Read The Memory of Blood Online
Authors: Christopher Fowler
The Memory of Blood (42 page)
With a heavy heart, he dug out his keys and let himself into 231 Caledonian Road. He absentmindedly stroked Crippen, who was waiting on the stairs. The glossy black cat rubbed its back against his legs and followed him along the labyrinthine corridors to his office. Land disconsolately noted the newly painted walls in an odd variety of mismatched colours—the nice plain white had turned out to be undercoat. He stepped over the lethally warped floorboards, and breathed the smell of beer and stale pipe smoke that hung in the air. Nobody else was in yet.
He went into the office that Bryant and May had commandeered. May’s desk was obsessively neat, the electronic gadgets arranged in rows, recharging, a few piles of paperwork squared off to the corners of his workspace.
Bryant’s half of the room was the opposite. A black candle had dripped rank wax over his chased-silver Tibetan skull, making it smell even worse. A piece of mouldering tannis root dangled from a carapace over his filthy, barely used computer. Wavering stacks of esoteric books threatened to fall. A stuffed weasel with only one eye leered from a bowed bookcase. Two dozen minor Indian gods carved from coloured chalks were randomly scattered over his ink-stained papers. The receiver of his telephone had somehow been burned and had become fused with its base. An odiferous lime and purple chemical compound was sprouting in a Tupperware dish. The power point under his desk had been
held open with the blade of a kitchen knife so that he could leave a light burning over his hydroponic marijuana plant. A hardback book lay open by his keyboard. Land idly examined the chapter Bryant had been reading;
Knife Wounds 6: Identifying Weapons from Entry Stabs Section B: Cuts to the Face & Eyes
. He sighed wearily.
His eye fell upon Madame Blavatsky. She seemed to be perfectly at home in here. He wandered over to it, checked the coin slot and dug out an old penny. Dropping it in, he watched as the seer rummaged awkwardly for a card and dropped it into the delivery tray. He reached in and picked it up.
It read:
YOUR WIFE IS HAVING AFFAIRS BEHIND YOUR BACK
Startled, he shoved the card back in the tray.
He looked back at Madame Blavatsky. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he said aloud.
The clairvoyant winked at him grotesquely. One of her eyes was shorting out, causing her hand to tremble. Suddenly she spoke. ‘Your wife, Leanne, is not in Wales, Raymond, she’s at the Regent Palace Hotel with her Spanish flamenco instructor. You will find them checked in under the name of Cheryl and Roger Boothby.’ Blavatsky’s voice was low and ominous, and seemed to come from a place far within the cold earth.
‘How do you know this?’ Land asked.
‘Don’t be stupid, I’m a clairvoyant. I see all.’
‘What should I do?’
‘I tell you nothing you have not suspected before. You must face your demons.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Go there at once, before they leave the room. Confront her. Take back control of your life. The power is in your hands.’
‘You’re right,’ said Land, suddenly filled with conviction. ‘By God, you’re right. I should have done this a long time ago.’ He turned on his heel and quickly left the room.
Arthur Bryant emerged from his place inside the old armchair that he had turned to face the wall. He yawned and stretched.
‘I say, I say, I say,’ said Madame Blavatsky. ‘Did you hear about my clairvoyant friend Madame Raya? She won the lottery. I said to her, “Well done, Medium Raya.” ’
‘What on earth’s going on?’ asked John May, coming in and throwing his newspaper onto his desk.
‘Oh, years ago Dudley Salterton taught me ventriloquism,’ Bryant replied. ‘I went to see Maggie Armitage to get my memory back, and her treatment made me remember his lessons. I got bored sticking little hints on Madame Blavatsky’s cards—Raymondo’s so hopeless I knew he’d never get the message—so I made the old dear tell him about Leanne. He’s gone off to sort her out. He completely fell for it.’
May made a sound of disapproval but was not really surprised. ‘Arthur, you are completely incorrigible.’
‘I should hope so. It’s one of the few benefits of my age. Anyway, I’ve nothing better to do. Ray Pryce is behind bars. My desk is clear once more. Except—’
‘I know,’ said May. ‘But you’re not going to be able to sort this one out. It’s far too big.’
‘I know, but I have to find a way, John. I can’t leave her murder on my conscience.’
‘You wouldn’t be fighting an individual over Anna Marquand’s death. You’d be taking on the entire British government. You’re not a political animal, Arthur. You’d be beaten.’
‘I wouldn’t do it alone,’ said Bryant.
‘No,’ May agreed. ‘I wouldn’t let you do it alone. We’re a team. But whatever the outcome, you know it would be our final investigation. It would be the end of us.’
‘Yes, I know that. But still, I think I have to do it.’
‘Then I’ll do it with you,’ said May. ‘We’ll find a way to put things right somehow.’
‘There’s always another fight, isn’t there?’ said Bryant. ‘You strip away one mask and find another beneath it.’
‘That’s this city for you. It’s filled with infinite impossibilities, but it has survived for more than two thousand years, and it’ll still be here long after we’ve gone. There’s one small consolation.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It will remember your name, Arthur. You did something with your life. London remembers all those who make a difference.’
‘So you think we should go out with a bang?’ Bryant asked. He raised one dangerously mischievous eyebrow.
‘Why not?’ said May, unable to contain a rueful smile. ‘That was the way we came in, wasn’t it?’
This book is a small wedding gift for Martin Butterworth,
wishing you a universe of merriment and joy
.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Old (and new) readers will notice that Bryant & May books aren’t like other detective series—they can be read out of sequence (in fact, they sometimes benefit from it), and I cheekily incorporate suggestions from readers. I have a feeling that if I tipped Bryant & May over the Reichenbach Falls they’d find a way to climb back up. Every time I prepare to send them to their deaths, they win a reprieve and fight on.
This time I owe their survival to my marvelous editor, Kate Miciak, who always believed in the characters and willed them back into existence. I also love the way she writes ‘Yowza!’ in a green starburst when she comes across a chapter she enjoys. Writers crave this kind of encouragement. I’d like to thank my US agent, Howard Morhaim, for his unflagging enthusiasm, and my UK agent, Mandy Little, for always remaining, without question, a true believer. These are interesting times for publishing, and authors need all the help they can get. On that score I’d like to thank the book clubs of America for championing the series and providing a lifeline for authors like me. A big shout out to Jennifer Siegel and Michele Slung, for their New York support group.
As always, the least likely-sounding facts in this novel are, in fact, true.
For further information, visit:
PECULIAR CRIMES UNIT MYSTERIES
BY CHRISTOPHER FOWLER
Full Dark House
The Water Room
Seventy-Seven Clocks
Ten Second Staircase
White Corridor
The Victoria Vanishes
Bryant & May on the Loose
Bryant & May off the Rails
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C
HRISTOPHER
F
OWLER
is the acclaimed author of nine novels in the Peculiar Crimes Unit series, including
Bryant & May on the Loose
and
Bryant & May off the Rails
. He has been nominated by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association for the Dilys Winn Award, given to the book that booksellers most enjoyed selling.
The Victoria Vanishes
was also nominated for best novel by the British Fantasy Society and won Crimefest’s Last Laugh award for funniest mystery novel. Fowler lives and writes in London.