‘Over here,’ called May, who was standing by the opposite wall. An entire collection of Punch & Judy puppets was arranged along it at head height. Only one was missing from its hook.
‘Looks like Mr Punch decided to go for a walk,’ said Bryant. ‘How did it get off the wall and over to the cot inside a locked room?’
‘The parents had probably been amusing their child and forgot to put it back,’ said May.
‘Rather a grotesque thing to wave at a baby, isn’t it? After all, it’s a very valuable antique, not a kiddies’ plaything. It would probably have made him burst into tears.’ Bryant knew a thing or two about making children cry. ‘So what’s it doing on the floor?’
‘Don’t read too much into this, Arthur.’
‘I can’t help it.’ Despite Banbury’s look of horror, Bryant raised the figure high and wiggled it. The puppet’s movements were unnervingly realistic. ‘After all, what’s one of the first things Mr Punch does in the play?’
Renfield and May looked at each other.
‘He throws the baby out the window,’ replied Bryant.
In the great glass lounge, the mood had turned to confusion and a determination among the guests to be seen behaving properly in extraordinary circumstances. Coffee had been served and groups had formed in various parts of the room, seated on extra chairs supplied by the waiters. For now at least, the attitude was one of civilized calm, as if they were commuters in a stalled train.
Unsurprisingly, Arthur Bryant and John May were greeted with curious looks. Bryant was wrapped in a seaweed-green scarf and had his ancient soaked trilby pulled down over his ears. John May was tailored with inappropriate elegance, from his white Gieves & Hawkes shirt to his Lobb Oxford shoes, but both men were of retirement age and bore no resemblance to traditional officers of the law.
‘May I have your attention?’ May called. ‘This is Mr Bryant, I’m Mr May. I know it’s getting late, but we hope to be able to release you just as soon as we’ve established the order of tonight’s events. First of all, let me explain why we’re here. We belong to a specialist Unit that has taken over from the Westminster Metropolitan Police, owing to certain unusual circumstances connected with this investigation.’
‘And what are those?’ asked Russell Haddon, the theatre’s director.
‘We’re not able to give you full details, but we can tell you this. It is highly unlikely that Noah Kramer’s death was an accident. He appears to have died as the result of a vicious and callous attack. However, it’s very unusual to have such a specific margin of opportunity occurring in this kind of situation.’
‘Meaning?’
‘There’s no easy access from the outside of the building. The front door was locked and answered by a security guard who admitted only those who had been invited to the party. He checked in a total of thirty-five guests, plus waiters and a chef. It appears no-one else came in or left. Now, we know that Mrs Kramer checked on her son at around eight-forty P.M., and that the discovery of her tragic loss occurred just before nine-twenty P.M. We now need to establish whether any of you left this room in the intervening forty minutes.’
‘You’re saying we’re all suspects,’ said Mona Williams loudly.
‘Well, obviously,’ snapped Bryant, rolling his eyes. ‘We didn’t come around for cocktails, did we?’
‘I think that’s a very inappropriate remark to make under the circumstances.’
‘Let me handle this,’ May told his partner before turning to the assembled gathering. ‘Naturally the enquiry will be treated in confidence. If any of you left the room tonight for whatever reason, we need to know when, why and for how long. You can provide us with the details on these extra pages.’ He held up a sheaf of notepaper. ‘As soon as you’ve done that, you’ll be able to leave.’
Gail Strong accepted one of the sheets as they were handed out. She glanced at Marcus Sigler, making sure that he understood she was about to lie. The actor sent the faintest of nods in her direction, and turned to providing his own alibi.
The gabled gingerbread house behind the graveyard of St Pancras Old Church was finished in orange bricks and maroon tiles, and appeared to have been designed by the Brothers Grimm. Plane trees and rowans hung over it with branches like claws that scrabbled at the windows, leaking sap and dripping rainwater so that moss and lichen grew in abundant clumps about the eaves, gradually consuming it. A miserable-looking heron balanced forlornly at its gate, and a pair of moorhens had bundled themselves against the downpour inside a bucket by the door. This bucolic night tableau was all the more remarkable for being just two miles from Piccadilly Circus, and no more than a three-minute walk from Europe’s largest railway terminus.