The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

38

Hypnotized

Maggie Armitage, Grand Order Grade IV White Witch of the Coven of St James the Elder, Kentish Town, was having problems of her own. “We’ve got sprites,” she complained as she opened the door to Arthur Bryant. “Come in but be careful. They’re everywhere, getting into the cupboards and breaking things. They’re especially fond of custard.”

“Are you talking about mice?” said Bryant, checking to see if he’d brought his hearing aid. He rarely used it in the PCU building because it kept picking up old episodes of Hancock’s Half Hour, which was very distracting.

“No, these are white and made of discarded ectoplasm, but they have little legs and can really shift. They appeared after a seance and now we can’t get rid of them. I can’t see them but Daphne swears she can, ever since her accident. She says they moved into the back of the television, but something has repelled them. The poor quality of programmes, I imagine. It’s nice to see you, give me a kiss.”

Bryant proffered his cheek and received a lipstick brand.

“How are you getting on in your new building? Had any manifestations yet?”

“What of?”

“Oh, the usual things that get left behind after a seance. Spirit dregs. Every building keeps a ghost imprint of its past and for over a decade yours was full of people contacting the dead, so you must have all sorts of things floating about in there. Don’t you hear strange noises at night?”

“All the time, but I think it’s mostly Raymond swearing.”

“The signs of manifestation include speaking in tongues, the gift of prophecy and damage to skirting boards,” said Maggie. “I’ll come over with my thermal scanner one evening. I suppose you’re here wanting information. There was a time when you’d pop by for my banana treacle trifle, but these days you just use me as a resource.”

“I’ll have some trifle if it’s going, but I do have a question for you. Do you know anything about stage magic, how the effects are achieved?”

“A fair bit. Shakespeare was a dab hand, Banquo’s ghost pointing an accusing finger at his killer, that sort of thing. Early melodramas often materialized pale, melancholy figures from behind folding doors. Sometimes they burst sachets of blood under their white gowns. But I think the Victorians did it best. They had phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows which projected images of the dead onto smoke, looming menacingly over the spectators. And in 1863 there was Pepper’s ghost, of course.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, that was a marvellous effect by all accounts. Professor John Pepper lit a sheet of glass so that it looked like people were walking through walls and gliding across the set. Thanks to the illusion, the London stage was soon awash with disappearing ladies, dancing skeletons and babbling severed heads. And they came up with something called the ‘ghost glide’. An actor would ascend through the floor of the stage, moving forward without taking a single step. Of course, most mediums were more like stage magicians than real psychics. Why do you want to know?”

“We’re dealing with a very peculiar case.”

“Well, that is your remit, isn’t it? The peculiar?”

“It was never meant to be,” Bryant admitted. “Anyway, it’s not why I’m here. I have another problem. I need you to hypnotize me. I have to recall something I’ve forgotten.”

“Oh, that’s easy enough. Didn’t I regress you to your past lives once?”

“Yes. You went back too far. I couldn’t speak, remember?”

“Oh that’s right, I think I turned you into protoplasm. It’s not my fault you’re so susceptible. Go and make yourself comfortable on the chaise longue, I’ll brew us some seaweed tea. What exactly do you need to remember?”

“I gave all my file notes to the girl who was helping me with my memoirs. I told her I remembered everything, but I don’t. Now she’s dead and I need to find out what it was in those notes that killed her.”

“Well, that’s as clear as mud. You weren’t there when her soul departed, were you?”

“No.”

“Good, I can’t be dealing with a case of possession tonight, I haven’t got enough salt. You need to recover what you wrote, yes? So let’s go back through the process. Hang on a minute.”

She returned with bowls of tea the colour of a rough sea and a covered plate. “Take a couple of these first. They’ll help you relax.”

“What are they?” Bryant peeked under a tea towel.

“Custard creams. They always work for me. Now, you need to find yourself in a comfortable place.”

“I can’t, I’m in your house.”

“I mean, imagine you’re on a beach.”

Bryant closed his eyes, laced his fingers and lay back. “All right, Hastings.”

