The air’s got to it through the flaw in the crystal.”
“Oxidised blood,” said May, awed.
“Given its colour, you can see how easily the vial’s contents were mistaken for something made of wood.”
“The blood of Christ. You really think that’s what it is?”
“There’s only one man who might hold the answer, and now I don’t suppose I’ll be able to get anywhere near him,” replied Bryant. “What if the flaw is so tiny that the vial’s contents are only oxidised on its surface?”
May found himself sweating despite the chill in the museum. “My God, I see what you mean. It’s an analysis sample. We’d be able to conduct the ultimate investigation. We’d have a direct line to the heart of the Christian faith.”
“Think of the uproar such a thing would create. Masters knew this, and it became his curse to know. He discovered Pandora’s box, and not only could he not open it, he would never be able to tell anyone of its existence without destroying his entire career. He’s an expert on mythology, John. He’s one of the most public atheists in the country.”
“And what do we do?” asked May. “Secrets have a way of escaping, remember?”
“This is one that cannot be allowed to get out,” said Bryant, taking his partner’s arm and leading him away, just as the guard returned to the chamber. “We ignore it. We allow it to lie among the other treasures of confused provenance. Even as I speak, a team of very expensive lawyers is looking for ways to discredit Harold Masters. They can’t silence him, but they can stop him from being believed. That’s why you and I will escape any charges. Why would they risk having us reveal the things we know when they can simply throw the book at him?”
“Where are we going?” asked May as they headed toward the museum entrance.
“One last stop. I promised to meet Janice in the Pineapple pub in Kentish Town. She wants to tell us something.”
♦
The pub was nearly empty but for Simon, the manager, rinsing glasses behind the bar while somehow managing to send text messages on his cell phone. Janice Longbright was folded into a corner with the day’s newspapers.
Bryant brought over beers and set them down. “So what’s this big announcement you feel you had to present to us in person?” he asked somewhat rudely.
“I don’t know how true this is,” said Longbright, making room for them, “but Gladys, my mother, once told me when Betty Grable had her legs insured, she and all the other girls went out and did the same thing. Sometimes it takes the action of someone you admire to make you follow suit.”
“This is all very interesting, but perhaps you could get to the point.”
“We all knew your big secret, Arthur, your planned resignation. You never adjusted to Biros, did you? Still use that Waterman fountain pen – and blotting paper. The one thing you should have written in code, and you couldn’t because Raymond had to read it. So after deciphering your dreadful handwriting in a mirror, we took a vote on it and decided that if you were going to leave, the entire department would resign en masse.”
“I appreciate the gesture, Janice, but it means you’ll get no severance pay,” exclaimed Bryant, horrified.
“True, but it also means we remain hireable. No black marks on our employment records.”
“John, talk them out of this lunacy,” said Bryant.
“I can’t,” May apologised. “I joined them. Chucked in my lot as well.”
For one of the few times in his life, Bryant was speechless.
“You see, without you there’s nothing left, old sprocket. You’re the connection point between us all – and not just us; think of the hundreds of people you’ve helped in your life, all the people you’ve joined together. You’ve brought so many of London’s outsiders inside, to become part of a wonderful – albeit somewhat alarming – community. You’re at the top of our alternative family tree.”
Bryant squirmed uncomfortably on his chair. “Let’s not get too sentimental, eh? We’re all broke and out of work.”
“I haven’t got enough money left to pay my rent,” said Bimsley gloomily.
“I feel a bit sorry for poor old Renfield. He only just joined us. The Met will never hire him back.”
“At least we’ll always remain friends,” said Longbright. “Whatever happens, whatever the future holds. All ten of us. I’m including Raymond in this.”
“Oh, wonderful – the children I never wanted,” said Bryant. “Whose round is it?”
∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧
50
Ashes To Ashes
Raymond Land set down the food bowl and sneezed violently. “What I want to know,” he demanded, “is how come I end up having to look after Crippen when I’m the one who’s allergic to cats. Are you listening to me, Leanne?”
“No, darling,” said his wife, who was licking a lipstick pencil and straightening her décolletage in the bathroom, readying herself for a night of sin and self-deception with a Spanish toyboy she had picked up in the Madeira Tapas Bar, Streatham.
Land searched forlornly for the litter tray. “You always seem to be refurbishing yourself these days. Where are you going?”
“I’m off to rumple some hotel sheets and have cheap champagne dribbled over my naked body,” she answered through mashing lips.
“I thought you were visiting your mother. It’s raining so hard, the cat can’t go out. What have you done with its litter?”
“I wouldn’t touch the stuff, and if you knew what my nails cost you wouldn’t let me either. Don’t you remember? Sergeant Longbright gave you the tray and the bag when she brought the cat over.”
Land located the litter bag, unfolded it and removed a clear plastic envelope filled with grey powder. Tearing the top with his teeth, he tipped it into the yellow plastic tray as a cloud of dust blossomed and penetrated his nasal membranes. “This stuff is awful,” he complained. “It smells like Oswald’s mortuary.”
“The only thing Oswald’s mortuary smelled of was Oswald,” said Leanne, pouting her lips in the mirror and wondering about their effect on Hispanic gentlemen under the age of twenty-five.
♦
How could you begin to explain London?
A city once the colour of tobacco and carrots, now chalky stone
and angled steel, but vivid chimney pots can still be glimpsed between slivers of rain-specked glass. Nine billion pounds’ worth of Christmas bonuses have just been spent in the city’s square mile. In the great financial institutions, whirlpools of money are stirred until the ripples splash all but those on the farthest reaches of society. To accommodate this expenditure, the insurance offices and banks of Holborn have reopened as opulent restaurants and bars. At night, drunken merriment splits the capital’s seams, and daybreak arrives more silently than midnight.
You can’t explain London, of course. That is the root of its charm. A pair of elderly men, overlooked by the young, whittling their thoughts into bar banter, ensconced in run-down public houses in unalluring parts of the world’s richest city, what could they know or hope to change?
For if they hoped that their actions might ultimately change the policies of the government, challenge public opinion, inspire the complacent, even alter the course of the city’s history, they were wrong. London, the law unto itself, could continue quite happily without their interference. And yet, without them, it could only be a poorer place.
John May went into the University College Hospital on March 12th for his cancer operation. Arthur Bryant went with him, and stayed by his side until the orderly came to take his old friend down for surgery. As John May passed through the doors, he raised his head from the pillow and gave a look back at his great friend that said I know what you’re about, and don’t you ever forget it. Everything is understood between us.
The framed photograph placed behind the bar of the Pineapple pub in Leverton Street, Kentish Town, shows a wrinkled tortoise sporting windowpane glasses and a frayed brown trilby, wrapped in a moss-green scarf like an unravelling knitted python. Close beside him, taller and just three years younger, is a ramrod-backed gentleman of debonair demeanour, dressed in a rather gaudy Savile Row suit and a scarlet silk tie.
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