? Full Dark House ?
10
COLD FEET AND ROASTED CHESTNUTS
“Can’t you tell him I’ve already left, John?” It was early on Tuesday morning, and Arthur Bryant had just been informed that Farley Davenport was on the telephone for him.
“He knows you’re here. He says he can hear you in the room even when you’re not saying anything.”
“For someone who appears to be deaf most of the time, he has very acute hearing when he needs it.” Bryant searched his jacket pockets, looking for his pipe. He was forever losing it, especially when it was lit, and had a habit of setting fire to things. “Is he still holding on?”
May gingerly returned the heavy Bakelite receiver to his ear, then covered the mouthpiece. “I can hear him breathing.”
“Oh, for God’s sake give it here.” He held out his hand so that May could pass him the telephone before busying himself on the far side of the office. “What can I do for you, Davenport? I was just on my way out.”
“Alvar Lidell mentioned that business with the Leicester Square Vampire on the wireless this morning, Mr Bryant.”
“I know. I found his report fanciful in the extreme. He’s in danger of developing a sense of humour. One can’t help feeling it would be detrimental to the war effort.”
“Be that as it may, I believe I had expressly instructed you not to attract any publicity to the matter. We shall have to issue denials.”
“Someone from the
May waved his hand at Bryant, requesting the receiver. “Ah, our Mr May would like a quick word with you.” He threw it as though it was burning his fingers.
“Mr Davenport? That account was treated as a jocular endpiece to the news. It couldn’t possibly be taken seriously, provided no further information is released. To refute the report now would only validate it.”
There was a pause on the line. “I didn’t realize you were an expert on the subject, Mr May.”
“I’m not, sir, but a fire can’t burn without oxygen to feed it.”
Another pause. “Perhaps you’re right. Let me have another word with your colleague.” May hastily passed the telephone back.
“I’ll let the matter lie there, Mr Bryant, provided there are no further security breaches of this sort,” warned Davenport. “These are the kind of propaganda victories Goebbels is praying for.”
“Fair enough, point taken,” said Bryant. “I’m in receipt of your new boy, by the way.”
“Ah, Mr Biddle,” said Davenport cagily. “Thought you could use an extra hand.”
“I now have the perspicacious Mr May, for whom I thank you. Biddle is rather over-egging the pudding, don’t you think?”
“Don’t push your luck, Mr Bryant. He’s there to keep an eye on things.”
“I’ll make sure he spells our names correctly in the reports he prepares for you.”
There was a small, deathly silence on the other end of the line. “As long as you’re spending government money, you must be made accountable to the public.”
“I wonder that they don’t have a right to know at least some of the things that go on.” Bryant winked at May across the cluttered desks.
“The news must be managed correctly if it is to have the right effect on the morale of the nation,” barked Davenport. “You will not let this happen again.”
“Righty-ho, message received and understood.”
There was a pop and the line went dead.
“I say, thanks for getting me off the hook,” said Bryant, replacing the receiver.
“What’s Davenport like?”
“He can be a bit of a stick. He’s incredibly old, of course, and I’ve seen a happier face on a pilchard. I hope I never get to be like that when I’m past forty. He’s utterly convinced that Goebbels is watching our every move.”
“They say Goebbels has a cloven hoof,” said May, “did you know?”
“Oh,
“It’s a strange feeling, not being involved in the physical battle when so many others are.”
“I know what you mean. We saw an internal memo about the number of dead. Fourteen thousand civilians have been killed in the last two months, with another twenty thousand seriously wounded, and four-fifths of them are Londoners. They’re keeping that quiet.”
“One looks at the sheer scale of the suffering and feels so useless. I would like to have taken part in Dunkirk.”
“You’re here to use your brains, John. The government knows how to put its good minds to work. The boffins will win the war in other ways. You’ll see.” He grinned mischievously. “Something rather odd has just come in, as a matter of fact. Come and join me in about an hour, will you? I’ll be – let’s see,” he checked the address he had scribbled down, “at the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Cambridge Circus, opposite Marks and Co. You’ll have to go the other way round from here, cut over to Long Acre and work your way up. They’ve closed the top of Bow Street for bomb clearance.”
¦
“Well, what do you make of this?” asked Bryant, glancing at the chestnut stall parked at the edge of the road. They were standing outside Marks and Co., the bookshop later recognized by its address, 84 Charing Cross Road. “The gentleman here found something unusual on his chestnut stand last night, and called the police. They had a look and passed it on to us.”
May looked at the nervous young man of Mediterranean descent who stood beside his brazier. There was a sharp chill in the morning air, and very little traffic. Frost glittered on the rooftops of the houses in Shaftesbury Avenue, silvering the tiled turrets.
“This chap started heating up his brazier and noticed something that shouldn’t be there among the chestnuts. Two somethings, to be precise. A pair of women’s feet, very small. Heavily calloused, toes quite deformed.”
“Good Lord.”
“I always think anyone who eats pavement food deserves an upset stomach, but this is beyond the pale. There were a few raids reported after dark last night but they soon stopped, and no enemy aircraft managed to reach this far into the city, so I don’t think we’re looking at body parts from an explosive device. Besides, take a good squint at them.” He poked at the discoloured feet with the end of an HB pencil, carefully turning them over.
“Do I have to?” asked May squeamishly.
“Oh, you’ll get used to sights like this. See here, the flesh at the edge of each ankle is neatly torn. Bombs leave limbs and appendages ragged. The skin’s quite dry and hard to the touch. No blood. Look at that, clean bone. So we’re looking at death earlier than discovery, perhaps twenty-four hours before. Do you want a boiled sweet?”
“No, thank you.”
Bryant rustled the bag. “Warm you up,” he said, “Bassett’s Winter Mixture. I’ve mislaid my pipe.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” May blew on his hands and briskly stamped his feet.
“You must get yourself a decent winter overcoat. There’s a lot of standing around in this job, and that suit isn’t warm enough. If you’re short of cash or coupons I can sort something out for you.”
“I’m sure I can find something,” May promised, eyeing his partner’s eccentric choice of apparel. Today Bryant was dressed in a suit of large green checks, over which he had thrown a fawn cashmere coat clearly manufactured in the nineteen twenties for someone much larger. He had topped off the ensemble with another unravelling hand- knitted scarf of indeterminate length, shape and colour.
“Now that you’ve had a look at the feet in situ, I suppose we should pop them into a bag and offload them.” Bryant produced a pair of red rubber gloves and slipped them on. He lifted the feet from the pan of the chestnut
