Horatio Lyle (24 page)

‘Sheep?’ Thomas craned to see. The street was boiling with trapped, terrified sheep, struggling to move.

Lyle hissed in frustration, leant out of the window of the cab, and called up at the cabby, ‘It’s all right, we can walk from here.’

The cabby looked surprised. ‘You ain’t goin’ to get through those sheep!’

Lyle glanced inside the cab. ‘Tess?’

‘Yes?’

‘See that lady selling the onions?’

She grinned. ‘No problem, Mister Lyle.’

 

Ten minutes later, Inspector Vellum, Metropolitan Police, emerged from the large wooden doors of the Old Bailey, a building almost cathedral-like in Gothic extravagance, into a horde of panic-stricken sheep galloping through the cobbled streets, nearly mewing in distress, to the despair of their master. Some of them, Vellum noticed with interest, almost seemed to be crying. And there were bits of onion in some of their fleeces. He thought how remarkably chaotic the city was, and how good it was for the well-being of mankind that he was there to help remedy the defect. Feeling satisfied at this worthwhile conclusion, he turned, and looked straight into the humourless, smiling face of Horatio Lyle.

His joy faded. ‘Constable Lyle,’ he managed in a voice tinged with false politeness and bursting with undisguised contempt. ‘I’ve been hearing all about your exploits. I hope you are satisfied? ’

‘Almost.’

‘And why are you only “almost satisfied”, Constable Lyle? It is not, I trust, because you have given credit to the scandalous rumours implying that your conduct has been a degradation to the honour of the police force - not that I would credit them for a moment, Constable Lyle?’

Lyle drew himself up a little straighter. Behind him, Tess muttered, ‘Hit him!’ Thomas chewed his lip uneasily.

‘Well, Constable Lyle? You are not, I trust, being troubled by any premonitions of failure? I implore you, banish them to the back of your mind; a man in your position should not be concerned by the prospect of disgrace and dissolution.’

There was a long silence. ‘Inspector Vellum,’ said Lyle, his voice cautious and edgy, ‘I assure you that I will take all your advice to heart and let no such disturbances trouble my sleep. I will endeavour - again, thanks to your kind advice - to consider what few achievements I already have at my back. Although rumours of my success in a matter that had baffled the Metropolitan Police are doubtlessly hugely exaggerated by my many supporters and spiritual acolytes, I will nevertheless attempt to dwell on what little credit there is in having essentially solved a case that baffled some of the most remarkable minds in this
majestic
city. I thank you for your kindness and support, and now if you’ll excuse us, we have the Queen’s business to attend to.’

Lyle pushed past Vellum without another word, keeping as straight a face as he could manage, and into the Old Bailey, followed by Thomas and lastly Tess, who bumped her shoulder against Vellum as she went. Vellum stood in the street for a while longer, seething with all the inner axe murderers he didn’t have the self-perception to release, before mustering courage and spinning on his heel to follow Lyle, hoping to give him the punch he’d always wanted to.

He looked into a pair of intense green eyes, and smelt a wave of breath tainted with foreign fruits. The mouth that owned the breath smiled, revealing small, pointed teeth. Almost like fish. ‘Inspector Vellum,’ said a soft, cruel voice. ‘I am Mr Dew.’

CHAPTER 16

Tess was unhappy. The Old Bailey was full of bobbies, and even worse, full of people in cuffs who might recognize her and wonder why she wasn’t among their number. She walked quickly, trying to hide between Lyle and Thomas, and hoped no one would notice her. The place had once been plush and grand, she decided, but now had a slightly run-down look. There were rumours that the Government was planning to demolish it and replace it with a more functional building, it being, after all, the
Central
Criminal Court, and thus something that ought to be
central
to justice, rather than a slightly wobbly limb. She thought that it would be a pity to get rid of all those dark wood banisters in the shape of pineapples, and those big padded leather chairs with the spring in them, and even the judges in their big wigs and long robes, which gave the place, to her mind, a more relaxed feeling - almost like the fairground.

