“You’re telling me that this is about keeping building contracts in Istanbul?” asked Biddle.
“Add to this mix a powerful Austrian with Mosleyite connections in London, a man whose only daughter has died in mysterious circumstances, and a theatrical production, of all things, that simultaneously demonstrates international solidarity and co-operation while challenging the nation’s moral dignity. Is it any wonder that the matter is attracting attention in high places? You see, Biddle, you have to look at the broader picture. Four days and three murders on, we’re no further forward than when we started, so I’m going to handle the case in the manner I think fit. I know I’m an unlikelylooking subversive, but it’s people like me you have to watch out for. I won’t toe the party line and I don’t have to cover my back against losing a court case over technical irregularities – ”
“You’re talking about contaminated evidence, failure to observe – ”
“ – because,” Bryant cut across him, “our cases get solved before they ever reach a public court, something you’d have realized if you’d studied the unit’s history a little more thoroughly instead of worrying about logging procedures on trace evidence.”
He rose, bringing the meeting to an end. “Now you may want to reconsider your transfer. You seem like a smart chap. Put your talents to good use. Check out the spot where Darvell was butchered. Ask Runcorn about the blood patterns in the aisle. Forget the paperwork and get stuck in. That’s where you’ll be best used. Don’t let your ambitions pull you in the wrong direction. I know you asked Davenport down here today. But think about what I’ve said. You can let me have your answer by tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Biddle, looking at Bryant as if he was mad, “but my mind is made up. I’m requesting a transfer from the unit at the first available opportunity.”
He’s angry that John saw action and he didn’t, thought Bryant suddenly. He wants to be out there rugby- tackling the villains. It was all he needed to understand to get Biddle back on track.
? Full Dark House ?
37
THE VOICE OF THE ABYSSINIAN
Arthur Bryant stood outside the cafe lost in thought as the rainwater slipped through its blast-damaged canopy, dripping onto the shoulders of his gaberdine. Some office girls dashed across the road with newspapers held over their heads. A taxi splashed past with a dirt-smudged child sitting on the running board. A tramp in a torn cardboard hat was carefully stepping in and out of a large puddle at the kerb, his head bowed in concentration. The safe canopy of inclement weather had brought life back to the night streets. Bryant checked his watch again, and decided to give Elspeth five more minutes.
Like Geoffrey Whittaker, Harry, Stan Lowe and Mr Mack, Elspeth belonged to a brigade of workers whose lives were lived in darkness, a perpetual night divided into sections that ran concurrently from one production to the next. Bryant was surprised how little they knew of the world beyond their own circle. They were the real theatre angels, happy to remain in the shadows beyond the footlights, only tangentially attached to the stage, essential to its survival.
He checked his watch again. She must have known that she’d be too busy to break for supper; that was why she had insisted on meeting him outside the cafe. She had not wanted to hurt his feelings by refusing him outright. He pulled his scarf a little tighter round his neck and sniffed the cold air. For a brief moment he thought he had been given a shot at finding himself a new girl. But it was clear where Elspeth’s loyalties lay. After repeatedly choosing work over women, he felt as though he was getting a taste of his own medicine.
At moments like this, the memory of Nathalie returned. He missed her so badly that he wanted to cry. As he stepped back into the foggy drizzle, he decided to avoid the theatre in order to spare Elspeth embarrassment, and walked off into Soho to buy himself a mug of cocoa.
When he reached the corner, something made him stop and glance back at the theatre. He looked up at the pairs of mullioned windows, and had the briefest impression of being watched through the mist. A pale twisted face, a fleeting presence, like the fading heat of a handprint on glass. It dipped back from the window, and the thought of his aberrant imagination chilled him. He was starting to believe that buildings held ghosts.
“There’s something in there I don’t understand,” he told May later. “I want to take someone in with me after dark.”
“Don’t say it,” warned May. “Don’t tell me you want to go ghosthunting in a theatre at midnight with one of your clairvoyant pals.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do, how did you know?” asked Bryant innocently. “Edna has a good sense for these things.”
“Not your alternative theologian, the woman with the cats,” groaned May. DS Forthright had told May about the eerie afternoon she had once spent with Bryant and Edna Wagstaff in a rundown slum flat filled with feline familiars.
“We’re lucky she’s had a cancellation and can fit us in so soon. She doesn’t normally make house calls.”
“You’ve already spoken to her? What have you arranged?”
“She’s meeting us outside the stage door at midnight tonight.”
“No, Arthur, you promised Davenport you wouldn’t. No mumbo-jumbo, he said.”
“I think she might be able to do some good. Sensations of pain and harm are as visible to her as the walls around us. She doesn’t charge, but I usually drop her something. Mrs Wagstaff is tormented by her gift. Past, present and future are all the same. Everything crosses over. The only way she can relieve the pain her gift causes is by using it to help others.”
“And you really believe this?” asked May.
“With all my heart.” Bryant’s pale blue eyes were so wide, so honest that he had to be telling the truth.
¦
“I’m sorry I’m late. The blackout and the fog. I had to follow a tramline to get here, and then I followed it too far.” Tall and ascetic, wrapped in a frayed black coat and carrying a cat box, the old lady looked considerably more frail than when Bryant had last seen her.
“Hello, Edna,” he said jovially, “I hear you’re still living on the Isle of Dogs.”
“Oh yes, Arthur, one of the last. I’ve been bombed out twice now, and I lost my Billy, my proud boy, at Dunkirk. At least he saw service.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Bryant, taking her hand.
“He was happy to be mobilized. The air force and the navy have no chance to stop and think because they stay on duty around the clock. My boy spent so much time confined to barracks, he was so terribly bored with the endless drills. At least it was an active end.”
“But how are you?”
“Oh, they keep trying to rehouse me. I had people round from the council, telling me my cats were insanitary. I explained they were all dead, what harm could they do? How could you catch fleas from them? They were sprayed for parasites when they were stuffed. They want me to go to a home in Stepney. That’s miles away.”
“Can’t your daughter take you in?”
“She’s gone to the WRNS. I’m very proud. I wouldn’t want to bother her.” She made her way up the stairs with awkward slowness. “You know, I haven’t been to the theatre in years.”
“Edna, this is my new partner, Mr May.”
She reached over and shook his hand, then hastily released it.
“I do beg your pardon, Mr May. What a jolt. I get very strong feelings from some of the people I come into physical contact with, mostly the young ones.”
“Oh, really?” said May, rubbing the static shock from his fingers with some embarrassment. “What did you get from me?”
“Best not to say, just in case I’m wrong,” said Edna mysteriously. “Let’s not dwell on what hasn’t happened yet. I brought Rothschild with me. He’s an Abyssinian, the lion of cats.” She raised the cat box high.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” whispered May.
“Edna sees things.”
“And I can smell something.” May grimaced. “I think it’s her.”
“I just need to pick up the psychic scent,” she called over her shoulder.
