The Victoria Vanishes

∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

3

End Times

Arthur Bryant blotted the single sheet of blue Basildon Bond paper, carefully folded it into three sections and slid it into a white business envelope. He pressed the adhesive edges together and turned it over, uncapping his marbled green Waterman fountain pen. Then, in spidery script, he wrote on the front:

For the attention of:

Raymond Land

Acting Chief

Peculiar Crimes Unit

Well, he said to himself, you’ve really done it this time. You can still change your mind. It’s not too late.

Fanning the envelope until the ink was thoroughly dry, he slipped it into the top pocket of his ratty tweed jacket, checked that his desk was clear of work files and quietly left the office.

Passing along the gloomy corridor outside, he paused before Raymond Land’s room and listened. The sound of light snoring told him that the unit’s acting chief was at home. Usually Bryant would throw open the door with a bang, just to startle him, but today he entered on gentle tiptoe, creeping across the threadbare carpet to stand silently before his superior. Raymond Land was tipped back in his leather desk chair with his mouth hanging open and his tongue half out, faintly gargling. The temptation to drop a Mint Imperial down his throat was overpowering, but instead, Bryant simply transferred his envelope to Land’s top pocket and crept back out of the room.

The die is cast, he told himself. There’ll be fireworks after the funeral this afternoon, that’s for sure. Bryant was feeling fat, old and tired, and he was convinced he had started shrinking. Either that or John was getting taller. With each passing day he was becoming less like a man and more like a tortoise. At this rate he would soon be hibernating for half the year in a box full of straw. He needed to take more and more stuff with him wherever he went: walking stick, pills, pairs of glasses, teeth. Only his wide blue eyes remained youthful. I’m doing the right thing, he reminded himself. It’s time.

♦

“Do you think he ought to be standing on a table at his age?” asked the voluptuous tanned woman in the tight black dress, as she helped herself to another ladleful of lurid vermilion punch. “He needs a haircut. Odd, considering he has hardly any hair.”

“I have a horrible feeling he’s planning to make some kind of speech,” Raymond Land told Leanne Land, for the woman with the bleached straw tresses and cobalt eye makeup who stood beside him in the somewhat risqué outfit was indeed his wife.

“You’ve warned me about Mr Bryant’s speeches before,” said Leanne. “They tend to upset people, don’t they?”

“He had members of the audience throwing plastic chairs at each other during the last ‘Meet The Public’ relationship-improving police initiative we conducted.”

They were discussing the uncanny ability of Land’s colleague to stir up trouble whenever he appeared before a group of more than six people. Arthur Bryant, the most senior detective in residence at London’s Peculiar Crimes Unit, was balanced unsteadily on a circular table in front of them, calling for silence.

As the room hushed, Raymond Land nudged his wife. “And I don’t think your dress is entirely appropriate for the occasion,” he whispered. “You’re almost falling out of it.”

“My life-coach says I should be very proud of my breasts,” she countered, “so why shouldn’t I look good at a party?”

“Because it’s a wake,” hissed Raymond. “The host is dead.”

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Bryant bellowed so loudly that his hearing aid squealed with feedback. “This was intended to be a celebration of our esteemed coroner’s retirement, but instead it has become a night of sad farewells.”

The table wobbled alarmingly, and several hands shot out to steady the elderly detective. Bryant unfolded his spectacles, consulted a scrap of paper, then balled it and threw it over his shoulder. He had decided to speak from the heart, which was always dangerous.

“Oswald Finch worked with the Peculiar Crimes Unit from its inception, and planned to retire on this very night. Everyone had been looking forward to the bash. I had personally filled the morgue refrigerator with beer and sausage rolls, and we were planning a big send-off. Luckily, I was able to alter the icing inscription on his retirement cake, so it hasn’t gone to waste. ‘The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables,’ only the other way around, and with retirement substi tuted for marriage.”

“What’s he talking about?” whispered Leanne.

“Hamlet,” said Land. “I think.”

