The Victoria Vanishes

∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

5

Mortality

“Arthur, I passed the statue of Edith Cavell this morning.” It was an opening gambit in his bid to explain his fears about the forthcoming operation. May had just told his partner about the clinic’s letter.

“Did you know there are memorials to her all around the world?” Bryant interrupted, sipping his London Pride bitter. “There’s even a mountain on Venus bearing her name, and of course Edith Piaf was named after her. Cavell said she was proud to die for her country. You don’t hear that very often nowadays, which is probably a good thing.”

“Arthur, did you hear what I said? I’m rather afraid I’m going to die.”

“Rubbish! A blur on an X ray – they’ll get you in and whip it out like a rogue tonsil. It’s a bit late to be having intimations of mortality. Hatch, match, dispatch; there’s no dignity in life. We wet the bed when we’re born and when we leave. You’ll be fine so long as they don’t leave a swab inside you or accidentally dose you with MRSA.”

“This thing growing inside me is the size of a horse chestnut. It’s going to be a dangerous operation.”

“Oh, doctors always say that. It’s a way of covering themselves. Nobody likes to admit their job is easier than it looks. Patients think heart attacks are caused by stress because the first thing doctors ask them is ‘Have you been working hard?’ Nobody in their right mind is going to say ‘No, I’ve been winging it for quite a while now, but the boss hasn’t noticed.’ Stop worrying so much.”

“Arthur, just for once try to take something seriously. I want you to be prepared for the worst.”

“If you go I won’t stay around. It stands to reason. Wouldn’t be much fun here without you.” He attempted to smooth down his fringe of unruly white hair. “Anyway, we can’t bow out yet. I need a few juicy final cases with which to conclude my memoirs. There’s still the matter of the Deptford Demon – ”

“You’re the one who just handed in his resignation.”

“Yes, but I thought I’d get a bit more work under my belt before they pack me off with a pitifully small cheque and an engraved carriage clock. It’ll take them months just to sort out the paperwork.”

“It feels like the end of times,” said May with a weary sigh. “There are so many things to be put in order. If anything happens to me, someone has to take care of April. And who’ll look after Crippen?”

“Oh, this is sheer morbidity. When are they doing it?”

“I’m booked into University College Hospital at the beginning of next week.”

“You see? They can’t be worried or they’d have strapped you onto a trolley the moment they saw the X rays. I’ll come with you, even though it means standing outside with all the dressing-gown people every time I want a smoke.”

♦

“It’s a quarter past ten,” said Raymond Land. “Bryant and May are still over there in the corner conspiring about something.”

“What on earth have they been talking about for the last five and three quarter hours?”

“You’re being paranoid, old sausage,” said Giles Kershaw, the plum-voiced forensic scientist who was taking over from their ill-fated coroner. “They’re not talking about you, they’re discussing old cases.”

“You can show me a little more respect, young man,” warned Land. “I know how you landed your new job.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kershaw, genuinely surprised. “Come off it, sunshine. You’re married to the Home Secretary’s sister-in-law, or something like that. Bryant told me ages ago.”

“I once went out with a girl who worked in PR at the Home Office, but I certainly never married her. I’m afraid Mr Bryant was playing a trick on you.”

Land wearily passed a hand over his sweating face. “Well, there’ll be no more tricks now that Renfield is joining them. We’ll finally get a little order around here.”

The wake was starting to break up. Two of the duty officers from the Albany Street cop shop were bombarding each other with the remains of a party-sized Swiss roll, and even Finch’s farewell cake had been reduced to a controlled explosion of icing and sultanas.

Bryant set his glass down on the beer-stained paper tablecloth and rebuttoned his overcoat. “I have to go home, my head is swimming,” he told his partner.

“We haven’t finished discussing your resignation yet.”

“Don’t be angry with me, John. Leave it to sink in for a few days. You’ll see I was right in the end.” Bryant settled a squashed navy homburg onto his head so that the hat pressed down on the tips of his ears, knotted his mauve scarf under his chin so that his neck disappeared, and turned up the collar of his voluminous overcoat. He looked like a music hall comic preparing for an Arctic trek.

“Do you want to share a cab?” May called as the elderly detective tapped his walking stick to his hat brim in a farewell gesture and stumped off toward the exit.

“No thanks, the walk will do me good. I need a blast of whatever passes for clean air around here.”

“All the way to Chalk Farm? It’s uphill, you know.”

“Don’t worry, I have my good shoes on and I’m quite capable of finding a taxi when I get tired. You have to learn to stop worrying about me.” Bryant pushed out of the door and was gone.

I’ve got one week to make him change his mind, May told himself. It’s not an unfeasible task. But he knew it was almost impossible to alter Bryant’s course once it was set.