The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

9

Shaken

In the great glass lounge, the mood had turned to confusion and a determination among the guests to be seen to be behaving properly in extraordinary circumstances. Coffee had been served and groups had formed in various parts of the room, seated on extra chairs supplied by the waiters. For now at least, the attitude was one of civilized calm, as if they were commuters in a stalled train.

Unsurprisingly, Arthur Bryant and John May were greeted with curious looks. Bryant was wrapped in a seaweed-green scarf and had his ancient soaked trilby pulled down over his ears. John May was tailored with inappropriate elegance, from his white Gieves & Hawkes shirt to his Lobb Oxford shoes, but both men were of retirement age and bore no resemblance to traditional officers of the law.

“May I have your attention?” May called. “This is Mr Bryant, I’m Mr May. I know it’s getting late, but we hope to be able to release you just as soon as we’ve established the order of tonight’s events. First of all, let me explain why we’re here. We belong to a specialist unit that has taken over from the Westminster Metropolitan Police, owing to certain unusual circumstances connected with this investigation.”

“And what are those?” asked Russell Haddon, the theatre’s director.

“We’re not able to give you full details, but we can tell you this. It is highly unlikely that Noah Kramer’s death was an accident. He appears to have died as the result of a vicious and callous attack. However, it’s very unusual to have such a specific margin of opportunity occurring in this kind of situation.”

“Meaning?”

“There’s no easy access from the outside of the building. The front door was locked and answered by a security guard who admitted only those who had been invited to the party. He checked in a total of thirty-five guests, plus the waiters and a chef. It appears no one else came in or left. Now, we know that Mrs Kramer checked on her son at around eight-forty p.m., and that the discovery of her tragic loss occurred just before nine-twenty p.m. We now need to establish whether any of you left this room in the intervening forty minutes.”

“You’re saying we’re all suspects,” said Mona Williams loudly.

“Well, obviously,” snapped Bryant, rolling his eyes. “We didn’t come around for cocktails, did we?”

“I think that’s a very inappropriate remark to make under the circumstances.”

“Let me handle this,” May told his partner before turning to the assembled gathering. “Naturally the enquiry will be treated in confidence. If any of you left the room tonight for whatever reason, we need to know when, why and for how long. You can provide us with the details on these extra pages.” He held up a sheaf of notepaper. “As soon as you’ve done that, you’ll be able to leave.”

Gail Strong accepted one of the sheets as they were handed out. She glanced at Marcus Sigler, making sure that he understood she was about to lie. The actor sent the faintest of nods in her direction, and turned to providing his own alibi.

♦

The gabled gingerbread house behind the graveyard of St Pancras Old Church was finished in orange bricks and maroon tiles and appeared to have been designed by the Brothers Grimm. Plane trees and rowans hung over it with branches like claws that scrabbled at the windows, leaking sap and dripping rainwater so that moss and lichen grew in abundant clumps about the eaves, gradually consuming it. A miserable-looking heron balanced forlornly at its gate, and a pair of moorhens had bundled themselves against the downpour inside a bucket by the door. This bucolic night tableau was all the more remarkable for being just two miles from Piccadilly Circus, and no more than a three-minute walk from Europe’s largest railway terminus.

“I suppose Mrs Danvers is still on the door,” muttered Bryant, checking his watch. “Giles should get rid of her before she goes mad and burns the building down.”

“The poor woman spends her day surrounded by opened corpses,” May reminded him.

“Didn’t Giles’s predecessor die in mysterious circumstances? Maybe she killed him.”

“You wish. It would make a good case for you, wouldn’t it? Let’s get inside.”

Bryant furled his umbrella and rang the bell, then jumped back as the door swung open, revealing Rosa Lysandrou, Giles Kershaw’s housekeeper. As usual she was clad in a shapeless knee-length black dress and had pulled her thick dark hair back in a severe bun.

“She must have been standing behind the door,” whispered Bryant as they entered. “Hello, Rosa,” he said loudly, “you’re looking particularly effervescent this evening – is that a new shroud?”

