are upset, or angry, or just frustrated. Acts of violence are squalid, casual, mundane. Contrition, misery, fingerprints everywhere, children in tears. This death was absurdly theatrical, to mutilate someone in the home of Grand Guignol. That’s what makes it unique, that’s why the case has come here.”
“You think someone in the cast is trying to stop the production?”
“It’s unlikely to be anyone involved with the show, because they’re the ones with the most to lose. If you were working with Capistrania and had a violent grudge against her, why not wait until she left the theatre for the night? Why draw attention to your own workplace?” Bryant’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “There’s enough danger out there on the streets right now, what’s one more casualty? Go on, whack her over the head with a brick and dump her on a bombsite, who would know? Anything can happen in the blackout if you’ve a mind for it – a calculating, egotistical, opportunistic mind. One thinks of the Rosicrucian Robert Fludd and his theories of anti- magnetism, brilliant and deranged. The greatest dangers come from the man without a conscience. Look at the photographs of Hitler at Nuremberg two years ago, the deadness behind the eyes that denies humanity, just as it betrays the true darkness of the soul.”
May felt exhilarated around Bryant. He had always imagined that somewhere out there, away from suburban dullness, ardent young people were allowed to give freer rein to their thoughts. He felt as though he had arrived at a place he had always wanted to be. “How can you concern yourself with the mind of the murderer when it’s the victim who’s been done wrong?” asked Biddle hotly. “Because we can do nothing for the victim. John, surely you must agree?”
“I suppose so, but it’s difficult to set aside sorrow for the death of someone young.”
Over the years, the detectives argued so much that eventually their polarized altercations mellowed into the kind of bickering that passed for daily conversation in married households. Bryant was more receptive to unusual paths of thought. May’s attitude was flexible, but he seemed in a permanent state of surprise. He was warmer, more approachable. He empathized with victims. Bryant was the opposite. He hailed from a sphere of arcane textbooks and borderline beliefs. There was something mad about him, as if he had lived in the city for centuries. Biddle couldn’t imagine how his mind worked, or what had made him place his trust in John May so quickly. Bryant appeared untouched by the horrors of war, except on a level of academic interest, and showed no capacity for kindness. May’s mental processes were easier to follow. Bryant just frightened people. He smelled of some weirdly pungent aftershave and looked like a distracted, misanthropic student. He trusted books more than other human beings.
Biddle was an observer. He stayed silent and noticed the things others missed. He could already feel the undertow of loyalties that might pull the two detectives in different directions. It was worth making a note of. In terms of career advancement, it could prove useful.
“Sidney, we seem to have lost you.” May pointed at the blackboard. “Points of correspondence in these footprints.”
Biddle studied the photographs pinned at the top of the board and tried to concentrate. “The design is similar in shape and dimensions, and there’s what looks like a faint worn area on the instep common to both,” he pointed out. “The moulded sole probably means plimsolls, which is good, given the distinctive patterns produced by different companies.”
“I noticed that many of the cast members wore a specifically styled stage shoe with a rubber sole like that,” added May. “What would you suggest we do with these prints, then?”
“They were made on lino and concrete respectively, so I’d try to raise a more detailed image with an electrostatic mat.” May knew that you could pass an electric charge through a sheet of foil layered between two sheets of acetate, photograph it at an angle that contrasted the surface, and it would reveal details of the shoe that might otherwise be lost.
“No need. I was informed that such shoes come from a specialist shop in St Martin’s Lane. That’s your job sorted out for the rest of the day, Sidney. Till receipts.” Biddle looked uncomfortable. “What’s the matter?”
“We should be looking for her enemies.”
Bryant’s face clouded. “What does forty-eight mean to you, Mr Biddle?”
“The first forty-eight hours are the most important in any murder investigation,” he mumbled.
“And would you mind telling us why that is?”
“The evidence starts to deteriorate.”
“Exactly. The physical surroundings of violent death become muddied. The people who knew this unfortunate young lady will still be around after those barely visible heel marks have gone.”
“I think what Mr Bryant is trying to point out,” said May, “is that no matter how hard we try to preserve the site, someone or something will stir the air, touch the floor, imperceptibly change the scene. The city we live in now is not the city we lived in five minutes ago.”
“Oh, but it is, John,” stated Bryant, annoyingly. “The growth circle sees to that.”
“I’m not sure I follow. Growth circle?”
“Natural forces create order out of chaos in specific sites, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“I hardly think this is the time for an argument in semantics,” said May.
“It’s not semantics, it’s psychogeography. Ask yourself to name the most soulless and depressing central thoroughfare in London. New Oxford Street would be high on your list. Why? Because it’s a forced nineteenth- century creation; it was noted to be atmospherically dead when it was built, and it always will be. Natural growth fails in a spot that was artificial to begin with.”
“I must agree with that,” said Biddle, then quickly shut his mouth. “Fine,” said May, surrendering. “Would you like me to check out the number of murders in nineteenth-century Cambridge Circus, or shall we go back further, to the age of the Black Death, say?”
“Where we need to go is back to the theatre,” said Bryant. “You and I will take Miss Wynter’s tour of the building. We shall sense the impressions left behind on the air. The auditorium of the theatre, that’s where the drama is playing itself out.” He waved a warning digit at Biddle. “And not a word to Davenport, you, or I’ll put pinholes in your gas mask.”
? Full Dark House ?
18
GRAND TOUR
Elspeth Wynter replaced the receiver and made a note in her theatre order book. Many of the
Elspeth suspected that Helena Parole wanted to court controversy. She knew what would happen once word reached the censor’s office that this production featured virtual nudity, simulated sex and a salacious translation. There would be demands for its immediate closure. But the owner of the theatre company had apparently made contingency plans, though nobody knew what they were.
Elspeth climbed down off her stool and studied the figures. The production was to be the most spectacular depiction of Pluto’s Underworld ever attempted. The designs for Hades and Olympus were sure to provoke outrage – and generate welcome column-inches. But part of the original cast had been lost to ENSA commitments, most of the chorus girls were inexperienced and under eighteen, and good actors were scarce.
Across from the booking office, downstairs in the auditorium, she could hear the orchestra limbering up as rehearsals got under way. It was a special sound, unique to the theatre. Those tentative first chords told her that a new production had started, and that the public would soon be on its way.
It was cold in the foyer. In the last few days the close dampness of autumn had dissipated, to be replaced by diamond skies and too many freezing clear mornings. It meant that daylight raids could be carried out, and bombers had been sighted brazenly venturing deeper into the city. Messerschmitt 109s, fighters equipped to dart in and drop small-calibre incendiary bombs, were being seen more frequently. Everyone now recognized different aircraft by
