‘He was interested in its mythology, just as am I. After all, the Scarlet Thread runs through the Bible as the blood of Jesus Christ, shed on the cross to wash away sin. But it also seems to run between a number of murder victims and the government.’
‘I think you’d better tell me what you know.’
‘To do that I have to take you to a part of the museum with which even you may not be familiar.’ Bryant pointed across the Great Courtyard with his walking stick. The vast arc of the glass roof glowed even on the dullest days. ‘Far end, down the stairs at the rear, then turn left, right and left again. According to your predecessor, at the heart of the myth surrounding the Scarlet Thread is the idea that man can only be brought into a covenant with God through the spilling of blood.’
‘Ah, the warrior Christians. Christ’s own blood had magical properties. Stands to reason, if he could walk on water.’
‘There’s your first connection between madness and the blood of Christ, right there,’ said Bryant as Standing clomped down the steps beside him. ‘Goffredo de Prefetti was the Bishop of Bethlehem, and he supposedly brought Christ’s blood to London. He put it on display at the opening of his asylum, and then placed it in the foundation stones of Bedlam at Bishopsgate. And somehow it ended up here in the British Museum.’
Standing gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘No, that’s not possible.’
‘Oh, but it is. I’m about to show it to you now.’
As they headed back into the gloom between the interconnected rooms, they passed fewer and fewer visitors. ‘I think people start getting Stendhal syndrome by the time they get down here,’ she said. ‘Too much choice; too much to try and understand. The permanent exhibitions in this section only appeal to academics.’
‘It’s probably what has kept this artefact safe for so long.’ Bryant stopped before an illuminated glass case containing the six-inch-long reliquary. It was bottle-shaped, gilded and inset with precious stones, surrounded by a complex arrangement of enamelled angels, arches and sunbursts. There was a tiny inscription on the side reading ‘Ista est una spinea corone Domini nostri ihesu xpisti.’ At the base of the case was a small plaque:
Holy Thorn reliquary belonging to Jean, duc de Berry, created between 1400 and 1410 to house Christ’s crown of thorns from the Crucifixion. In the possession of the British Museum since 1898.
‘There’s a lot of theorizing that the Romans invented Christ by writing the New Testament,’ said Standing, ‘but if you dip into some of the online discussions you’ll find yourself in a world of serious lunacy.’ She walked around the crystal vial, studying it. ‘I guess it’s interesting from a mythological point of view. I can see a thorn of some sort, certainly. But the “crown of thorns” was never meant to be taken literally. It’s a traditional metaphor indicating immortality. Which makes this bauble a nonsense. But it’s a very attractive nonsense, a wonderful example of émail en ronde bosse. Pearls and rubies alternately arranged around the compartment that holds the relic.’
Surrounding the relic were trumpeting angels, a scene of the Last Judgement and cherubs raising the dead. At its centre, crimson and indigo jewels flanked a tiny dark brown sliver. ‘Take a look at the edge of the so-called thorn,’ said Bryant.
A faint line no thicker than spider silk ran through the crystal like a fine molten seam. ‘It’s oxidization. The air got in through a flaw in the crystal. Oxidized blood goes the colour of wood. What if the contents of the vial only oxidized on the outside?’
‘Mr Bryant, I don’t really see what you’re getting at.’
‘That’s all right, nobody ever does.’ He looked around for a bench and sat down with a sigh. ‘My knowledge of the subject is only what Harold Masters told me. Hang on.’ He dug out a crumpled sweet bag and his spectacles. ‘I made a note. On October the third 1247, the Knights Templar presented Henry III with a lead-crystal pot that they marked with the symbols of the knights. They told him it contained the ultimate relic of the crucifixion: the blood of Christ. The gift came with provenance, confirmed by a scroll holding the seals of the Patriarch of Jerusalem, signed by the prelates of the Holy Land. They considered it the holiest and most important of all gifts.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Standing. ‘Christ’s blood consecrates and bestows eternal life. It’s an elixir that leads to the gates of heaven.’
