highwaymen travelling out of town through Hampstead. Dick Turpin had regularly held up the coaches using it. It would seem that this particular horseman threatened the tavern’s entire clientele, then began shooting them dead when they refused to hand over their money and jewellery. The interesting part comes afterwards, for he appears to have drowned during his escape. He attempted to cross the Fleet, but the river rose suddenly and cut him off in mid stream. The horse stumbled, throwing him into the fast-moving water. His body was never recovered.’
‘Mrs Quinten, I can’t start believing that the ghost of a drowned highwayman is bumping off twenty-first-century residents, however much I’d like to—my partner would kill me.’
‘Then I don’t see how I can help you.’
‘Thanks anyway.’ He attempted a smile. ‘It was a long shot, but I feel happier for having covered it.’ He was closing the volume when his eye drifted to the page that followed. ‘Life and Times of Dr William Stukeley, the Celebrated Antiquary.’ He read down the column a little, reaching the Latin inscription that had been set above the antiquary’s front door.
Me dulcis saturet quies,
Obscuro positus loco,
Leni perfruar otio,
Chyndonax Druida.
‘Chyndonax—I’ve seen that word before in relation to Druid ceremonies.’ Bryant wondered if he still had the unit’s spare mobile, and was amazed to find it intact in his jacket pocket, even though there were sherbet lemons stuck to it.
‘Maggie? I hope I’m calling at a convenient time. You’re not summoning up dead jockeys for racing tips again?’
The white witch often conducted séances at around this hour on a Sunday.
‘Oh, you’re watching the wrestling. Listen, you’re good with Druids, aren’t you? Dr William Stukeley, resident of Kentish Town near Emmanuel Hospital for the Reception of the Blind— Chyndonax Druida, he had the words engraved over his porch because they were important to him . . . good woman, I knew you’d know.’
He listened for a minute and rang off.
‘Well?’ asked Mrs Quinten, intrigued.
‘I’m afraid it won’t mean much to you. It isn’t what I expected at all. Thank you for your time, and for the tea, although I’m not sure about those heartburn-inducing biscuits. Perhaps we could meet again. It’s pleasing to find a kindred spirit. My card.’
Mrs Quinten looked at it, perplexed. ‘This is a ticket for the rotor at Battersea funfair, priced 1/6d. It expired in 1967.’
‘I’m sorry, it’s an old coat. Try this one.’ He hadn’t made the effort to be charming for quite a while, and was out of practice.
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Quinten, taking the PCU’s number. ‘I hope we meet again.’
41
* * *
ABANDONED SOULS
Monica Greenwood and John May stood before the statues of conjoined children with penile noses and tried to look shocked, but the effort was too much. ‘I enjoy sensation-art,’ said Monica, ‘but when the sensation wears off you’re left with very little to admire except technique.’
May knew he should have cancelled their Sunday-afternoon arrangement to visit the gallery together, but had fallen under her spell. Even though he had promised to return to the PCU within an hour, Bryant was unmollified.
Monica shifted around to examine the statue from another angle. ‘I loved the new British artists at first. Even after Rachel Whiteread had concreted negative space for the fifth time, I still felt there was something fresh happening. But then it just became about money, and left little of abiding interest. I suppose that’s the point; every sensation dies. But why must it?’
‘I never had you pegged for a Royal Academy reactionary,’ teased May.
‘I’m not. I’ve no interest in the chocolate-box ceilings of Tiepolo, but I’d rather stare at them for a fortnight than one of Damien Hirst’s spin paintings. Do you want me to leave my husband?’
‘I hardly think it’s a fit subject for discussion while he’s sitting at home with a bandaged head,’ May pointed out.
‘That’s a pretty feeble excuse. His ego took most of the battering. He’ll never change. He’s only worried about his colleagues finding out.’
‘Well, I feel guilty. I should have been there to protect him instead of leaving the job to Arthur.’
‘What difference would it really have made? Now you have a charge on which to hold Ubeda, assuming he ever surfaces again, and Gareth has been frightened away from illegal activities until the next time someone appeals to his vanity.’
Monica blew a lock of hair away from her face. The gallery was overheated and bright, hardly the best place for a romantic meeting. ‘I consider myself a modern woman, but just