Off the Rails

∨ Off the Rails ∧

26

Anarchists

Thursday morning. With the arrival of bitter blasts from the northeast, the temperature plunged, and the office roofs of central London were pearlised with late frost. In the PCU’s warehouse, Arthur Bryant had cleared away the evidence of last night’s drinking session, and was buried within a tottering fortress of soot-encrusted ledgers.

“How are you getting on with the anarchists?” asked May, tossing his elegant overcoat onto the armchair that sat between their desks.

Bryant had enjoyed less than three hours’ sleep. He peered over the printed parapet and rubbed at his unshaven face. “I’ve found a link with the missing boy, but I don’t think you’re going to like it.” Reaching down to pull a bundle of straw from a crate, he unloaded another ledger and blew the dust from it.

“You’d better tell me while I’m still in a good mood. We can’t keep all of those books in here. Where are you getting them from?”

“Don’t worry, they’re on loan from the London Metropolitan Archive. They’re going back after I’ve done with them.” Bryant raised his watery blue eyes to his partner. “I was having another look through the patient files for the Royal Bethlehem Hospital, Moorgate, 1723 to 1733.”

“As only you would do.”

“Ah, well, yes. You see, back in the early 1700^s, some anarchists were arrested and labelled ‘incurables’ because they wouldn’t renounce their beliefs. These are the ones who were banged up in Bedlam and left to die, chained to the cell walls. You see where I’m going here.”

“The sticker.”

“Precisely. The London Anarchists was a society formed to avenge the Bedlam Martyrs. It survived for half a century, then died out.” He tapped the bright red paperback in his hand. “This is the Time Out Guide to Alternative London, 1971. Gosh, we did a lot of protesting in those days, didn’t we? There’s an article in the Agitprop section here – imagine, political agitation had its own section! – all about the revival of the London Anarchists, one branch of which was a protest group called Bash the Rich.”

May maintained his patience with dignity. “We had a few punch-ups with them at Bow Street, if I recall.”

“That’s right. Bash the Rich was rather a sad little gang, not much of a threat to the established order. Their rallies rarely involved much more than some synchronised chanting, the odd scratched Mercedes and a few broken windows in a wealthy neighbourhood. I always felt we were ordered to come down too hard on them. But they used the same logo. So now we have an active symbol of anarchy with a three-hundred-year history attached to it.”

“The bar designer probably found it in a copyright-free book, liked the look of it and adapted it for commercial use.”

“No. I took the liberty of calling Miss Field. The symbol was suggested by someone in the bar who knew its meaning. She liked the anarchy connection and added it to the existing lettering. But she can’t remember who suggested the idea.”

“This is really clutching at straws, even for you.”

“All right, but in turn the symbol gets used by a group of students who all live in the same Bloomsbury house, one of whom is now missing. Have I got it right so far?”

“Yes, but as is so often the case, I don’t quite see the point you’re trying to make.”

“Have you considered the idea that these students might belong to a revived society of secret anarchists?”

May felt his tolerance level start to slip. “Arthur, what is it with you and secret societies? These young people hang out – along with hundreds of other students – in the same bar because it’s the cheapest and nearest watering hole outside the university. There are no underground organisations, satanic sects or secret societies anymore, okay?”

“That’s where you’re wrong. There are terrorist cells.”

“I met Theo Fontvieille, one of the flatmates, and I can tell you that the only private club that spoiled brat is likely to belong to is one that serves vodka martinis on a Soho roof terrace. The girl, Ruby Cates, is so obsessed with her future career that the only way she can relax is by running marathons. Nikos Nicolau looks like he’s been locked in a windowless library for the past decade. Students have changed, Arthur. They’re more focussed now, more concerned with personal growth.”

“I was never a student,” Bryant admitted. “I was chucked out at fourteen to work, so perhaps I feel an affinity with London’s rowdier residents. This city has an extraordinary history of anarchy, you know. In the eighteenth century it was virtually ruled by rioters. The mob was referred to as the Fourth Estate in the constitution, because it decided which laws would be enforced.”

“And I suppose you’d like to return to those times.”

“Heavens, no. The lower classes specialised in public disorder, perhaps because they lived so much of their lives on the streets. They expressed violent opinions at every level, kicking pregnant women in their stomachs for begetting illegitimate children, exposing the private parts of enemies. Attacking someone’s nose in public was considered an act of defamation because you were suggesting they had a sexual disease – it was where syphilitic infections became most visible. And of course the city was filled with small businesses that existed on credit, so if you humiliated a merchant in front of his customers, you could ruin him. The crowd, the so-called King Mob, could destroy reputations. It must have been a fascinating time.”

“Well, Gloria Taylor worked for a shop.”

“She sold cosmetics. How angry would a woman have to be to shove her cosmetician down the stairs?”

“I don’t know, Janice tells me she gets pretty annoyed when they don’t have her eye-liner in stock.”

“Most of us tend to limit ourselves to verbal assaults these days. But in some ways, the cities of the past weren’t much different to the present. The main thoroughfares were just as noisy. Imagine the processions and pageants, the duels, cockfights and boxing matches, crowds jeering at prison-carts, public hangings, floggings, and everyone having their say.”

“Hm. I can see you at a public hanging.”

“The point I’m making is that they were there.”

“What? Who? Where?”

“Do try to pay attention, John. The anarchists, they shared a house in Bloomsbury. And these students of yours – ”

“You’re not going to suggest they’re living in the same building as the anarchists. It’s nearly three centuries later!”

“No. But they were in the same street, right next door, in fact. And back in 1725, the two buildings might once have been one.”

“So you think a bunch of university students are running an organisation of secret anarchists just because they’re on the same spot? Everybody in central London is living where someone else lived. That doesn’t make us adopt their habits.”

“I’m not saying they’re all anarchists. Perhaps only one, for reasons of his – or her – own. And somehow it involves the taking of life.”

“I can guess where you’re going with this, Arthur, but you’re way off track. These students don’t look like anarchists. I imagine they do a little ethical shopping and wear a badge or two, but they’re more concerned about their future prospects. A fall down some stairs and a missing lad, that’s everyday life in the city, not a criminal conspiracy. Don’t you have any better ideas?”

The ringing of Bryant’s old Bakelite phone made them both jump. May answered the call and listened for a minute. “Tony McCarthy’s off his respirator,” he reported.

“What, dead?”

“No, it sounds like he’s going to be okay.”

“A witness. Hallelujah. Can he talk?”

“Nurse says we’ll be able to see him late this afternoon.”

“Why not now?”

“He’s just had a tube down his throat, Arthur, and he’s heavily doped up. His doctor doesn’t want him seeing anyone before five P.M. at the earliest.”

“Book us in,” announced Bryant. “As long as he survives, he’ll remain a threat to Mr Fox. I stayed up late last night thinking about everything. I’m starting to see a way forward, but it will require diligence, nerve and a complete lack of scruples. Best not to tell Raymond what we’re up to.”

“What are we up to?” May wondered.

“Let’s see the boy first. Make sure nobody else goes near him. Meanwhile, perhaps Janice could arrange a little informal gathering of your students for me in about an hour. I want to meet them alone. I don’t care where they are or what they’re doing; have her find them, pull them out of class, but get them waiting for me at their house.” Bryant bared his false teeth in an approximation of a grin. “You know how I always enjoy meeting young people.”