The Brentford Chainstore Massacre (7 page)

Omally climbed slowly to his feet, then helped Jim to his. Pooley’s knees offered little support and the lad sank down onto his bum. “What do we do now, John?”

“Make our getaway, that’s what.”

“But they’ll drown. They might be rogue policemen but we can’t let them drown.”

“What do you take me for, Jim? The water’s only two feet deep.”

“But they might be seriously injured.”

“Then we’ll phone for an ambulance.”

Sounds of coughing and spluttering and cursing now issued from the darkness below.

“Let’s go,” said Jim.

John gazed into the black. “Poor Marchant,” he said.

From the canal bridge to the Butts Estate is a pleasant five-minute stroll. But it’s a long twenty minutes when you’re limping. Omally helped his chum along the broad oak-bordered drive towards the Professor’s house. From tree to tree the two men lurched, keeping to the shadows. They passed the door of Dr Steven Malone, but as yet they did not know it.

Ahead, lit by the golden haze of gaslight – for so remain the street lamps of the Butts – there rose the house of the Professor. A glorious mellow Georgian job, the Slocombe clan had owned it since it was built. High casement windows, chequered brick, a tribute to the mason’s craft.

They halted at the garden gate, and waited a moment. Neither man knew why, but it was something they always did before they went inside. Then, taking up a breath apiece, they entered.

And stepped as through a veil that separated one world from another.

The moonlit garden was a thing of rare beauty. The heady fragrances of night-blooming orchids burdened the air. Chrysanthemums, like brazen hussies, swayed voluptuously, while snowdrops peeped and gossiped. Ancient roses showed their faces, craning for attention. Everywhere was colour, everywhere was life.

Ahead light showed through the great French windows and the fragile form of the Professor could be seen from behind, bent low over some ancient book upon his desk.

“Come on, Jim,” said John, hoisting his sagging companion. “We’re here now and we’re safe.”

As John reached out a hand, the French windows opened of their own accord and the Professor swung round in his chair. “Welcome, my friends,” said he.

John waggled the fingers of his free hand. Jim managed a lopsided smile.

The Professor’s face took on a look of concern. Blue twinkling eyes narrowed, the nostrils of the slender nose flared, the merry mouth turned down at the corners. “Set him into the chair beside the fire, John,” said the ancient. “I will ring for assistance.”

His mottled hand took up a small brass Burmese temple bell and jingled it. John helped Jim onto the chair and then himself onto a Persian pouffe.

Firelight danced in the grate. The Professor’s study, with its tall shelves crammed with leathern tomes, its lifeless creatures under high glass domes, its noble furniture and priceless rugs, was silent and was safe.

Presently the Professor’s aged retainer, Gammon, appeared, clad in antique livery and bearing a silver tray. On this reposed a ship’s decanter containing brandy, three glasses and a small medicine chest.

“Please see to our wounded friend, Gammon,” said the Professor.

“Certainly, sir,” the other replied.

Jim squawked and moaned as Gammon tested limbs, felt ribs, cleaned wounds and applied Band Aid dressings. “Superficial, sir,” said Gammon as he left the room.

“What does he know?” grumbled Jim.

“A very great deal,” said the Professor, pouring brandy.

“Thanks very much,” said John, accepting his.

“And thank you too,” said Jim. “And say thank you to Gammon for me. I really appreciate this.”

The Professor settled himself back behind his desk and viewed his visitors through his brandy glass. “I feel you have a tale to tell,” said he.

“And then some,” said John.

“A bit of a bar fight, nothing more,” said Jim.

John looked aghast.

“Difference of opinion,” said Pooley. “You should see the other bloke.”

Professor Slocombe shook his head, his mane of silky hair white as an albino bloater. “Come, come, Jim,” he said. “That is not what your aura says.”

“My aura is probably drunk. I certainly wish I was.”

“Jim got beaten up by the Garda,” said John. “And all on account of a book.”

“A book?”

“Brentford: A Study of its People and History.”

“By Mr Compton-Cummings.”

“You know of it?”

“Indeed, I did a small amount of research for it. And I had him suppress certain passages.”

“Not nearly enough,” said Jim, holding out his empty glass.

“You mean he left in that bit about you and the great wind from the East? I told him to delete it.”

“Oh,” said Jim, as the old man gave him a refill. “Well, thank you very much.”