“Not Hastings. Not somewhere with a burnt-down pier and a juvenile delinquency problem. Pick somewhere warm, safe and relaxing.”

“All right, I’m at home with Alma, sitting in front of the fire, reading my copy of London’s Disused Underground Stations 1920-1959 Volume 3, the annotated version.”

“You don’t have to tell me everything, just imagine it. It’s warm and you’re feeling sleepy. Your heartbeat is slowing down – ”

Bryant opened one eye. “Is that a good idea?”

“It’s fine. You’re relaxed. You’re starting to fall asleep.”

Bryant promptly fell asleep.

“No, you’re not supposed to actually fall asleep. Wake up.”

Bryant released a snore. His head lolled. Maggie slapped his face gently. Then harder.

“Ow. What’s happening? Did you do it?”

“You fell asleep.”

“You told me to.”

“Let’s try again. I’m going to count back from ten to one, and you will feel yourself sinking deeper and deeper into a state of relaxation.”

Maggie counted back and Bryant slipped into a light hypnotic state. In fact, he relaxed so much that he almost vanished into the sofa. Bryant had always been open to new ideas and beliefs. He was highly susceptible and in many ways naive, but she loved him for his refusal to become regimented in his habits and thoughts.

“You are in your office, assembling your notes and thinking about your memoirs. They are laid out in front of you on your desk. What cases are you considering for inclusion in the first volume?”

“The Palace Phantom, the Deptford Demon, the Belles of Westminster, the Battersea Cat Batterer, the Flying Dragons of Soho, the Blood Thrower of Belsize Park, the Butterfly Killer, and that strange business in the Elephant and Castle Odeon that led to the building being demolished. We called it the Fall of the House of Usherettes – ”

“Apart from the criminal cases, was there anything that would have breached the Official Secrets Act or any freedom of information rulings? Try to see yourself typing up the pages, and wondering, Should I be putting this down on paper?”

“Oh, I never think that. Put it all down, I say.”

“Didn’t you have a problem with the Ministry of Defence?”

“What kind of problem?”

“I don’t know. You came round here and told me about it.”

“When was this?”

“About seven years ago.”

“Oh, that’s right. The researchers.”

“Tell me about them.”

“They were working on a secret project down in Wiltshire. Some kind of weapon. The work had been outsourced to a private company jointly owned by US and UK executive bodies. There had been a high number of suicides over the year, research scientists, all males in their twenties, mostly Asian. None of them had shown suicidal tendencies before, and all were working on the same project.”

“What was your involvement?”

“We’d been called in by an independent think tank to look at the situation. I handled the assignment personally, as a favour. I didn’t involve John. I delivered a report, but no action was ever taken. My findings were ignored.”

“What did you find out?”

For the first time, Bryant hesitated. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” he said slowly.

“How much of this did you put in your notes to Anna?”

“I’m not sure. I never include the boring bits. I probably edited it a little. Oh.”

“What?”

“I gave her the file of background material, just for fact-checking. I meant to go through it, just to make sure there wasn’t anything sensitive. But then we got involved with the Highwayman case and I didn’t get round to it.”

“How would an outsider find out what she’d read?”

“John explained it to me. If she’d grown curious enough to run searches online they would have been flagged up in the Cyber-Defence Security Department of the MoD. They could have traced the requests right back to her.”

“You think they would do that?”

“Of course. Defence of the realm. Oh, what have I done?”

“All right, you are rising back to the surface now as I count down to zero, and you will remember everything we discussed. When I reach zero you will be awake.” She brought Bryant back to full alertness.

“Don’t you see?” said Bryant, attempting to pull himself up from the couch, scrabbling for his hat and coat. “It means they knew where she kept her files. They knew she had a stomach ulcer. They knew how to get to her, and to her mother. They planted the girl in the house to look after Mrs Marquand. But they still haven’t found what they need. I wish I hadn’t come to you, Maggie. You’ve made me realize something terrible.”

“What’s that?”

“I killed her. It’s my fault Anna Marquand is dead. Defence of the realm.”

And with that, he was gone.