Bryant & May and the Bleeding Heart

by Christopher Fowler - Bryant

  ‘No, that’s not true!’ the funeral director insisted. ‘You have no idea what this sort of scandal could do to our business. I know you’ve managed to keep it out of the national press somehow, but people in the neighbourhood are talking. We’re a family firm that’s survived for two hundred years – we can’t allow ourselves to be destroyed by this.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’ asked Colin as they left the funeral parlour.

  ‘I think he panicked himself into believing that he’d done something stupid and accidentally buried Wallace with a valuable item on him. And he had to find out what he’d done,’ said May.

  ‘But surely when he had to re-inter the body, he’d have had a good look then?’

  ‘You heard what he said. It didn’t occur to him before then that he could have made a mistake. He had to make sure the company wasn’t at fault, and instead of going through the proper channels he decided to check at a time that wouldn’t draw attention.’

  ‘In a graveyard in the middle of the night.’

  ‘It’s an unpoliced garden that’s usually deserted. And it’s a place where he feels completely at home. But I agree, he was an idiot. I think we should lay this one to rest. It’s not Rummage. Besides, there’s something more important we need to do. We have to take Krishna Jhadav’s flat and office apart.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because his company is going to be under investigation, and we need evidence of what he was up to.’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s going to help the case,’ said Bimsley. ‘Anyway, that would be down to the CoL’s financial mob.’

  May was adamant. ‘Digging up his former client was an act of desperation. And so was killing Romain Curtis. We have to know what drove him to such measures.’

  Bryant had no trouble finding the bus arriving from Albany High School; it nearly ran him over as he backed out of Victor. He spoke to the two supervising teachers and checked the crowd of rowdy Bloomsbury children, but there was no sign of Sennen Renfield.

  He was about to call Longbright with the bad news when he saw a familiar rotund figure passing through the Warders’ gate of the Tower. The entrance was being manned by Matthew Condright, the Raven Master.

  ‘That man you just let in,’ said Bryant, breathlessly waving his stick in the direction of the retreating visitor. He had recognized Mr Merry instantly, even without his pirate boots and tricorn hat. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Condright. ‘That’s Mr Pettigrew; he’s the Tower menagerie’s veterinary surgeon.’

  It was all Bryant could do to stop from slapping himself on the forehead. ‘I’ve been a complete fool,’ he told the Raven Master. ‘Of course – Matthew, I have to place him under arrest. Is there a way we can keep him locked up somewhere?’

  ‘This is the Tower of London,’ said Condright with an evil smile. ‘Incarceration is what we do best.’

  42

  MEETING MERRY

  Bryant peered through the mullioned window of the Yeoman Warders’ Keep House and wondered what Mr Merry was thinking as he sat at his table sipping tea and going through some kind of order book. The Tudor room was hung with bric-a-brac: pewter goblets, horse-brasses and china. ‘It’s all right, Matthew, you can leave the two of us alone,’ said Bryant cheerfully. ‘I’ll be quite safe.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Condright scratched doubtfully at his spade beard. ‘I’ll just be in the next room if you need me.’

  Bryant took a deep breath and threw open the door, entering, not without a certain theatricality, in a blast of wind and rainwater. He headed for the Warders’ tea urn, then took in the room, making a grand point of noticing the only other occupant.

  ‘Well well well,’ he said, ‘look who’s here.’ Battering out the sleeves of his coat and making his way between the chairs, he seized the shocked necromancer’s large hand and shook it vigorously. ‘How the devil are you?’

  ‘Rather an odd coincidence to find you here, particularly after our last conversation,’ said Merry, taken aback and clearly displeased.

  ‘Oh, not at all, I’ve known all the Warders socially for donkeys’ years. We have lots of things to talk about other than those blasted missing birds, you know. Many, many years ago my beautiful wife Nathalie worked for the Tower of London Trust. People always seem surprised that a dry old stick like me could have had a spouse. Gosh, it is good to see you.’ He kept touching Merry, on the shoulder and sleeve, patting his arm and slapping his back, until his opponent was nettled by the invasion of his personal space. Finally he sat down in the opposite chair, staring and smiling in a most disconcerting fashion. Merry was quite unsettled.

