A single pedestrian coasted the corner ahead of him. Bryant narrowed his eyes and conducted the same observational survey on her. She was between forty-five and fifty, and would once have seemed old, branded invisible and treated brusquely by the inhabitants of the Victorian buildings around them. ‘She could very well pass for forty-three in the dusk with the light behind her,’ W. S. Gilbert had written of an attorney’s daughter in Trial by Jury. An unmemorable face, rounded and fattened by time, lined a little by care, or what was now termed stress. Mousy hair cropped close to her jaw-line, make-up a little too thick, small eyes downcast, head lost in thought. Her raincoat had seen better days, but her shoes were polished and of good quality. The heels suggested that she was conscious of her height, for she was small and broad-hipped. She looked like a council official. A bag on her shoulder, brown and shapeless, bulging with – what did women take with them these days? Documents, most likely, if she was returning from working late in an office. A drink after work, or rather drinks, for she appeared a little unsteady on those heels. Somebody’s leaving party, a birthday celebration. A mother, a wife, going home late and alone after a hard week, heading in the wrong direction for King’s Cross station.
Bryant watched as she stopped and looked up at the pub sign, then negotiated the kerb to the entrance. He slowed to watch through the window as she headed to the counter and a barman emerged to greet her, appearing like an actor taking his cue on a stage set.
There was nothing more to be noted here. Could it be that he was becoming less observant because there was less of interest to see in London these days? He needed the lights and noise of the station, where one could witness meetings and farewells, the discovered, the lost and the confounded. That was the best way to check whether his powers were truly waning. But he was tired, and as he passed into the covered alley that led out on to Euston Road, he decided to find a cab. It had been a long exhausting day, one that marked an end, and a new beginning that would not involve him. Appointments, resignations, speeches and arguments. And on top of all this, he had been entrusted with the ashes of his old colleague.
The ashes. Only now did he realize that he had no idea what had happened to the aluminium urn containing the remains of Oswald Finch.
7
* * *
RELIQUARY
‘Christ’s blood,’ said Dr Harold Masters testily, making the phrase sound like an oath. ‘Be honest with me, that’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it? You’re after information on some new pet hobby of yours. What was it last time – the whereabouts of some Egyptian sacrificial urn you thought was still floating about in the London canal system?’
Arthur Bryant had not expected the doctor to discern his purpose quite so quickly. ‘Could you slow down a bit? I’m not a marathon runner,’ he begged, hopping along beside the impossibly tall academic as they climbed the steps of the British Museum.
‘I lecture on ancient mythologies these days, Arthur, I’m not in haematology any more, unless you count the Athenian. Christ’s blood is one of those things like the Ark of the Covenant. It’s largely a Judeo-Christian habit, you know, venerating bits of wood and stains on cloths. Henry VIII supposedly owned the left leg of St George. I don’t suppose you’d catch Buddhists flogging each other bits of Gautama Buddha’s sandals in order to assuage their suffering.’
‘I have a good reason for asking,’ said Bryant. ‘I thought if anybody knew, you would. Your arcane knowledge is more far-reaching than any other academic’s. We’ve known each other for so long, and yet I never really get to sound out your knowledge.’
‘That’s because you don’t pay me.’
The grease-grey, soaking rain prevented students from sitting on the staircase, and the forecourt had the forlorn air of an abandoned temple. Only the man turning hot dogs on a griddle outside the museum gates seemed unfazed by the lousy weather. Masters was about to give a lecture on early London household gods, and was running late. He lowered his great emerald-panelled golfing umbrella to encompass Bryant.
‘It’s nothing new, you know, the attempt to trace the Scarlet Thread, the idea that man can only be brought into a covenant with God through the shedding of blood. My knowledge of haematology is of little help in such endeavours,’ he said hotly, as if defending himself. ‘Ever since all those books about the Knights Templars came out, I’ve been besieged by students with crackpot theories.’ The lanky lecturer tore off his tortoiseshell glasses with his free hand and wagged them at Bryant. ‘I tell them, “You think you’re the first person to go searching for hidden treasures in London? Why, you’re just the latest in a long line of would-be plunderers armed with an Ordnance Survey map and a few scraps of historically inaccurate data.” Really, Arthur, I would have expected something better from you.’ He stopped so suddenly that Bryant ran into him. ‘Do you know, I still have Bunthorne?’