and one transient have died, while another is in hiding. An old Indian lady, a builder, a television producer, a homeless alcoholic. They have absolutely nothing in common with one another except their location. It leads me to assume that they were attacked not for who they were, but simply because they were here at all. I asked myself what was so special about this place, beyond the fact that it seems to suffer from a surfeit of water, then wondered if that was it. Water rising from below, falling from the sky, soaking into the walls of houses. But if that is the connection, what on earth does it mean? Which leads me to ask if you have anything in your historical records that reveals a precedent for such violent behaviour in the area. Has it happened before, perhaps the last time the streets flooded?’
‘Ah, I’m with you now,’ said Mrs Quinten finally. ‘Feel free to delve into the biscuit barrel while I go and look.’
She returned with an immense folder of newspaper cuttings, which she dropped on to the kitchen table in a cloud of fine dust.
‘Are you allergic? I hope not. This one has been on top of the wardrobe for years.’ She folded back the front cover, wiping it with her sleeve. ‘I think you’ll find that the same three roads around here have flooded every thirty years or so.’
‘When was the last time?’ Bryant unfolded his glasses and pinned back the clippings.
‘1975. Before that, 1942. Covering over the Fleet didn’t stop it from flooding. The council can’t do anything about it. They thought that drains added at the time of the new London ring-main would help, but there’s a gentleman in Balaklava Street who works for the Water Board, and he reckons it’s due to happen again.’
‘Oliver Wilton,’ said Bryant. ‘You know him?’
‘Yes, he belongs to our society. Gave a talk last year about the problem. He’s an expert on the subject. Very passionate about it. He has maps showing the exact patterns of flooding.’ She turned a page and pointed to an article taken from the Camden New Journal. ‘Here you are. Bayham Street, Archibald Road, Balaklava Street. Bayham Street was one of the poorest roads in the whole of London. Charles Dickens lodged there when he came up from Chatham. It was so wet that the weeds came up through the paving stones and split them clean in half.’
‘When was this?’
‘Around 1822. At one end of the street was the Red Cap tea garden, named after the local witch. A lot of people thought the place was haunted by her and her familiars. Old photographs show how grim and unlit the side streets were, and naturally there were many fights and murders in such a poverty-stricken area. Bayham Street is better than it was, but there are still muggings, car thefts, drug-dealing, and the odd murder, as I’m sure you know. Archibald Road went during the War, firebombed out of existence—all that’s there now is a car showroom and an estate agent’s office. There were sightings of ghosts there before the War, but it was a time when everyone seemed to see phantoms, almost as if they were having premonitions of the terrible times ahead. And there had been sensational cases widely reported, like the haunting of Borley Rectory, so strange sightings in local neighbourhoods made good press copy. Look.’ She tapped a nicotine-coloured photograph showing a brick flying through the air. ‘The Rectory hoax would fool no one today. Attention-seekers staged these ridiculous stunts, hysterical parlour maids saw ladies in white, old gentlemen swore they saw Cavaliers walk through walls. People can be so silly in times of social panic; how quickly they all start to agree with one another. Perhaps we should look at more recent events. This might interest you.’ She carefully emptied an envelope of cuttings and unfolded them. ‘A railway worker murdered his wife and children in Inkerman Street, no reason ever given—he died in a mental institution.’
‘Arrested in October 1975,’ said Bryant. ‘The time of the last flood. What about the previous occasion?’
‘I don’t think we have anything on that date, but there’s something from much earlier.’ She pulled a large volume bound in crimson leather, one of six, from the kitchen bookcase. ‘Walford’s Old and New London, probably the best set of reference books ever published on London. Here we are: “Ghastly murder at the Castle Tavern in 1815”. The route had long been popular with