He led the way into the first room. “We got rid of the historical figures and all the old film stars. Nobody’s interested in Norman Wisdom and Diana Dors any more. I dressed up some of our old cast-offs with new wigs and clothes and I’ve given them new names. The Duke of Wellington and General Wolfe are now Big Brother contestants. Anne Boleyn and Mary, Queen of Scots have become X-Factor finalists. Nobody notices, nobody cares.”
The room had the spirit-lowering air of a hospital chapel. Half a dozen gruesome, ill-kempt figures were grouped in attitudes of supplication. “They need a wipe-down,” said Salterton apologetically, “but there’s only Betty and me left, and she can’t get about much.”
“Arthur, what are we really doing here?” asked May. “I’ve been very patient, but I think I’ve indulged you long enough. If we hurry, we can catch the two-thirty train.”
“You asked me if I had any idea about the case,” Bryant countered. “Well, I do. We need to understand a very devious and particular kind of mind-set. Dudley, kindly show Mr May your pride and joy, would you?”
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
22
Mammet
Salterton perked up. “So that’s what you came to see me for. Come this way.” He led them to a narrow flight of stairs, turning on the lights as he went up. It was clear nobody ever came to this part of the building. “Be careful. Some of the steps are broken.”
At the top landing, he unlocked a varnished oak door and groped for the light switch. “We never let anybody up here because of the insurance. If anyone found out that they were on the premises – well, it’s hard times, the local kids will break into anything nowadays and you can’t find a copper for love nor money. I’m supposed to have a security system before the insurance will cover me, but where am I going to get the cash for that kind of thing?”
“Arthur, what is he talking about?”
Chemist signs made of rust-spotted tin decorated the walls. One read Carson’s Superior Nerve Tonic Dissipates Catarrh of the Bile Ducts. Another showed a frighteningly elderly baby drinking from an unstoppered bottle beneath the headline Baby Loves Formulated Mendalin Phosphate, the Only Cure for Unwarranted Secretions.
“He’s talking about those.” Bryant pointed to a series of dusty cases on crimson-painted pedestals. “Go on, take a look.”
May made his way carefully across the room and wiped the dust from the glass with his sleeve.
“They were created for Queen Victoria in 1865,” Salterton told them. “The height of the British Empire. They’ve been in our family ever since then. Some shyster from Sotheby’s offered to put them up for auction, but I sent him away with a flea in his ear.”
May found himself looking at a collection of Punch and Judy puppets. The full cast included Punch, Judy, their Baby, the Beadle, Scaramouche, Toby – a real stuffed dog in its ruff collar – Pretty Poll, a pointy-haired Clown, a Courtier with an extending neck, an Archer, the Police Constable, the sinister Doctor, Jim Crow the Black Servant, the Tradesman, the Distinguished Foreigner, the Alligator, the Blind Man, the Ghost, Jack Ketch the Hangman, Mephisto, the Devil and, finally, Death himself.
“We think it’s probably the most complete collection in the world,” Salterton said. “The puppets got passed down from father to son, and each puppet master took on the royal coat of arms as the Queen’s official Punch and Judy man, hired to perform before the children of nobles and heads of state whenever they came to visit Windsor Castle.” In the light of the puppet cases, Salterton seemed younger. His enthusiasm regenerated him. “Everyone recognizes certain iconic figures, whether they’re real or fictional. The devil with red horns and a tail, Napoleon with his hat, Alice in her blue dress, Nelson with his eye patch, the Knave of Hearts and Harlequin – and to those you can add Mr Punch here. It’s the striped peascod doublet he wears that gives him the funny shape. He was once played by a live actor – Italian, of course, Pulcinella, anglicized to Punchinello, related to Don Juan – but he was really born in 1649. Then he became a wooden puppet, dancing about in his tall box opposite the Louvre.”
“Dudley Salterton has a secret,” Bryant told May. “He’s the world’s leading authority on Punch and Judy.”