‘Teresa?’ Lyle was walking fast and not looking at her, but she immediately knew what he was going to say.

‘Yes, Mister Lyle?’ she said, putting on her sweetest, most innocent face that prompted Thomas to shoot her a suspicious look.

‘Teresa, I don’t want you to think that I approve in any way
. . .
’

‘Yes, Mister Lyle?’

‘
. . .
and if you ever steal my fob watch, purse or monocle from out of my pocket, I will be very, very annoyed
. . .
’

‘You don’t have a monocle in your pocket, Mister Lyle. An’ your purse ain’t heavy enough to warrant the attention of a professional like myself.’

Silence. ‘Teresa?’

‘Yes?’

‘
How do you know?
’

She coughed politely. ‘You were sayin’ something about not approvin’?’

Lyle fixed his eyes very firmly on the middle distance, and said in a slightly-too-confident voice, ‘Yes. Erm
. . .
yes. I was going to say, that I would far rather you had waited until I could see Vellum’s face when he found out.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Now I’m not so sure.’

‘Mister Lyle?’

‘Yes?’

‘What the h
. . .
what are we doin’ here?’ Tess’s voice was barely above a squeak. She affected innocence.

Thomas tried to look as if he knew the answer, while watching Lyle out of the corner of his eye. Lyle glanced up the stairs leading into the higher balconies of the Bailey, and muttered distantly, ‘Looking for justice.’

When they were climbing the stairs, Thomas leant in close to him and murmured, ‘Sir, you’re not turning Miss Teresa in, are you?’

Lyle looked shocked. ‘Me? I’m a copper! Of course not!’

Thomas felt relieved by this, but didn’t know why. He smiled, nodded in what he hoped was a manly and mature manner, and tried to turn his resultant expression into one of determined profundity promising insight yet to come. Lyle saw it, and tried not to smile, as they shuffled upstairs.

 

It took them ten minutes to find the man Lyle was looking for, a man with ginger hair, freckles and a default expression of general goodwill towards humanity. He saw Lyle, unfolded himself from the plain chair at the far end of the corridor where he’d been lounging, and stood up with a slow nonchalance. ‘Horatio,’ he said in a distinct Welsh accent, shaking his hand, ‘still not in an asylum?’

‘You would not believe.’

‘Never can anyway, Horatio. Who’re the friends?’

‘Thomas, Teresa, this is Charles.’

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ said Thomas stiffly, shaking his hand.

Charles waggled his eyebrows and said in almost perfect mimicry, ‘And you, kind sir, and you.’

Tess glared at him. ‘You’re a
bobby
, ain’t you?’ The poison in her voice could have burnt through stones.

Charles put a hand melodramatically to his forehead. ‘Only when I’m not on holiday, dearest.’ He glanced at Lyle. ‘Be careful of that one, Horatio. She’ll have your purse before you can blink.’

‘It’s not worthy of the attention of a professional like herself,’ sighed Lyle. ‘Charles, I need your help.’

‘Oh yes?’ Suspicion fixed itself very firmly on Charles’s face.

‘I need to get on to the roof.’

‘You what?’

‘You
wha’
?’ echoed Tess.

‘I beg your pardon?’ hazarded Thomas, thinking that he should contribute somehow to the debate.

Lyle rolled his eyes. ‘Ignore the ignorant. Can you get me on to the roof?’

‘Will I get sacked for it?’ asked Charles, a suggestion of concern creeping into his eyes.

‘Why should you?’

‘’Cos last time you wanted to go up anywhere high it was to measure how hot a lightning strike could get a flagpole.’

Lyle started turning red. ‘Well, yes
. . .
but no. This is far more restrained.’

‘What you doin’ up there, Mister Lyle?’ demanded Tess.

‘Can we help?’ hazarded Thomas. ‘I have a good head for heights.’ He wasn’t sure if this was true - he’d never had any real occasion to find out, but he felt he ought to offer anyway.

For a second Lyle looked tempted, then changed his mind. ‘Thank you, no. I’d better go up there. Charles?’

Charles rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ. You people.’