‘There’s a rather different story about the creation of the reliquary. Apparently there was once an imperial crown decorated with four of the supposed thorns from Christ’s head, but when times grew harsh the crown was broken up and its parts were reused to make more treasures. The possession of such items wielded huge political influence, so four new reliquaries were constructed. But it turned out that three of them were created by forgers. You can tell them apart by looking for enamelling on the backs of their doors. The fake versions don’t have that. This one does. So it turns out there’s only one known thorn, and that isn’t a thorn at all. Given that the crystal vial exactly matches the descriptions of the gift to Henry III, it would appear to contain Christ’s blood.’
‘R-ight,’ said Standing slowly, clearly deciding that she was trapped in the museum’s basement with a mad pensioner.
‘So now I have a problem,’ Bryant explained. ‘What possible connection could a female bar manager, a photographer and the wife of a Home Office official have with the blood of Christ? Is there anything else that the red cord might signify?’
‘If the blood was at the birthplace of Bedlam, I think the fact that your victim was found under such a painting confirms the connection,’ said Standing.
‘But what does it mean? You see my problem?’
‘Maybe it stands for something else. You know, in the same way that the “thorn” does. To be honest, this is out of my league.’
‘Did Masters ever talk to anyone else about his theories?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘So none of the other archivists have ever mentioned the contents of that case to you?’
‘I’d never even noticed it before.’
‘Then I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.’ Bryant rose to leave. ‘I should be off. I need to find a toilet, anyway. At my age, you always need to know how far you are from one, like petrol stations.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Standing. ‘If I think of anything, how can I contact you?’
Bryant gave her his card. ‘If you have any ideas at all, no matter how strange, I’ll listen to them.’
She watched as he jammed his trilby on to his head and set off by himself, as strange an exhibit as had ever graced the museum.
38
ROUGH MUSIC
THE RAKES’ CLUB existed behind a discreet ebony door with brass fittings at number 42, Dover Street, Mayfair. As Bryant had predicted, Stuart Almon had readily agreed to meet Bryant and May outside and show them around.
When the detectives arrived, they didn’t spot the accountant at first. As thin as a chopstick, dressed in a loose grey Jermyn Street suit that matched the brickwork, he blended perfectly into the surrounding terrace.
Almon stepped forward and placed a cold, bloodless hand in each of theirs.
‘I’ll introduce you as prospective members,’ he said. ‘That way I’ll be able to give you the tour. They can be spiky about who gets to see inside. We’re a most venerable institution. It’s said that to be accepted here you have to be a peer, a parliamentarian or a prick. Sadly we no longer have the ear of the government. It’s an old-boys’ network, and the boys are getting very old indeed. Many of London’s landowners were members but they’re dying off and being replaced by property developers.’
Almon led the way through a dun-coloured passageway lined with sepia portraits of austere-looking lords and dusty busts of sour-faced duchesses.
‘What else can I tell you? Still no women allowed, of course. The house drink is still saltheen – that’s hot whisky and melted butter with spices, guaranteed to thicken the arteries. And of course we
still have a resident black cat that gets served lunch before any of the members. That goes back to the days when the Devil was believed to adopt the form of a cat, making him the club’s oldest member and therefore the first to be served.’
He signed the detectives into the visitors’ book and led them to the library, a tall oval room buttressed with leather-bound volumes that appeared not to have been opened in two hundred years.
‘It’s said to be modelled on the library in the abbey at Melk,’ Almon explained. ‘Can’t see it myself. Upstairs are the meeting rooms, snoozers and bar: everything you fear about such a place – boarding-school food, brandy snifters and smelly old geezers bottom-trumpeting in wing-backed armchairs. It’s the sort of place where you’ll still hear a coloured chap referred to as a golliwog, although at least these days all racist claptrap is reprimanded by the management.’
‘Why does the Home Office still use the place, then?’ asked Bryant.
