Bryant & May

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘This is going to override everything else for now.’

  ‘OK, but it’s your case.’

  ‘Don’t talk to anyone about Rahman’s death.’ He put his hand over the phone while a police siren passed. ‘We have to keep the news from spreading until we’re ready to release official information.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What haven’t you told me?’

  ‘I have to be absolutely sure first.’ He tried to keep his voice low. ‘We could soon have lynch mobs roaming the streets looking for a killer.’

  ‘Why would that happen?’

  ‘Because we’ll have given them a map showing them exactly where to look for him.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow,’ Longbright said.

  ‘Oranges and lemons,’ Bryant replied, and rang off.

  Bryant was wrong; it took no time at all for the news to flare and spread across London. The rolling captions on Sky News were changed from ‘tragic accident’ to ‘attack at church’ and finally to ‘police looking for assailant.’ News teams began to congregate on the steps of St Martin-in-the-Fields, but by this time Bryant and Banbury had spirited the body away to St Pancras.

  Seven witness statements went directly back to the PCU. Five called it an accident, pointing out that Chakira Rahman appeared to lose her footing on the steps and fall awkwardly on the corner where the two inclines met. The other two agreed that someone appeared to brush against her first. One suggested it was this collision that caused her to lose balance. The collider had been in a rush, and was wearing black sweatpants, white trainers and a grey hoodie with the top up, a common sight on a rainy day. One person had suggested he moved with a limp.

  As soon as John May saw the first statements he understood the implications. Opening his laptop, he logged into the PCU’s private site. In the chaos of cross-chatter that ensued he noticed Leslie Faraday contacting Raymond Land to ask him what was going on. Land appeared to have ignored the liaison officer’s questions and instead of going on the offensive had shut down all communication with the Home Office. He had never been able to handle conflict.

  May shifted restlessly on his sofa. He’d had enough of being on the outside looking in. Pulling a sports vest over his bandaged shoulder, he found a loose sweater that would allow him some movement, packed painkillers in his jacket and called a cab, telling himself that there would be plenty of time to rest after the case was closed. If he warned anyone that he was coming they would find a way to stop him, so he decided to head directly to the St Pancras morgue.

  ‘Oranges and lemons,’ say the bells of St Clement’s, he thought. ‘You owe me five farthings,’ say the bells of St Martin’s. The idea was absurd, but it wouldn’t take long for hacks to start putting the pieces together.

  Where May saw something as mundane as an angry kid targeting strangers, he knew that his partner would be hunting for something more exotic, an elaborate plot to bring down the government, say, or a sociopath with a degree in Victorian campanology.

  As it turned out, Mr Bryant was not entirely wrong in his assumptions.

  * * *

  |||

  They say the old are more fearless than the young because nothing surprises them, but there was something Arthur Bryant still feared, and it was facing him now. The sign on the wall said Sunny Days Nursery School. From within came the sound of a hundred starlings being torn to pieces by cats.

  He was in Bayswater, among the white stucco terraces and kebab shops, a schizophrenic neighbourhood that wanted to be Kensington but felt more like Paddington. The neighbourhood’s scruffy soul had been scooped out along with most of its renovated apartments’ non-load-bearing walls, yet it was still not quite reputable.

  A scream split the air, rising so high that it vanished into a range only dogs could hear. Bryant turned down his hearing aid and pressed the door buzzer.

  Ruth James was wearing yellow dungarees and quite a lot of paint. She had a number of coloured pencils in her knotted red hair. ‘Come in, Arthur, how lovely to see you. This must be important. I know how you loathe small children.’

  ‘If they get too unbearable I’ll make them cry by taking my teeth out,’ said Bryant, pecking her indigo-smeared cheek. ‘How do you stand the screaming?’

