Bryant & May on the Loose

∨ Bryant & May on the Loose ∧

48

Elements of Chance

“You stay here,” warned Land as they pulled up. The apartment looked miserable and forbidding in the dim rain. “There’s no point in you running up all those stairs. I’ll be quicker.”

“You’re no spring chicken yourself,” Bryant replied with indignation. “I’ll come with you.”

“What did I just say? Why must you always do exactly the opposite?” But Bryant was already out of the car and heading for the nearest staircase.

They reached the second-floor landing and moved along the balcony to the flat which Toth shared with his girlfriend. Lizzi opened the door at their knock, blinking sleepily at them. “You again,” she complained. “You know he’s done nothing wrong. And anyway, he’s not here.”

“Where is he?” asked Bryant.

“He got a phone call about an hour ago, and went out. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“Did he say where he was going? Or who he was going to meet?”

“I think he was seeing Mr Fox.”

Bryant looked blank. “Who is Mr Fox?”

“Oh, you know – thingie.” She waggled her hand at them.

“From the church. He’s a friend. So I imagine that’s where Xander’s gone.”

“How do you know this Mr Fox is a friend?”

“Xander met him some while ago. He’s always talking to people he doesn’t know. I think Fox is just his nickname, though. He works for the Diocese.”

“Leonid Kareshi,” snapped Bryant, annoyed with himself. “The archivist. Why didn’t I think of him earlier? It has to be someone who knows about the church’s history. He met Toth and Delaney there, and Standover was always connected because of his obsession with the Beatles’ photographic shoot. Call John. Tell him to run a check on Kareshi and meet us at the church.”

“We don’t need him, I can handle this,” said Land, who was suddenly quite enjoying being back in the field.

“Then I’ll call him,” said Bryant, giving Land the fish-eye.

Raymond Land was a careful driver. He had no desire to go racing down alleys, frightening old ladies and knocking over dustbins. It was impossible to do so in London anyway; the traffic was painfully slow, the roads doubled back on themselves, and any kind of vehicle pursuit was unthinkable. Even so, Bryant found his boss unnecessarily cautious. He selfconsciously signalled and braked and waved pedestrians past when Bryant would simply have put down his foot and hoped for the best. Driving like a madman was one of the few perks of the job, as far as Bryant was concerned.

As they pulled up before the gilded gates of St Pancras Old Church, John May came running out to meet them. “You may be right about the archivist, Arthur,” he said. “I’ve just been talking to the vicar. Three years ago, Kareshi was brought up on corruption charges before the FSB, the domestic state security agency of the Russian Federation. There was talk of links to organised crime over the sale of rare artefacts, but the case was dropped after he cut a deal with them. Kareshi has diplomatic immunity now. The Reverend says that he’s been growing worried about the number of dodgy-looking acquaintances Kareshi has been bringing here. He fears they’re up to something.”

“It might have been a good idea if he’d told us that earlier,” muttered Bryant.

As they pushed back the vestry door, they found the vicar about to turn out the lights. “Our verger just called in sick,” the Reverend Charles Barton explained. “There’s no service today, which is a good thing because someone stole our snuffer, and I have trouble reaching the candles without it. He has gout, can you believe it? I can’t help feeling that it’s an inappropriately excessive illness for a church worker. I think Dr Kareshi is downstairs. The lights are on in the crypt.”

“Is there anyone with him?”

“No, I don’t think so. He held a meeting yesterday with three men – pretty unsavoury-looking types.”

“We’ll take over, Reverend,” May suggested. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to lock the main doors.”

“There must be no violence here,” said Barton emphatically.

“Your church is built on a pagan sacrificial temple, for Christ’s sake,” complained Bryant.

“That was a very long time ago.” The vicar bridled. “And I’ll appreciate it if you don’t blaspheme.”

“Hopefully there won’t be any trouble,” May assured Barton gently. The detectives headed to the worn stone steps leading into the crypt. Beneath the arc lamps, Kareshi was working alone. He had sifted through what appeared to be a ton of dry grey dust, and had cleaned up more than a dozen small grey stone heads, which were arranged on the floor in groups according to type. The intrusion upon his work was clearly unwelcome.

“Is there something you want?” he asked them, standing upright and wiping his hands on a cloth.

“Did you receive a visit from a Mr Xander Toth?” asked Bryant.