‘Habit, I suppose, and the fact that it’s a network, as rickety as it is. Oskar seems to like it.’ He led the way to the brass-fitted bar and called the barman over to plot drinks. Bryant looked around, wrinkling in complete disapproval. It seemed unlikely that anything nefarious had ever been planned by a handful of bibulous, bulbous-nosed aristos frittering away the last rents from their estates. ‘Anything at all unusual about the place?’ he asked.
‘Well, there are a few arcane rules. One states that no club member may ever resign, living or dead. Some rot about the place collapsing if a woman ever sets foot inside the building, that sort of thing. But there was once a Hellfire club based here. The Duke of Wharton met here with his cronies. Young men gathered to discuss the existence of the Trinity. Questioning these things goes against the teachings of the Church, so it was said that the blasphemers were “raking the fires of hell”, hence the Rakes’ Club. In those days you could lead the most extraordinarily debauched private life and still command respect from your peers, who were, after all, peers of the realm. They weren’t subjected to rough music.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked May.
‘They exercised parliamentary privilege,’ said Almon. ‘Had they been commoners, acting as they did, they would have been tied to donkeys and driven through the streets to the noise of the public banging on saucepans.’
‘So there was no rough music here for miscreants.’
‘Not as such, but there is another meeting room.’ Almon tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘Sort of a club-within-a-club.’
‘Does Mr Kasavian use it?’ asked Bryant.
‘Yes, from time to time. It has a name: the Damned Crew, a traditional title going back to 1602, all loosely connected to the Gunpowder Plot. It’s actually a sub-club, with its own membership, initiation ceremonies and an annual subscription, operating separately inside the Rakes’.’
‘How do you qualify to become a member?’
‘Now that is a political network. You need to have worked for the government. It helps if you’ve displayed leadership qualities in the past and are committed to certain – ideologies. By that I mean it’s full of barking fascists.’
‘Is there any record kept of what goes on here? Meeting minutes, anything like that?’
‘Absolutely not. There wouldn’t be much point in paying for an inner sanctum if it could be breached. You’re looking to take Oskar down, aren’t you?’ A dark and eager light appeared in Almon’s eyes.
‘We’re not at liberty to discuss—’ May began.
‘Yes,’ said Bryant. ‘Do you want to help?’
‘I might be able to,’ Almon replied. ‘When men become arrogant they start to make poor choices.’
‘Why would you help? Why now?’
‘We always have to watch our backs, Mr May. My wife informs me of rumours when they become too loud to ignore. One currently circulating is that I will be scapegoated for certain failures of nerve within the department.’
‘You mean there were things you didn’t want to go along with?’
‘The original members of the Damned Crew used their positions to get away with murder. I’m not saying we did anything quite that dramatic. I have no personal enmity towards Mr Kasavian. It would be a purely business arrangement between you and I.’
‘We’re not here to give your career a leg-up,’ May replied. ‘If you have something on your boss, it’s your duty to inform us.’
Almon knocked back his whisky and clearly thought devious thoughts. Bryant instinctively disliked him; the civil servant was weighing up his options in order to maximize their advantages, but was nervous about crossing into territory from which he could not return. ‘There is – a certain matter,’ he said finally. ‘It’s something he wouldn’t want uncovered. Something rather nasty. Let’s not talk in here. I can show you the clubroom used by the Damned Crew.’
Almon led the way back to the stairs, turned on the darkened landing beneath a bust of Landseer and withdrew a key from his pocket. Bryant looked for a door, but saw none.
Almon stepped close to the wall and slid the brass key into what had appeared to be nothing more than a small stain on the wainscoting. The door had been painted to perfectly match the tobacco-coloured wall, and tipped inward to a narrow brick passage. ‘This runs behind the walls of the bar,’ said Almon softly. ‘It was used by the servants to deliver the meals, so that no one would have to run into them on the main staircase.’