  ‘Forgive my cynicism, Mr Bryant,’ he said at last, ‘but I refuse to believe that your arrival here today is coincidental.’

  ‘Oh, but it really is. You’re the last fellow I expected to see, honestly you are. But I’m glad you’re here, as I quite miss our little chats about … apotropaic magic, wasn’t it? Where did you get the cats?’

  Merry appeared nonplussed. ‘What cats?’

  ‘Black ones, presumably. They’re bad omens, aren’t they? Although lucky in some cultures, I suppose. But it’s not just cats that bring maledictions, is it? Owls, they’re dreadfully dangerous. Rats, goats, pigs, magpies, bats, snakes – all signs of impending death. Not necessarily permanent, of course; after all, things have to die to be reborn so we’re looking at – what? The end of empire and its economic rebirth, perhaps? A lot of people would pay good money to see that. Weren’t we talking about Dirty Dicks, the East End pub, last time? It turns out somebody swiped their collection of mummified cats. And it appears someone also snaffled a bunch of bats – I forget the collective noun – from the London Zoo. A colony, isn’t it, or a cloud?’

  ‘Where is all this leading?’ asked Merry, increasingly impatient and uncomfortable.

  Bryant rose and paced about behind his adversary, forcing him to turn around. ‘Well, let’s just pretend for a moment that you are a dishonest man.’

  Mr Merry narrowed his eyes. ‘Assume away.’

  ‘Very well. I imagine a syndicate of like-minded individuals, wealthy, old and European, buying up grand houses. I take it you’ve heard about these Russian gentlemen in Knightsbridge, building down many floors beneath their Edwardian properties? So-called ‘iceberg houses’? Adding cinemas, swimming pools, garages, bowling alleys and whatnot? As rich as Croesus – such an apt phrase. Herodotus tells us that Croesus was so rich, he had every house guest take away as much gold as he could carry upon leaving. I think that’s a tale with which you might be familiar. I imagine these oligarchs are wealthy but not terribly sophisticated. Some say they passed from barbarism to decadence without going through civilization. Apparently many of them still believe in the old religions, and in particular apotropaic magic. They need to ward off harm, and want to do something more than just cross their fingers, knock on wood and light a Hallowe’en pumpkin. And there you are, ready with the perfect solution. Expensive ceremonies with the highest-end ingredients, complex rites that involve the burial of specific birds and animals.’

  Bryant pounced forward alarmingly. ‘And one very special, very wealthy client who paid you to bring the ravens to him alive, so that he could keep them underground in his new house. But not just any ravens – the very ones that supposedly protect the empire. This is where superstition meets vanity and wealth.’

  He paused for effect, expecting Merry to protest, but the academic sat there in silence, stone-faced.

  ‘The question that must have vexed you most, I suppose, was how on earth to provide provenance?’ Bryant continued. ‘I mean, you could have tried to palm off your client with any old ravens, and simply explained that the Warders had replaced the stolen ones. But no, I can’t imagine your sense of pride would have allowed you to do that. The ravens had to be seen to be stolen. Besides, your benefactor might have checked up on you. That’s why you masqueraded as the Tower’s veterinary surgeon.’

  �
��There was no masquerade involved,’ said Mr Merry. ‘I am qualified to adopt the title.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Bryant. ‘I underestimated you. At first – you’ll forgive me – I thought I was dealing with a charlatan, but you’re smarter than I thought. You made sure that your reputation as a necromancer preceded you. And you’re adept at building a sense of dread. Like many who believe in the outer reaches of the corporeal world, Maggie Armitage is rather too open to suggestion. Her warnings about your abilities would unnerve the hardiest non-believer. A very clever move, that, recruiting innocent, harmless people like her to spread the word about you. It’s all just PR, of course, but of a superior kind.’ He playfully punched Mr Merry on the shoulder.

