“I’m sorry to disturb you at such a late hour on Christmas Eve, Mr May, but your sergeant told me it would be all right to call,” she explained.
“Not to worry,” he said. “Merry Christmas. I’m afraid I’ve rather lost track of the time.”
“I’m not a big fan of Christmas, to be honest. All that eating. My flatmate’s a nurse and she’s working round the clock, so I’m enjoying the peace and quiet at home. I’ve turned up some information I think you’ll be very interested in. I mean, it looks important. Would it be possible for you to visit the hall?”
“I could be there in half an hour,” said May, brightening. At least it would take his mind off his cold. “Could you wait for me in the main entrance?”
“No problem. I’ll bring a thermos of tea and brandy. At least we can toast the compliments of the season.”
“What a very sensible woman you are, Miss Hatfield.”
After he had replaced the receiver, he called the unit, but Bryant had still not returned from Whitstable Central, as the older detective called it. May knew he shouldn’t be venturing out into the chill night, but felt sure that when the case broke, it would be through the findings of someone like Miss Hatfield, and not because of a fibre match. Twenty minutes later he reached the main entrance to the Goldsmiths’ Hall. Alison was waiting for him. Once again she was dressed in heavy warm clothes that seemed too old for her, as if the sombre surroundings were trying to drain away her youthfulness.
“I hope I haven’t dragged you away from anything,” she apologized, shaking his hand.
“I’m glad you called,” May assured her.
“Everyone’s gone for the holidays. The chambers are all locked up. I have the run of the building.”
They walked across to the Watchmakers’ Hall through a deserted avenue of mirror glass and ancient stone. “Yesterday I received a call from a Mr Leo Marks,” said Alison. “He wanted to know the whereabouts of certain documents pertaining to the guild.”
May remembered asking the lawyer to check out the financial history of the Watchmakers. It sounded as if he was finally following up the request.
“I’ve been with the guild for six years,” said Alison, “and I still have no way of locating the older files that have accumulated here. This area suffered terribly during the Blitz. There must have been hundreds of stored documents. They were moved out for safety, but everything was done in such a hurry that no alphabetizing system was used. When the files were returned after the war, there was no one left who remembered how the temporary storage system worked.”
They passed through the building to the basement goods lift, and May pulled back the heavy trellis, mindful of catching his coat between the oil-smeared bars. “I told Mr Marks that it would be difficult to locate what he was looking for, as my records are incomplete.”
Alison closed the trellis and pressed the brass wall stud behind her. With a shudder, the lift began its descent. “What exactly was he after?”
“Oh, details of overseas payments made to religious charities, all sorts of things. I thought I’d come down here and have a look around for them. At least that way I’d be able to say I tried. I didn’t have much luck, but I found something else I thought you should see.” The dampness filled their nostrils as the lift thumped to a halt. Alison passed the detective a torch, and they entered the dim corridor ahead. On either side of them, furry black watermarks stained the walls.
“Didn’t you say there’s another floor beneath this?”
May could feel the distant rumbling of the drains through the soles of his shoes.
“Yes, and there are probably lots of files still down there, but it’s not safe. There are things beneath these old buildings that no one will ever find. You know the Billingsgate Fish Market in Lower Thames Street? The City Corporation wants to close it down, but there’s two hundred years of permafrost inside it that the strongest steel can’t cut through. The river maintains a natural ice age in the basement. So heaven only knows what’s beneath us here.” She stopped before a brown-painted door at the far end of the corridor. May could see another dark hall stretching off in both directions.
“What’s that way?” he asked.
“I have no idea, and I’m not sure anyone else has.” She shivered and opened the door, her breath dispelling in the torchlight. “It’s always freezing, even in summer.” She tried a brass light switch on the wall, and a filthy low- voltage bulb glowed above them. The room was filled with mildewed cardboard boxes. As Alison disturbed one, hundreds of small brown beetles scattered across the floor.
“I had the caretaker locate the emergency lighting circuit for me before he went off duty,” she said. “God knows what it runs from. Over here.”
She pulled open a box and shone her torch over its contents. The beam picked up the familiar circled flame symbol of the alliance. She pulled out part of a heavy leather-bound file and handed it to him, wiping off a filmy web. “I didn’t think I should remove these without you being here, in case it counted as disturbing the evidence or something.” Gingerly reaching into the carton, she removed a second file.
“What are these?” he asked, puzzled.
“I think one of them’s part of the original trading contract for the alliance. It looks like there are some pages missing, but I’ll try and find them for you. The other is someone’s notes, but the handwriting’s illegible. It’s of the same era, so I thought it might be useful.”
“How much more is there?” asked May, pointing to the boxes.
“I don’t think there’s anything else quite as old. The files below this were printed in the mid-1950s. It must have come from another box. To be honest, I don’t much fancy digging any deeper, in case I disturb the rats.”
“Don’t worry, I think you’ve found something important.” He flipped to the back of the document. The last page read:
There followed seven signatures. The top one belonged to James Makepeace Whitstable.
“Can we go up now?” asked Alison. She was shaking with cold.
May stopped reading. “Of course, how thoughtless of me. You must be frozen.”
When they reached the comparative warmth of the entrance hall, he gripped her hand fondly. “This is the second time you’ve been a great help to me,” he said. “When this is over I would most enjoy taking you out to dinner.”
Alison laughed. “I’d like that. But I warn you, I’m a healthy eater.”
He felt suddenly sorry for her, spending Christmas alone. “Do you need a lift anywhere?”
“Thanks, I have my little car.”
“You’re welcome to come over to the unit,” he offered. “We won’t be celebrating much, but we’ll always give you a welcome.”
“That’s very kind of you.” She smiled shyly. “I’d like that very much.” Turning up her collar, she took her leave, walking briskly off into the rain.
On his way back to the car, May sneezed so hard that the document beneath his arm nearly disappeared into the gutter. His head felt terrible, but at least he had a further lead. As soon as he reached home, he rang Bryant at his flat in Battersea.
“Do you know what time it is, calling here?” said Alma Sorrowbridge. She sounded tipsy. “He hasn’t come back yet. He promised to spend Christmas Eve with me. I cooked him a casserole. I opened a bottle of sherry.” It sounded as if she’d done more than just open it. “He never even rang to apologize.”
“You know his work has to take precedence, Alma.”
“I know, married to the job and all that. He’s told me a hundred times.”
“Do you have any idea what he has planned for Christmas Day?” May asked.
“Yes, I do,” said the landlady disapprovingly. “He’s going over to see that crazy godless woman, the one with the bright clothes and the funny earrings.”
Only one acquaintance of Bryant’s fitted that description: the leader of the Camden Town Coven. “You mean Maggie Armitage?” he said.
“That’s the one. The nutcase.”
“Perhaps you could have him call me before he goes there. I’m sorry about your Christmas, Alma,” he added. “None of us are having much of a festive season.” As rain rolled against the lounge windows, May blew into a
