Full Dark House

∨ Full Dark House ∧

32

INFERNAL MORTALITY

For the next five decades, the two detectives made it their habit to walk along the south bank of the Thames around sunset, from the Houses of Parliament to Blackfriars, and if the weather was especially fine, all the way to Tower Bridge. After this the river grew too wide to cross as it made its way to the sea.

They argued about criminal psychology, endlessly revising their conclusions, but sometimes, when the sky was lower and the colours were drained from the Embankment buildings, they talked of women they had loved and lost, of plans made and abandoned, of outlandish ideas and unrealized dreams; often they just walked in comfortable silence, enjoying the lightness of air across the water, letting the sunlight fall on their faces.

On days like these they set each other questions about the city that, for all its faults – and there were an increasing number – they still liked best. Their second visit to the river took place on Thursday, 14 November 1940, and it was John May who came up with the first question, setting a course for years to come.

“Look at that.” May pointed to the damaged dome of St Paul’s, fires smouldering behind it like the distant horizon of a forest. “Still standing.”

“Only just,” said Bryant sadly. “Most of the bookshops in Paternoster Row have been burned out. I spent many happy hours browsing there as a child.”

“I bet you don’t know where you can see a second St Paul’s Cathedral, a replica in miniature.”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” replied Bryant, who had dandified him self today with a silver-topped umbrella, a gift from his landlady.

“There’s a big architectural model made of wood in St Paul’s crypt.”

“I was thinking of another one,” said May with a grin. “We’ve walked past it. Give up?”

“You’ve got me there, old bean.”

“It’s held in the arms of one of the bronze female statues on Vauxhall Bridge.”

“Well, I never knew that.”

“I’ll point it out to you next time.”

Bryant paused and looked out over the water, pretending to watch a boat, but May knew he had stopped to catch his breath. He had first noticed the problem when they had climbed the stairs together at the theatre. His partner had been panting with exertion by the time they reached the landing, and had made an effort to hide the fact. He charged about in a mad rush, refusing to give in to his heart.

“Two flamboyant deaths, the first without an audience, the second on stage before several people. Murders are prefaced by violence, John. They don’t just come out of the blue. It makes no sense.”

“Does it have to make sense?” asked May kindly. “Take Miss Capistrania. Whoever killed her must have wanted to humiliate her, carting off the feet like that. With Senechal, perhaps the killer just saw his chance and seized it.”

“Without a motive we have nothing. There can be no witness appeals, no knocking on doors, no one to pull in for questioning apart from the theatre staff and cast. The interviews I’ve dumped in Biddle’s lap so far are among the most unedifying I’ve ever heard. We have a murderer acting in freefall, panicking, not caring who he strikes. I hate not finding a pattern.”

“There is a bit of one, though,” said May.

“Well, I’m damned if I can spot it.”

“Have you not noticed? He has only attacked during air raids. There was one around the time of Capistrania’s death, another just before the globe fell, and another last night, when Miss Trammel frightened him away. Crowhurst took a look around on the roof this morning while you were in Victoria, and found absolutely nothing. Perhaps he can get into the theatre only during blackouts, or when everyone is off the street. Judging from Betty’s description, people would certainly notice him if he was walking about in broad daylight.”

“You’ve a point there,” agreed Bryant. “Was it windy late last night?”

“I can’t remember. I can easily check. Why?”

“Just an idea I had about our ghost who walks through walls. Let’s find some shelter, I don’t like the look of those clouds.” The rain funnelled into iron gutters and rattled through drainpipes. The sky had a bare, washed-out look, as though the darkened world beneath it had been finally forsaken. The café that stood beneath the brick railway arches of Waterloo Bridge looked closed until they saw that the lights had been turned low.

“When I was a child I used to believe that bad people always acted for a reason. Now I’m starting to think criminal behaviour is inexplicable,” said Bryant, disconsolately stirring his tea. “There have always been individuals who are prone to murder. They’re methodical, but not logical. Look at Crippen, Wainwright, Seddon, Jack the Ripper – they weren’t driven by quantifiable needs but by aberrant impulses. And now the world has become an irrational place. That’s why the Sherlock Holmes method of detection no longer works; logic is fading. The value system we were raised by in the thirties has little relevance. Beneath this stoic attitude of ‘business as usual’ there is madness in the very air.”

“I don’t know how you can think that.” May wiped a patch of window clear with his sleeve and watched the sheets of obscuring rain slide across the road like Japanese paper screens. “Throughout history, human nature remains unchanged. The world’s oldest questions are still being asked. Medea, Oedipus, we’re not adding anything that the Greeks didn’t already know. If you believe our knowledge has no relevance, why have you become a detective?”

“I thought I could be useful, so long as I could prove it to Davenport and the Home Office.” Bryant carefully set aside his teaspoon. “You clearly have other interests apart from your work. I’m not sure I have anything else. I think about what’s going on all about me until my brain feels as though it might rip itself apart.”

“Then you should find something else to concentrate on. If you imagine that without your job you have no purpose, you must find one.”

