Bryant & May 01; Full Dark House

mythology of a famous family, all because their story so perfectly matched the opera they were presenting.

Bryant released a groan as he realized the truth. Something far simpler, far more apparent, something that had been staring him in the face for the past week. He needed to get back to the theatre, to check the paintwork on the other pass door – the door that Stan Lowe’s boy was supposed to be jemmying open to comply with the safety regulations.

There was only an hour to go before the curtain went up on Monday night’s performance of Orpheus. It took him nearly twenty minutes to locate a working telephone in the Aldwych, and then, in his haste to find someone who could help him, he managed to call the woman who was most likely to make his mission more difficult. “Who is this?” shouted Maggie Armitage, practising white witch and founder member of the Camden Town Coven.

“Who have I called?” Bryant asked himself aloud.

“Don’t you know, you silly man?” she shouted more loudly. “If this is Trevor Bannister from the Southwark Bridge Supernaturals, I’ve already told you, we don’t want your South London call-outs, thank you. Five shillings for spirit clearance, it’s not worth the taxi fare. I’m not wiping up other people’s ectoplasm for less than seven and six.”

“Maggie, I’m sorry, I seem to have dialled without concentrating…” Bryant had been staying with the spiritualist for the past two days. He had felt the need to be away from people who knew about the case, and his landlady was in daily contact with DS Forthright. “Arthur? Is that you? Your dinner’s ruined, I’d give it to the dog but turnips give him wind. I had a feeling you were going to call. It’s about the Palace, isn’t it? You think you know who’s behind the murders.”

“I, er, ah…”

“Your timing is spot on, we just finished a seance. We were going to have a few madrigals, but my harpsichord has suffered some minor bomb damage. I used to be able to slice hardboiled eggs through the top chords, but of course it’s all powdered stuff now. Do you want me down there? The auspices are very good tonight. Fog always helps the ectoplasmic manifestations. I hear the show is absolutely disgusting, can you get comps?”

“I’m on my way there. I think I’m going to make an arrest,” he foolishly admitted.

“I can do you a quick reading on the telephone if you like. I get the vibrations from the tone of your voice.”

“That’s clever,” said Bryant. “What do you know about fear of open spaces?”

“That’s psychology, dear, not spiritualism. It can set in when a susceptible person doesn’t get out of the house for a long time, especially if they’re undergoing some kind of personal crisis. You think your murderer is agoraphobic?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Be careful, though, won’t you? Phobics can be very nasty when they get into a state of panic. Phobias are powerful vehicles for aggressive feelings. They condense anxiety. Intrusive phobias aren’t part of general personalities, they just kick in at key moments. They’re a defence against intense trauma, fear of intimacy, stuff like that.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I once performed an exorcism for a bonce doctor. He was broke and paid me off in therapy. Oh, I’m sensing something very dangerous.”

“In what way?”

“The war. An unexploded bomb. I’m seeing fire and screaming. An explosion, Arthur, a terrible explosion that I’m rather afraid causes the death of one of you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, as sure as if it has already happened. In a way, of course, it already has. I don’t think you should go to the theatre tonight.”

“I have no choice.”

With the witch’s warning words ringing in his ears, Bryant hung up and ran grimly on towards the Palace. When he arrived there, he immediately headed for the right-hand backstage area. He knew he would find the proof he needed on the lintel of the second pass door.

? Full Dark House ?

57

A LIFE IN THE THEATRE

“Because I need you to help us,” said Sergeant Forthright, pausing at the top of the stairs and making sure that the coast was clear.

“I don’t know anything about detective work,” Alma Sorrowbridge complained. “I’m a landlady, for heaven’s sake. I’m better on beds.”

“Mr Bryant reckons that any respected person with common sense and an analytical mind could be recruited, so I’m recruiting you.”

“I thought you’d resigned.”

“I never technically left. Although I’m still hoping they’ll throw me a party.”

“But why me?”

“Because you’re the most enormous person we know. You weigh what, about seventeen stone, don’t you?”

“Sixteen and a half. There’s nothing wrong with my weight. It’s my height, I’m too short.”

“The point is, Alma, you’re strong.”

“I’m not that strong.”

“How do you clean behind your mangle?”

“I lift it out.”

“Exactly. What I want you to do is wait at the top of these stairs and don’t let anyone – anyone – get past you.”

“What if the audience starts leaving? How can I stop them?”

“They won’t be turning out for a while yet. I think you’d better have this, though.” The sergeant handed her Bryant’s swordstick and showed her how to unscrew the pewter top.

“I’ve never used a sword before,” said Alma hopelessly. “I’m more at home with a mop.”

“Hopefully you won’t have to run anyone through.” Forthright struck a pose with the sword, then resheathed it. For a moment she looked like Douglas Fairbanks in drag. “If anyone comes this way, just sort of – spread out. And scream blue murder. Someone will come to assist you.”

“This is beyond the call of my duties,” sighed Alma, practising with the stick. “Wait a minute, how did you get this?”

“Arthur.” Forthright grinned. “He’s back.”

“You mean he’s here?”

“Right here in the theatre. He’s been staying up in North London with that mad girl from the Camden Town Coven, the one who came to dinner and got poltergeists everywhere. She insisted on saying grace, only she read from the wrong book and we had manifestations. She told him someone’s going to die tonight in a UXB explosion. Mr Bryant reckons that whatever happens, he’ll make an arrest before the end of the show.”

“Nice of him to tell me where he’s been living. He didn’t even take a change of underpants.”

“I’m sure Maggie Armitage has been taking good care of our boy.”

“Well, I never did.”

Forthright gave her an old-fashioned look. “No, but you wish you had.”

“I’ve got a soft spot for him, that’s all.” She waved the stick. “OK, bring on this phantom of yours. I’m ready for anything.”

¦

“What do you mean, he’s here?” whispered May. He was wedged in his usual position at the side of the stage, in a black-painted brick inlet provided for quick changes. “You’re telling me he’s back?”