  ‘Yes, you certainly know how to get the best out of your staff. You planted a workman in our unit to bug the place and give you inside information. Getting him to paint the bleeding hearts on the wall was a nice added touch, because you knew I had knowledge that the New Resurrectionists were meeting at the Bleeding Heart Tavern. You thought you’d hand me over to them, never expecting that they would ask for my help. It was a bit lazy of you, getting Stephen Emes to pick up a copy of the PCU building’s floor plans from the London Metropolitan Archives, just because it was round the corner from the Bleeding Heart. Too easy to check. So now let’s behave like adults and not bother with the tiresome rigmarole of denial. After all, you do have the satisfaction of achievement, despite subsequent discovery.’

  ‘You still don’t know how I did it, do you?’ Mr Merry sat back and folded his arms, waiting patiently. He seemed more relaxed now that the truth was out.

  ‘Well of course I do,’ said Bryant dismissively. ‘What set me thinking was this: how do you tell one raven from another? If somebody wanted them, how would he know he was actually getting the ravens from the Tower? The answer, of course, was that he wouldn’t unless you gave him proof that the originals had gone. Your solution was to make sure they vanished – where they went was no concern of yours, because you simply got some more. And your client never knew otherwise. Once I realized that vanishing a bird was different to stealing it, everything became clearer. And the vet thing was a bit of a giveaway. A vet doesn’t just come here to check on the health of the menagerie’s occupants. Matthew Condright told me that the birds were allowed out into the grounds during the day, and that they stayed because they had their wings clipped. How long have you been the vet here? Between a year and eighteen months?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘The mistake I made was in misunderstanding the terminology. I honestly thought “clipping” was just that, the severing of tendons that allow the birds to fly. I should have realized when I saw them hopping about on the lawn that they could easily lift their wings. Clipping involves regularly trimming the actual ends of the flight feathers, doesn’t it? And the feathers grow out, just as human hair does, needing to be cut. Although you were careful to make the ravens’ wings appear clipped, what you actually did was hobble them with … some kind of clear gum, was it?’

  ‘Exactly so. Quite harmless to the birds, and invisible.’

  ‘They probably tried to peck it off, so you kept an eye on them, got them used to it, reapplied the stuff as their lifting feathers grew out – the amount of clipping that makes the difference between being airborne and remaining grounded is pretty negligible, I understand, so Matthew didn’t notice, especially as it was night by the time the ravens came back to their cage. And when you’re around something unusual all the time you barely see it any more. Matthew didn’t need to examine the birds, just count them.

  ‘On your last visit you ascertained that the feathers had fully grown back and cleaned off the gum. You arrived early, probably picking one of those misty mornings one often gets down here at the river’s edge, The birds left their cage and simply flew out one by one, before the Warders had started duty, before the public started turning up for the day. And because they all went at once, it looked as if someone had stolen them in a single audacious act of treason. Because it is treason, Mr Merry. High treason is the crime of disloyalty to the Crown, and it’s still considered to be the most serious of all offences in the United Kingdom. Mr Condright, would you come in for a moment?’

  Matthew, the Raven Master, appeared in the connecting doorway.

  ‘Remind me, what are the crimes covered under the charge of high treason?’

  Condright watched Mr Merry as he replied. ‘I think they include plotting the murder of a monarch, committing adultery with members of the royal family, waging war against them or helping their enemies, or attempting to undermine the line of succession, Mr Bryant.’

  ‘There you are. It used to be met with extraordinary punishment, because it threatened the security of the State. Luckily for you, hanging, drawing and quartering has fallen out of popularity, although I can’t think why. I’m sure some cable channel would broadcast it. Tell me, Mr Condright, when was the last treason trial?’

  ‘The last one that ended in a death sentence was 1946, sir. William Joyce, the fascist broadcaster from Brooklyn, New York, also known as Lord Haw-Haw. We shot him in the bum and hung him.’

  ‘Luckily for you, though, since the Crime and Disorder Act of 1998 became law, the maximum sentence for treason in the UK is now life imprisonment.’ Bryant chuckled to himself. ‘And ravens – well, it’s not like trying to cop off with a princess, is it?’