 

The roof of the Old Bailey was a triangular slant, the tiles damp with the earlier drizzle and rain. There was still enough dusk light to see by, however, as Charles opened the attic hatch in the roof, peered up and said, ‘Where’d I meet you, Horatio?’

‘In a small pond, Charles.’

Charles’s grin was a flash of whiteness in the dimming grey evening. ‘Heh. That brings back memories.’

Lyle peered up the roof. Standing at the very end of it was a statue, looking down on the street far, far below, its back turned to him, arms held out as if crucified, bearing in one hand a large pair of scales, in the other a sword, a folded robe of stone drifting down to its ankles. He hesitated. The sounds of the city seemed a very long way off. A pigeon sat defiantly on the peak of the roof and glared at him first out of one eye, then out of the other, turning its head this way and that to see if either eye could muster a better opinion of him than the other. Clearly no eye liked him, because the pigeon started hopping back and forward agitatedly.

Slyly, behind him, Tess said, ‘You ain’t afraid of heights, are you, Mister Lyle?’

Immediately Thomas stepped forward. ‘I will undertake to
. . .
’

‘
No
.’

Thomas practically pouted, realized what he was doing and hoped that Tess hadn’t seen his expression. Lyle took a handful of rope off Charles’s hands, a hook tied at one end, and threw it towards the statue. On the fifth throw, Tess was trying hard not to laugh. On the sixth throw the hook landed over the outstretched arm of the statue, clinking tight against stone. Lyle tugged until the rope went taut and gave Tess a dirty look.

‘I didn’t say nothin’!’

Lyle then glared at Charles. Charles raised his hands defensively. ‘Hey, I’m more reverent than
she
is.’

Lyle scowled, tugged a few more times on the rope to make sure it was tight, and glanced down at the street a long way below. This proved to be a mistake. He felt his stomach churn. Behind him, Tess’s intense silence was even worse than her laughter. He took a deep breath and started pulling himself up, hand over hand, feet braced against the slippery tiles. Down in the street people stopped to stare, peering at Lyle as he clambered slowly towards the statue. He felt a few spare droplets of drizzle land on his hand, white where it clung to the rope, and glanced quickly at the sky. It was darkening from bruised grey to a deep blue-black. The wind rising from the river smelt of thick mud and decay, but carried a trace of a colder, cleaner air from the sea as well, tingling with salt. He kept climbing. On the other side of the road a small crowd was gathering to get a look.

Lyle reached the top of the roof, and balanced precariously on the peak, one foot on either side curled in like a gorilla’s toes clinging to a tree. He leant on the statue for support, and in the fading light saw it more clearly now than he had when down below at the hatch on to the roof. It was a small statue of a woman, about two thirds of his height and made of stone and brass. The woman was turned towards the street, and stood on top of the Bailey like a patron saint on a cathedral, the god of all that went on inside the building. She wore a stone blindfold and her outstretched arms held, in one hand, a bronze sword, tarnished slightly by weather, and in the other, a pair of scales, also of bronze. Inside one metal scale the surface was dull. Lyle started to smile, as the drizzle increased. He looked at the roofs rising and falling unevenly around the Bailey, and tried to work out what route Bray must have taken. He looked at the statue of Justice, shiny with the rain, and down to one side of the scales. It was a good hiding place, he thought. He only wished he’d been able to tell Bray that.

From its resting place in the scales in the hands of Justice, he pulled out the Fuyun Plate.

It was indeed small and dull, cold in his hand. It looked as if it was made of plain grey limestone, but it was so smooth it was almost hard to carry, like a damp bar of soap. It was shallow and roughly the same size as his outstretched hand, too big for his coat pocket, but small enough to be easily missed. It seemed something of an anti-climax, he thought, to have gone to so much trouble to find the Fuyun Plate and finally, now, to have it. He turned it over, looking for any kind of distinctive marks, but there weren’t any. It was just a plain, simple stone bowl. Something angry rose up inside Lyle as he thought about the blood that had covered his hands, for
this
, for a piece of stone and a collection of legends.