Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood b&m-9

by Christopher Fowler

  If May was surprised by the luscious Ms Clementine’s rehearsed glibness, he didn’t show it. “It sounds as if believing in such things was very important to him,” he remarked.

  “I think he was always looking for ways to understand his life. I heard he became rich at a very early age, something to do with creating a website for students. When you make so much money at that age, it’s bound to affect your behaviour, isn’t it?”

  As May took his leave, he thought about the Hangman figure found by Gregory Baine’s body. Somebody who had attended Robert Kramer’s party knew about his fascination with the story of Punch, or believed it themselves. And now they were using it to show him how little power he really had over his own life.

  Which meant that Robert Kramer might not be the main suspect at all, but the main target.

  Arthur had said he was developing two theories. If one involved the investigation of Robert Kramer, what, May wondered, was the other?

  ∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

  28

  Performance

  The New Strand Theatre stood at the corner of Adam Street and York Buildings, just off the Strand itself. The white stone edifice had been constructed in 1920 along clean, elegant lines and peaked with inspirational statuary. It was now entirely filled with offices. The double-height ground floor had belonged to a travel company that had gone bankrupt in the credit crunch, and the building’s landlord had decided to put the entire six-floor property on the market. Robert Kramer had seized his chance and purchased it, transforming the atrium into a gold and crimson mock-Edwardian theatre seating an audience of 450.

  Arthur Bryant settled himself in the middle of the second row with a bag of cheese and onion crisps and watched the theatre fill up. The audience for The Two Murderers was unusually young and mixed. While the middle classes went to the National to see plays about politics and society, a more raucous crowd yearning for sex and sensation headed for West End shows that delivered value for money.

  Ray Pryce’s script was unashamedly populist. The play began in a grand Victorian Gothic mansion filled with suits of armour and stags’ heads, where angled shadows strafed the floor in expressionistic patterns. In the first act, the ageing lord of the manor caught his wife in a clinch with the handsome gardener and imprisoned her inside the wall of his ancestor’s torture dungeon before the illicit lovers turned the tables on him.

  Soon the convoluted plot called for a wax dummy of the lord to come to life, and for the wife’s lover to break it open and reveal the real lord imprisoned within. The twists compounded themselves in a satisfying Golden Age fashion, and soon the titular murderers were being placed in torture devices and bodies were returning to life, all part of some grand plan to trick the lord into handing over his estate.

  It was neo-Jacobean tosh, of course, but well constructed and packed with stylish jolts. Bryant could see why the snobbish critic Alex Lansdale had taken against it so strongly.

  “Excuse me, can you put those things down?” said the woman in front of Bryant, turning round to point to his bag of crisps. “You’re spoiling my enjoyment of the play.”

  “Madam, your fox fur collar is having the same effect on me, but I restrain myself from complaint.” He bit into a crisp as noisily as he could and raised his knees against the back of her seat, giving her a good thump. Someone was being strangled onstage. Delia Fortess screamed and clutched her breast before falling to her knees. Bryant grinned. At the blood-spattered close of the play, as everyone else sat in stunned silence, Bryant applauded loudly and bellowed “Bravo!” until everyone turned round to stare at him.

  “So I hear you enjoyed our little melodrama,” said Ray Pryce, stopping Bryant in the foyer as the sickly-faced audience fled to tell their friends how awful the play had been, and how they should definitely go and see it. The writer had been watching the performance from backstage.

  “You heard me?”

  “We could hardly avoid hearing you. You were laughing when everyone else had their hands over their eyes.”

  “Well, I enjoy a good murder. Marcus Sigler is very good, isn’t he? That part where he flew into a murderous rage – how does he manage to achieve that level of fury night after night?”

  “He reckons he harnesses his inner anger – thinks about something that torments him. Stanislavsky and all that.”

  “Tell me, how did you do the bit where the dummy came to life? I thought that was very realistic.”

  “I only came up with the idea on paper,” Ray admitted. “It’s Ella Maltby’s job to make it work. She built the props.”

  “She knows her Victoriana.”

