Seventy-Seven Clocks (28 page)

‘No, the big one would surely be one hundred years. That’s not due yet. And you’re suggesting the alliance wages some kind of occult war by actually murdering people; if that were the case, they would surely be going after their true foes, the enemies of day and light. These deaths are occurring
within
their guild, not outside it. That means they’re attacking their own people, their own blood. Why would they deliberately hurt themselves?’ 

‘I agree with you,’ said Maggie reluctantly. ‘It doesn’t make sense. But a lot can happen in nearly a hundred years. The system has inverted itself somehow. Perhaps it’s not stoppable.’ 

‘It’s killing them one by one, Maggie. If they knew the danger of such a society, don’t you think the Whitstables would try to expose it?’ 

‘Perhaps they daren’t confide in the police. Perhaps they’re too scared of what might happen.’ 

Bryant thought of the uneasy silence that surrounded the mention of Charles Whitstable’s name. ‘Perhaps they know they can do nothing to halt it,’ he said uneasily.

36 / Internecine 

Laden with the volumes on pagan winter rituals that Maggie Armitage had lent him, Bryant drove back from Camden Town to his Battersea apartment. He arrived to find his partner furiously pacing the floor. 

‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ May snapped. ‘We’ve been trying to page you for hours, but there’s been no response.’ 

‘That’s odd,’ said Bryant, pushing past him to remove a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. ‘My bleeper’s in the tie drawer of my wardrobe. You should have been able to hear it from in here.’ He searched for a corkscrew. ‘I promise I’ll try to get used to new technology before one of us dies.’ 

‘Arthur, there’s been another attack.’ 

‘What are you talking about? I rang in first thing this morning and everything was fine.’ 

‘That’s because they didn’t discover Pippa Whitstable was missing until they got around to searching her bedroom. The Met constable on guard forgot to conduct a morning roll call.’ 

‘Pippa . . .’ Bryant’s cheerful demeanour evaporated. 

‘She sneaked out last night and was stabbed in the alley beside the house.’ May ran a hand through his chestnut mane, exasperated. ‘She’ll live, but she’s not much use as a witness. Says her attacker was a small Indian man, and that they “all look the same” to her.’ 

‘She’s been around too many white people. There’s madness at work here. It’s like an epidemic—the more we seek to contain it, the more virulent each outbreak becomes.’ 

‘We need to do something fast.’ May was studying him, concerned. ‘Have you eaten anything today?’ 

Bryant shook his head. ‘It’s been the last thing on my mind.’ 

They located the casserole his landlady had prepared the night before. ‘Where is Alma?’ Bryant asked, suspiciously eyeing the steaming bowl as he unwound his scarf. 

‘She gave up waiting for you and went to stay with her sister in Tooting.’ May ladled chunks of stewed beef into bowls. ‘Tell me what happened with the spiritualist.’ 

‘Maggie’s not a spiritualist, John. The fields are only vaguely related. It’s like calling your dentist an optician. She’s managed to establish the source of my occult connection.’ 

‘Whitstable’s secret alliance?’ 

‘Yes, and you won’t like it. Someone in the family has failed to carry out the ritual that should ensure the renewal of light to the world.’ 

‘
What?
’ May carried a laden tray into the dining room. ‘This is the twentieth century, not the nineteenth. Are you telling me these are sacrificial murders?’ 

‘I’m not sure about that,’ replied Bryant, peering into his bowl and sniffing. ‘Why would James Whitstable deliberately sacrifice the future generations of his family? I’m still missing something.’ 

‘Part of your brain, by the sound of it,’ muttered May, seating himself at the table. ‘I hate to disappoint you, but the Whitstable alliance was formed for a more mundane purpose.’ 

‘Which is?’ 

‘We must go back to the unit. I locked the trading contract in my desk. It’s safe there until I can arrange to have it properly analysed.’ The forensic department operated beyond the official jurisdiction of the PCU, and was running shifts with a skeleton staff through the Christmas break. 

‘I suppose we’ve missed the queen’s speech,’ said Bryant gloomily, filling their glasses. 