“He’s in there. He’s expecting you.” She raised a stiff arm and pointed.

“It probably takes a major traffic accident to bring a smile to her face,” groused Bryant as they passed along the dimly lit corridor.

Giles was in the autopsy room of the St Pancras mortuary, still dressed in the green plastic apron he was required to wear while working. Mercifully, the tiny body of Noah Kramer had been filed away. “Dear fellows, good to see you, although these are awful circumstances. The babies are the worst – one always wonders what lives they might have led. I’ve finished here. Let me get out of this and wash up. Rosa will make us some tea. Trust me, you’ll need it after hearing my report.”

They entered the octagonal room beyond the chapel of rest and found refreshments neatly laid out beneath the stained-glass windows, tea and plates of warm chocolate cake. Rain cascaded from the eaves, rippling the light.

“Rosa is passionate about baking; you must eat.”

“No, thanks,” said Bryant. “I remember what happened to Hansel and Gretel.”

“Oh, she’s all right once you get to know her.” Giles flicked back his mop of blond hair and dropped into a deep sofa. He always seemed to bring sunshine into the room. “I thought we’d have a chat away from the morgue. Rosa believes that children keep on listening after they die. She lost a child herself, you see. It changed how she saw the world.” He helped himself to cake, then checked his notepad. “I’ll spare you the main list of injuries. They’re what I would expect, entirely consistent with a fall from a window of that height. However, I’m afraid the fall doesn’t appear to have been the cause of death.”

“Why, what else did you find?” asked May.

“I think we’ve got a case of SBS, except that here there’s evidence of external injury.”

“Shaken Baby Syndrome? I thought it was difficult to diagnose.”

“Well, it is, because there’s no single definable symptom. There can be multiple fractures in the vertebrae, retinal haemorrhages, subdural hematomas – bleeding in the brain – it’s a rotational injury generally associated with child abuse, but really I suppose it’s about the frustration of someone ill-equipped to deal with a crying baby. The real problem, of course, is that it’s hardly ever a premeditated action. This was a particularly violent example. Noah Kramer’s larynx was ruptured, and there are bruises on either side of his throat. Broken blood vessels near the surface were caused by severe restriction. He was shaken violently, then strangled. It was an act of rage, which probably means a lack of prior intention to kill.”

“So, manslaughter.”

“Obviously it will depend on the mens rea – criminal culpability based on the perpetrator’s state of mind.”

“Do you have any idea how long before the fall this might have occurred?”

“I imagine the two acts, the shaking and the defenestration, were virtually concurrent, the second happening moments after the first, but of course I have no proof.”

“So whoever did this plucked Noah from his cot, attacked him, then opened the window and threw him out.”

“Yes, which is problematic from a legal point of view.”

“Because the perpetrator stopped and opened the window, which would indicate a level of premeditation.”

“Exactly. But I’m afraid it’s a little stranger than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dan Banbury brought me the Victorian doll you found beside the cot. I got a very bothersome feeling in my stomach the moment I examined it. Dan can’t do any DNA matches – I gather you don’t have the budget to send samples away for such things – but you know how he gets a sense of what happened. Well, he suggested that the odd pressure bruises on Noah’s throat might match the dummy’s wooden hands. I’m afraid it looks like he’s right. The fingers are coarsely carved and grooved. They leave a pretty unique mark.”

“Oh, please don’t say this,” groaned May, passing a hand across his face.

“I did some tests. The hands exactly fit the bruises on Noah Kramer’s neck. There was even a tiny wooden splinter stuck on the surface of the infant’s epidermis. I talked with Dan, and he says he can’t find any evidence that anything human touched the baby. What’s more, there was no forced entry to the nursery. So far he’s found no signs of anyone apart from Mrs Kramer and the nanny having been in there.”

“So what you’re telling me is that after the baby was left alone, Mr Punch climbed down from his hook, turned the key in the nursery door lock, crept over to the cot, took his rage out on Noah Kramer and fulfilled his mythical destiny to become a murderer,” said Bryant, genuinely shocked.