The Victoria Vanishes

∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

49

The Colour of Blood

Arthur Bryant stood before the illuminated glass case containing the holy relic, and knew that he had discovered the answer to an extraordinary conundrum.

His hands shook with the knowledge of something so incredible. “I’m the only other one who knows,” he told May, “the only other person to figure it out, and it’s all because of something Harold Masters said.”

They were back in the British Museum, far beneath the sound of pattering rain, in chambers filled with artefacts few tourists bothered to examine.

“The mythic ancient pubs, like The Jerusalem in Britton Street and the Rose and Crown in Clerkenwell, they don’t reveal the secret. What I’m looking for isn’t hidden in either of them. The Crown isn’t a crown of thorns, just regal adornment. The so-called clues are mere puzzle-games for students of folklore. Harold knew all along, you see?”

“No, I don’t see at all,” May admitted. “You’re being a very confusing old man. You told me you saw him to ask about the blood of Christ. I knew the subject had been bothering you ever since we investigated that street gang, the Saladins. How – what – did he know? And why on earth would he agree to tell you?”

As Bryant had predicted, the bewildered Masters now found himself in the dock for crimes he had not committed, but with the weight of Britain’s security forces behind his prosecution, he did not stand a chance in hell of being vindicated. With the PCU closed down and disbanded, its investigating officers could give him no help.

Bryant turned his attention back to the glittering relic. “Masters has probably known about this for quite a while; that’s what started his extra-curricular research projects and brought him to the attention of Theseus in the first place. What a terrible burden of knowledge he faced. He’d discovered the fabled blood of Christ, and knew he could never bring it to anyone’s attention. He told me why himself, only I was too stupid to understand at the time.”

“You mean that’s it?” said May. “That peculiar thing in the case? Why isn’t it better protected? Why aren’t there hordes of prostrate nuns around it?”

“Because nobody else knows it’s here. They think it’s something else entirely.”

The reliquary was bottle-shaped, elaborately jewelled and gilded, surrounded by enamelled angels, arches and sunbursts. May craned forward to study the inscription on the side that read Ista Est Una Spina Corona Domini Nostri Ihesu xpisk. He noted the small plaque attached to the casing. “It says this is the Holy Thorn reliquary belonging to Jean, Duc de Berry, created between 1400 and 1410. It was built to house Christ’s crown of thorns from the Crucifixion.”

“Yes, but there’s a mystery behind this strange object that has never been solved.” Bryant gave him a knowing look. He loved having the ability to enlighten others. “It began with the construction of an imperial crown decorated with four of the original thorns from Christ’s head, but some time later the crown was broken up and its component parts were re-used to make more treasures. The gifting and possession of such items was capable of wielding immense political influence. So four new separate reliquaries were assembled – only three of them were created by forgers. The only way to tell them apart was by looking at the enamelled backs of the doors, there, see? The fake versions don’t have those.” He thumped a forefinger on the glass, indicating the centre of the jewelled reliquary.

“Here the story gets murky, because nobody knows what happened to this thing between the time it was constructed and when it came into the possession of the British Museum in 1898. Ignore the sapphires, pearls and rubies in the setting, ignore the trumpeting angels and the rather lurid scene of the Last Judgement which surrounds it, not to mention those gruesome cherubs raising the dead, and you’ll see that there’s a crystal window at its heart. Just in case you miss the point, there’s an inscription that reads ‘This is a thorn from the crown of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’ Ista Est Una Spina Corona Domini Nostri Ihesu xpisk. Xpisk? Why not Cristi, the Latin for Christ? Well, there’s certainly a thorn in there. Or is that what it is? Did you remember to bring your Valiant with you?”

May dug in his pocket and produced a huge red-topped cinema flashlight, while his partner kept an eye out for guards.

“Now, point it very carefully at the crystal.”

May shone the torch over the centre of the reliquary. The jewels responded to light by revealing a deep lustre of indigos, ivories, scarlets. “What am I looking for?”

“Not the thorn itself, but the edges where it meets the surrounding encrustation of precious metals.”

