Bryant & May_Hall of Mirrors

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘Forgive me: your company is supplying his, so if he’s found guilty won’t you lose your client?’

  ‘Any man of Charlie’s stature who goes to trial is tainted for ever, regardless of the outcome.’ Hatton-Jones searched his pockets for his cigarette case. ‘Charlie is already being closed out. There are many who will have nothing more to do with him. Some of us still follow a code of conduct.’

  ‘So you decided to speak out because he broke the rules.’

  ‘On Monday morning I have to announce to the court that my oldest colleague has been corrupted.’ He lit a Pall Mall and blew smoke above him. ‘Do you have any idea how painful that will be for me?’

  ‘Then why do it?’ asked May. ‘Why sell one of your own down the river? I can’t believe it’s out of moral obligation.’

  ‘I’m glad you decided to do the right thing, Monty,’ said Bryant solicitously.

  Hatton-Jones nailed him with a cold stare. ‘I did not agree to first-name terms.’

  ‘When you speak to the court, you’ll have the thanks of the entire police force. And they’ll be listening intently to your witness statement for any discrepancies.’ May patted him on the knee. ‘Monty.’

  The train was heading for Canterbury, so they had to transfer to a branch line. ‘Why did you let him off like that?’ May asked Bryant angrily as they disembarked. ‘You always kow-tow to toffs but you don’t have to, you know. Monty and Sir Charles grew up together and intermarried, and suddenly Monty decides to ignore the old school tie and sacrifice his pal? That makes him a rat in my book.’

  ‘You’re younger than me, your blood runs hotter,’ Bryant replied, looking about for a porter’s trolley. ‘We’re stuck with him for the whole weekend. Why reveal your hand now? Let’s wait and see what happens.’

  ‘Why, do you really think something’s going to happen? Won’t we just be sitting around all weekend reading newspapers and waiting for the rain to stop?’

  Bryant had a secretive look about him that his partner had lately come to recognize. ‘Haven’t you noticed? Monty keeps disappearing to make phone calls. And what’s in his weekend case? It weighs a ton. I keep asking him who he’s meeting and he won’t tell me. This little trip isn’t what it seems. He’s up to something.’

  Another concern was occupying Bryant. His mother was about to move to a newly constructed maisonette only streets away from the home that had collapsed. If she was at risk, he needed all the information he could gather.

  The porters came forward to collect their valises and Hatton-Jones led the way between the platforms. While they waited for their connection, May jiggled the change in his pockets and paced about. He had a skittery energy that could barely be contained. Bryant needed to find a way of slowing him down so that he would think more dispassionately. ‘Have you decided yet who you’re going to be?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought I’d improvise,’ May replied. ‘I went to the Establishment Club the other night and saw some comedians doing it. What about you?’

  ‘I’ve got the whole thing worked out to the finest detail,’ said Bryant. ‘Seeing as I’d borrowed the clothes I was going to be a Noël Coward character, but I can’t do the funny voice. “Very flat, Norfolk.” See? I’m from the East End. I’m bound to end up sticking in a swear word.’

  ‘You heard what Monty said. They won’t even notice us if we stay in the background.’

  Bryant checked the information board for their onward connection. ‘Fine by me,’ he said. ‘I’m getting paid for a weekend of – what, exactly? I’m bound to end up having dinner next to some old bird who looks like a cross between Miss Havisham and a haunted boat. God, I’m not going to have to ride a horse, am I? I’m terrified of them. When I was ten I was thrown off our milkman’s carthorse, then it trod on me. I was never happier than the day it was shot.’

  ‘Why did your milkman have it shot? Was it ill?’

  ‘No, he’d been offered a van.’

  ‘Perhaps not riding then,’ said May. ‘Billiards.’

  ‘That’s just posh snooker.’

  ‘Bridge.’

  ‘Snap.’

  ‘Clay pigeon shooting.’

  ‘Funfair ducks.’

  ‘Piano recitals.’

  ‘Pub songs.’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘Hesitation.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘A tanner.’ Bryant held out his hand while May reluctantly dug into his pocket once more.