“Because instead of retiring, Oswald Finch died in tragic circumstances under his own examination table, and now he’ll never get to enjoy his twilight years in that freezing, smelly fisherman’s hut he’d bought for himself on the beach in Hastings. Now I know some of you will be thinking ‘And bloody good riddance, you miserable old sod,’ because he could be a horrible old man, but I like to believe that Oswald was only bad-tempered because nobody liked him. He had dedicated his life to dead people, and now he’s joined them.” One of the station house girls burst into tears. Bryant held up his hands for quiet. “This afternoon, in a reflective mood, I sat at my desk and tried to remember all the good things about him. I couldn’t come up with anything, I’m afraid, but the intention was there. I even phoned Oswald’s oldest school friend to ask him for amusing stories, but sadly he went mad some while back and now lives in a mental home in Wales.” Bryant paused for a moment of contemplation. A mood of despondency settled over the room like a damp flannel.

“Oswald was a true professional. He was determined not to let his total lack of sociability get in the way of his career. True, he was depressing to be around, and everyone complained that he smelled funny, but that was because of the chemicals he used.

And the flatulence. People said that he didn’t enjoy a laugh, but it went deeper than that. In all the years I worked with him, I never once saw him crack a smile, even when we secretly attached electrodes to his dissecting tray and made his hair stand on end when he touched it.” Bryant counted on his fingers. “So, just to recap, Oswald Finch – no sense of humour, no charm, friendless, embittered, stone-faced and bloody miserable, on top of which he stank. Some folk can fill a room with joy just by entering it. Whereas being in Oswald’s presence for a few minutes could make you long for the release that death might bring.”

He paused before the aghast, silenced crowd.

“But – and this is the most important thing – he was the most ingenious, humane and talented medical examiner I ever had the great pleasure of working with. And because of his ability to absorb and adapt, to think instead of merely responding, Oswald’s work will live on even though he doesn’t, because it will provide a template for all those who come after.

His fundamental understanding of the human condition taught us more about the lives and deaths of murder victims than any amount of computerised DNA testing. Oswald’s intuitive genius will continue to shine a beacon of light into the darkest corners of the human soul. In short, his radiance will not dim, and can only illuminate us when we think of him, or study his methods, and for that I raise a glass to him tonight.”

“Blimey, he’s finally learning to be gracious,” said Dan Banbury, the unit’s stubby crime scene manager. “I’ve never heard him be nice about anyone before.”

“He must be smashed,” sniffed Raymond Land, jealously turning aside as the others helped Bryant from his wobbly table. He glanced down at the white-and-blue-iced fruitcake that stood in the middle of the pub’s canapé display. The inscription had read Wishing You the Best of Luck in Hastings, but Hastings had been partially picked off and replaced with a shakily mismatched Heaven. The iced fisherman’s hut now had pearly gates around it, and the stick figure at its door had sprouted wings and a halo, picked out in sprinkles. “I hope the cake has more taste than the inscription,” muttered Land, shaking his head in despair.

Nobody had expected the retirement party for the Peculiar Crime Unit’s chief coroner to become a wake, but then life at the unit rarely turned out according to anyone’s expectations.

Oswald Finch had died, sadly and suddenly, in his own morgue, in what could only be described as extraordinary circumstances. Yet his death seemed entirely appropriate for someone who daily dealt with the deceased.

Raymond Land had never expected to stay on this long at the PCU. After all, he had joined the unit for a three-month tour in 1973, and was horrified to find himself still here. Arthur Bryant and John May, the unit’s longest-serving detectives, had been expected to rise through the ranks to senior division desk jobs before quietly fading away, but were still out on the street beyond their retirement ages.

Detective Sergeant Janice Longbright had been expected to marry and leave the force, perhaps to eventually resume her old job as a nightclub manager, but instead she had chosen her career over her husband and had stayed on.

The PCU itself should have been disbanded by now, but had successfully skated over every trap laid for it by the Home Office. Even Land had argued for the unit’s closure behind his colleagues’ backs, but had then surprised himself by fighting back in order to preserve it.

Life, it seemed, was every bit as confusing and disorderly as the PCU’s investigations.

Now, the annoyingly upper-class pathologist Giles Kershaw was to be promoted into Finch’s position in charge of the Bayham Street Morgue, which meant that the PCU was losing another member of staff. With grim inevitability, the Home Office would doubtless seek to use the loss as a method of controlling and closing them down. The oldest members of staff were destined for the axe. Land had given up hope of ever finding a way to transfer out. He had nailed his colours to the unit’s mast when he had reluctantly supported his own staff and attacked his superiors. Now, those same superiors would never find him a cushy detail in the suburbs where he could quietly wait out the remaining years to his retirement.

Land sighed and looked about the pub’s upstairs room.