  ‘Earplugs.’ She showed him the orange foam bullets in her hand. ‘Free expression brings out the worst in them. Their parents think they’ve given birth to baby geniuses. The truth is that most are uninteresting, a few have the electricity of curiosity in their eyes and the rest have the intelligence of molluscs. But in order to justify the cost of dumping them here everyone goes home with a gold star, a shiny badge or an important-looking certificate. They’re all right most of the time but occasionally I wish I could buy them guns.’

  Ruth led the way through the rainbow-striped play area, stepping over a dozing romper-suited boy so smothered in red paint that he looked like an axe murderer’s victim. Ruth lectured in childhood studies, specializing in Victorian poetry, but these days she made more money running the day nursery. She summoned one of her helpers to monitor the room, then led Bryant to her office. When she shut the door all outside sound ceased.

  ‘Isn’t it blissful? Double glazing.’ She poured two mugs of tea from an enormous brown pot. ‘I can’t imagine why you’re here. There’s not much call for my area of expertise these days.’

  ‘I’d have thought we could learn a lot from old English songs,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Many of them are deemed inappropriate for tinies now. I’m all for protecting them but I’ve seen a mother take an apple away from her little girl and give her a protein bar instead because she’s never heard of the old saying.’ She checked the wall clock. ‘I have ten minutes to spare before they sense it’s getting close to break time and go berserk.’

  Bryant examined the spines on the bookshelf behind Ruth’s head. ‘Some of those look quite rare.’

  ‘Folk songs.’

  ‘Read me one.’

  Ruth opened a volume at its marker. ‘Try this:

  ‘There was a man of Newington,

  And he was wond’rous wise,

  He jumped into a quickset hedge,

  And scratched out both his eyes:

  But when he saw his eyes were out,

  With all his might and main,

  He jumped into another hedge,

  And scratched them in again.

  ‘And there’s a nice illustration of a screaming man with blood pouring from his eye sockets. It’s a paradox poem, a subset of songs that present inexplicable situations with logical-sounding solutions.’

  Even Bryant was shocked. ‘Can you read that to a child?’

  ‘Not anymore, but it’s how children think. We’re the squeamish ones because we’ve seen grisly accidents and it’s made us wary. They haven’t.’ She sipped her tea and visibly relaxed. ‘The other day I read the older children a heavily bowdlerized version of The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, and at the part where the hunchback sits by the dead Esmeralda I asked them what would happen next. You know what one little girl said? “His tears will fall into her eyes and bring her back to life.” Nonsensical to grown-ups but entirely sensible to children, who are naturally pagan. In Victor Hugo’s tale the hunchback betrays Esmeralda and starves to death beside her corpse.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe Disney’s version is better. You wouldn’t believe some of the songs that lot outside make up. They’re particularly fond of adding verses to something called “Burn Nanny’s Knickers.” That’s what we do, isn’t it? Create. Stories exist in thousands of microvariations. Look how childlike the creation myths are.’ She jabbed him in the arm. ‘You didn’t come here to listen to me.’

  Bryant attempted to raise his eyebrows innocently in a way that would indicate that he often travelled about London visiting old friends for no particular reason, but he failed to convince. ‘
It’s strictly confidential,’ he began, still eyeing the books. ‘I know I always say that but this time it really is.’

  ‘Who am I going to tell? This lot?’ She opened the door a crack and the screaming rushed back in. ‘Look at little Sheema over there; she’s eating the paints. Not the brightest brush in the pot, I’m afraid. Hang on.’ She called through the gap. ‘Archie, don’t do that, it gives the others ideas.’ Resealing the door, she turned her attention back to Bryant. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘ “Oranges and Lemons.” I need a bit of background on the rhyme. I tried looking on the Internet but kept taking a photograph of some woman’s knees. She threatened to call the police. I was on the Piccadilly Line.’

  ‘Well, there are all sorts of complicated theories. The longest version of “Oranges and Lemons” that I’ve come across has seventeen verses, but we know it best in a truncated form of just six verses and a coda. It’s a side-choosing game. Two children form an arch for the others to pass beneath. One team is Oranges, the other is Lemons.’ She flipped open a moth-eaten encyclopaedia. ‘They sing:

  ‘ “Oranges and lemons,” say the bells of St Clement’s.