  HOUSE OF THE RISING SUN

  Lieutenant Coultas was looking confused again. His spectacles had misted over, his face fell slack and his grey eyes lost focus. If he’d scratched his head with the tips of his fingers he would have looked like Stan Laurel. It usually meant that he had committed the kind of error made huge and insoluble by its simplicity.

  Captain Debney could tell he was about to be made party to the error, and in his book a problem shared was two people in trouble. He touched his trimmed moustache, watching impatiently as Coultas attempted to unfold an immense wax-paper Ordnance Survey map on the table without tearing it to bits.

  Outside the tent over a hundred men were awaiting orders, ready for the start of Operation Britannia, although as it looked to be a nice evening they were happily smoking, lounging about on the grass and telling each other filthy jokes.

  ‘I can see where the problem has arisen, sir,’ the lieutenant began. ‘The sergeant and I thought that we were taking our co-ordinates from the main road that passes around the edge of Mulberry Wood, whereas in fact we should have been taking it from the village green at Knotsworth.’

  Captain Debney massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘Just tell me how far out we are,’ he said, wishing that, like the map, he was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.

  ‘Four and a half miles, sir.’ Lieutenant Coultas thought that if he gave a brisk, confident answer it would somehow lessen the mistake.

  ‘Four and a half miles?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Debney looked down at the map, which had a continuous red line drawn through fields and forests, forming a crosshatched patch of empty land that had been specially selected for the coming weekend of manoeuvres. ‘So what I’m looking at is wrong.’

  ‘Totally, sir.’

  ‘And where should it be?’

  ‘Here.’ Lieutenant Coultas produced his marker and drew a new line on the map that ran across several roads, two villages and through the middle of a pub.

  ‘So we now have to tell everyone inside this new demarcation zone that if they so much as stick their heads out of a window they could get their ears blown off.’

  ‘Not quite that but they shouldn’t use the roads, sir, because our tanks have to cross them. They don’t exactly turn on a sixpence and the lads can’t see what’s coming because the lanes are below the hedgerows.’

  ‘So we could flatten a busload of orphans.’

  ‘Not sure there’s an orphanage in the area, sir.’

  ‘I meant theoretically.’

  ‘We could cancel the exercise, sir.’

  Captain Debney turned to give his lieutenant the full benefit of his withering stare. ‘And how can we do that with six armoured vehicles, a minesweeping squad, a signals corps, two platoons carrying live ammunition and a French major general taking notes? This exercise is supposed to be hush-hush. And now you tell me it’ll be passing through civilian areas.’

  Debney’s idea of hush-hush was perhaps optimistic, but in the days before the country was strangled by health and safety regulations its armies were far more cavalier about military manoeuvres. With the war still in living memory, nobody took much notice of explosions emanating from any of the unmarked firing ranges that dotted the English countryside.

  ‘See your point, sir.’ Lieutenant Coultas studied the map furiously. ‘There are only two villages affected, Knotsworth and Crowshott, and they’re linked by a single narrow lane, so I don’t suppose there’ll be much traffic. Anyway, it’s too late to apply for closure.’
He checked his watch. ‘It’s Friday afternoon. The council officials will have all gone home by now. We could post signs warning vehicles to proceed at their own caution and be on their guard.’

  ‘So they’ll be creeping along nice and slowly when a Chieftain tank suddenly lands on them,’ said Debney. ‘Put barriers up. If anyone needs to get through they’ll have to call us.’

  ‘We’ll be on the move, sir, so there’s not much likelihood of anyone being able to get through on the field line.’

  ‘Even better. They can phone the local constabulary, which is – where?’

  ‘There’s PC Wermold in Crowshott but he has trouble walking, and another one who lives in Dimmington, nine miles away, but after that the nearest proper station would be Canterbury.’

  ‘And what’s this?’ The captain stabbed a forefinger at a shaded grey rectangle on the map.

  ‘Tavistock Hall, sir,’ Lieutenant Coultas replied. ‘Country pile. The local authority used to billet schoolchildren there during the war. I read that it’s being sold to some wealthy businessman. He hasn’t taken possession yet.’

