The Victoria Vanishes (39 page)

'Now, point it very carefully at the crystal.'

May shone the torch over the centre of the reliquary. The jewels responded to light by revealing a deep lustre of indigos, ivories, scarlets.
'What am I looking for?'

'Not the thorn itself, but t
he edges where it meets the sur
rounding encrustation of precious metals.'

Shining the flashlight at the centre of the reliquary, he opened up its dark heart. A glinting line appeared, like a fine molten seam.
'There's a defect,' he said.
'It looks like a very faint crack. Oh. I think I understand what you're getting at.'

'Yes,' said Bryant softl
y, crouching beside his partner ‘I
t's not a thorn at all, is it? It's oxidisation. The air's got to it through the flaw in the crystal.'

'Oxidised blood,' said May, awed.

'Given its colour, you can see how easily the vial's contents were mistaken for something made of wood.'

'The blood of Christ. You really think that's what it is?'

'There's only one man who might hold the answer, and now I don't suppose I'll be able to get anywhere near him,' replied Bryant. 'What if the flaw is so tiny that the vial's contents are only oxidised on its surface?'

May found himself sweat
ing despite the chill in the mu
seum. 'My God, I see what you mean. It's an analysis sample. We'd be able to conduct the ultimate investigation. We'd have a direct line to the heart of the Christian faith.'

'Think of the uproar such a thing would create. Masters knew this, and it became his curse to know. He discovered Pandora's box, and not only could he not open it, he would never be able to tell anyone of its existence without destroying his entire career. He's an expert on mythology, John. He's one of the most public
atheists
in the country.'

And what do we do?' asked
May. 'Secrets have a way of es
caping, remember?'

'This is one that cannot be allowed to get out,' said Bryant, taking his partner's arm and leading him away, just as the guard returned to the chamber.
'We ignore it. We allow it to lie among the other treasures of confused provenance. Even as I speak, a team of very expensive lawyers is looking for ways to discredit Harold Masters. They can't silence him, but they can stop him from being believed. That's why you and I will escape any charges. Why would they risk having us reveal the things we know when they can simply throw the book at him?'

'Where are we going?' asked May as they headed toward the museum entrance.

'One last stop. I promised to meet Janice in the Pineapple pub in Kentish Town. She wants to tell us something.'

The pub was nearly empty b
ut for Simon, the manager, rins
ing glasses behind the bar while somehow managing to send text messages on his cell phone. Janice Longbright was folded into a corner with the day's newspapers.

Bryant brought over beers and set them down. 'So what's this big announcement you feel you had to present to us in person?' he asked somewhat rudely.

'I don't know how true this is,' said Longbright, making room for them, 'but Gladys, my mother, once told me when Betty Grable had her legs insured, she and all the other girls went out and did the same t
hing. Sometimes it takes the ac
tion of someone you admire to make you follow suit.'

'This is all very interesting, but perhaps you could get to the point.'

'We all knew your big secret, Arthur, your planned re
signa
tion. You never adjusted to Biros, did you? Still use that Waterman fountain pen—and blotting paper. The one thing you should have written in code, and you couldn't because Raymond had to read it. So after deciphering your dreadful handwriting in a mirror, we took a vote on it and decided that if you were going to leave, the entire department would resign
en masse'

'I appreciate the gesture, Janice, but it means you'll get no severance pay,' exclaimed Bryant, horrified.

'True, but it also means we remain hireable. No black marks on our employment records.'

'John, talk them out of this lunacy,' said Bryant.

'I can't,' May apologised.
'I joined them. Chucked in my lot as well.'

For one of the few times in his life, Bryant was speechless.

'You see, without you there's nothing left, old sprocket. You're the connection point between us all—and not just us; think of the hundreds of people you've helped in your life, all the people you've joined together. You've brought so many of London's outsiders inside, to become part of a wonderful—albeit somewhat alarming—community. You're at the top of our alternative family tree.'

Bryant squirmed uncomfortably on his chair. 'Let's not get too sentimental, eh? We're all broke and out of work.'

'I haven't got enough money left to pay my rent,' said Bimsley gloomily.

'I feel a bit sorry for poor old Renfield. He only just joined us. The Met will never hire him back.'

'At least we'll always remain friends,' said Longbright. 'Whatever happens, whatever the future holds. All ten of us. I'm including Raymond in this.'

'Oh, wonderful—the children I never wanted,' said Bryant. 'Whose round is it?'

50

ASHES TO ASHES

R
aymond Land set dow
n the food bowl and sneezed vio
lently.'Wh
at I want to know,' he demanded ‘
is how come I end up having to look after Crippen when I'm the one who's allergic to cats. Are you listening to me, Leanne?'

'No, darling,' said his wife, who was licking a lipstick pencil and straightening her decolletage in the bathroom, readying herself for a night of sin and self-deception with a Spanish toy-boy she had picked up in the Madeira Tapas Bar, Streatham.

Land searched forlornly for the litter tray.
'You always seem to be refurbishing yourself these days. Where are you going?'

'I'm off to rumple some hotel sheets
and have cheap cham
pagne dribbled over my naked body,' she answered through mashing lips.

'I thought you were visiting your mother. It's raining so hard, the cat can't go out. What have you done with its litter?'

'I wouldn't touch the stuff, and if you knew what my nails cost you wouldn't let me either. Don't you remember? Sergeant Longbright gave you the tray and the bag when she brought the cat over.'

