Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
About the Author
Praise for Christopher Fowler’s
Also by Christopher Fowler
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Peculiar Crimes Unit
Staff Bulletins
The Victoria Vanishes
1. Asleep in the Stars
2. The First Farewell
3. End Times
4. Brinkmanship
5. Mortality
6. Observation
7. Reliquary
8. Introductions
9. Random Acts of Slaughter
10. The Victoria Vanishes
11. Mistaken
12. Ecdysiast
13. Forgetting
14. Disposal
15. Visible Evil
16. The Heart of London
17. Asleep in the Trees
18. Pub Crawl
19. Conspirators
20. Irrationality
21. Dating and Dancing
22. Questions and Answers
23. Vandalism
24. Hangovers
25. Rite of Passage
26. Nomenclature
27. Last Orders
28. Maternity
29. Wraith
30. Solidarity
31. The Angerstein
32. Pigmentation
33. Conspiracy
34. Gazumped
35. Interpretation
36. Greater Darkness
37. Open and Shut
38. Disappearance
39. Security
40. Recollection
41. The Path of Hope
42. Blood Money
43. Beneath the Antiquities
44. Accountability
46. Guerrilla Tactics
47. Pandora’s Box
48. The Last Farewell
49. The Colour of Blood
50. Ashes to Ashes
Appendix
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Epub ISBN: 9781407093925
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THE VICTORIA VANISHES
A BANTAM BOOK: 9780553817997
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Doubleday an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Bantam edition published 2009
Copyright © Christopher Fowler 2008
Christopher Fowler has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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About the Author
Christopher Fowler is the acclaimed author of sixteen novels, including the Bryant & May mysteries Full Dark House – winner of the 2004 BFS August Derleth Award for Best Novel, The Water Room – nominated for the CWA People’s Choice Dagger Award, Seventy-Seven Clocks and Ten-Second Staircase, each available in Bantam paperback. He lives in London’s King’s Cross.
His new Bryant & May novel, Bryant and May on the Loose, is now available from Doubleday.
For more information on Christopher Fowler and his books, see his website at: www.christopherfowler.co.uk
www.rbooks.co.uk
Praise for Christopher Fowler’s
Bryant & May mysteries:
‘Witty, sinuous and darkly comedic storytelling from a Machiavellian jokester’
Guardian
‘Exciting and thoughtful . . . one of our most unorthodox and entertaining writers’
Sunday Telegraph
‘Atmospheric, hugely beguiling and as filled with tricks and sleights of hand as a magician’s sleeve . . . a combination of Ealing comedy and grand opera: witty, charismatic, occasionally touching and with a genuine power to thrill’
Joanne Harris
‘Very cleverly plotted . . . simultaneously scary and alluring’
Daily Telegraph Books of the Year
‘An imaginative fun house of a world where sage minds go to expand their vistas and sharpen their wits . . . life always seems livelier whenever Arthur Bryant and John May are on the case!’
New York Times Book Review
‘Fowler shocks and frightens, while making us laugh out
loud . . . original, erudite and exciting’
Good Book Guide
‘Fowler’s fresh and unusual characters breathe new life into an established genre in which it’s getting harder and harder to find anything genuinely fresh’
Booklist
‘Madcap mystery . . . crazy and great fun for it’
Los Angeles Times
‘This most unusual and impressive detecting duo . . . Fowler’s wit and visual acuity combine for entertaining and thrilling results’
Chicago Tribune
‘Christopher Fowler has offered his readership so much beyond a well-crafted British crime story . . . [he] will stretch your mind and leave you with a feeling of accomplishment after the final page is turned’
The Mystery Reader
‘Places Fowler in the first rank of contemporary mystery writers’
Publishers Weekly
‘Wartime London is conjured up with unique skill . . . Fowler’s powers of description are enviable’
Independent on Sunday
Also by Christopher Fowler
Novels
ROOFWORLD
RUNE
RED BRIDE
DARKEST DAY
SPANKY
PSYCHOVILLE
DISTURBIA
SOHO BLACK
CALABASH
BREATHE
FULL DARK HOUSE
THE WATER ROOM
SEVENTY-SEVEN CLOCKS
WHITE CORRIDOR
THE VICTORIA VANISHES
BRYANT AND MAY ON THE LOOSE
Graphic Novel
MENZ NSANA
Short Stories
CITY JITTERS
CITY JITTERS TWO
THE BUREAU OF LOST SOULS
SHARPER KNIVES
FLESH WOUNDS
PERSONAL DEMONS
UNCUT
THE DEVIL IN ME
DEMONIZED
For Steven, my brother and friend
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My editor Simon Taylor has been with Bryant and May from the outset, and remains as tenacious as my sleuths, although he has the tougher job because he’s not fictional. Likewise, my agent Mandy Little continues to venture forth into the twilight criminal world of publishing to fight evil-doers. Meg Davis, my film and TV agent, is soft of voice but firm in her resolve to find new fans of Bryant and May. Thanks, too, to Kate Samano, whose knowledge of the PCU is now probably greater than mine, and to Claire Ward for providing visuals to this world.