  For the first time, Mr Merry looked as if the ground had shifted beneath him.

  ‘Mr Condright, will you do me a favour and keep Mr Merry locked up in the Tower while we send over a team to take his statement and formally charge him?’ Bryant turned to the necromancer and grinned. ‘Lock him up in the Tower – forgive me, but I’ve always wanted to say that.’

  43

  UNDERNEATH

  ‘She kept telling everyone that she knew how Romain died, and who the killer was, and now she’s gone,’ said Shirone Estanza, wiping her eyes. ‘But she couldn’t have known.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Renfield. The three of them were standing in the only dry spot they could find, beneath the school playground’s bicycle shelter, a British summer triptych.

  ‘You’re her father: you wouldn’t have told her, not if you thought it was someone close to her. Would you?’

  Longbright noticed Renfield looking at her, and wished the ground would swallow her up. ‘Do you have any idea where else she’s likely to have gone?’ she asked. ‘Or who she might have been planning to see?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Shirone despairingly. ‘Maybe Mrs Wallace.’

  ‘Why her?’

  ‘She knows what’s going on. She must do. She’s been at the centre of all this right from the start.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Everyone talks around here. We know more than you think. She knew about that guy Jhadav, didn’t she?’

  ‘Knew what? That he was in St George’s Gardens the night you and Romain were there?’

  ‘She must have known about it, or at least guessed, like I did. Why else would she have started stalking him?’

  ‘What about her son, Martin? Has anyone seen him?’

  ‘Not yet. He usually has archery practice on a Wednesday—’

  ‘Archery?’ Renfield repeated.

  Longbright realized that Estanza had not known about the murder method, because in the end Orion Banks had decided not to fully raise the press blackout. ‘Where does he go for practice?’ she asked.

  ‘The school doesn’t have a range and nobody else takes it to his level, so he has a pass to some place in Hatton Garden,’ Shirone explained. ‘He’s allowed to go without supervision. Mr Tarrant is the teacher, you can ask him where—’

  Longbright and Renfield were already on their way.

  The confrontation with Mr Merry had thrown Bryant off-track for a while. As he fruitlessly searched for a taxi in the rain, he called his partner and tried to explain himself. ‘I told you something was wrong, and no
w I think I know what it is,’ he said. ‘The contract Krishna Jhadav cancelled with Thomas Wallace. Wallace was under a lot of stress. His company was going bust, he’d lost his biggest account, but he’d been there before. He’d suffered bouts of depression for years. Who knows what other factors were involved in his decision to take his life? Are people fundamentally truthful or do they always instinctively lie to protect themselves?’

  ‘What are you getting at?’ asked May impatiently.

  ‘Just this,’ he shouted above the noise of wet traffic. ‘Mrs Wallace returned Jhadav’s private financial files. I think she definitely had something on him. But that’s no reason for stalking and attacking him. If she really believed that Jhadav was responsible for her husband’s death, wouldn’t she have gone to the police? She didn’t, because she didn’t need to.’

  ‘I still don’t see what you’re saying.’

  ‘She wasn’t going after him, he was going after her, don’t you see?’

  ‘No, frankly I don’t.’

  ‘Listen, I have to find her right now. I’ll explain everything when I get back.’

  ‘You probably want to know how Jack’s daughter is,’ May prompted.

  ‘Oh, good point, is she all right?’

  ‘No, we haven’t found her. Turns out she shot her mouth off about her father’s involvement in the case, and may have suggested she knew who was responsible. We think she took the morning off school to go to an archery range with Martin Wallace. Apparently she has a crush on him. We’re on our way there now.’

  ‘Archery—’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re ahead of you.’

  ‘I’ll come and find you as soon as I’m done,’ said Bryant. ‘We’re getting close, John – I’m sorry about Jack’s daughter.’

  May was about to reply, but Bryant had already terminated the call.

  Bryant found Vanessa Wallace exactly where her neighbour said she would be, standing at the foot of her husband’s grave. Rain rattled loudly in the leaves overhead. The plane trees provided a dry bower for them.