Plenty of officers from Albany Street, West End Central and Savile Row nicks, even ushers from Great Marlborough Street Magistrates Court had turned up for the wake, but the Home Office had chosen to show their disdain by staying away. Finch had upset them too many times in the past.

Sergeant Renfield, the oxlike desk officer from Albany Street, was watching everyone from his lonely vantage point near the toilets. Land headed over with two bottles of porter clutched between his fingers. “Hullo, Jack,” he said, refilling Renfield’s beer glass with the malty liquid. “I wondered if you’d show up to see Oswald off.”

“You bloody well knew I’d be here.” The sergeant regarded him with a baleful eye. “After all, it’s partly my fault that he’s dead.”

“There’s no point in being hard on yourself,” said Land.

“People working in close proximity to death face unusual hazards. It’s part of the job.”

“Try telling that to this lot.” Renfield gestured at the room with his glass. “I know they blame me for what happened.” The sergeant had made a procedural shortcut that had been revealed as a bad decision in the light of Finch’s death. To be fair, it was the sort of mistake that often occurred when everyone was under pressure.

“Actually, Jack, today isn’t about you. Besides, you’ll get a chance to have your say.”

Renfield looked anxious. “You haven’t already told them, have you? Have you said something to Bryant and May?”

“Good God, no. Call me old-fashioned, but I thought we’d get Oswald into the incinerator before I gave them the good news. Come to think of it, perhaps you should be the one to make the announcement.” Land patted the sergeant on the shoulder and moved away. He wasn’t alone in disliking Renfield, who was a Met man, as hard and earthy as the ground he walked on. Renfield had no time for the airy-fairy attitudes of the PCU staff, and didn’t care who knew it. Left alone in the corner of the room once more, he decided to concentrate on fitting sausage rolls into his mouth between slugs of beer. Over at the bar, Arthur Bryant adjusted his reading glasses, held up the aluminium funeral urn and turned it over to examine its base. “Made in China,” he muttered. “A lightweight wipeclean screw-top final resting place. I suppose Oswald would have approved. But how quickly we sacrifice dignity for expedience, even in death.”

“Well, he didn’t choose it for himself,” said John May. “He’d have picked something less vulgar. He was always so thorough, and yet he decided to entrust his remains to you.”

“He knew I’d do the right thing,” said Bryant with a knowing smile.

“Which is?”

“I’ve been instructed to plant his ashes in a place that would annoy Raymond. I thought the little park behind Pratt Street would do nicely, because Land always goes there for a quiet smoke. I’m going to stick it right opposite the bench where he sits, so he’ll have to keep looking at it. I’ve already had a word with the park keeper.”

“Do you think Oswald would want to be buried there?”

“Why not? It’s handy for the office. He worked in the same place for fifty years. People don’t like change, alive or dead.”

Bryant lifted his rucksack from the floor to place the urn inside it, but changed his mind. “One thing puzzles me, John. He didn’t want floral tributes, but requested posthumous contributions for the Broadhampton Hospital. He never mentioned the place before. I thought it might be where his old school pal was kept, but no. Maybe he has a family friend staying in there, some kind of debt to be honoured. He probably wouldn’t have wanted to discuss the matter in life. It’s an asylum, after all.”

“No,” replied May indignantly, “that’s exactly what it’s not. It’s no longer a place of confinement. Nowadays it specialises in advanced treatment and research into mental health care.”

“You know its sister hospital is the oldest psychiatric hospital in the world?” Bryant poked about among the canapés and thought about dipping a battered prawn. “The Bethlem Royal was once known as Bedlam, famous for the ill-treatment of its patients. Visitors were given sticks so they could poke the loonies. Insanity used to be viewed as the result of moral lassitude, you know. Charlie Chaplin’s mother and the artist Richard Dadd were both locked up in there. But I don’t think Hogarth’s ghastly engraving of the place is entirely to be believed. There were flowers and birdcages in its women’s wards, and a few surprising instances of enlightened thinking on behalf of the doctors. It’s been knocking around since the mid-thirteenth century and is still going strong, as part of the South London Trust.” Bryant removed a prawn-tail from his dentures and absently put it in his pocket. “I don’t trust this Mary Rose sauce, far too pink for my liking. Oswald told me he had no other living relatives. So why would he want us to give money to a mental hospital?”

“I really have no idea.”

May was a poor liar. When he glanced away at the floor, Bryant sensed there was something he had not yet been told about the deceased coroner.