Bryant & May 09; The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

33

Bridle

The foyer of the New Strand Theatre was unlit, and the doors to the main auditorium were locked.

“There must be someone here,” said May, “otherwise the front doors would have been closed. There’s probably a cleaner.” He looked at the stairs, and realized that Bryant would have trouble getting up them quickly. “Stay here and keep an eye out. I’ll go up.”

He took the stairs two at a time. Theatre auditoriums are, by their nature, buildings without windows. Moments later, May found himself in oppressive darkness. The air in the closed theatre was still and dead. All sound was muffled. He stopped to listen. In the distance, an ambulance siren seesawed along the Embankment. Nothing in here, though.

He searched for a light switch but realized that the lighting panel would have to be housed inside a central office, where the general public could not touch it. The corridor at the rear of the dress circle curved away into velvet limbo.

He felt his way along the wall, trying to be as quiet as possible. Somewhere above him a floorboard creaked. He froze and listened. Nothing. As he moved forward, he groped for his radio and turned it off.

At the end of the rear corridor he found a set of doors to the upper circle and swung one open. Small windows set into the staircase wall afforded him a little light. Reaching the floor above, he pushed carefully against the brass panel on the door.

The steeply raked rows of seats descended below him. May knew that one mistake in the dark would send him headlong down the stairs. He wished he had brought his Valiant – the old usherette’s torch used to go everywhere with him, but they had been in a hurry to leave.

A foot scraped, and there was a small but definite displacement of air behind him. He felt the flat of a hand on his back, pushing hard, and suddenly there was nothing beneath his feet. He fell into darkness and silence.

♦

“What happened?”

“You bashed your head on the armrest of a chair,” said Bryant, leaning over and studying him with interest. “It was padded, but still gave you a nasty bruise.”

May tried to sit up, but it felt as if someone had stuck a knife in his eye.

“It’s a pity you let him get away,” Bryant complained, holding a wet handkerchief to May’s forehead. “He must have been standing right behind you.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose. Ow!”

“That’s good, it hurts. Your nerves are still working.”

“How did he get past you?”

“I heard you shout and fall, but it took me a while to get up the stairs. I imagine he came down the other side. This is Mrs Blimey, she’s the cleaner here.” He pointed to a middle-aged woman in a fake leopard-skin headscarf, curlers and a flowered apron, standing beside a mop and bucket. She appeared to have stepped out of a British stage farce from the 1950^s, a character actress like Irene Handl. “You all right, ducks?” she asked solicitously, suspending an alarming ledge of bosom above his eyes and dropping fag ash on his shirt.

May’s eyes swam. He felt sick and fell back. When he awoke again, the cleaner had transformed herself from a cheeky landlady-type into a glum, tiny Filipino with an unwavering gaze.

“The skin’s not broken. I just wanted to make sure you’re not concussed.” Bryant was helping him sit up. “That’s it. Lean on me.”

“What did I miss?” May winced as he pulled himself to his feet.

“Quite a lot, it appears,” said Bryant. “I’m afraid we were much too late to do anything for her, though. She’s in the back row of the stalls. Been there overnight, by the look of it. Giles will give us an accurate time of death.”

“You’re talking about Mona Williams.”

“Are you up to seeing her?”

“Give me your arm.”

With his walking stick in one hand and May’s sleeve in the other, Bryant led the way. The lights in the main auditorium were now on and Colin Bimsley was talking into his handset by the door.

Mona Williams had been sat upright in the final row of stalls seats. There seemed to be some kind of rusted metal contraption strapped across her face. Six brass sections were held in place with bolts. “It’s a branks – a scold’s bridle,” said Bryant. “A muzzle. The iron curb-plate here sticks into the mouth and presses down on the tongue. The underside of it is studded with small spikes. They first turned up in Scotland, around the mid-1500^s if memory serves. They’re designed to punish gossipy women who can’t keep their mouths shut. Unfortunately, Mona Williams panicked and choked to death on her own vomit.”

“I’ve seen this before,” said May. “In one of your old books.”

“You’ve seen it more recently than that,” Bryant reminded him. “There was one in Ella Maltby’s waxwork dungeon.”