“Mammet,” said Salterton softly. “It was the Elizabethan word for a puppet or idol. From Mahomet.” He unlocked one of the cases and carefully removed a Mr Punch, lovingly picking off specks of dust and stroking it like a puppy. “He’s always dressed in red and yellow, and you always see his legs. Everyone else in the show only appears from the waist up. The sets are here, too. Everything from Hampton Court Palace to the Bay of Naples. And props: Punch’s drum, his beating-stick, his sheep-bell, the string of sausages and the gallows.”
May was beguiled and puzzled in equal measure. “I don’t understand Punch and Judy. It just seems to be all yelling and hitting.”
“The second commandment of the God of the Israelites was levelled against the power of the puppet. The dangerous thing about them, of course, is that they might become human. Many religious figurines were removed in the Reformation, but lived on as gargoyles carved into church walls and on misericords. Punch and Judy is a morality play about the absence of morality,” Salterton explained. “Marionette players were banned by Oliver Cromwell, because many puppets have pagan histories. The Clown was originally Momus, the Harlequin was Mercury. We think Punch got his name from Pulliceno, a turkey-cock – a creature with a resemblance to Punch and his beaked nose. But the French say it comes from Ponche, short for Pontius Pilate, a character represented as a marionette in mystery plays, brought back for Christians to ridicule.” Salterton beamed at May, looking more than a little like a puppet himself. “Many of the puppets in these cases first appeared in the shows given by Robert Powell, the great Punch exhibitor, outside St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden at fairs and market days. Punch is a clown, too, just as clowns look like puppets.”
“If we understand Mr Punch, we start to get an insight into the mind of the murderer,” interjected Bryant.
“He follows a long line of low tricksters, from Pan to Loki to Puck. But it was when he came to England that Mr Punch showed his real nature – and it was one that reflected the bullish Englishman of the times. The first English shows were called Mr Punch’s Moral Drama, but Punch himself has no moral compass – he is nothing less than the ferocious spirit of England, condensed into a single creature. He’s a man of the world and selfish, as all men are. He’ll remove all obstacles in his way. This is what makes him so unique. He’s not seeking revenge, he’s not righting wrongs – he kills because he can, because others annoy him or block his path, and as he climbs the scale of adversaries, he finds himself unstoppable. He’s a working-class man made good. Although he can be whoever you want him to be – a Quaker, a Republican, a Conformist, a Warrior, a Rake, Jupiter, Fate itself. In France he has a cat, in China he has a dragon. Sometimes in England he rode a white horse. But he must always triumph.”
“Like St George,” said May.
“Exactly. It’s about sex, too. The length of the nose signifies lechery, as does the stick.”
“All this sounds rather cerebral. I mean, our killer wouldn’t know about this stuff, would he?”
“Oh, Mr Punch is not an intellectual,” Bryant pointed out. “He’s pure unthinking energy. In his Italian origin he was a notorious coward and boaster, but in England he becomes a hero.”
“That’s right,” Salterton agreed. “Punch hates to be dog-bitten, henpecked, opposed, imprisoned, bedevilled, so he strikes out. He has no hypocrisy. He only deals in blood. He kills the Baby because it cries. He kills Judy because she hits him, he takes out the Doctor’s eyes, he tricks the Hangman into hanging himself and roasts the Devil to death on a turning fork. In one version he survives all the tortures of the Spanish Inquisition. He’s been described as a cross between Sir John Falstaff and Richard III. Merriment and cruelty. Fear and amusement. It’s a very English notion. Punch’s confidence and presence of mind never desert him. And it’s i
mportant that Mr Punch wins. There’s a historical account of a pious showman who was pelted with mud for refusing Punch a victory over the Devil. I say Punch can be anything but really, at root, he’s a Pagan.”
“I was terrified of him as a child,” May admitted. “That creepy voice of his.”
“Here.” Salterton held out a serrated circle of pressed tin. “It’s called a swozzle, or a call. Put it on the back of your tongue and speak.”
May wasn’t too happy about this, but gingerly inserted it in his mouth. He tried to talk but a peculiarly high rasping sound came out, and he nearly choked. He quickly spat the swozzle into his hand. “God, I nearly swallowed it.”
“If you do swallow it, it doesn’t hurt you,” said Salterton. “That one was owned by my great-grandfather. He swallowed it hundreds of times.”