Special thanks go to Jan Briggs, for the knowledge of London she gained on the beat and has been so willing to share, to Michele Slung, who advised and accompanied me on the pub crawl in the book (sorry you got your purse nicked), to Simon Rennie, who knows a lot about Londoners from both sides of the bar, to Maggie Armitage, the nicest woman ever to be turned into a witch, to Sally Chapman, my great friend and spookily efficient PA, and to Pete Chapman, for pretty much everything else.
No mention of mysterious murder would be complete without the field experts, Mike Cane, Barry Forshaw and Ali Karim. Finally, thanks to all the bloggers, reviewers and readers who do it for the love of the game.
The Victoria Vanishes takes place in London’s quirkiest public houses. Since writing the book, some of these have already been destroyed or badly converted by greedy developers. The remaining ones are worth visiting, but I could have filled another volume with equally interesting venues. For more information visit: www.christopherfowler.co.uk
‘It is most absurdly said, in popular language, of any man, that he is disguised in liquor; for, on the contrary, most men are disguised by sobriety.’
Thomas de Quincey
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
PECULIAR CRIMES UNIT
1b Hampstead Rd
London NW1 0JP
DUTY ROSTER FOR MONDAY 26th FEBRUARY
Raymond Land, Acting Temporary Unit Chief
Arthur Bryant, Senior Detective
John May, Senior Detective
Janice Longbright, Detective Sergeant
Dan Banbury, Crime Scene Manager/Information Technology
Giles Kershaw, Forensics/Pathology
Meera Mangeshkar, Detective Constable
Colin Bimsley, Detective Constable
April May, Office Manager/Liaison
PLEASE NOTE THAT THE OFFICE WILL BE CLOSING AT 4.00 P.M. TODAY, IN ORDER TO ALLOW STAFF TO ATTEND THE FUNERAL OF OUR PATHOLOGIST, OSWALD ELIAS FINCH.
A NON-DENOMINATIONAL SERVICE WILL BE CONDUCTED AT ST PANCRAS OLD CHURCH AT 4.30 P.M.
DRINKS WILL BE SERVED UPSTAIRS AT THE DEVEREUX PUB, OFF ESSEX STREET, THE STRAND, FROM 6.00 P.M.
IN ACCORDANCE WITH MR FINCH’S WISHES, PLEASE DO NOT SEND FLOWERS TO THE CHURCH. INSTEAD, YOU CAN MAKE CONTRIBUTIONS TO:
C/O NHS Trust Ward ES
Psychiatric Unit
Broadhampton Hospital
Lavender Hill
London
SE5 8AZ
STAFF BULLETINS
We are in the process of clearing out the Bayham Street Morgue and refitting it as a Grade 4 ‘Secure Hygiene’ area, so personal items may no longer be kept here. This notice especially applies to the person who left a box of Maynard’s ‘Olde Tyme’ wine gums and a jar of Branston Pickle in one of the cadaver drawers.
Next Monday the PCU Film Club will be showing It Always Rains on Sunday with Googie Withers. This was Sergeant Longbright’s choice, so all those who were expecting a screening of the new Martin Scorsese film should address their complaints to her.
Please read the new recommended guidelines on suspect searches and confiscation of property. Suspects have rights, apparently, even if you think they might have cut off someone’s head and left it in their fridge. Don’t blame me, I don’t make the rules.
This Thursday’s evening class, to be given by Raymond Land on ‘Policework and the Power of Positive Thinking’, has been cancelled due to lack of interest.
Please note that sardines in sunflower oil do not agree with Crippen, as the person who stacked their outgoing mail near his litter tray will discover to their disadvantage.
1
* * *
ASLEEP IN THE STARS
She had four and a half minutes left to live.
She sat alone at the cramped bar of the Seven Stars and stared forlornly into her third empty glass of the evening, feeling invisible.
The four-hundred-year-old public house was tucked behind the Royal Courts of Justice. It had been simply furnished with a few small tables, wooden settles and framed posters of old British courtroom movies. Miss Curtis had been coming here for years, ever since she had first become a legal secretary, but every time she walked through the door, she imagined her father’s disapproval of her drinking alone in a London pub. It wasn’t something a vicar’s daughter should do.
