“Common knowledge,” said Maggie, dunking a homemade seaweed biscuit into her tea.
“But there’s something else. They’ve just unearthed pre-Christian carvings of severed heads in the vault of St Pancras Old Church. I suspect it indicates that worshippers of Pan made likenesses of their sacrificial victims. If they did so then, why couldn’t someone be doing the same now? Here.” He fiddled with his cell phone and handed it to Maggie.
The white witch donned her reading glasses and squinted at the screen. “This is a picture of you in a party hat covered in streamers,” she told him. “You’ve got cake all over you.”
“Oh, sorry, that was me at our coroner’s wake.” He moved the camera album on a few frames. “That’s better. Janice sent me this picture of the stag-man. The next shot is of the stone head in the crypt.”
“Wait a minute.” Maggie climbed on her chair and dragged down a paving slab of a book that was wedged on top of her fridge. It was entitled
“Bran?” said Bryant, disbelieving. “I thought he was Welsh.”
“Yes, but his head was buried in London, and the story goes that as long as it stayed facing France, Great Britain was safe from invasion. Bran’s the model for King Arthur’s Fisher King, the keeper of the Holy Grail. His head was kept in the White Tower, which is why the ravens in the Tower of London have their wings clipped, to prevent the fall of London if they should ever leave. When the Grail was sought, it turned into a human head. So the primal god Bran is forever associated with the cult of the severed head.” She tapped the page with a wise smile. “Well done, Arthur, you’ve hit the big time. You’ve arrived at the heart of the city’s most venerable mystery.”
“John will kill me,” muttered Bryant despondently. “I can’t go back and tell him that we’re looking for the seeker of the Holy Grail.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” said Maggie. “The story is a load of old cobblers. These tales share common roots that aren’t meant to be taken literally. The French have twelfth-century poems woven from the same source. Bran kept a cauldron that brought the dead back to life. You haven’t found that by any chance, have you?”
“Mercifully, no.”
“A pity. We tried to revive Daphne’s tortoise once but the spell didn’t take.”
“What happened?”
“It exploded. You mustn’t get caught up by all this, you know. It’s tempting to imagine that everything that happens in London is somehow related to events in the past, but you’ll be led into blind alleys. It’s happened to you often enough before.”
“You’re right, Maggie; I can’t afford to do it this time. John is investing a lot of faith in me.”
“Then whatever you may be tempted to believe, you must treat it as a sceptic. I say this because I don’t want anyone to make a fool of you. How long have we known each other? One more mistake could destroy you.”
“Even if I’m sure there’s a connection?”
“Arthur, there are invisible roads crisscrossing this city, thousands of passageways layered on top of each other so thickly that the bottom ones have been crushed to the tiniest shards. Their power wanes, so they aim to deceive. Follow the wrong one and you become hopelessly lost.”
“You believe this?”
“Absolutely. If you want to see the real nature of things, study them in decline. You say you’re seeking a follower of Pan, but you could equally be looking for an acolyte of Merlin. I must have been thinking of him when I sent you the postcard. He has connections to the area too, because he predicted that Bran’s head would be dug up, which it was, by King Arthur. Merlin had a cave in King’s Cross. There’s still a street named after him. Back when the town was a spa, there was an underground passage leading from the cave – later the site of the Merlin’s Cave pub in Margery Street – all the way to the Penton, and to a deep well connected to the river known as Black Mary’s Hole. It was supposedly lined with the heads of great leaders, who would guide others between this world and the next.”
Bryant knew that Maggie’s belief in the spirit world had the power to infect him like flu germs when he was feeling susceptible. “Was there really a tunnel?” he asked.
“Oh yes, it was only boarded up a few years ago. It connects to a second tunnel, leading from St Pancras Old Church to the site of Tothele Manor, but I think that one collapsed in the mid-1800s, killing some anti-royalists.”
Bryant could feel the unseen strands of London gathering about him like a web. “I think we should stop there,” he said decisively.
“Then perhaps I can help you find a way out of the maze,” said Maggie. “Let’s see what they say about the church.” She ran her finger down the book’s index and turned to another page. “Here we are.
“What happened?”
“The railway happened, Arthur. Against all the force of public opinion, the railway destroyed the churchyard, which was filled with over thirty thousand graves. Progress arrived in the form of the steam train, and shattered its sacred spirit forever. Now you understand why someone is fighting back.”
“I understand that there’s no vengeful god at work,” said Bryant, “but an ordinary human being.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Maggie. “If he’s aiming to halt a multimillion-pound development by re- enacting an ancient ritual, I’d hardly call him ordinary. What are you planning to do?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ve got my old staff back together.” He checked his watch. “I have to be off.”
“Including that detective sergeant, the one who looks like Diana Dors?”
“Janice? Yes.”
“Tell me, has she discovered yet that she has the Gift?”
“She hasn’t mentioned anything to me.”
“No, she wouldn’t. Most people never realise until it’s too late. I keep seeing her in connection with Merlin, for some peculiar reason. Well, stay in touch and let me know what happens.”
“I thought you’d already know, being a witch.”
“It doesn’t make me clairvoyant, although I have my moments.” She slapped him playfully. “I can’t even read your tea leaves today; I’ve only got bags.”
“Don’t worry,” said Bryant, “if I don’t get a break in this case soon, I can tell exactly what’s going to happen, and it won’t be pleasant.”
? Bryant & May on the Loose ?
32
The Collector
The dawn brought heavier rain. The sky was gutter-grey. The downpour seemed to be carrying soot from the sky. Inside the warehouse at 231 Caledonian Road, the staff of the PCU were discovering how badly the roof leaked.
“Rufus has come up with five names,” reported April, looking across her desk at Meera. “Five major cases that went as far as the courts.” She moved the papers to avoid getting them soaked, and shifted a plastic bucket into place with a casual flick of her foot.
“Not bad, considering how many people the ADAPT Group have employed over the years.” The two women had been going through the details of hundreds of staff members considered an employment risk by the company, but the young hacker had cracked their problem in minutes. It appeared that ADAPT had made plenty of enemies over the years.
“They’ve usually managed to settle out of court.”
“See anyone familiar?”
April smiled. “Oh, yes. Just one.” She turned the screen of her laptop to face Meera. “Xander Toth. Employed
