Full Dark House (29 page)

May pulled the backpack from his shoulder, removed his mobile phone and rang Longbright at home.

‘You said there was no one left alive from the Palace,’ he told her, ‘but you’re wrong. Believe me, I know how it sounds, but I think our killer is still around. Arthur recognized the diagram for what it was. A possible escape route.’

‘It’s a bit of a long shot, don’t you think?’

‘We know Arthur went to the theatre to research his memoirs. I think he discovered the blueprint and realized the implications at once. Then he did the most obvious thing. He ran a search. Combed the city’s mental institutions and checked through hospital records looking for further signs of survival.’

‘You’re saying he traced this aged lunatic and found him in residence at the Wetherby? Why would he do that?’ Longbright sounded sceptical.

‘You know how Arthur always hated loose ends. He went galloping off to the clinic, made a nuisance of himself, questioned the nurses, poked about in their records and ended up with a short-list of former patients.’ May ducked through a grey wall of stalled trucks, heading for the tube. On the pavement ahead, a tangle of red and white plastic tape cordoned off a vast pile of roadwork rubble, more haphazardly arranged than any wartime bomb debris.

‘He was only going to write up the story for his memoirs, but suddenly found himself back in the case. That’s why he wanted me to go with him. He warned me he could get into trouble.’ May was forced to shout into the cellphone. ‘He found what he was looking for, then probably drove around to the poor bloke’s house. You know how insensitive he could be.’

‘The newspapers of the time called him the Phantom, didn’t they? He was probably rather upset to be tracked down again.’

‘Enough to follow Arthur back to the unit and plant a bomb,’ May replied. ‘From what we know of him, it would make perfect sense. A case of history repeating, a farewell performance. Finch said he thought the explosive material was old.’

‘Yes, but sixty years old? Where on earth could he have been keeping it?’

‘Who knows, he could have buried it in his back garden and returned to dig it up. I think seeing Arthur brought back everything that had happened, and ignited his desire for revenge.’ May paused while the trucks juddered past. ‘Listen,’ he bellowed, sticking his finger in his ear, ‘I need you to track someone down for me.’

‘Of course, who do you need?’ Longbright asked.

‘Bryant’s dentist. I know he’s left the practice, but they must have a contact number. It’s very important that you locate him.’

May snapped the phone shut and gave one final glance at the rain-filled sky before stepping into the clammy warmth of the tube station.

41

RUNNING TO DAYLIGHT

‘You realize we’re an hour away from tonight’s dress rehearsal, and that we open tomorrow?’ asked Helena Parole, lighting a cork-tipped De Rezske and fanning the smoke through the opened window in her office.

The young detectives were seated with her. Bryant listened as he cleaned out his pipe bowl with a pickle fork that he kept in his coat for just such a purpose.

‘How am I expected to feel? I’ve got an under-rehearsed cast that’s too panicked to concentrate on the score, a violinist who’s more used to playing in Leicester Square for a hatful of pennies, a musical director who fights with the conductor over every note-change in the arrangements, fifty-year-old mechanical equipment that refuses to control several tons of lethal scenery, a replacement Jupiter who has never performed in the West End, a cleaning lady who’s trying to scrub blood out of the balcony seats, and now some kind of women’s temperance league is picketing the theatre. Stan and Mouse are spreading rumours about ghosts walking through walls. Benjamin got punched on the nose by a woman who says we’re the spawn of Satan. I nearly broke my leg in the foyer after Elspeth’s tortoise pulled rhubarb leaves all over the floor. And you’re telling me we have an abduction on our hands.’

‘How important is Jan Petrovic to the show?’ asked May, attempting to look unfazed.

‘She’s just part of the chorus, not featured at all. I replaced her the minute she failed to show for the rehearsal. That’s not the point. I have to be sure that you can protect my boys and girls, otherwise I can’t go out there and convince them that everything’s fine.’

‘We’re doing as much as we can. I’d prefer to see the production suspended rather than place anyone in danger, but Mr Renalda has every intention of ensuring the show goes on.’

Helena’s voice rose a notch. ‘This is no reflection on your abilities, Mr May, but in view of your
extreme
youth, I wonder if a senior officer might not be available now.’

‘I’m afraid there is no one else available, Miss Parole,’ he replied politely.

‘They’ve spent a fortune on advance advertising and publicity. There’s not a bomb site in London that’s not been plastered with the posters. To Mr Renalda, a missing chorus girl is less important than an outraged review in the
Telegraph
.’

‘Obviously we’re all hoping that Miss Petrovic turns up safe and sound. We found signs of a struggle in her apartment, and several small spots of blood that may be hers, but no unaccounted-for fingerprints. What appeared to be a large smear of blood on a wall turns out, rather oddly, to be nail varnish. Beyond that, we know very little.’

‘It seems to me you know very little about what’s been happening at all. I suppose all the good detectives have been taken by the war effort. It’s not your fault, you just lack experience. God knows who I’d blame. I certainly wouldn’t listen to any of the cast.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’re actors, for Christ’s sake, they exaggerate everything. Have you talked to them all?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘What about those crazy women outside? Don’t you think it could be someone who’s taken the show as a personal affront to decency?’