Bryant appeared not to have heard him. He absently tore at a Bath bun. “Have you ever been to the Lower Marsh market in the middle of a workday morning? It’s filled with old people. Half of them can barely walk, and so many are alone. It’s like an English seaside town in winter. Everyone looks so cold and frail, as if death is already touching them. I wonder how they can be bothered to go on amid such devastation. It’s a kind of courage, and I’m not sure I’d have it if I was in their shoes. When the war ends they’ll have lost our generation again.”

“Oh, this is sheer morbidity. Don’t spend all your time in the unit. Have you considered the option of regular sexual intercourse? I can’t recommend it highly enough.”

“I’m no longer mentally equipped for spousal duties. My interests are too arcane. The Met boys all talk behind my back, you know. They think I’m obnoxious. They’re waiting for our funding to be pulled away. They’ll all have a good laugh then. I don’t make friends.”

“Rubbish, Arthur. DS Forthright told me that you’ve made tons of friends, it’s just that, well, you’ve befriended the kind of people nobody else talks to. Or even goes near.” He had heard about Bryant consulting the Deptford medium Edna Wagstaff and her flat full of stuffed tabby cats. “In fact, from the sound of it you’ve made friends with people many others would cross the road to avoid.”

“You’ll be able to adapt with the times, John. I’m already going in the opposite direction. At the age of seven I was reading Plato and Aristotle. By the time I was fifteen I had finished A la recherche du temps perdu in French. Academic enlightenment is a curse. It’s certainly held me back with the fair sex. Forthright is the only woman I feel truly comfortable around these days, and that’s because I tend to think of her as a man.”

“Maybe you should try a good nerve tonic.” May looked down at the brown Formica tabletop, resting his broad hands on the cool surface.

“I’ve tried them all. The unit is being given the difficult tasks to keep it out of the way. It’s easier to separate out the problem cases than to explain to the Home Secretary why they aren’t being investigated. We’re a government expediency.”

“You think investigating murder is a waste of time?” asked May. “Why, we could have great successes ahead if we learn to apply your ideas. All those listings in your contact files for spiritualists, clairvoyants, covens, cultists. Could they really be of use?”

“As much use as anyone so rational that they can eventually become a judge and sentence an innocent man to death. If we’re going to run the unit together, you’ll have to agree at least partially with my methods, otherwise you’ll never sanction their use.”

“I already trust your instincts, Arthur, even if I don’t understand you.”

“I don’t believe in the innate goodness of people any more, John, if I ever did to begin with. Are you a Christian?”

“I was raised as one. I’m not sure what to believe now. I know you’ve got a theory about the theatre. Why don’t you tell me?” Bryant looked as if he was about to, then changed his mind. “It’s hard to explain. I think we’re being presented with a challenge. I keep coming back to the Greek gods, the capricious ways they exacted revenge on mortals. We’ve been chosen to make certain that something happens, but I’m not sure what. There’s a Greek god on the roof of the Palace, did you notice? Right at the pinnacle, a fragile-looking thing, still in one piece despite the bombing. I wonder they don’t remove it. I can’t place who it is, but there’s something very odd about it. I believe somebody’s playing a cruel game.”

“To what end?”

“I’m not yet sure. To spark an investigation into the workings of Three Hundred International, or to decimate the theatre company. Or perhaps the killer simply can’t help himself. What is it that guides his murderous impulses? How can we know?”

“There are plenty of practical steps we can take,” offered May. “Start by tightening security, putting men in the building round the clock. We need to be firmer with Stan Lowe, the stage door chap. Will he take notice of us, do you think?”

“He should do. They all should. I mean, we have government authorization, and you’re over six foot.” Bryant bucked up. “I suppose I’d better talk to Davenport about bringing in officers from another division. When I joined the unit I was promised a staff of twenty. We’re down to half a dozen, and two of those are constables.”

“Let’s finish the interviews so that Biddle can see if there’s anything anomalous in their stories. Runcorn and Finch can liaise with Lambeth and pull in results from the rest of the forensic samples. We have to locate every entry point in the building to prove that nobody entered the theatre immediately before Senechal’s death.” Bryant dug a florin out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table. He admired the way in which May came up with plans, making everything sound ordered and rational.

“So, what did you make of the managing director of the Three Hundred?” asked May once they were outside.

“I found him rather intimidating.” Bryant unfurled his umbrella and raised it. “I wouldn’t like to be his enemy. But he does have a certain menacing charm.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. There’s something odd about him. I’d like to dig up some more on his background. Of course it’ll be hopeless trying to get information out of Greece, but an old chum of my uncle’s spent a couple of years in Athens as a correspondent for The Times. I’ll give him a call. Are you around for a drink tonight?” May looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, Arthur, I can’t tonight. I’m seeing Betty again. She was a bit shaken up, and doesn’t want to spend another evening in the theatre.”

“Oh, right.” He sniffed and looked out at the water as they recrossed the bridge. “Well, I should go back to the Palace, give Lowe a talking-to.”

“You don’t have to,” said May, feeling guilty. “Look here, you’re welcome to join us tonight.”

“No, it’s fine. I have my notes to catch up on, anyway.” May watched as Bryant turned away and walked back along the Embankment, ducking beneath his umbrella as he skirted the stippled puddles. He would always see him like this, walking ahead, walking alone.