“You said there was no one left alive from the Palace,” he told her, “but you’re wrong. Believe me, I know how it sounds, but I think our killer is still around. Arthur recognized the diagram for what it was. A possible escape route.”
“It’s a bit of a long shot, don’t you think?”
“We know Arthur went to the theatre to research his memoirs. I think he discovered the blueprint and realized the implications at once. Then he did the most obvious thing. He ran a search. Combed the city’s mental institutions and checked through hospital records looking for further signs of survival.”
“You’re saying he traced this aged lunatic and found him in residence at the Wetherby? Why would he do that?” Longbright sounded sceptical.
“You know how Arthur always hated loose ends. He went galloping off to the clinic, made a nuisance of himself, questioned the nurses, poked about in their records and ended up with a shortlist of former patients.” May ducked through a grey wall of stalled trucks, heading for the tube. On the pavement ahead, a tangle of red and white plastic tape cordoned off a vast pile of roadwork rubble, more haphazardly arranged than any wartime bomb debris.
“He was only going to write up the story for his memoirs, but suddenly found himself back in the case. That’s why he wanted me to go with him. He warned me he could get into trouble.” May was forced to shout into the cellphone. “He found what he was looking for, then probably drove around to the poor bloke’s house. You know how insensitive he could be.”
“The newspapers of the time called him the Phantom, didn’t they? He was probably rather upset to be tracked down again.”
“Enough to follow Arthur back to the unit and plant a bomb,” May replied. “From what we know of him, it would make perfect sense. A case of history repeating, a farewell performance. Finch said he thought the explosive material was old.”
“Yes, but sixty years old? Where on earth could he have been keeping it?”
“Who knows, he could have buried it in his back garden and returned to dig it up. I think seeing Arthur brought back everything that had happened, and ignited his desire for revenge.” May paused while the trucks juddered past. “Listen,” he bellowed, sticking his finger in his ear, “I need you to track someone down for me.”
“Of course, who do you need?” Longbright asked.
“Bryant’s dentist. I know he’s left the practice, but they must have a contact number. It’s very important that you locate him.”
May snapped the phone shut and gave one final glance at the rain-filled sky before stepping into the clammy warmth of the tube station.
? Full Dark House ?
41
RUNNING TO DAYLIGHT
“You realize we’re an hour away from tonight’s dress rehearsal, and that we open tomorrow?” asked Helena Parole, lighting a corktipped De Rezske and fanning the smoke through the opened window in her office.
The young detectives were seated with her. Bryant listened as he cleaned out his pipe bowl with a pickle fork that he kept in his coat for just such a purpose.
“How am I expected to feel? I’ve got an under-rehearsed cast that’s too panicked to concentrate on the score, a violinist who’s more used to playing in Leicester Square for a hatful of pennies, a musical director who fights with the conductor over every notechange in the arrangements, fifty-year-old mechanical equipment that refuses to control several tons of lethal scenery, a replacement Jupiter who has never performed in the West End, a cleaning lady who’s trying to scrub blood out of the balcony seats, and now some kind of women’s temperance league is picketing the theatre. Stan and Mouse are spreading rumours about ghosts walking through walls. Benjamin got punched on the nose by a woman who says we’re the spawn of Satan. I nearly broke my leg in the foyer after Elspeth’s tortoise pulled rhubarb leaves all over the floor. And you’re telling me we have an abduction on our hands.”
“How important is Jan Petrovic to the show?” asked May, attempting to look unfazed.
“She’s just part of the chorus, not featured at all. I replaced her the minute she failed to show for the rehearsal. That’s not the point. I have to be sure that you can protect my boys and girls, otherwise I can’t go out there and convince them that everything’s fine.”
“We’re doing as much as we can. I’d prefer to see the production suspended rather than place anyone in danger, but Mr Renalda has every intention of ensuring the show goes on.”
Helena’s voice rose a notch. “This is no reflection on your abilities, Mr May, but in view of your
“I’m afraid there is no one else available, Miss Parole,” he replied politely.
“They’ve spent a fortune on advance advertising and publicity. There’s not a bomb site in London that’s not been plastered with the posters. To Mr Renalda, a missing chorus girl is less important than an outraged review in the
“Obviously we’re all hoping that Miss Petrovic turns up safe and sound. We found signs of a struggle in her apartment, and several small spots of blood that may be hers, but no unaccounted-for fingerprints. What appeared to be a large smear of blood on a wall turns out, rather oddly, to be nail varnish. Beyond that, we know very little.”
“It seems to me you know very little about what’s been happening at all. I suppose all the good detectives have been taken by the war effort. It’s not your fault, you just lack experience. God knows who I’d blame. I certainly wouldn’t listen to any of the cast.”
“Why not?”
“They’re actors, for Christ’s sake, they exaggerate everything. Have you talked to them all?”
“Pretty much.”
“What about those crazy women outside? Don’t you think it could be someone who’s taken the show as a personal affront to decency?”
“I think plenty of them are doing that. I just can’t imagine anyone being so upset that they would break into a theatre and start murdering the performers.”
“Don’t be so sure. The Nazis are on the lookout for signs of dissatisfaction and unrest. It said so in the paper. They’re infiltrating groups and stirring up trouble, just like they did in the thirties.”
“I don’t think we’re under attack from German spies,” said Bryant firmly. “My spiritualist mentioned Medea and Calliope.”
“Your spiritualist,” repeated Helena.
Bryant nodded, patting his pockets for a light.
“I’m surrounded by blithering idiots.” The artistic director rose to leave. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a show to rehearse.”
¦
“Calliope was the mother of Orpheus,” Bryant explained once he and May had returned to their offices behind Bow Street. “He got his musical talents from her. Perhaps we should take a look at the original legend, not Offenbach’s version of it.”
“We’re not looking for a mythical creature, Arthur, even your Mrs Wagstaff agreed about that.”
“We need to find a motive, John. Aristaeus tried to rape Eurydice, and she trod on a serpent as she fled. The poison killed her. Hemlock is a poison that was known to the ancient Greeks. Orpheus followed her down to Hades, and suspended the tortures of the damned with his music. Orpheus was instructed not to turn round to look at her until she had reached the light of the sun. Eurydice made her way through the darkness, guided by the sound of his lyre. As he reached the sunlight, he looked back and lost her for ever. Various reasons have been given for his behaviour. Some say he was frightened by a clap of thunder. Others reckon he was pushed in the back by Jupiter. Our Jupiter is dead, and can no longer stop the flight of Orpheus, running to daylight. Edna talked of ghosts, unseen hands guiding, pushing at the actors’ backs. The girl, Jan, she’s not been seen anywhere?”