  ‘So there’s no one there to alert about the exercise?’

  ‘No, sir, been empty for several weeks by the sergeant’s reckoning. We have seen some activity beyond the house but it looks like a hippy encampment.’

  ‘Sounds like a legitimate target. Perhaps we should send the chopper over just to make sure.’

  ‘Can’t do that, sir, it’s been requisitioned for use by Major General Giraud.’

  ‘Very well.’ The captain continued smoothing down his moustache, which had a tendency to bristle around Lieutenant Coultas. ‘Give the lads the evening off but don’t let them go into the village. I don’t want them turning up in front of Giraud with black eyes.’

  Lieutenant Coultas thought about trying to refold the map but decided to beat a hasty retreat. He hadn’t had time to double-check that Tavistock Hall was empty, but if anybody was still there it would probably only be the mad old hippy who had sold it, and a few exploding shells might wake his ideas up.

  Their ancient taxi still had running boards and had been pensioned off from London. It took them from a by-pass to a B-road and then to the narrow high-hedged lane that linked Knotsworth with Crowshott. As the detectives passed through the first village they saw soldiers climbing from the back of a lorry, their arms filled with striped poles.

  ‘Are they closing the road?’ asked Bryant, looking back.

  ‘Probably just helping out with some repairs,’ said May.

  ‘On a Friday evening? Seems a bit unlikely.’

  The squaddies were setting up trestles on which to fit the poles. One of them was carrying a sign that read ‘Halt!’. Bryant was suspicious. ‘I don’t like the look of that. I hope we can get out again.’ He looked over at Monty but found him still asleep.

  Their route extended beyond the second village, and then passed beneath a dense canopy of trees. The lane narrowed and eventually petered out. It became an uneven track and finally a dead end, beyond which the high brick wall of the estate could be seen. They stopped before a pair of black iron gates that had to be pushed apart.

  ‘I’m not goin’ any further,’ said the driver firmly.

  ‘My dear fellow, this is not a Dracula film,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s Kent, not Transylvania.’ He glanced at his trunk, which had been lashed to the running board.

  ‘All right, but it’ll be another five bob.’ He got out to open the gates.

  Their first glimpse of the hall was strobed through the regularly spaced cypress trees that palisaded the gravelled drive. An immense cream-coloured Palladian pile with Venetian pillars, steep mansard roofs, uncountable chimney stacks and an impossible number of windows stood at the top of a gentle slope, above a semi-circle of lawn. Bryant noted that the grass had only been trimmed near the house; the owners were saving money on gardeners.

  The taxi drew up between a dribbling fountain and a set of sweeping limestone steps. This first impression was calculated to inspire awe, but on closer inspection many of the marble façades were cracked and uncared-for, and weeds were pushing their way through the damaged steps.

  A servant, sallow, melancholy, prehistoric, descended and removed their valises from the taxi. He and the driver had trouble releasing Bryant’s great trunk.

  ‘Who am I again?’ Bryant asked, balking at the foot of the steps.

  ‘I thought you said you’d come up with an identity,’ May said from the side of his mouth.

  ‘I did, but I’ve forgotten it.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to think of a new one then.’ He tilted his head back and squinted. ‘What on earth is that thing on your upper lip?’

  ‘I’ve just put it on, it’s part of my disguise,’ Bryant said, proudly stroking his black pencil moustache.

  ‘It’s ridiculous – you look like Terry-Thomas. Take it off before anyone else sees.’

  ‘I can’t. It’s glued on with spirit-gum.’

  ‘Well, make sure it doesn’t fall into your soup.’ May stepped back to admire the house. ‘Will you look at this place? It can’t be all one building, can it?’

  Tavistock Hall had been designed to house artefacts lifted from the treasure temples of the ancient world and provide a grand home to their privileged pilferers, along with a profusion of aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and, somewhere around the back in narrow-windowed gloom, servants, but it had clearly fallen upon hard times. Plasterwork was patched, bricks had crumbled out, tiles were missing and even a few high windows were broken.