May turned pale. Bryant and Salterton laughed.
“There are all kinds of traditions surrounding Punch. The puppet must be made from birch or poplar. If there’s a dog it must be a real one, wearing a flat hat and a ruff, and it must dance on its hind legs. The script is not written down, but passed orally from one generation to the next. And it usually contains words of a mystical nature. Dickens mentions the Punch cry of ‘Shallabalah’ in The Old Curiosity Shop. Of course, the great secret to Mr Punch – the great paradox, if you will – is that he is not the master of his universe at all. That honour belongs to the puppeteer, the man who controls him. And this marionette master remains invisible, hidden behind the curtains of Punch’s life.”
“You’re not just a seaside entertainer, are you?” said May. “Who are you?”
“Tell him,” said Bryant. “It’s all right.”
Salterton smiled sadly. “I was an academic employed in investigating the provenance of Victorian artefacts at the British Museum. I used to work with Arthur’s old friend Harold Masters. But I left the museum under a cloud. After my wife died, I fell to drink and got myself in debt. I stole some small articles to pay my bills, and went to jail for my sins.” He returned the puppet to its case and carefully relocked it. “But now fate has had the last laugh on me. I’m the penniless guardian of a priceless collection that I can never allow myself to sell. If I did, it would be broken up. I sit here in the damp and darkness, listening to the rain fall through the roof, and know that once again Mr Punch has come out on top.”
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
23
Operations
“Forget this rubbish about Punch and bloody Judy,” Raymond Land warned the PCU staff. “Let Bryant and May wander around the country looking at puppet theatres while we concentrate on the basics of criminal investigation, before the whole of the bloody Met starts laughing at us again.” Bryant had ill-advisedly left a message apprising Land of his whereabouts. Perhaps his note should not have read: Gone to see puppets at the seaside. Back soon.
“Bring in the usual suspects from around Blackfriars and Cannon Street. Run a check on the hostels, see if they’ve had any trouble. Any offices that were working late, bus drivers, cabbies, street sweepers, tube workers, anyone who might have seen him. I want some answers today. Who were Gregory Baine’s enemies? Close friends? Work colleagues? Talk to the girlfriend. Who’s his family? What were his movements last night? Come on, you all know the routine. How the bloody hell did he end up underneath Cannon Street Bridge? Was he killed before being strung up? If so, how did the killer get his body there? Where did he park? And the doll of the hangman, where was that bought?”
“We’re already getting answers to some of those questions,” said Janice, checking her notes. “Baine’s girlfriend had dinner with him last night at the Square, which is a restaurant in Mayfair. He left very abruptly after getting a message from the maître d’ at around nine-fifteen. We’ve questioned the waiter who took the call. Baine told his girlfriend he had to meet someone for a quick drink – didn’t say who or why, but said he was heading over to Cannon Street. She reckons he was in a very odd mood when he left – preoccupied. His PA doesn’t know about any privately arranged appointments, suggested I talk to Robert Kramer or the show’s director.”
“Has Kershaw already ruled out suicide, then?” asked Renfield.
“No, but he thinks it unlikely that someone like Baine would have known about the drop from the bridge scaffolding. The street doesn’t lead anywhere and gets hardly any traffic.”
“Were there other prints at the site?”
“Yeah, loads,” said Banbury. “Workmen had been treading mud over it all day and it had been raining, so there was nothing salvageable. Suicides tend to go out in familiar surroundings. And if he’d chosen the bridge, why not just jump off? The tides are pretty lethal.”
“He might not have known that,” Renfield persisted.
“Giles found chemical residue on his face and reckons he may have been sprayed with pepper spray – like the ones you can buy for a handbag,” said Longbright. “He’s had water from the bridge dripping on him, so that’s not conclusive.”
“Don’t you have one in your bag?” asked Land.
“No, Raymond, I have a house brick. More effective. Baine had a fresh bruise on the side of his head, like he’d been slapped or punched, or he might just have walked into the scaffolding, blinded. He’d been led or walked along the planks and stepped off the end. Then he choked to death on the rope. He was a small bloke, but it would still have required a certain amount of strength to get him in place, so Giles is ruling out a woman unless it was someone with specialist training, like Meera here.” Mangeshkar had studied tae kwon do. “Of course, a lot of actors keep very fit.”
