Even Bryant was shocked. ‘Can you read that to a child?’
‘Not any more, 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 micro-variations. 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 & 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 & 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 sing-song, 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 I’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 VIII’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 & 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 & 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 some of Henry VIII’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.’ He watched the children intent on their play through the window. ‘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 for ever.’
‘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.’
20
Observers
Rosa Lysandrou was so excited to see John May standing before her in his beautiful blue suit and pressed white shirt 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.’
‘Well, now she’s joined the ultimate private club,’ said Giles. ‘Everyone gets in eventually, you just can’t do it while you’re alive.’
‘You did though,’ said Rosa, making May jump. ‘You came back to us. Did you see the light?’
‘No, I saw the floor. I’m sorry, Rosa. If I recall anything about the afterlife I’ll let you know.’ He waited until she’d left the room. ‘Can you make her stop creeping up on people? She’s like an electric car. Give me your initial thoughts.’
Giles studied his instrument drawer. ‘This lady has only just arrived, John. I don’t know how you got here so fast.’
‘I heard about it at home. Thought it might be a good idea to get a head start. I need anything you’ve got.’
Giles fixed his plastic hair cover. ‘She was stabbed with a thin blade. The heart is a dense muscle that’s not easy to penetrate, and it clenches, so it’s hard to get some knives out. He didn’t want to leave any evidence. Actually his aim wasn’t as good as he’d probably hoped it was, because he only clipped the muscle. I’m wondering if there’s another factor involved. She fell down seven or eight steps.’
‘The rain had made them slippery,’ May said. ‘It’s one of the most polluted spots in the West End so I imagine particles of engine oil settle on the stone. And the staircase is on three sides without guard rails.’
‘So, injuries from a fall.’ Giles leaned in close and checked the limbs. ‘Broken right scaphoid, the most common bone you’d break when putting out your hand. Abrasions on the knees and the right cheek, swelling on the left side of the skull. She landed on a downward slope, which is bad for bleeding out.’
He ran his thumb down Rahman’s spine, counting the vertebrae. ‘I haven’t found her medical records yet but I’m betting she had a spinal injury in the past. It took away the flexibility she needed to break the fall.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked May.
‘The C3 and C4 vertebrae are fused.’
‘She’s left behind an ex-husband and two daughters. They’d know.’
‘Do you want to stay for the next part?’
‘I’ve seen it before,’ said May, taking a seat against the wall while Kershaw opened up the spine.
‘You wouldn’t expect a whole lot of flexibility there, but that’s not the problem.’ Giles delicately exposed the vertebrae. ‘The hard landing didn’t damage the fused pair. It impacted upon the one above, C2.’
May studied the strip lights and tried not to think of what Giles was doing, although he heard an occasional sound like someone cutting a rare steak.
‘Yup, we have a bone shard. If it shattered and severed the spinal cord, she would have undergone neurogenic shock, so you could expect circulatory collapse and autonomic dysreflexia.’
May was forced to look. ‘What’s that?’
‘A sudden burst of high blood pressure which brings on an aneurism. Obviously I’ll have to open up the brain for that.’
He watched as the pathologist gently closed the spinal skin flap and moved on. He turned Rahman from her side on to her back, then flexed her wrists and ankles. He shook his head, muttered, shoved his hairnet back, muttered again, then gripped her shoulders. ‘John, are you able to give me a push here?’
May did as he was ordered. Together they lifted the upper torso, then let it sink back. ‘Interesting,’ Kershaw said, putting his hands by his sides once more. ‘Her muscle response is wrong.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘There’s no rigor yet so it might be toxicity of some kind. Could be evidence of Botox, because the neck muscles are too soft. Of course everything’s a poison, it’s just about the dosage. The only other thing …’ He studied Rahman’s lips, then opened her mouth and swabbed it, placing the sample in a dish. ‘Let’s get that checked out.’
‘Come on, Giles, you’ve got an idea.’
‘I don’t want to jump the gun but at a guess I’d say there was something nasty on the blade of the knife. I hope that’s not the case because we’re not sterile to the level of neurotoxins.’
‘Why would he add a poison? Isn’t it enough that he stabbed her?’
‘Two possible reasons spring to mind. Either he wanted to be sure, because knife damage is unpredictable, or it was present on the blade without him knowing. People are scared of using poisons on their enemies. Remember the Aum Shinrikyo cult and the sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway? Passengers saw liquid leaking from packages. You can’t just spread a toxin around without taking major safety precautions. I think it’s more likely that there were germs on the knife from whatever he sharpened it with, because it was extremely sharp. Anything invasive can cause sepsis. Maybe she would have lived if the knife had been clean.’
May turned away from the body. It felt as if the line separating life from death was becomi
ng ever more transparent. He might have been looking at himself lying on the steel table.
By the time he had walked halfway back to the PCU his shoulder had started hurting, so he crunched two painkillers. The building on Caledonian Road was now surrounded by timber sheets and workbenches. He just managed to stop Dave One from slapping him on the back as he reached the entrance, then made his way up to the first floor.
Very quickly, the staff gathered and followed him like children after an ice-cream van. The last to arrive was Bryant, but only because he had become over-involved with his coat sleeves. May was taken into the remnants of the operations room. Everyone shook his hand and gingerly hugged him.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Bryant complained, struggling to get his pudgy hand out of his sleeve, ‘nobody here ever hugs me.’
‘That’s because you carry sharps in your coat,’ Meera pointed out, ‘and you put fishing hooks in your hat and you don’t even fish.’
‘And you’re covered in pink paint,’ Colin added.
‘And as for you, you’re signed off.’ Land jabbed a finger at May. ‘You’re not supposed to be here.’
‘Too much rest is unhealthy,’ May replied. ‘I want to help. I can’t say I love what you’ve done to the place.’ He eyed the cables dangling like tagliatelle from the ominous hole in the ceiling.
‘You can’t be involved, not while your case is under review.’ Land face-shrugged in the direction of Timothy Floris, who was standing at a respectful distance, looking as if he was waiting for a wasp to move away. May only had to glance at him to see the problem. Class was rearing its ugly head in the office. Land’s father had been a shopkeeper. The unit chief became uncomfortable around the sleekly confident upper-middles. They had business degrees and he had a swimming certificate (bronze).
May stepped forward with his hand out. ‘Mr Floris, it’s a pleasure.’
‘He’s our Home Office observer,’ warned Bryant, ridding himself of his meddlesome coat. ‘He observes.’
Bryant & May - Oranges and Lemons Page 16