  Taken as a whole, though, and from a distance, it was still impressive. The south-facing frontage of soft grey brick and buttery plasterwork filled Bryant with wonder. His excited eye travelled to the elegantly proportioned windows that provided a grandstand view of the grounds. ‘It must be early nineteenth century,’ he said. ‘I wonder who it was built for?’

  ‘Look up there,’ May exclaimed, pointing to the granite lions, unicorns and basilisks adorning the façade. ‘What is that thing?’

  A stone creature sat precariously close to the edge of the balustrade. It looked like a carved ostrich with scaly legs.

  ‘A gryphon, I think,’ said Bryant.

  ‘I bet they have a maze.’

  ‘Topiary.’

  ‘A folly.’

  ‘A lake.’

  ‘A gazebo.’

  ‘A pergola.’

  ‘Swans.’

  ‘Peacocks.’

  ‘Er—’

  ‘Hesitation.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘That’s another tanner.’

  May forked over sixpence, laboriously and reluctantly doled out in three pennies and a threepenny bit.

  ‘A railway.’

  ‘I’m not playing any more,’ said May.

  ‘No, look.’ Bryant pointed to a narrow-gauge track that cut across the lawn.

  ‘Ahem.’ The detectives looked around. The skeletal servant coughed discreetly into his fist. ‘I am Alberman, the butler,’ he announced. ‘If you’d care to follow me.’ Alberman had dark, deep-set eyes, a thin bony nose and matching legs: a heron crossed with an Anglepoise lamp.

  The detectives followed him into the house. The central steps led directly into the great hall, which was monochromatically tiled, symmetrical, balustraded and orchestrated to amaze new arrivals, even if the walls were blighted with patches of damp. To either side of this great chamber were the wings, and endless wide doors.

  Alberman commanded them to wait with a wave of his hand. He did not take instruction but merely required the detectives to obey, having pegged them as inferiors. Monty had already wandered off. A country weekend had more arcane rules than a game of cricket, one being that the guests were graded into distinct categories: landowning gentry, esteemed regulars, respectable country folk, clergy, tenants and, at the very bottom of the social order, Londoners. These two giggling young twerps were not only from the Smoke but were clearly employed in some kind of public se
rvice. Neither of them was suitably dressed for the country. The taller one was wearing brown city shoes with wide blue trousers, and the short one looked as if he had stolen his wardrobe from Flanagan and Allen.

  Alberman resolved to ensure that they were given the draughtiest rooms, the lumpiest beds and the longest walks to the dining room.

  10

  * * *

  STAY AWHILE

  In the black-and-white-tiled hall, on a baroquely carved table of gilt inset with a great slab of blood-coloured marble, all the accepted invitations for the weekend had been neatly arranged in rows so that there would be no embarrassment over forgotten names.

  ‘You two are the only ones not down here,’ Monty confided. ‘It’s frightfully un-PLU to turn up without a written reply to an invitation.’

  ‘PLU?’ whispered Bryant.

  ‘“People Like Us”,’ said May. ‘Don’t you read the supplements?’

  They were surrounded by the kind of sculptures that made their presence felt by the amount of room they took up, rather than impressing with any artistic merit. On every side paintings rose to the ceiling, conjuring the gloomy claustrophobia of a chapel. The air smelled of polish, candle wax and mildewed corners, much like any provincial church.

  ‘I’ll do the explaining,’ said Monty. ‘Try to blend in.’ He went on ahead.

  Bryant, with the deference of an East End ragamuffin doffing his cap in a cathedral, duly trotted behind the butler and tried not to look like a trespassing peasant. He hated being reduced to the status of a tradesman so easily, but was powerless to avoid the pernicious grip of his upbringing.

  May, on the other hand, was bouncing along, checking out the portraits and tapestries, running his hand over the banisters and stopping with mouth agape before the main hall’s stained-glass windows, a melange of British myths that included King Arthur, Guinevere, Herne the Hunter with his bow drawn and, rather more oddly, the martyrdom of St Edmund, pinned to a tree with arrows. He was shamelessly fascinated by everything he saw, and kept nudging his partner.