‘I think plenty of them are doing that. I just can’t imagine anyone being so upset that they would break into a theatre and start murdering the performers.’

‘Don’t be so sure. The Nazis are on the lookout for signs of dissatisfaction and unrest. It said so in the paper. They’re infiltrating groups and stirring up trouble, just like they did in the thirties.’

‘I don’t think we’re under attack from German spies,’ said Bryant firmly. ‘My spiritualist mentioned Medea and Calliope.’

‘Your spiritualist,’ repeated Helena.

Bryant nodded, patting his pockets for a light.

‘I’m surrounded by blithering idiots.’ The artistic director rose to leave. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a show to rehearse.’

‘Calliope was the mother of Orpheus,’ Bryant explained once he and May had returned to their offices behind Bow Street. ‘He got his musical talents from her. Perhaps we should take a look at the original legend, not Offenbach’s version of it.’

‘We’re not looking for a mythical creature, Arthur, even your Mrs Wagstaff agreed about that.’

‘We need to find a motive, John. Aristaeus tried to rape Eurydice, and she trod on a serpent as she fled. The poison killed her. Hemlock is a poison that was known to the ancient Greeks. Orpheus followed her down to Hades, and suspended the tortures of the damned with his music. Orpheus was instructed not to turn round to look at her until she had reached the light of the sun. Eurydice made her way through the darkness, guided by the sound of his lyre. As he reached the sunlight, he looked back and lost her for ever. Various reasons have been given for his behaviour. Some say he was frightened by a clap of thunder. Others reckon he was pushed in the back by Jupiter. Our Jupiter is dead, and can no longer stop the flight of Orpheus, running to daylight. Edna talked of ghosts, unseen hands guiding, pushing at the actors’ backs. The girl, Jan, she’s not been seen anywhere?’

‘It’s impossible to find out. The stations are still full of evacuees and servicemen, people moving around all over the place.’

Forthright looked in. ‘Arthur, the article you requested from your journalist pal, Peregrine Summerfield. He’s managed to find you a copy. He’s sending a lad over with it right now.’

Several minutes later, a boy arrived with a brown envelope under his arm. May gave him sixpence from the petty-cash tin and tore open the accompanying letter.

‘What appalling handwriting.’

‘Give it to me, I’m used to reading his scrawl,’ said Bryant, snatching away the letter.

Dear Arthur,

There was a lot of interest in this at the time, but the paper wouldn’t run my article because Andreas Renalda got wind of it and threatened
The Thunderer
with a lawsuit. The family was based in Calliste (’Most Beautiful’), also known as Santorini. I managed to locate his former home on the outskirts of Thira, but couldn’t gain admittance to the estate. Everyone on the island knows the family, but nobody was very happy talking about them. I tried mentioning them in one of the local bars and the locals all clammed up, it was like one of those scenes in a cowboy film where the stranger comes into town. However . . .

‘Is there another page to this?’

‘Sorry.’ May handed the sheet to Bryant.

. . . I wrote a profile and was even paid, but the damned thing never appeared in print. Andreas Renalda has made my life a living hell ever since, ringing up publishers and complaining about me. His old man employed half the island, and a lot of loyalties still survive. I suggest you read the article and form your own conclusions.

For the next few minutes no sound was heard in the office, save for the familiar double clang of a distant tram.

‘You wanted a motive,’ Bryant said finally. ‘It looks like we’ve got one. Listen to this.’ He balanced his legs along the edge of the desk. ‘Peregrine called his piece “Orpheus Ascending”. Sirius, Renalda’s father, lost an eye at the battle of Modder River, and was employed as a mercenary under General “Backbreaker” Gatacre during the Boer War.’

‘That’s not what I’d call a motive,’ said May.

‘Don’t be so impatient. His wife, Diana, bore him two sons. Andreas came along in 1905, when his brother Minos was five. His legs were too brittle to support him, so Sirius had his workers build steel calipers that would enable him to walk. He had lost an eye before finding his own strength, so thought Andreas would also turn disability to his advantage. He gave Minos, his other son, an allowance, but reserved his empire for Andreas. He dismissed the missus to a wing of the house and took a series of mistresses. Diana stopped attending church and raised her son in pagan ways in order to afford him protection from enemies. Superstitious lot, eh? Andreas became the keyholder to a shipping fortune and Minos turned into an embittered drunk who couldn’t touch his brother for fear of reprisals.

‘Andreas married a young English girl called Elissa. He inherited the Renalda estate on his father’s death, and it will be given to Minos only if his entire family dies.’ Bryant swiped the papers with the back of his hand. ‘Now
this
is where it gets interesting. A week after the old man’s funeral, while Andreas was attending to business on the mainland, bad brother Minos told Elissa that he wanted to make amends for his behaviour. He took her out to a taverna, but only the brother came back. Nobody knows what happened. Elissa was seen with Minos on the jetty late that night. She supposedly slipped and fell into the water. It took a month for her body to wash up on the beach. Andreas took the case to the local magistrate, but no evidence of murder was found. The tycoon was convinced that his brother had killed his wife, but had no proof. Andreas moved to England, and Minos’s whereabouts are unknown. Well, we wanted a suspect.’