“It was another passage entirely,” said John. “One about…” He looked furtively around before whispering words into the Professor’s ear.

“Idrophrodisia?”

“You don’t want to know what it means.”

“I know exactly what it means.”

“I don’t,” said Jim.

“The publishers called in all the copies of the book and pulped them,” said John. “Except Jim got one in the post. The police were very anxious to get it back.”

“Exactly how anxious?” the Professor asked.

“They were prepared to kill us,” said John.

“They killed John’s bike,” said Jim.

“Somewhat over-zealous. But I suppose, considering the nature of the allegations…”

“There’re photos as well.”

“Oh dear, oh dear. But you got off lightly.” The Professor pointed towards John’s shiner.

Omally fingered his eye. “That was Jim. We had a slight contretemps over a theological matter.”

“I see.”

“Actually,” said John, “while I’m here, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Ask away.” Professor Slocombe refilled John’s glass, then his own.

“Mine too,” said Jim, as his was somehow empty again.

“The Brentford Scrolls,” said John. Jim groaned.

“The Brentford Scrolls?” Professor Slocombe laughed. “I have spent nearly two hundred years, ahem, I have spent a very long time searching for those. They are somewhere in the borough, I can sense it. But where, I do not know.”

“Told you, Jim,” said John.

“But what exactly is your interest in the scrolls?” Professor Slocombe raised his glass and tasted brandy.

“Purely historical,” said John.

“Aura,” said the Professor.

“John thinks he’s found a way of making millions of pounds from the Millennium Fund,” said Jim. “There’s more than eight hundred Days of God owing to Brentford, so Brentford is entitled to celebrate the millennium two years before the rest of the world. We could celebrate it this year, on New Year’s Eve.”

Professor Slocombe threw back his old head and laughed.

And laughed.

And laughed some more.

“Priceless,” he said, when he was able. “And you’re perfectly right. If the scrolls could be discovered and of course if the papal bull was never revoked.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

“I can easily check that, John. Hand me,” the ancient pointed, “that large green volume, second shelf up at the end next to the shrunken head.”

Omally hastened to oblige. He tugged and wrestled with the book but could not draw it from the shelf.

“Oh, my apologies.” Professor Slocombe made a mystic pass with his right hand. Omally toppled backwards clutching the book. He crawled over to the desk and set it down upon the tooled-leather surface.

“Sorry about that,” said Professor Slocombe. “The books are, as always, protected.”

“No problem,” said John, crawling back to his pouffe.

The Professor flicked through the pages, his long thin fingers tracing lines. Presently he closed the book. “You would seem to be in luck,” said he.

“Yes!” said John, raising a fist.

“But of course you’d have to find the scrolls, and if I can’t, well…”

“Two heads are better than one,” said John.

“Not necessarily.”

“Three, counting Jim.”

“No, count me out.” Jim folded his arms painfully.

“He’s had a rough day. He’ll be all for it tomorrow.”

“Oh no I won’t.”

“Oh yes you will.”

“Won’t.”

“Will.”

“Gentlemen.” Professor Slocombe raised a calming hand. “Whether you will or whether you won’t, you have pressing business to attend to first.”

“We do?” asked John.

“The police.”

“Ah.”

“But I think I can sort that out for you. Chief Inspector Westlake of the Brentford Constabulary is a good friend of mine. We are both members of the same lodge. If I were to ask him a personal favour, he would not refuse it.”

“You’re a saint,” said John.

“Not yet. But I am also a good friend of the present Pope.”

“Say hello from me next time you see him.”

“I certainly will. But in order to smooth things over with the police, it will be necessary to give them Jim’s book. Do you have it about your person?”

“I do.” Omally fumbled at his trouser pocket. “Oh, no. I don’t.”

“He’s lost it.” Jim threw up his hands. “Ouch.”

“No, I haven’t lost it. I…” John’s thoughts returned to an hour before. To a terrible hour before. To the kitchen of Mrs Bryant. In all the horror and madness, he had left the book upon the reproduction olde worlde table. “Oh dear, oh dear,” said John Omally.

The newly widowed Mrs Bryant was not at her reproduction olde worlde table, but huddled on a chair at the Brentford Cottage Hospital. Outside the mortuary.

Within this cold and dismal room the duty physician was filling in Jack Bryant’s death certificate.