The passage smelled sharply of rising damp. Bryant and May followed the civil servant to its end, where a second door was unlocked to reveal an elegant smoking room lined with books. Six maroon leather armchairs stood on a sea-green carpet. There was a large globe, which Bryant suspected of being a bar, and a small walnut dining table. In one corner the conversation from the drinkers on the other side of the wall could be clearly overheard.
‘I always assumed there were rooms like this in London, but I’ve hardly ever seen one,’ whispered Bryant, barely able to contain his enthusiasm as he headed for the bookshelves.
‘It’s not as cloak and dagger as it appears,’ said Almon. ‘Enter any large building that once had plenty of servants and you’ll always find rooms and passageways like these. The running of such houses depended on the efficiency and invisibility of the staff. We’d better be quick, Mr Bryant.’
Bryant forced himself to step away from the books. ‘What do you have on Kasavian that’s of practical use to us?’
‘Before he came to head up our department, Oskar was employed as head of security for a biochemical company outsourced by the DSTL at Porton Down.’
‘We know about that,’ said May. ‘It’s old news.’
‘How do you think he was able to step straight into a top position at the Home Office?’
‘You tell us.’
‘He knew how to keep a lid on things. He proved himself amply capable in his final months at Porton Down. There was a murder committed—’
‘It was Kasavian?’
Behind them, the passage door opened. Oskar Kasavian stepped into the room. If he was surprised to find the detectives in his private sanctuary, he managed not to show it. Bryant, on the other hand, reacted as if Dracula had just appeared at a crypt entrance. He instinctively wanted to look around for a crucifix.
‘Almon.’ Kasavian smiled. ‘I thought I might find you here. I do hope you’re not planning to breach club rules. Gentlemen, if you would excuse us for a few minutes, my colleague and I need to have a private conversation.’
Unable to argue for a reason to stay, Bryant allowed his partner to steer him from the room.
39
BLOODLINE
THE NONDESCRIPT JUNE weather had fractured into chill drizzle and darkness. Pustular clouds reached down to infect the top floors of buildings, sheening slates and blackening brickwork. Even the glass towers of the Square Mile were dimmed and streaked with condensation, as if they no longer wished to expose their interiors to the sinister streets.
Maggie Armitage furled her umbrella
and huddled in the doorway of the Peculiar Crimes Unit, waiting to be admitted. Something had been bothering her ever since her meeting with Bryant at Liverpool Street Station. The sensation had grown with the passing hours, until she could bear it no longer.
Last night she had used her Ouija board to contact Starbuck, an unruly Edwardian child she occasionally used as her contact to the spirit world. He had proven impossible, throwing tantrums, tossing cups and vases, yanking at the tablecloth and tearing open the curtains, alternately angered and hurt by her questions. When she came to, she found herself shaking with cold.
The spirits were disturbed. She was disturbed. Death held no terrors for her; she had brushed against it too many times, but evil … now that was a different matter altogether. Just as she believed there were forces for good in the world, it had to follow that there were forces for harm.
Janice Longbright opened the door with a look of surprise. ‘We’ve never had you visit us before,’ she said. ‘Come on in before you get soaked through.’
‘I had to come,’ Maggie explained, bashing out the rain from her rainbow-wool hat. ‘They’re in danger, aren’t they?’
‘Someone sabotaged John’s car last night,’ said Longbright. ‘We think it was intended as a warning.’
‘I knew it. Are you brewing up? I’ll think more clearly with a cup of tea inside me. Bags will be fine. Arthur will be on the first floor, to the right.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘He has to be able to look down into the street. Can you show me?’
‘Of course.’ Longbright led the way to the detectives’ room. On the stairs they passed Jack Renfield. Maggie reeled, her spiritual sensitivity battered by unseen forces.
‘Wow,’ she said, staring after the broad-shouldered sergeant. ‘So you’re finally seeing somebody again.’
‘Jack?’ Beneath their Elizabeth Arden foundation, Longbright’s cheeks coloured. ‘We’re colleagues. Well, friends. Well – I don’t know, really.’
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