Land located the litter bag, unfolded it and removed a clear plastic envelope filled with grey powder. Tearing the top with his teeth, he tipped it into the yellow plastic tray as a cloud of dust blossomed and penetrated his nasal membranes. 'This stuff is awful,' he complaine
d. 'It smells like Oswald's mor
tuary.'

'The only thing Oswald's mortuary smelled of was Oswald,' said Leanne, pouting her lips in the mirror and wondering about their effect on Hispanic gentlemen under the age of twenty-five.

How could you begin to explain London?

A city once the colour of tobacco and carrots, now chalky stone and angled steel, but vivid chimney pots can still be glimpsed between slivers of rain-specked glass. Nine billion pounds' worth of Christmas bonuses have just been spent in the city's square mile. In the great financial institutions, whirlpools of money are stirred until the ripples splash all but those on the farthest reaches of society.
To
accommodate this expenditure, the insurance offices and banks of Holborn have reopened as opulent restaurants and bars. At night, drunken merriment splits the capital's seams, and daybreak arrives more silently than midnight.

You can't explain London, of course. That is the root of its charm. A pair of elderly men
, overlooked by the young, whit
tling their thoughts into bar banter, ensconced in run-down public houses in unalluring parts of the world's richest city, what could they know or hope to change?

For if they hoped that their actions might ultimately change the policies of the go
vernment, challenge public opin
ion, inspire the complacent, even alter the course of the city's history, they were wrong. London, the law unto itself, could continue quite happily without their interference. And yet, without them, it could only be a poorer place.

John May went into the University College Hospital on March 12th for his cancer operation. Arthur Bryant went with him, and stayed by his side until the orderly came to take his old friend down for surgery. As John May passed through the doors, he raised his head from the pillow and gave a look back at his great friend that said
I know what you're about, and don't you ever forget it. Everything is understood between us.

The framed photograph placed behind the bar of the Pineapple pub in Leverton Street, Kentish Town, shows a wrinkled tortoise sporting windowpane glasses and a frayed brown trilby, wrapped in a moss-green scarf like an unravelling knitted python. Close beside him, taller and just three years younger, is a ramrod-
backed gentleman of debonair de
meanour, dressed in a rather gaudy Savile Row suit and a scar-let silk tie.

They are smiling for the camera and for each other, as if they have finally come to understand all the secrets of the city.

Appendix

Being Mr Bryant's List of London Public Houses Mentioned in
The Victoria Vanishes

The Devereux 20 Devereux Court WC2 The Seven Stars 53 Carey Street WC2 The Old Dr Butler's Head 2 Mason's Avenue EC2 The Albion 10 Thornhill Road N1 The Pineapple 51 Leverton Street NW5 Pend
erel's Oak 283 High Holborn WC1
The Old Mitre 1 Ely Court EC1 The Punch Tavern 99 Fleet Street EC4 The Crown & Sugarloaf 26 Bride Lane EC4 The Hand & Racquet 48 Whitcomb Street WC2 The Green Man & French Horn 54 St Martin's Lane WC2 The Jerusalem Tavern Britton Street EC1 The Skinner's Arms 114 Judd Street WC1 The Boot 116 Cromer Street WC1 Mabel's Tavern 9 Mabledon Place WC1 The Victoria Cross The Victoria Park 360 Victoria Park Road E9 The Victo
ria & Albert Marylebone Station
Melcombe Place NW1 The Victoria Stakes 1 Muswell Hill N10 The Queen's Larder 1 Queen Square WC1N The Flying Scotsman The Angerstein Hotel 108 Woolwich Road SE10 The Old Bell Tavern 95 Fleet Street EC4 The Sutton Arms 6 Carthusian Street EC1 Williamson's Tavern 1 Groveland Court Bow Lane EC4 The Viaduc
t Tavern 126 Newgate Street EC1 The Tipperar
y 66 Fleet Street EC4 The Red Lion Waverton Street W1 The White Hart 89 Whitechapel High Street E1 The Crown & Anchor 137 Drummond Street NW1 The Royal Oak 73 Columbia Road E2 The Coach & Horses 29 Greek Street W1 The Green Man 383 Euston Road NW1 The Sun in the Sands 123 Shooters Hill Road SE3 The Sherlock Holmes 10-11 Northumberland Avenue WC2 The Old Bank of England 194 Fleet Street EC4 The Old King Lud 78 Ludgate Hill,EC4 The Nun & Broken Compass 42 Warren Street WC1 The Apple Tree 45 Mount Pleasant WC1 The Museum Tavern 49 Great Russell Street WC1 The Betsey Trotwood 56 Farringdon Road EC1 The Ship & Shovell 1-3 Craven Passage WC2 The Yorkshire Grey 29-33 Grays Inn Road WC1 The Plough 27 Museum Street WC1 The Water Rats 328 Gray's Inn Road WC1 The Queen's Head & Artichoke 30-32 Albany Street NW1 The Cross Keys 31 Endell Street WC2 The Bloomsbury Tavern 236 Shaftesbury Avenue WC2 The Exmouth Arms 23 Exmouth Market EC1 The Clock House 82 Leather Lane EC1 The Magpie & Stump 18 Old Bailey EC4 The White Lion 24 James Street WC2 The Hope & Anchor 74 Crowndale Road NW1 The Hope 94 Cowcross Street EC1

The great traditional pubs of London are disappearing as rapacious property developers move in. Some on the list above are under threat, and others have already been destroyed. You can help protect the city's unique social network by buying a few pints in one.