“Then I think Anna knew what her mother was like and was careful at home. I don’t think it’s very likely that she would have used the knife without washing it first. Wait. The shopping bag was taken away from her and returned.”
“That’s right. The mother says Anna came out of the house and found it on the back step.”
“Can we get everything in it tested?”
“I’ll do it right now.”
Longbright ran the bag up to Banbury, who was working in the makeshift laboratory he had been rigging on the floor above. She explained the problem as Dan debouched the shopping items. “Give me a couple of hours,” said Dan. “I’m sorry, I should have done this at the outset.”
“You had no reason to be suspicious then,” Longbright reminded him.
At six-thirty p.m. he came down to find her. “You were right. It’s in the bread,” he said.
“The bread wasn’t in the shopping bag I gave you.”
“No, it was in the shopping bag originally, but she took it out to make a sandwich. I just had the remains of the loaf brought over from the house. It was still in her mother’s cupboard, untouched. The cut on Anna’s finger was incidental. She ingested poison. Not tetanus but strychnine. It’s quite similar in chemical structure. Hendrick wouldn’t have expected to test for that. He went with the most likely cause of death.”
“We should call the supermarket and warn them.”
“No, I mean it’s in the bread. Injected into it. I found a pinprick in the plastic covering that corresponds to an indentation on the crust, both with traces of poison. It got to her internally. Anna Marquand had a bleeding ulcer. The poison killed her in a fairly short space of time. So I think you can call Giles and tell him the cause of death was strychnine poisoning. The mugger took the bag and returned it with a lethal addition.”
“This is much bigger than a mugging,” said Longbright. “The girl in the house, the man in the alley. There are others involved.”
∨ The Memory of Blood ∧
38
Hypnotized
Maggie Armitage, Grand Order Grade IV White Witch of the Coven of St James the Elder, Kentish Town, was having problems of her own. “We’ve got sprites,” she complained as she opened the door to Arthur Bryant. “Come in but be careful. They’re everywhere, getting into the cupboards and breaking things. They’re especially fond of custard.”
“Are you talking about mice?” said Bryant, checking to see if he’d brought his hearing aid. He rarely used it in the PCU building because it kept picking up old episodes of Hancock’s Half Hour, which was very distracting.
“No, these are white and made of discarded ectoplasm, but they have little legs and can really shift. They appeared after a seance and now we can’t get rid of them. I can’t see them but Daphne swears she can, ever since her accident. She says they moved into the back of the television, but something has repelled them. The poor quality of programmes, I imagine. It’s nice to see you, give me a kiss.”
Bryant proffered his cheek and received a lipstick brand.
“How are you getting on in your new building? Had any manifestations yet?”
“What of?”
“Oh, the usual things that get left behind after a seance. Spirit dregs. Every building keeps a ghost imprint of its past and for over a decade yours was full of people contacting the dead, so you must have all sorts of things floating about in there. Don’t you hear strange noises at night?”
“All the time, but I think it’s mostly Raymond swearing.”
“The signs of manifestation include speaking in tongues, the gift of prophecy and damage to skirting boards,” said Maggie. “I’ll come over with my thermal scanner one evening. I suppose you’re here wanting information. There was a time when you’d pop by for my banana treacle trifle, but these days you just use me as a resource.”
“I’ll have some trifle if it’s going, but I do have a question for you. Do you know anything about stage magic, how the effects are achieved?”
“A fair bit. Shakespeare was a dab hand, Banquo’s ghost pointing an accusing finger at his killer, that sort of thing. Early melodramas often materialized pale, melancholy figures from behind folding doors. Sometimes they burst sachets of blood under their white gowns. But I think the Victorians did it best. They had phantasmagoria, magic lantern shows which projected images of the dead onto smoke, looming menacingly over the spectators. And in 1863 there was Pepper’s ghost, of course.”
“What was that?”
“Oh, that was a marvellous effect by all accounts. Professor John Pepper lit a sheet of glass so that it looked like people were walking through walls and gliding across the set. Thanks to the illusion, the London stage was soon awash with disappearing ladies, dancing skeletons and babbling severed heads. And they came up with something called the ‘ghost glide’. An actor would ascend through the floor of the stage, moving forward without taking a single step. Of course, most mediums were more like stage magicians than real psychics. Why do you want to know?”
“We’re dealing with a very peculiar case.”
“Well, that is your remit, isn’t it? The peculiar?”
“It was never meant to be,” Bryant admitted. “Anyway, it’s not why I’m here. I have another problem. I need you to hypnotize me. I have to recall something I’ve forgotten.”
“Oh, that’s easy enough. Didn’t I regress you to your past lives once?”
“Yes. You went back too far. I couldn’t speak, remember?”
“Oh that’s right, I think I turned you into protoplasm. It’s not my fault you’re so susceptible. Go and make yourself comfortable on the chaise longue, I’ll brew us some seaweed tea. What exactly do you need to remember?”
“I gave all my file notes to the girl who was helping me with my memoirs. I told her I remembered everything, but I don’t. Now she’s dead and I need to find out what it was in those notes that killed her.”
“Well, that’s as clear as mud. You weren’t there when her soul departed, were you?”
“No.”
“Good, I can’t be dealing with a case of possession tonight, I haven’t got enough salt. You need to recover what you wrote, yes? So let’s go back through the process. Hang on a minute.”
She returned with bowls of tea the colour of a rough sea and a covered plate. “Take a couple of these first. They’ll help you relax.”
“What are they?” Bryant peeked under a tea towel.
“Custard creams. They always work for me. Now, you need to find yourself in a comfortable place.”
“I can’t, I’m in your house.”
“I mean, imagine you’re on a beach.”
Bryant closed his eyes, laced his fingers and lay back. “All right, Hastings.”
“Not Hastings. Not somewhere with a burnt-down pier and a juvenile delinquency problem. Pick somewhere warm, safe and relaxing.”
“All right, I’m at home with Alma, sitting in front of the fire, reading my copy of London’s Disused Underground Stations 1920-1959 Volume 3, the annotated version.”
“You don’t have to tell me everything, just imagine it. It’s warm and you’re feeling sleepy. Your heartbeat is slowing down – ”
Bryant opened one eye. “Is that a good idea?”
“It’s fine. You’re relaxed. You’re starting to fall asleep.”
Bryant promptly fell asleep.
“No, you’re not supposed to actually fall asleep. Wake up.”
Bryant released a snore. His head lolled. Maggie slapped his face gently. Then harder.
“Ow. What’s happening? Did you do it?”
“You fell asleep.”