  “It’s a passion of hers. An obsession, almost. Ella has some very strange ideas. That’s why our director picked her for the team.”

  “What kind of strange ideas?”

  “You should see her house. She’s a real-life vamp. She has a collection of African juju dolls, and some ancient Sumerian figurines that are supposed to have the souls of the dead inside them. She used to be a doll maker. Ella told me she genuinely believes that inanimate objects can become human.”

  “Makes a change. In my job I usually encounter the reverse. Sounds right up my street, in fact.”

  “Yours, perhaps, but not Ella’s girlfriend’s. She walked out on her, couldn’t bear to be in the place a minute longer. Said it gave her the creeps. Ella’s been behaving very strangely ever since. She’s stopped socializing with the cast and stays away from the theatre unless she’s absolutely needed.”

  “That’s odd. When did this start?”

  “Let’s see, her girlfriend left last Sunday night.”

  “The night before Noah Kramer was murdered.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, nothing, I’m just thinking aloud. Perhaps I should pay a visit to Ms Maltby.”

  “She won’t like it,” Ray warned. “Ella won’t let you in without a very good reason.”

  “I’m a police officer, I can do whatever I want,” replied Bryant. “It’s fabulous being me. Look, I’ll show you.”

  On his way out, he stopped by the concession stand. “Can I take one of these?” he asked, indicating the programmes. “I’m a pensioner.”

  “I’m afraid senior citizens have to pay just like everybody else,” said the old lady behind the counter.

  “Well, I’m also a police officer, so I’m taking one of those as evidence. Chuck it over, Gran.”

  “Charming.” She reluctantly withdrew a copy and passed it to him. “Some of the older ladies in this cast remember the days when we had a nicer class of people in here.”

  “I’m sure you did, back in Victorian times.” He turned to Ray. “See? With your unpleasant turn of mind, you should think of enlisting in the force. The perks are great.” Bryant opened the programme and began reading it. There were monochrome photographs of the cast members and, on the next page, the production team. “Every single one of these people was in attendance at Robert Kramer’s party,” he told Ray, “and most seem to be hiding some kind of secret. But which of them is a murderer?”

  “It’s like a whodunit,” Ray said, sounding amazed. “I thought that sort of thing only happens on TV.”

  “Most investigations are whodunits,” said Bryant, buttoning his coat, “but most are solved before they’ve barely begun. This one is different.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, the murderer is keeping pace with us. It’s not an investigation now. It’s a race.”

  ∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

  29

  Automata

  Alma Sorrowbridge always baked industrial quantities of cake and bread before heading to her church on Haverstock Hill, and the smell of hot ginger and corn bread lured Bryant from his bedroom. He drifted into the kitchen in his patched, tasselled dressing gown and seated himself half asleep at the table like an impoverished Edwardian lord waiting to be fed.

  “Oh, so you are still here,” said Alma, carrying in a tea tray of spiced pancakes an
d eggs. “I was beginning to think you’d moved out without telling me.”

  “Why would I do that?” asked Bryant. “You feed me.”

  “Not for much longer.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “In case the packing crates in the hall have escaped your attention, we’re moving out.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve hardly been here five minutes. I’m still cataloguing my police manuals; I’m only up to 1928.”

  “We lost the court hearing. They’re tearing this place down and building an apartment complex. I keep telling you but you don’t listen. No one wants an eyesore like this in their nice upmarket neighbourhood.”

  “Well, can’t they rehouse us temporarily and move us into one of the new apartments?”

  “The starting price of the new flats will be £1.5 million each. Have you got that kind of money knocking around? No, I thought not. I blame Jude Law and Gwyneth Paltrow. When they moved in around the corner, the house prices shot up. But if you have got any savings tucked away in your mattress, now would be the time to get them out.”

  “I’m not sure I care for this new sarcastic side of you,” Bryant said. “Can’t we talk about it another time? I’m in the middle of a case.”