“No, I don’t allow visitors. This is like – ” he gestured at the roped-off pit before him “ – one of your crime scenes. I have an extremely limited time to excavate this site before the Diocese requires it to be refilled, and if the artefacts become contaminated I will not be able to verify their authenticity.”

“How long have you been down here?”

“Since seven. I’ve seen no-one for days except the Reverend and your friend Mr Austin Potterton.”

“Reverend Barton says some men came to see you yesterday.”

“Oh, them,” Kareshi remembered, showing some awkwardness. “Well, I am helping them.”

“Who are they?”

“They are Belarus exiles; their English is poor and they feel isolated here. They are trying to start a club for fellow expatriates, somewhere they can meet and discuss their problems. They want me to help them, but I cannot spare the time. I don’t have much money, but I give them a little whenever I can.”

The detectives glanced at each other, thinking the same thing. Bryant voiced the thought. “It’s someone else.” Without explanation or apology, they headed out of the crypt.

“So much for your criminal mastermind,” said Land unnecessarily. “A down-at-heel Russian archaeologist. Now what?”

“I could give Austin a call and get him to help us.” On the way out, Bryant collared the vicar. “Unsavoury-looking types, Rev?”

“Well, shabby, unshaven,” Barton admitted. “Swarthy.”

“Trust a man of the cloth to think the worst of other people. Come on, John.”

Outside the church, Bryant stopped. He peered through the misty green gloom of the graveyard, as if expecting to find answers there. The Reverend Charles Barton appeared behind them with a bunch of keys. “I have to let you out of the main gates,” he said sniffily. “The usual team prefers to leave them open, but I’m taking no chances. I’ve started to keep them locked whenever I see the kids from the council flats hanging about.”

“No balm of sanctuary available here, then,” said Bryant, who could not help needling vicars he found to be pharisaical.

“Vandals, Mr Bryant. They urinate in my vestry; they desecrate the gravestones. Mr Fox has a hard enough job without – ”

“ – Mr Fox?”

“Our interment supervisor.”

“You mean Fox is the grave digger?”

“We don’t use such archaisms anymore; they upset the parishioners. Besides, there are no new graves here – it’s as much as we can do to tend the old ones. Mr Fox looks after the grounds, and is currently engaged in removing some of the old coffins. This is a heritage site and standards must be maintained.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Well, he was here when I arrived. He was employed by the former coroner of the St Pancras Mortuary. There was some kind of scandal – ”

“Where does he live?”

“On the Margery Street council estate, off of King’s Cross Road. Number seven, Spring House.”

Bryant’s eyes widened. “Spring House?”

“What’s the matter?” asked May.

“Margery Street used to be called Spring Place. There was a woman called Black Mary – she belonged to a thirteenth-century Benedictine order that wore black robes.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear where this one is going…”

“She presided over the subterranean spa room that became known as Black Mary’s Hole. The spa was fed by a well bored into the Bagnigge River, which ran down from the St Pancras Old Church. It was capped off into a conduit that lies right underneath Spring House. It’s a chalybeate spring.”

“A what?”

“An iron-fed spring, with healing properties. People came from all over London to have their illnesses cured there. But when Spring Place was erected over the conduit in 1815, the local builder turned Black Mary’s Hole into a cesspool, ruining it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Land, clearly confused. “What on earth has any of this got to do with our murderer?”

“I told you, he’s a local man, and thanks to Xander Toth he now has an extensive knowledge of the area’s history. He understands its mystical connections and knows how to exploit them. He lives on the site of London’s most venerable spa, destroyed by a builder. I suppose it would be too much to hope that the builder’s family name was Delaney.”

They were now outside the church gates, heading for Land’s car. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” said May. “It would really confirm your belief in psycho-geographical retribution.”

“You have to admit that certain areas keep the same properties through generations. The King’s Cross delis and coffee shops were always Italian, and now, hundreds of Italian students are moving back in. Is that just coincidence?”

“I don’t know – is it just coincidence all of this is happening on St Pancras Day, your time of sacrifice?”

“See, you’re finally starting to think like me,” Bryant said smugly. “Right now, we need to concentrate on finding Xander Toth before he forfeits his life and loses his head. I think elements of chance have led Mr Fox to reveal his true nature to us.”