Full Dark House

∨ Full Dark House ∧

49

THE PROTECTION OF THE GODS

The house lights were fully turned up in the stalls, giving the auditorium a shabby, melancholic air. Runcorn had taped off the rear of the stage. Wyman, a photographer from West End Central, was testing his flashgun on the blood spatters covering the backstage floor. The two halves of Public Opinion’s white mask lay cracked in a coagulated crimson pool. It was now five minutes past midnight, and all unnecessary members of staff had been dismissed.

In true theatrical tradition the show had not been interrupted by the death of Public Opinion. The main purpose of the continuation was to buy the unit time before the news spread through the audience. Valerie Marchmont’s body had been removed through the royal entrance on Shaftesbury Avenue and taken to University College Hospital in an unmarked van, the fourth they had used in a week.

“Has anybody heard from Arthur yet?” asked May anxiously. “We’ve got him, John. He says somebody shut him in one of the rooms upstairs.” Gladys Forthright had slipped PC Crowhurst’s rubber police cloak over her sweater. She had put her own coat down in the rush to help Biddle, and had lost it among the racks of costumes that hung like shucked carapaces behind the stage. Biddle had fallen onto a pile of folded backcloths but had split the cartilage in his left ankle, the tissue swelling so quickly that the theatre’s medical officer had been forced to cut off his sock and boot with the blade of a pocket knife.

Arthur Bryant appeared to be in a state of great anxiety. “I got locked in the archive room,” he said excitedly. “He struck again, didn’t he?”

May pointed to the rear of the stage. “Public Opinion. Surprise meeting with a steel pole, fractured skull, killed instantly.”

“In front of everyone? How could that have happened?”

“One of the backdrops – dropped.”

“It came down right on cue,” said Mr Mack. “Weren’t our fault.”

Helena looked distraught and ready to sink a bottle of Scotch. “The revolve should have carried her clear, but it halted suddenly. She was the last one off the stage.”

“One of the skycloth rods slipped out of its mooring,” May explained. “It went right through her head, like a spoon hitting a softboiled egg, punched her backwards into the wall behind. Most of her brains are still on the bricks.”

“She must have felt the revolve stop. Why didn’t she move forward?”

“Because the procession had to file offstage in a single column,” Harry explained.

“It’s not my bloody fault,” exclaimed Helena, furiously digging through her bag for cigarettes. “There wasn’t enough room to take everyone off any faster. Getting into the wings is a tricky business. You have to wait your turn. Bloody, bloody hell, who’s got a cigarette?”

“What happened to our cuckoo?” Bryant indicated Biddle, who was lying across two stalls seats having his ankle fitted into a wooden splint.

“Fell off the blooming gantry,” said Biddle. “I saw someone standing near the drum cable looking down, and tried to reach him.”

May turned to his partner. “What were you doing in the archive room?”

“I had an idea,” said Bryant conspiratorially. “I need to discuss it with you in private. I think I have enough to make an arrest.”

“You found someone up there?”

“In a manner of speaking. Greek legends percolate through our lives and live in our collective subconscious. You’d think knowing about the misfortunes of the gods would keep us from repeating their mistakes and go some way towards protecting us, but we’re too blind.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” May exploded, shocking everyone. “We’ve just had another death, that’s four to date, with one more missing presumed dead and one of our men injured, and you’re lecturing me on Greek mythology?”

“You know my conclusions are, ah, well, tangentially approached,” stammered Bryant, taken aback by his partner’s outburst. “I can’t follow your operational procedures, I warned you about that.” He blinked steadily, as though facing bright daylight for the first time, and scrunched his hat onto his head.

“Where are you going?” May demanded to know.

“To talk to – to – find out if I’m – I know who’s on the list, the death list. There are still another four to die, they must die before the thing can be broken, that’s the whole point.” He turned, holding on to the back of the seat in front of him. “I can’t believe you have no faith in me.”

“I didn’t say that, but if you knew then why the hell didn’t you do something?”

“How could I?” cried Bryant. “I was locked in the blasted room upstairs. I couldn’t get to the stage.”

“Wait,” said May, “let me get someone to go with you.”

“No, leave me alone, I’ll be fine.” Bryant turned, stopped in confusion, then walked off up the aisle.

“John, go after him,” urged Forthright. “Just call in when you get to wherever he’s going. I’ll clear up here and get the archive door dusted for prints.”

May caught up with his partner on the steps outside. The rain had stopped and the night had turned bitter. Their breath distilled in the frozen air. “I’m sorry I shouted at you, Arthur, it’s just that…” He tried to give shape to his frustration. “How can I be expected to help if you don’t tell me what’s inside your brain? Do you appreciate how dangerous things have become around here?”

“You’ll think I’m mad,” said Bryant quietly, leading the way across Cambridge Circus, “but I’ve got proof. If you believe in evil, you have to believe in devils. I mean the kind that live in your mind, the ones that are put there by people with the best intentions.” He unlocked the door of the Wolseley from the Bow Street car pool and levered himself inside, reaching across to pull open the passenger handle.

“I’ll come with you, but let me drive,” May insisted. He could hear his partner’s chest wheezing. Bryant was sweating hard, wincing in pain. “Come on, out. You’ve had a shock. Sit back and get your breath. Then you can tell me where we’re going.”

Tottenham Court Road was in total darkness. Someone had hit the traffic lights by the police station opposite Heal and Son and had knocked the pole to a forty-five-degree angle. Bryant prised open a window and drew in some cold night air. “We have to get to Andreas Renalda.”

May spun the wheel to avoid the damaged post. “You think his life’s in danger?”

“No, not at all,” said Bryant, peering sadly through the smeared windscreen of the Wolseley. “We have to arrest him before he kills anyone else.”