Hemmed in by barristers and clerks, she could not help wondering if this was all that would be left for her now. She wanted to remain in employment, but companies had grown clever about making women of a certain age redundant. After her last pay-off, she had spent time working for a philosophical society instead of heading back into another large firm. Now she was waiting for – what exactly? Someone to surprise her, someone to appreciate her, someone –
She stared back into the melting ice cubes.
Her name was Naomi, but her colleagues called her Miss Curtis. What was the point of having an exotic name if nobody used it? She was sturdy-beamed and rather plain, with thick arms and a straight fringe of greying hair, so perhaps Curtis suited her better. If she had married, perhaps she would have gained a more appealing surname. She regretted having nothing to show for the past except the passing marks of time.
She checked the message on her mobile again. It was brief and unsigned, but casual acquaintances sometimes called and suggested a drink, then failed to turn up; the legal profession was like that. Looking around the bar, she saw no one she recognized. Friends usually knew where to find her.
‘Give me another Gordon’s, darling. Better make it a double.’
Adorable boy, she thought. The barman was impossibly slim, probably not much older than twenty-one, and didn’t regard her with pity, just gave her the same friendly smile he bestowed on everyone else. Probably Polish; the ones who worked in bars now were quick to show pleasure, and had a rather old-fashioned politeness about them that she admired.
She touched her hair back into place and watched him at work. She would never eat alone in a restaurant, but taking a drink by herself in a pub was different. Nobody knew her past here, or cared. There were no tourists in for once, just the Friday-night after-office crowd jammed into the tiny narrow rooms and spread out across the pavement on an unnaturally warm winter night. It would have to be a lot colder than this to stop the city boys from drinking outside.
When she noticed him, it seemed he had been standing at her side for a while, trying to get served. ‘Here,’ she said, pushing back her stool. ‘Get in while you can.’
‘Thanks.’ He had a nice profile, but quickly turned his head from her, probably through shyness. He was a lot younger than she was, slightly built, with long brown hair that fell across his face. There was something distantly recognizable about him. ‘Can I get you one while I’m here?’ he asked.
Rather a common voice, she thought. South London. But familiar in the way that certain men belong in pubs. Someone I’ve talked to after a few gins?
‘Go on, then, I’ll have another Gordon’s, plenty of ice.’
He slid the drink over to her, looking around. ‘I wonder
if it’s always this crowded.’
‘Pretty much. Don’t even think about finding your way to the toilets, they’re up those stairs.’ She pointed to the steep wooden passageway where a pair of tall prosecutors were making a meal out of having to squeeze past each other.
He muttered something, but it was lost in a burst of raucous laughter behind them.
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ she asked.
‘I said it feels like home in here.’ He turned to her. She tried not to stare.
‘My home was never like this.’
‘You know what I mean. Cosy. Warm. Sort of friendly.’
Is he just being friendly, she thought, or is it something else? He was standing rather too close to her, and even though it was nice to feel the heat of his arm against her shoulder, it was not what she wanted. In a pub like this everyone’s space was invaded; trespass was part of the attraction. But she did not want – was not looking for – anything else, other than another drink, and then another.
He showed no inclination to move away. Perhaps he was lonely, a stranger in town. He liked the pubs around here, he told her – Penderel’s Oak, the Old Mitre, the Punch Tavern, the Crown and Sugarloaf.
‘Seen the displays in the window outside this place?’ he asked.
She turned and saw the swinging pub sign above the door: seven gold-painted stars arranged in a circle. The wind was rising. In the windows below, legal paraphernalia had been arranged in dusty tableaux.
‘Wigs and gowns, dock briefs. All that stuff for defending criminals, nonces and grasses.’ He spoke quickly, almost angrily. She couldn’t help wondering if he’d had trouble with the police. ‘I used to meet my girlfriend in pubs like this. After she left me I got depressed, thought of topping myself. That’s why I keep this.’ He dug in his pocket and showed her a slender alloy capsule, a shiny bullet with his name etched on to the side. ‘A mate smuggled it in for me as a reminder. It’s live ammunition. If things get too much I’d use it on myself, no problem. Only I haven’t got a gun.’ He’d soon finished his beer. ‘Get you another?’
She wanted more gin but demurred, protested, pushing her stool back several inches. He seemed dangerous, unpredictable, in the wrong pub. He took her right arm by the elbow and guided it back on to the bar with a smile, but gripped so firmly that she had no choice. She looked around; most of the standing men and women had their backs to her, and were lost in their own conversations. Even the barman was facing away. A tiny, crowded pub, the safest place she could imagine, and yet she suddenly felt trapped.