“Meera, you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Judith Kramer,” said Land. “Why are you here?”
“She wouldn’t let me,” Mangeshkar replied. “Her call.”
“Baine had been hammering the booze,” Renfield added. “The girlfriend says he’d sunk a bottle and a half of Rioja.”
“Baine’s neck was badly bruised when he dropped, but his shirt collar probably prevented it from snapping. Giles banged on for a while about the strength of the human spine but didn’t add anything significant to his initial findings. It’s unlikely that Baine walked any great distance – his girlfriend says he hated exercise. He didn’t have an Oyster card on him and wasn’t the public transport type, so we’re checking taxis now.”
“Good. Anyone else?”
Meera tapped her notepad. “The Hangman puppet – it doesn’t belong to Robert Kramer. He says he still has his full set, minus the Punch, of course, which Giles has returned to our evidence room. I haven’t yet found anyone who sells them. There’s a Goth internet site that does something similar but they say they haven’t received any special orders. Which probably means the puppet was either homemade or in someone else’s private collection.”
“When I spoke to Robert Kramer, I asked him to talk to his doctor about reducing Judith Kramer’s meds,” said Renfield. “He said he’d done that anyway, because she wants to attend the funeral tomorrow afternoon. With any luck we’ll be able to interview her afterwards.”
“Jack, you can’t interview a mother about her dead son on the way back from his funeral,” Longbright objected.
“I don’t see why not. I mean, there’s never gonna be a good time, is there?”
“Forget it. I’ll go later today, even if it means talking to her before her medication fully wears off. At least she can get it over and done with.”
“What about the phone number on the doll?” Land asked. He was quite enjoying being in charge for once, without Bryant being there to make fun of him.
“It was one of our own PCU contact cards,” Longbright answered. “Whoever did this knows we’re handling the case and is making fun of us, or trying to force us into action.”
“We’re goading killers now?” asked Renfield. “Have you ever thought that we might be making matters worse? Maybe if this unit didn’t exist there wouldn’t be so many crazies around trying to get at us.”
&n
bsp; Land was flummoxed. “No, you’re wrong there, Jack. The world is full of weirdos – ”
“Yeah, and we’re encouraging them, aren’t we? Our very existence is a red rag to a bull. We’re bringing them out of the woodwork. Set up a unit to solve abnormal crimes and you get more criminals committing them and trying to outwit us. It’s like we’re a recruitment agency for psychopaths. Peculiar Crimes Unit – Nutter Magnet.”
This was one conversation Land did not want to get drawn into. “Look, he – or she – obviously wants us to catch him – or her – otherwise he – or she – wouldn’t be leaving clues.”
“Women are statistically less likely to kill,” Meera pointed out, “so can we just stick with the male pronoun?”
“Actually, I think you’ll find they’ve been catching up in the last couple of years.”
“You see?” cried Renfield, exasperated. “Now you’re talking about bloody statistics. Can we find out where this doll came from?”
“I’ve a list of other places that might be able to help us with that,” said Longbright. “Hamleys toy shop stocks their own traditional puppets made by Pelham, and the Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood has a couple of experts who might be able to identify it.”
“Good, get on it,” Land said. “The rest of you – traditional methods, witness statements, doorstep interviews, dustbin duty.” Colin and Meera groaned. “And come back with some solid connections. Find out where Kramer and all of his guests were last night. And no more nonsense about Punch and bloody Judy.”
Longbright returned to her office and opened up the time line of guests once more. Something had been bothering her for days.
She had made a list of smokers, all of whom had been out on the rear fire escape at some point in the course of the party. Gail Strong and Marcus Sigler must have done more than just pass each other on the fire escape. Larry Hayes, the wardrobe man, said he had tried to open the back door but it had been wedged shut. Yet it had opened easily a couple of minutes earlier, when Ray Pryce tried it. If Strong and Sigler had been outside holding it shut, perhaps they had been holding a little party of their own.
Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood Page 15