Shining the flashlight at the centre of the reliquary, he opened up its dark heart. A glinting line appeared, like a fine molten seam. “There’s a defect,” he said. “It looks like a very faint crack. Oh. I think I understand what you’re getting at.”

“Yes,” said Bryant softly, crouching beside his partner, “it’s not a thorn at all, is it? It’s oxidisation. The air’s got to it through the flaw in the crystal.”

“Oxidised blood,” said May, awed.

“Given its colour, you can see how easily the vial’s contents were mistaken for something made of wood.”

“The blood of Christ. You really think that’s what it is?”

“There’s only one man who might hold the answer, and now I don’t suppose I’ll be able to get anywhere near him,” replied Bryant. “What if the flaw is so tiny that the vial’s contents are only oxidised on its surface?”

May found himself sweating despite the chill in the museum. “My God, I see what you mean. It’s an analysis sample. We’d be able to conduct the ultimate investigation. We’d have a direct line to the heart of the Christian faith.”

“Think of the uproar such a thing would create. Masters knew this, and it became his curse to know. He discovered Pandora’s box, and not only could he not open it, he would never be able to tell anyone of its existence without destroying his entire career. He’s an expert on mythology, John. He’s one of the most public atheists in the country.”

“And what do we do?” asked May. “Secrets have a way of escaping, remember?”

“This is one that cannot be allowed to get out,” said Bryant, taking his partner’s arm and leading him away, just as the guard returned to the chamber. “We ignore it. We allow it to lie among the other treasures of confused provenance. Even as I speak, a team of very expensive lawyers is looking for ways to discredit Harold Masters. They can’t silence him, but they can stop him from being believed. That’s why you and I will escape any charges. Why would they risk having us reveal the things we know when they can simply throw the book at him?”

“Where are we going?” asked May as they headed toward the museum entrance.

“One last stop. I promised to meet Janice in the Pineapple pub in Kentish Town. She wants to tell us something.”

♦

The pub was nearly empty but for Simon, the manager, rinsing glasses behind the bar while somehow managing to send text messages on his cell phone. Janice Longbright was folded into a corner with the day’s newspapers.

Bryant brought over beers and set them down. “So what’s this big announcement you feel you had to present to us in person?” he asked somewhat rudely.

“I don’t know how true this is,” said Longbright, making room for them, “but Gladys, my mother, once told me when Betty Grable had her legs insured, she and all the other girls went out and did the same thing. Sometimes it takes the action of someone you admire to make you follow suit.”

“This is all very interesting, but perhaps you could get to the point.”

“We all knew your big secret, Arthur, your planned resignation. You never adjusted to Biros, did you? Still use that Waterman fountain pen – and blotting paper. The one thing you should have written in code, and you couldn’t because Raymond had to read it. So after deciphering your dreadful handwriting in a mirror, we took a vote on it and decided that if you were going to leave, the entire department would resign en masse.”

“I appreciate the gesture, Janice, but it means you’ll get no severance pay,” exclaimed Bryant, horrified.

“True, but it also means we remain hireable. No black marks on our employment records.”

“John, talk them out of this lunacy,” said Bryant.

“I can’t,” May apologised. “I joined them. Chucked in my lot as well.”

For one of the few times in his life, Bryant was speechless.

“You see, without you there’s nothing left, old sprocket. You’re the connection point between us all – and not just us; think of the hundreds of people you’ve helped in your life, all the people you’ve joined together. You’ve brought so many of London’s outsiders inside, to become part of a wonderful – albeit somewhat alarming – community. You’re at the top of our alternative family tree.”

Bryant squirmed uncomfortably on his chair. “Let’s not get too sentimental, eh? We’re all broke and out of work.”

“I haven’t got enough money left to pay my rent,” said Bimsley gloomily.

“I feel a bit sorry for poor old Renfield. He only just joined us. The Met will never hire him back.”

“At least we’ll always remain friends,” said Longbright. “Whatever happens, whatever the future holds. All ten of us. I’m including Raymond in this.”

“Oh, wonderful – the children I never wanted,” said Bryant. “Whose round is it?”