Land’s hand was tingling – the metal pins had delivered a mild shock. “I’ve just been electrocuted,” he complained dramatically.
“Yes, some automata do that,” said Bryant with interest. “The Victorians thought it was very health-giving. Wait a minute.”
Madame Blavatsky’s eyes dimmed, then flared. Her right arm swivelled forward and her fist partially opened to drop a white oblong card, which rattled into the slot at the front of the machine. Rubbing his fried hand, Land retrieved it and examined the stamped-out lettering.
DEATH WILL REPAY ALL DEBTS
“What kind of fortune is this?” he exclaimed. “It’s a paraphrased quote from The Tempest,” said John May. “Even I know that.”
“Well, it’s a bloody depressing thought for a Monday,”
Land said, tossing the card onto his desk. “Get this thing out of here.”
“Fine,” said Bryant. “I’ll have it beside my desk.”
“Must you? The office is already starting to look like your old space in Mornington Crescent.”
“But of course. It’s the contents of my head.”
“Well, it certainly contains the contents of a head, unless you’ve had the brainpan of that stinking Tibetan skull cleaned out.”
“No, I mean it acts as my excess memory. It contains all the things there’s not enough room in my head to hold. Clutter, either mental or physical, is the sign of a healthy curiosity.” As Bimsley began rolling the automaton towards the door under Bryant’s guidance, Raymond Land looked back at his own bare office space and tried to figure out whether he had just been insulted again.
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
3
Indiscretion
“Madame Blavatsky?” said May as they headed downstairs later to a newly opened tea shop just beneath the Unit. “You’re the last of your species, you know that, don’t you? One day you’ll be in your own glass case in a museum. Labeclass="underline" the London Eccentric, Londinium insolitum, shy, hardy, solitary worker, difficult to breed, uncomfortable out of its native habitat – an area extending no more than five miles either side of the Thames, liable to bite when provoked.”
“You missed out my key attribute,” said Bryant. “My eidetic memory. It’s unconventionally arranged, but more useful than any of your fancy computers. The world seems so intent on erasing its past that someone has to keep notes. That’s why I’m good at my job. I make connections with my surroundings. It’s like throwing jump leads into a junkyard and sparking off the things you find there. No one else can do that. It’s why we’re still in business.”
Bryant was being a little disingenuous, and knew it. In truth, his mental connections were extremely haphazard and just as likely to short out. Moreover, he was unable to function without his partner. John May was indeed the acceptable face of the PCU, friendly with officials, kind to staff, linked to the Zeitgeist. May had never allowed himself to become an institutional officer, the kind who blankly processed criminals through the system. He believed in the innate decency of humankind, and Bryant’s innocence kept his belief alive. Such an old-fashioned approach to teamwork was not encouraged in the league-table mentality of the new century.
“I want you to meet someone,” said Bryant, pushing open the door of the Ladykillers café. The new tea shop had been named after the famous 1955 Ealing film that had been shot in the neighbourhood. It had begun life a few weeks earlier as a pop-up shop, but the owners, two sisters who dressed in identical postwar fashions, had taken up the lease and now served teas in a setting that perfectly replicated a period neither of them was old enough to remember. The girls were in their early twenties, and had adopted the café’s styling as an ironic pose. Instead, they had attracted the wrong clientele: older locals who took the environment entirely at face value.
Bryant made his way to the blue Formica counter and studied the merchandise: Battenberg cake, quiche Lorraine, Bath and Banbury buns under glass.
“Hello,” said one of the girls, “can we help you? I’m Brenda and this is Yvonne.”
“That seems highly unlikely,” said Bryant rudely. “Those are working-class names and judging by your accents your families are from the stockbroker belt, Thames Valley, probably. Any blue-collar customer would find your prices outrageous.”
Yvonne looked at Brenda nervously.
“It’s all right,” May explained to them, “that means he likes you. We’re from the police unit upstairs. I’m Mr May and this is Mr Bryant. A pot of English Breakfast tea and a couple of those buns, thanks.”
Now the girls studied the men; appearances had proved deceptive in both directions. “There’s a lady over there waiting for you,” said Yvonne. The pair set about serving.
“Anna Marquand is editing my memoirs,” replied Bryant, waving an ebony walking stick in the direction of a thin, oval-faced woman of around thirty-five, seated alone at the furthest table.
“I thought your editor was male,” said May as they made their way over.
“I had to fire that one. He accused me of being inconsistent. I told him it wasn’t true, because he had annoyed me from the outset, so we parted company. Anna was recommended by my old friend Dr Harold Masters, at the British Museum. She called to tell me she’s got proofs of my first volume of memoirs. I thought you might like to meet her.”
May was slightly puzzled by this, as his partner rarely asked him to meet friends. Anna Marquand rose and removed her pink plastic spectacles, shaking their hands with an air of grave formality.
“Anna transcribes for the historians in the Classical Studies department, and freelances for Icarus, the specialist publishing house that has taken the book. Anna, this is my partner at the PCU, John May.”
“You’re younger than I was led to believe,” Anna remarked as they seated themselves.
“You were doubtless expecting someone more decrepit,” said May.
“Well, Mr Bryant’s description – ” She stopped awkwardly, then dug into her plastic shopping bag. “I have the finished text, Mr Bryant. They told me it’s not likely to be a big print run, but it’s going to be a nice-looking volume.”
“Hopefully the first of three,” Bryant beamed, thumbing through the proofs.
“Wait, let me see,” said May, snatching it away. “Where does this go up to?”
“It’s not chronological; rather it’s a selection of our more eccentric cases,” said Bryant carefully. “I’ve covered the Leicester Square Vampire, that business with the Belles of Westminster, the Deptford Demon, the Shepherd’s Bush blowtorch murders and the hunt for the Odeon Strangler.”
“I’m afraid I had to take out some of the more politically sensitive passages,” said Anna apologetically. “Your boss was very concerned about showing the Home Office in a bad light. Also, I checked with a lawyer and found that three of the sections fell foul of the Official Secrets Act. I excised those, but I couldn’t make all the minor changes you wanted. I mean, you sent me an awful lot of revisions, and many of them contradicted each other. There simply wasn’t time to include them all, and the deadline was so tight – ”
“There’s nothing in here that’s going to upset anyone, is there?” asked May, riffling the pages. His partner had a reputation for being appallingly indiscreet.
Anna Marquand glanced uncertainly at Bryant. “Well, um, there are one or two passages that could be construed – ”
“What has he said? Arthur, what did you put in this book?”
“So many sections were blue-pencilled and then reinserted that I don’t honestly remember,” Bryant admitted. “But I think I mentioned Raymond’s wife.”
“What did you say about Leanne Land?”