  “You’re always in the middle of a case. I’ve been telling you about the court proceedings for months, but I knew you had your hearing aid turned off. I tried to get you along to the hearings, remember? It’s too late to do anything now – we have to go. The Compulsory Purchase Order was approved.”

  “Oh, this is ridiculous. I can’t be expected to stop everything and move house when there’s a murderer on the loose.” He had a sudden thought. “Hang on, I haven’t anywhere to go.”

  “No. That’s because you haven’t got any friends.”

  “I did have some, but most of them died or went mad. Well, what are we going to do?”

  Alma folded her arms across her generous bust. “We? What makes you think I want to move with you?”

  “Don’t be absurd, you’d never live with your conscience if you abandoned me now. You’ve seen what I’m like without you. I nearly burned the house down drying my socks on the gas stove. When I’m left by myself, things have a tendency to explode.”

  “Just as well I’ve made us some arrangements, then. You won’t like it, but I don’t see that we have any choice. I’ve found us a place.”

  “Where?”

  “Number seven, Albion House, Harrison Street, Bloomsbury.”

  “The Gray’s Inn Road end of Bloomsbury? But that’s wonderful! Home of Dickens and Virginia Woolf and Brasenose College.”

  “It’s a council flat.”

  Bryant thumped the side of his head theatrically. “I’m sorry, for a moment I thought you said it was a council flat.”

  “I did and it is.”

  “But I’m a professional. I have a salary. I can’t throw myself on the mercy of the state – ”

  “And you can’t afford to live around here any more. Neither can I. Think of the advantages. You’ll be able to walk to work. And the manager assures me that it’s a nice quiet block. There’s even a small garden. I put our names down when I first heard about the purchase order.”

  Bryant looked around in alarm. “Will there be room for all my books?”

  “Most of them. There’s a spare room. Some will have to go. You could keep your reference manuals at the Unit.”

  “But – ”

  “We have no choice, Mr Bryant. You weren’t interested in attending the meetings, and I couldn’t fight to keep this place without you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Alma. I’ve failed you.”

  “It’s all right, I’m used to it. The first thirty years were the hardest. Go on, have some corn bread.”

  Bryant munched and thought for a minute. “You know, it might be a good thing. We’ll meet new people. Common people with ordinary lives, the ones who watch talent shows on television and take their children to football matches. I can get to know them, find out about their habits. Make a proper clinical study of them.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea. They may not like being studied,” said Alma. “Let’s see what the neighbours are like first.”

  “When does all this happen?”

  “The removal van is arriving on Monday. Don’t worry, everything will be taken care of. The flat has just been painted for us. I’ll write down the address for you and give you a set of keys.”

  “What would I do without you, Alma?”

  “You’d be thinner, for a start. It’s a bit late to get sentimental. You do your work and I’ll do mine.” She began pouring fresh tea.

  “What is your work?”

  “Why, looking after you, of course.” She gave a shrug. “It’s a disgusting job but somebody has to do it.”

  ♦

  London experiences most of its foggy mornings in May and October, but on Friday morning John May stepped out onto his balcony on the fourth floor of the converted warehouse at Shad Thames to find a cool grey mist eddying over the still green surface of the river. Near the shore, a police patrol boat nosed a corridor through the vapour like an icebreaker. Seagulls dropped and wheeled from the milky sky, reminding those below that they lived on an island in a cold grey sea.

  He missed Brigitte. She was hardly bothering to return his emails and phone calls. He knew that her job at the Paris Tourist Board required her to attend a great number of social events, and felt sure that she was meeting younger, more eligible men who possessed the added benefit of being born Parisians. Here he was on the wrong side of the Channel, fooling himself into thinking that a glamorous French divorcee still preferred to be with him. Men are worse than women when it comes to worrying

  about their own attractiveness, he thought glumly. I’m old, it’s as simple as that, and I’m going to be alone. Other people learn to manage. I’ve always put my career before my relationships. Perhaps I’m like Robert Kramer in that respect. And I’d better learn to deal with it, because it won’t get any easier.