“The subject died through lack of blood caused by excessive straining on the toilet, leading to acute rectal prolapse and arterial rupture.”

At the bottom of the death certificate the duty physician signed his name: Dr Steven Malone.

And having signed, he turned and pointed in profile to a wrinkled naked thing which lay upon the mortuary block just off the page. “Bung that in a drawer,” he told a nurse.

A golden dawn came unto Brentford. The flowers in the Professor’s magical garden hid their faces as the borough’s denizens began to stir.

Omally hadn’t slept at all. While Pooley mumbled and snored in one of the Professor’s guest bedrooms, John paced the floor of another. Until the book was recovered from Mrs Bryant’s and handed over to the police, he and Jim could not return to their homes, nor set out upon their quest. But what of Jack Bryant? What had happened to him? Omally shuddered at the recollection of that hideously shrivelled body. It had looked as if all the blood had been drained from it. And what could do that to a man? A vampire? In Brentford? That was nonsense, surely. But was it? And what if it came back to feast upon Mrs Bryant?

And then there was Marchant. Poor, poor Marchant. The trusty iron steed that had served John for more years than he cared to remember. Marchant would have to be recovered from the canal and lovingly restored. And that would take money and John didn’t have any money, unless he could find those Brentford Scrolls.

Omally’s thoughts went round in a circle like an unholy mandala. Or perhaps more like some hideous black vortex that just kept sucking more dark thoughts into it. The death of Compton-Cummings now seemed more than suspect. Folk were dropping like flies hereabouts.

By the coming of the golden dawn John had resolved on a course of action. He would go as soon as possible to Mrs Bryant’s, offer what comfort he could and recover Jim’s book, which he would then deliver to Professor Slocombe. When matters were straightened with the police, he would sneak along to the canal and rescue Marchant.

And then with Jim’s help, or without it, he would seek the Brentford Scrolls.

Which should take him up to lunchtime and a pint or two of Large in the Flying Swan.

Omally left a note for the Professor, thanking him for sanctuary and promising to return by breakfast with the book, and set off across Brentford to catch a 65.

There were no police cars outside Mrs Bryant’s. But why should there have been? The chances were that the lady wouldn’t even be there. She would be staying with a relative for the night, or might possibly be under sedation in a hospital bed.

John went round to the back and knocked gently at the kitchen door. No answer. Should he force the lock? Omally, not by nature one to dither, dithered.

Come back later, was that the best? No, he was here now, do it.

John turned the handle and gave the door a shove.

It opened before him.

Magic.

John slipped inside, closed the door behind him and strode over to the reproduction olde worlde table. Jim’s book was not on it.

“Damn!” said John.

“Eeeeek!” screamed Mrs Bryant, who’d been coming down the hall.

“Oh, sorry.” John put out his hands to catch her as she swooned away. He helped her to a kitchen chair and poured a glass of water.

“I thought you were a burglar, John.”

“I’m so sorry. I wanted to see if I could do anything to help. Sip this.”

“Thank you. I’m all right. It was a terrible shock, though.”

“It was certainly that.”

“But one must look on the bright side.”

“Yes, I’m sure one must.”

“It was the way he would have wanted to go.”

“It was?”

“To die like the King.”

“The who?”

“Not The Who, the King.”

“I’m sorry,” said John. “You’ve lost me here.”

“The King,” said Mrs Bryant. “Elvis. Jack died like Elvis.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, I suppose he did. What did he die of, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“A massive haemorrhage. He was straining too hard and something burst.”

A small but clear alarm bell rang in John Omally’s head. The image of the defunct Jack Bryant would probably never leave him. Every detail was indelibly etched. But if Jack Bryant had died while taking a dump, then he, John Omally, was a clog-dancing Dutchman. For one thing, although Jack may have been seated on the toilet, the lid was down. And for another, unlike Mr Compton-Cummings, Jack Bryant had died with his trousers up.

“How very strange,” said John.

Mrs Bryant sniffed and sipped her water. “According to the duty physician it’s quite common, just not the kind of thing people like to talk about. They always say ‘he died peacefully in his sleep’.”

“Yes, I suppose they would. Now is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, thank you. My brother’s coming down from Orton Goldhay. He’ll sort out the funeral arrangements. I may move back up there.”

“I’ll miss you,” said John.

“And I shall worry about you. Get yourself a good woman, John. Sort your life out.”