  “You owe me five farthings,” say the bells of St Martin’s.

  “When will you pay me?” say the bells of Old Bailey.

  “When I grow rich,” say the bells of Shoreditch.

  “When will that be?” say the bells of Stepney.

  “I do not know,” says the great bell at Bow.

  ‘Then the procession beneath the arch of hands speeds up as they say:

  ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed.

  Here comes a chopper to chop off your head!

  Chip chop, chip chop, the last man is dead.

  ‘Each person chopped has to choose a side and get behind their choice, and once the last one is chosen they have a tug-of-war. It’s very singsong, which is why churches use it in peals of bells. And if you want to know more about bell-ringing, try The Nine Tailors by Dorothy L. Sayers.’

  ‘I’m more interested in the song’s hidden meanings,’ said Bryant. ‘Assuming it has any.’

  Ruth pulled one of the pencils from her hair. ‘I can give you a couple of books but I want them back in one piece, not like last time. Pages glued together with cod roe.’ She searched the shelves. ‘We suspect that almost every nursery rhyme has a basis in some forgotten event. “Rain, Rain, Go Away” is connected to the defeat of the Spanish Armada in a series of thunderstorms; “Georgie Porgie, Pudding and Pie” is a reference to King James the First’s lover, the Duke of Buckingham; “Old Mother Hubbard” is intended to be Cardinal Wolsey, although he’s also supposed to be Little Boy Blue; and “Lucy Locket” was a barmaid at the Cock public house in Fleet Street who chose not to supplement her salary with prostitution. A lot of traditional rhymes were said to be satires on Henry the Eighth’s wives.’

  ‘So they’re all true?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘Now you’re asking the impossible,’ said Ruth. ‘We have no idea what was true and what was fabricated. Clearly some were retroactively fitted to historical events, but others definitely circulated outwards from courtiers to townsfolk, and probably vice versa. “Oranges and Lemons”—here we are.’ She ran her finger down the page. ‘The earliest printed version appeared in 1744, but that had references to sticks and apples and maids in white aprons, and doesn’t have the “chopper” part. We think the end lines were added by children because church bells always marked public executions at Tyburn, and there were families living nearby. The churches featured in the song were most likely just inside or against the old city walls.’

  ‘That would rule out St Martin-in the-Fields,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Yes, it’s more likely to be St Martin Orgar, just off Eastcheap, because moneylenders used to live and work there. That church burned down in 1666. Most people assume it’s St Martin-in-the-Fields.’

  A child’s penetrating shriek shattered the calm of the office. Ruth set aside her mug and peered out. ‘That’s Olivia. A quite extraordinary sound, isn’t it? Fairly raises the follicles. She’s caused our old caretaker to suffer a trouser accident on more than one occasion. Where was I?’ She passed him another volume from her collection. ‘People used to make up lyrics for sequences played by church bells. They’re simple and memorable. My esteemed colleagues will write you monographs on the secret origins of rhymes until the cows come home. You’ve probably heard stories that “Ring-a-Ring o’ Roses” was not actually about the Great Plague because the language isn’t Middle English, but that rebuttal was based on a later version. In fact, the abbreviated “o’ ” and the use of “posies” suggest that it truly is a plague poem. As for “Oranges and Lemons,” I suspect that the song’s phrasing was created from the need to find assonance with church names, although “St Clement’s” and “lemons” is a bit of a stretch. Stop me when you’ve heard enough.’

  ‘You’ll know when I’m bored,’ said Bryant.