  He ground fresh coffee beans – a breakfast ritual he had developed after seeing Michael Caine do it in The Ipcress File – then chose a new white shirt and a ribbed grey silk tie, because looking smart at least made him feel younger. He envied Arthur, because his partner had obviously not looked in a mirror since the year of the Coronation and seemed entirely happy in his own rumpled skin. Vanity is a form of self-harm, he decided, slipping into his black suit jacket. It’s time to concentrate on something more important.

  Lucy Clementine’s testimony against her old boss bothered him. She had clearly meant it as a condemnation, but why? What had she to gain now, when she no longer worked for him? Ms Clementine had turned up too conveniently. It felt as if someone was pushing Kramer at them and making sure they stayed on target.

  The more he thought about the detestable Robert Kramer, the more he seemed to be a victim. It was a gut instinct born from years of experience. Every investigation reveals a worm in the bud, May thought, and you often end up hating the people you’re meant to defend, and vice versa. I really should talk to Arthur about my mixed feelings.

  As he came out of the building, he found Arthur Bryant sitting on a traffic bollard opposite his front door. He had his hat pulled down over his ears and was dipping a Mars Bar in a polystyrene cup of tea. “Ah, I was wondering how long it would take for you to finish your ablutions,” he said, dunking the last of his chocolate. Bryant had a habit of appearing when May was thinking about him as if he had been psychically summoned.

  “I didn’t know you were outside. You could have come up.”

  “No, I was having a plate of pork sausages over the road at your transport caff. I wanted to get an early start but something’s gone wrong with Victor’s carburettor. I thought we’d take your BMW.”

  “Fine by me. Where are we going?”

  “I need you with me, but I don’t want you to get annoyed again.”

  “Why do you think it w
ill annoy me?”

  “Trust me, it will. We’re going to play with dolls. I’ve arranged an appointment at Pollock’s Toy Museum in Whitfield Street.”

  “So long as it brings us nearer to catching a killer, I’m all yours,” May said magnanimously, digging out his car keys.

  ♦

  “How did you get on with your contact?” asked Bryant as they turned into Charlotte Street.

  “Interesting. Lucy Clementine worked for Kramer and hates him enough to suggest that he killed his wife’s child.”

  “Yes, I rather thought she might,” said Bryant, burying himself deeper into his coat.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Take no notice of me. I shall keep my mouth zipped until I have further evidence. Let’s talk to Mr Granville. Pull in here.”

  “It’s a double-red zone, Arthur.”

  “You really have to stop worrying about these minor legal details. Don’t you get it? We’re old, we can do whatever we like. Come along. We’re late.”

  Pollock’s Toy Museum was named after Benjamin Pollock, the last of the Victorian toy theatre printers. When it moved from the teeming streets of Covent Garden in 1969, it was relocated in an old corner house in a shaded back street behind Tottenham Court Road.

  The museum on the corner of Whitfield Street was built over a working shop that specialized in Victorian puppets and theatres. Bryant peered in at the nicotine-coloured window display, which had not changed in decades. Bright red and yellow proscenium arches, trimmed from cardboard, reflected a world long vanished. In the narrow winding staircases and corridors above the shop, glass-eyed dolls and balding teddy bears stared out from corners. The existence of such a place in the modern world was a testament to the determination of its owners, who were resolved to keep the gateway of childish imagination open.

  Nimrod Granville was one of the few men working in London who made Arthur Bryant appear healthful. Tussocks of snowy hair were clumped about the freckled, corrugated flesh of his paté, and a pair of ridiculous half-moon glasses were perched upon his spectacularly hooked hooter, lending him the appearance of Mr Punch himself. These days he remained seated on a high wooden stool behind the counter, and the shop’s dimly lit interior played havoc with his ability to read the boxes that contained the shop’s toy theatres, but Dudley Salterton had recommended him to Bryant as the capital’s last working expert on Victorian theatrical toys. Granville asserted that his longevity was due to a regular intake of Guinness and a sixty-a-day cigarette habit that had begun when he was twelve years old. Consequently his breathing sounded like a gale blowing through a fence and he was required to stop every thirty seconds to get his wind back.