“I’ll try.” John Omally kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Oh, just one thing,” he said. “Can I have that history book back? I left it here on the table.”

“History book?” Mrs Bryant stiffened. “It’s hardly a history book, is it? What is sacofricosis anyway?”

“You really wouldn’t want to know.”

“No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”

“So, can I have it back?”

“Well, you could,” said Mrs Bryant, “but I’m afraid I don’t have it any more.”

“What?”

“I must have left it in the waiting room at the Cottage Hospital.”

When John left Mrs Bryant’s he caught the 8.15 bus. Bill got thrown off again for fondling a schoolgirl and a lady in a straw hat told John all about her husband, who had once sprayed deodorant on his beard and gone to a fancy dress party as an armpit.

Omally got off at the Cottage Hospital. More bad thoughts were now being sucked into the black vortex in his head.

A very pretty nurse stood at the reception desk.

“Good morning, ms,” said John. “I wonder if you might help me?”

“Are you ill?”

“No. My name is,” John paused, “John Bryant.”

“Oh yes? How’s Fergie doing?”

“Sorry, I don’t quite understand.”

“Sorry, it just slipped out.” The nurse gave a Sid James chuckle.

John made a mental note to return at a later date and ask her out. “My brother was brought here last night,” he said. “Jack Bryant. He died.”

“Oh yes, Mr Bryant. Tragic way to go.”

“But just like the King.”

“I thought the king said ‘bugger Bognor’ and died in his bed.”

“I wonder if I might have a word with the doctor who was on duty at the time.”

“I’m afraid not,” said the nurse. “He’s not here at the moment, and I can’t give out any information at all.”

“I see. It was Dr Pooley, wasn’t it?”

“Dr Malone.”

“Ah yes, old Jim Malone.”

“Dr Steven Malone.”

“Of course. Does he still live in Hanwell?”

“No, he lives in Brentford now.”

“That’s right, in Mafeking Avenue.”

“In Kether House on the Butts Estate.”

“Won’t be the same chap, then. I’m sorry you couldn’t help me. Oh, just one other thing: my sister-in-law left a book of mine in the waiting room. Brentford: A Study of its People and History.”

“Oh, that book,” said the nurse, giving out with another Sid James.

Oh dear, thought John. “Might I have it back?”

“The doctor on duty took it home with him.”

Dr Steven Malone was enjoying his breakfast. He was also enjoying Jim’s book. “Well, well, well,” he went, as he munched on kedgeree and swallowed orange juice. “Whoever would have thought it? Whoever would have thought that a Brentford corner shopkeeper would be the first man to wade across the Channel?” He turned another page and glanced at a photograph. “And whoever would have thought that?”

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK, came a knock-knock-knocking.

Dr Malone got up and answered the door. Upon the step stood John Omally, notebook and biro in hand.

“Dr Malone?” he asked. “Dr Steven Malone?”

“I am he.”

Omally viewed the monochrome medic. “Has anyone ever told you that you bear an uncanny resemblance to…”

“Many times,” said Dr Steven. “And although it has never been a curse, it’s never been a big bird-puller.”

“Well, my name’s Molloy,” said John. “Scoop Molloy of the Brentford Mercury. I came as soon as I could.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tip-off,” said John. “From an inside source at the Cottage Hospital.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Would you kindly leave?”

“Be pleased to, as soon as you give me a quote. We don’t get a story as big as this very often.”

Dr Malone began to close the door. John stuck his foot in the gap. “‘VAMPIKE CLAIMS FIRST VICTIM’,” he said in a very loud voice. “‘ALL BLOOD DRAINED’.”

“You’d better come in,” said Dr Malone.

“Ah, come in, Jim,” said Professor Slocombe, looking up from his desk. “And how are you feeling this morning?”

“Still a bit shaky, sir, as it happens. My head aches something wicked.”

“That might perhaps have something to do with the half a bottle of brandy you consumed.”

“No, it will be the concussion.”

“Breakfast?”

“Oh yes please.”

Professor Slocombe rang his small brass bell.

“Would you care for some breakfast?” asked Dr Malone.

“No thanks,” said John. “Deadlines to keep, you know how it is.”

“Indeed I do,” the doctor smiled.