‘I don’t understand you,’ said May. ‘You’re a republican, and yet you want to hear the queen.’ 

‘She’s a good woman who happens to be surrounded by idiots. Every outmoded hierarchy is the same,’ said Bryant. ‘Look at the Whitstables. They still trade on the respect of their ancestors, but that respect was created by fear. There’s nothing noble about power won in that fashion. And apart from that, they’re horrible people. How’s the casserole?’ 

May prodded an indeterminate piece of vegetable matter with his fork. ‘If your landlady cooks like this because she cares about you,’ he said with a grimace, ‘I dread to think what she’d make if you fell out.’ 

They arrived at the Mornington Crescent unit to find their office door wide open. The workmen had downed tools for the Christmas holiday. Water was pouring in through the unsealed frames. The office reeked of turpentine. Although all leave had been suspended in the division, the rest of the staff had been granted lunch breaks so that they could at least share a quick Christmas meal with their families. 

May unlocked his desk and removed the sealed envelope containing the Whitstables’ signatory contract. 

‘This document was drawn up to protect and further the family’s business interests,’ he said, spreading the damp pages carefully across his blotter. ‘The Whitstables had little in common with their hardworking Northern brothers, who were running mills and forging communication links across the country. They were too old, too finely bred to be industrialists. They were entrepreneurs, opening markets via powerful Foreign Office connections, and made regular party payments to ensure favourable trade conditions.’ He tapped the pages with his forefinger. ‘It’s all here, couched in suitably euphemistic English. James Makepeace Whitstable set up the alliance to protect his family by preventing their assets from falling into the wrong hands. 

‘These seven men declared their financial goals in writing. They had investments in iron, steel, and the railways, goldsmiths’ and jewellers’ concerns, and of course the Watchmakers. Remember you said that the Whitstables were the Victorian empire in microcosm? The terms of this contract suggest they were something more: a right-wing organization aimed at the furtherance of a dynasty. Look at this.’ He singled out one of the handwritten clauses. ‘ “
In a situation of unfair competitive practice, the Alliance is fully prepared to disaffect said competitor with the utmost vigour
.” I wonder if they were prepared to kill in order to safeguard the supremacy of the company.’ 

Bryant sat and examined the document page by page. Finally he looked up at May. ‘Have you been able to verify any of this?’ 

‘I called Leo Marks. I thought he’d be bound to have other documents on file somewhere, but he says he’s never heard of them. Legally binding contracts more than fifty years old are stored in a shared vault, and take time to locate. His office is closed until the third of January. Janice checked with the Savoy to see if they kept guests’ registration records, and how far they go back. She asked them to run through the last two weeks of December 1881. The hotel’s ledgers are stored in immaculate condition. They were able to verify that Mr James Whitstable and friends—he paid for the rooms of the other six—stayed there for just one night. But it wasn’t on December the twenty-first of 1881. It was on the twentyeighth.’ 

Bryant’s face fell. ‘You mean they missed the winter solstice by a whole week?’ 

‘I’m afraid so. Your theory is wrong, Arthur. Your dates have to be purely coincidental.’ 

‘According to Maggie’s books, the day of each death matches points in the supposed battle between day and eternal night. The culmination of the fight occurs at the end of December. I’d have written it off as coincidence myself if I hadn’t seen the photograph of the Stewards of Heaven signing their contract at the Savoy. The whole business is filled with strange associations. Have you noticed how the lights always seem to flicker just before there’s a murder?’ 

‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ May exploded. ‘You can’t tell me they’ve put a spell on their descendants!’ 

‘Perhaps not, but I think the contract bound them spiritually as well as legally. The others had to sign. They didn’t dare not to.’ 

‘You’re sure all the dates match up?’ 

‘So far.’ 

‘You’d better see if there are any further events in the mystical calendar that we should be aware of.’ 

Bryant stared at the pages, his thoughts far away. May knew the look. It meant there was something on his partner’s mind that he had failed to mention. 

Bryant opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. 