  ‘Some believe the song is connected with “London Bridge Is Falling Down,” because it was acted out with the same execution ritual, in which case it may have pertained either to the fate of Henry the Eighth’s wives, or to a prisoner’s final journey from Newgate Prison to Tyburn Tree. The curates of St Clement Danes stole the story as a nice bit of local colour for their church, holding special services with carillons of bells. It’s still a macabre song though, reminiscent of funeral torches and public executions. The odd thing to me is that it never really changed, just got shorter. Even when it was first published there was only one line different: “Ring ye bells at Fleetditch.” Most songs in use by the populace continue to evolve. One thinks of football match chants, rhyming slang and the like.’

  ‘Is there any significance in the farthings of St Martin?’ Bryant wondered.

  Ruth thought for a moment. ‘Well, a farthing was originally “four things.” A silver penny was pretty soft and could be scored with a cross to make two half-pennies or four quarters, which is why there were four farthings in a penny right up until 1969, when it was removed from circulation.’

  Bryant’s blue eyes brightened. ‘Is there another interpretation in the context of the church, something to do with crucifixes?’

  ‘That’s five rather than four—the five wounds of Christ are the “five things” by which sinners are redeemed. But there is a religious reading that suggests the sacrifice of Our Lord must be repaid before the greatest bell of all heralds the end of time. The execution at the rhyme’s end can be read to suggest that the church is founded upon the blood of martyrs. One only has to think of John the Baptist or Sir Thomas More. Human heads must roll before salvation of the spirit.’

  ‘Could the song contain a modern message of some kind?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Minstrels used to spread messages of dissent from town to town by hiding secret meanings in their ballads, like medieval viral protests, just as religious runes were smuggled in the patterns of fabric. You could argue that the colours of oranges and lemons are the colours of paganism, alchemy and the transmutation of metals. You could also read it broadly as a warning.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘The bells are metaphorically announcing a series of executions. Debts have to be paid, sacrifices must be made, a new order arises—you can fill it with anything you like. One could associate it with anarchy.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Anarchy was a harmonic principle of life beyond government, but its modern incarnation revels in atavistic decline.’

  ‘An unpicking of the social order.’ Through the window, he watched the children intent on their play. ‘I’m told you once campaigned against a businessman named Peter English. My partner has been trying to see him. Not an easy chap to track down.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been keeping an eye on his meteoric rise. Back in my more rebellious days I used to drop leaflets
in his neighbourhood until one night our office mysteriously burned down. We always suspected him. Under all those grand statements about transforming society he’s just a thug.’ Another terrific shriek brought Ruth to her feet. ‘That’s my cue to get back in there before they start forming tribes.’

  ‘I could never be a historian,’ said Bryant with sudden passion.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Never getting to the bottom of things, never reaching a definitive answer. History keeps fluctuating. We track down evidence and convict; we close the story. Yours stays open forever.’

  ‘That’s the joy of it, always adding pieces to the puzzle,’ Ruth said with a smile. ‘Time’s up; give me a hug, and don’t leave it so long next time.’

  He hugged her awkwardly. He wasn’t used to it; people usually tried to get away from him. When he let go and stepped back, Ruth’s hand went to her mouth and she laughed. ‘You wanted some background colour. I’ve smothered you in pink paint.’

  Rosa Lysandrou was so excited to see John May standing before her that she brought him a cup of lapsang souchong with two Bourbon biscuits in the saucer. Even though she spent most of her time in the Chapel of Rest with the cadavers and was therefore a bad judge of what constituted a healthy complexion, she still thought he looked remarkably well.

  ‘It hurts when I lift my right arm,’ said May.

  ‘Because your body’s telling you not to lift it,’ Giles suggested, heading to a cadaver drawer. ‘Listen to a doctor.’

  ‘You’re only a dead people’s doctor. I’m not ending up on your slab.’

  ‘Just as well, there’s a waiting list. What’s the word on this one?’

  ‘Nobody has a bad word to say about Chakira Rahman.’ May studied the construction manager’s rested features. ‘She was making real progress in a man’s world. She set up training schemes for women in engineering and design, even opened a private members’ club for them.’