John Omally didn’t like that smile. In fact he didn’t like anything about Dr Steven Malone. With his pale gaunt features he looked every bit the vampire. Such a brazen approach, although calculated to gain entry, had not perhaps been the wisest of moves. If he was now inside the lair of a genuine undead, was he all that likely to get out again?

“Did you come alone?” asked the doctor.

“Ah, no,” said John. “Three of my colleagues are waiting outside in the car.”

“Well, I’m sure we can clear this up between the two of us.”

“I’m sure we can.” Omally sat down in a chair with his back to the wall and placed his notebook on the dining table. “Between you and me,” he said, “I think this whole thing probably has a simple explanation.”

“It certainly does.”

“But who cares about that, eh? Give the readers what they want, blood and guts. This one should run and run.”

Dr Steven’s pale gaunt features turned a whiter shade. “Listen,” he said. “There is no story here. Jack Bryant died from a haemorrhage whilst evacuating his bowels.”

“I heard he was naked,” said John. “And the words NUMBER ONE were written in his blood on the wall.”

“He was not naked and there were no words on the wall.”

“So you were there, then? You can swear to that?”

“I was there. I arranged for the removal of the body. He was sitting on the toilet with his trousers down.”

“Trousers down you say?” John made a note. “Just the trousers?”

“Just the trousers.”

“And no holes in the neck?”

“No.”

“What about holes anywhere else?”

“What?”

“Just trying to keep one step ahead of the Sunday Sport.”

“Newspaper, Jim?” asked the Professor, across the breakfast table.

“No thanks, I never read them.”

“You’re probably wise.”

“Probably. Oh, see if there’s anything in there about Mr Compton-Cummings.”

“A book review? I think that most unlikely.”

“No, about his death.”

“His what?”

“His willy,” said John. “No holes in his willy?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Well, it looks as if I have no story here at all. What a shame.”

“You have my sympathy.”

“No, I mean, what a shame I’ll have to write it up anyway.”

“What?”

“My bonus depends on it. If I don’t hand in a story today, I won’t get my bonus. And if I don’t get my bonus, I won’t have enough to buy my dear little white-haired old mother her stairlift.”

“And how much is this bonus of yours worth?”

“How does fifty quid sound?”

“You sound shocked,” said Jim. “But then I suppose you are.”

“Compton-Cummings dead and you didn’t think to mention it?”

“It somehow slipped my mind. I’d had a rough evening.”

“Compton-Cummings dead,” said the Professor. “Compton-Cummings dead.”

“Just one more thing before I go,” said John Omally, turning at the open front door. “There was another chap died yesterday, a Mr Compton-Cummings. His body must have been brought into the Cottage Hospital. Did you examine it?”

“There was no other body in the morgue.”

“But anyone who dies locally would be brought to the Cottage Hospital, surely.”

“They would. But I know nothing about any Compton-Cummings.”

“Perhaps there’s a story there,” said John.

“Forget it,” said Dr Steven Malone, closing the front door upon him.

John set off across the oak-lined street, whistling. Inside his waistcoat pocket he now had ten nice crisp five-pound notes. The day had hardly begun and already he was ahead.

Dr Steven Malone bolted the front door and shook his pale head. Compton-Cummings? Who was Compton-Cummings? The name sounded strangely familiar. Ah yes, of course, it was the name of the author of that book on his dining table.

Dr Steven Malone returned to examine the book. He was more than a little peeved to find it wasn’t there.

“Hi-de-ho,” said John Omally, breezing in through the Professor’s French windows.

“Hi-de-nothing!” said the old man, rising from his desk. “Why did you not tell me about the death of Compton-Cummings?”

“It somehow slipped my mind,” said John. “I’d had a rough evening.”

The Professor glared at John and then at Jim. Jim winced.

“But I’ll tell you what,” said Omally. “There’s something very strange going on around here. The body of Mr Compton-Cummings never made it to the morgue at the Cottage Hospital.”

Professor Slocombe raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that?”

“I’ve just been speaking to a Dr Steven Malone.”

“The geneticist, lives in Kether House?”

“Geneticist he may be, bloody liar also.”

“Sit down,” said the Professor. “Sit down and tell me everything that happened last night. And I do mean everything.” John Omally sat down.

An hour later a police car arrived at Professor Slocombe’s house. In it was Chief Inspector Westlake. He and the Professor exchanged a certain handshake and Jim’s book was taken into police custody.