The hammering recommenced. Bimsley peered over the top of a charge sheet at Mangeshkar. For months now he had made a fool of himself over her, and just as they were starting to find common ground, a fresh source of disagreement was appearing between them. When he thought of all the time he had wasted trying to win her over, he could have kicked himself.
Let her side with Renfield, he thought, what the hell do I care? Why did I ever think she was even remotely interested? Since the day she swaggered in here ordering me about, I’ve gone out of my way to be as nice as possible. I’ve been barking up the wrong tree. There are plenty of decent women I could date. I’m all right, me. Turning to the evening paper, his eye was taken by an advertisement for a speed-dating club, meeting tomorrow night. He threw her an angry glance and jotted down the details.
April looked at the picture she had drawn from Bryant’s careful description. It showed a public house with cream tiles and a wrought-iron lantern over the only entrance, and a hanging sign with a depiction of a medal on it. The chipped brown paintwork of the double doors had been covered with brass hand-plates. The bar beyond the windows was shallow and high, with a large clock at the centre adorned with Roman numerals.
She glanced across at the image he had found in his book of public houses. The building was identical, down to the smallest detail, except that the original sign featuring a side portrait of Queen Victoria had been replaced.
What bothered her most, though, was the clock. She could read a single word on its face: Newgate. The hands were set at two minutes past eleven, the same time Bryant had given her from his memory of the night. After searching architectural websites, she had located several other maps and sketches, all from different angles, showing the saloon and public bars with different interiors, in different stages of its life, but not one of them showed the clock. The photograph in Bryant’s possession was the only one to feature it, which suggested that he had previously noted the picture in the book and subconsciously copied it. April’s grandfather had taught her to always trust his partner, even when Bryant’s theories seemed maddeningly obscure, but for the first time doubt was starting to creep into her mind.
‘Do you remember where you put your socks, Mr Bryant?’ asked Alma Sorrowbridge. His Antiguan former landlady stood before him, blocking the way, her meaty hands placed on her broad hips.
Bryant eyed her warily over the top of his reading glasses. In matters of the home, a woman in a pinafore was not to be trifled with. ‘I imagine they’re in the laundry basket, where I place them at the end of each evening,’ he answered with some care, knowing this could be a trick question.
‘I ask because they were not, in fact, in the laundry basket. They were inside my oven, and I am seized with the urge to ponder what they might be doing there.’
Bryant thought for a moment. ‘Are you sure?’
‘On the top shelf above my cornbread, three navy-blue pairs.’
‘I think I must have washed them, and wanted to dry them quickly.’
‘So you grilled them. You’ve been getting very forgetful lately. You didn’t tell me my sister called last night.’
‘That’s because I don’t like her,’ said Bryant. ‘If I tell you she rings, you’ll call and invite her over, and then I’ll have to hide in my room for hours while you two bake and sing hymns. Do you really think I’ve been more forgetful lately?’
Alma detected a note of concern in her old tenant’s voice. ‘You’ve had a lot on your mind. And you’re always stuffing your head with history from those old books you read. There’s only so much room in a person’s brain.’
‘I saw a murder victim in a place that doesn’t even exist any more,’ he admitted miserably. ‘And I lost our pathologist’s ashes. I was entrusted with looking after them, but forgot to take them home with me at the end of the wake.’
‘You run a unit full of detectives,’ said Alma. ‘John’s granddaughter, she’s a clever one. Give her the job of finding them.’
Bryant smiled. ‘What would I do without you?’ he asked.
‘You’d be getting evicted by Camden’s health and safety officers, and run out of this house by neighbours with burning torches, for all the experiments you’ve kept them awake with and the disgusting smells you’ve made,’ Alma told him. ‘Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and start solving something.’
‘It’s all very well for you,’ Bryant wheedled, ‘you remember every single thing that ever happened to you, particularly if it was my fault. You do it so you can bear the grudge for ever. But my brain cells aren’t like yours, they’re like footprints on wet sand. They only last for the length of a single tide. I need to improve my memory.’