‘Andreas’s brother. You think he could be here?’

‘I suppose he could be using any name.’ Bryant called in Forthright. ‘We’re going to need a recent photograph of Minos Renalda,’ he explained. ‘We have to talk to Andreas again. Have you got any tea rations left? We’ve used ours up.’

‘Certainly.’ Forthright paused in the doorway. ‘Did you hear? The other army bike has turned up. No prints on it, though. I heard about Mr May’s little adventure.’

‘Where did they find it?’ asked Bryant.

‘Right outside the theatre, back with all the others.’

‘I can’t believe it. The audacity—he went right back. Gladys, what are you hovering about for?’

‘May I just say that it’s a pleasure to be working with you again?’

‘No, you may not. Get on with your work.’ Bryant smiled poisonously at his partner. ‘I knew those two would never last,’ he said.

42

MR MAY PRESENTS HIS THEORY

The follow-up to Coventry’s night of terror was a bombing raid on London that proved almost as devastating as the attack of 15 October, when the city seemed to combust with over nine hundred fires. On that occasion all railway traffic had been halted, and the shattered Fleet sewer emptied its poisoned waters into the train tunnels at King’s Cross.

On Saturday, those who survived the night arose to find great chunks of the city alight or simply gone. Hospitals, schools and stations had been hit, and doctors cut their way into unsafe buildings to administer morphine to the injured. Pumps and water towers were drained to fight the raging blazes spread by incendiary bombs. Because the city’s water was routinely turned off at the weekend, the fire hoses had run dry, so riverside cranes were used to drop trailer pumps into the Thames from offshore barges.

Looters struck, risking their lives to pillage from the ruins of shops and houses while residents took cover, but most of the cases went unreported for fear of harming morale. A deep crater had been blown in the centre of Charing Cross Road, exposing the underground trains to daylight. In Farringdon, a fish shop was hit by a bomb that loosened a great girder, causing it to fall on a queue of housewives. Not even gangs of men could move the beam, and the women had to wait and die while a crane was sought.

Brick dust settled across the roads and buildings as thickly as falling snow, a pale cloak of mourning. All sounds were deadened. People moved quietly through the ashes like determined ghosts.

John May had spent the night under the stairs at his aunt’s house in Camden. The noise had been deafening and almost constant, the explosions preceded by the droning of aircraft, the thunder of anti-aircraft guns and the ghostly wail of the sirens, one of which was mounted on the roof of the primary school opposite. The early fog was so dense, and the blackout still so effective, that May could see no more than a few feet ahead as he walked into Covent Garden, listening to the fall of masonry, accompanied by the chinking tumble of London bricks. The rescue squads were pulling down cracked chimney stacks and walls.

In Long Acre the atmosphere changed; the costermongers were still in fine voluble form, singing and bellowing jokes across their wicker stacks. Many offices asked their exhausted workers to handle extra shifts. With so many lines of communication cut, the daily push and pull of commerce slowed. But the size of London worked in favour of its population. No matter how much havoc had occurred in the night, it always seemed there was another way to get things done.

Bryant had spent the night in the office and needed to clear his head with a walk beside the river. He felt close to the truth and wanted to talk to Andreas Renalda, but nobody knew his whereabouts. There was no answer from the telephone at the tycoon’s Highgate home, and his office was shut for the weekend.

The premiere of
Orpheus
was still planned for tonight, come incendiary bombs, hellfire murders or the Lord Chamberlain himself. The day was grey and dull, the skies louring with the threat of rain. Everyone was praying for a deluge to dampen the fires, and for clouds to hide the city.

An
Orpheus
lyric rattled around in Bryant’s brain. ‘The Metamorphoses Rondo’, in which Cupid sings, ‘What do these disguises prove? Only that you find yourself so ugly that whenever you want to be loved, you daren’t show yourself as you really are.’ If Andreas Renalda’s brother was here, he could have adopted the identity of anyone. Tonight the theatre would open for the grand premiere, and the invited public would be admitted. How much harder would it be to spot a rogue face in the crowd?

Bryant studied the water, watching the chromatic petrol ripples of a passing boat blossom on the surface in diseased ziggurats. Then there was the matter of the missing girl, lost in a city of missing people. If Jan Petrovic had been kidnapped, why had no one heard from her abductor? What was to be gained from removing someone so unimportant to the production? He thought back to Edna Wagstaff’s nervous chatter about the ghosts of the theatre, and how they walked through walls. How had someone been able to enter and leave the Palace unnoticed? When the building wasn’t locked up, the two entrances had staff posted at them. There were two pass doors between the backstage area and the front of house, and one of those was kept permanently locked. The doors to Petrovic’s flat were also locked from the inside. It was as if . . .