‘All right,’ May said finally. ‘What is it?’ 

‘I’ve been thinking. Why did he pick the Savoy? The hotel had only been built two years before. Why sign the document there? Why not have it certified in legal chambers?’ 

‘No doubt the Savoy was the smart new place to be seen taking one’s business partners.’ 

‘I suppose if they were clandestinely signing the document, privacy would have been desirable. But I can’t help wondering if there was an association with the hotel that gave James Whitstable a reason for signing up his alliance partners there.’ 

‘We could go through their records, but I feel like we’re heading off track.’ 

‘Look at the contract,’ said Bryant. ‘It’s handwritten, filled with grammatical mistakes and anomalies, as if put together on the spur of the moment.’ He fanned the pages wide before him. ‘There are three different hands at work here. It was too much for one person to write by himself in an evening. Whitstable coerced his partners into creating a blueprint for their financial future. I think the contract was just one part of a broader ritual.’ 

‘Arthur, we’ve spent long enough rooting about in the past. We need someone who’s alive today.’ 

‘I agree,’ rejoined his partner. ‘But until the Met comes up with a single shred of incriminating evidence, our only chance of finding a motive lies in understanding the family’s ancestry. Find the motive and we trace the culprit.’ 

‘And your motive is human sacrifice for the return of the daylight?’ May shook his head. ‘These aren’t the Dark Ages. Greed, jealousy, revenge—those are the only enduring reasons for murder. Human nature stays the same. This agreement was signed in late-Victorian Britain, an age of enlightenment. Advocating the murder of the family it was designed to protect makes no sense, can’t you see that?’ 

‘All I can see,’ said Bryant stubbornly, ‘is your refusal to acknowledge the debt we all owe to the past.’ 

‘You can’t bend the facts to fit your theories. Whitstable did not form his alliance on the day of the solstice. How much more proof do you need?’ 

‘I could have sworn I was right about that. Everything pointed to a supernatural ceremony.’ 

‘Are you absolutely sure? Look at your own interests. You love all this mumbo-jumbo about pagan worship. Does it honestly belong in the investigation? I have a theory of my own, but I’m not trying to force it into place.’ 

‘And what is it, might I ask?’ 

‘A team of hired assassins carrying out instructions from someone in the family who bears an old grudge. The way everything’s meticulously planned, it’s as if it’s being computed.’ 

‘Now whose personal interests are coming through?’ Bryant exclaimed. ‘Look out there.’ He pointed to the window. ‘The days are
still dark
.’ 

‘Raymond Land’s been telling people you’re suffering from mental stress,’ said May, ‘that you’re intractable, bloody-minded. I told him not to be so damned rude. But unless you start working with me instead of developing these crazy notions by yourself, I’ll start thinking he’s right.’ He stalked from the office and slammed the door. 

Bryant sat back and pressed his eyes shut. What was happening to the Whitstables was also happening to them. The investigation had lost its way in internecine fighting. He would develop a practical appliance for May’s theory, but that meant first discounting his own. He began to compile a date list of events in the pagan winter battle of light and dark. The articles in Maggie’s books had been assembled from unreliable sources. Eventually, though, he was able to create a list of the most important dates. 

Bryant looked down on the lights of Camden, shining bright on to bare wet streets. If only he could step back to that winter’s night long ago, if only he could see what they saw. . . . 

He needed fresh air. As he slipped into his overcoat, his attention was drawn by the ragged patch beneath the window. Lost in thought, he examined the striated section of wall where the workmen had peeled away layers of paint, revealing their own inchoate glimpses of the past.

37 / Whispering 

May knew he shouldn’t have asked if there were any problems. Everyone in the room had a hand raised. 

The Whitstable family had just set a new record for living together, and the strain of so many difficult people having to share with each other was beginning to manifest itself in a form of upmarket cabin fever. Pippa’s mother had collapsed upon hearing that her daughter had been attacked, and now remained under medical supervision in one of the bedrooms. 

As everyone was talking at once, May called for quiet by blowing the sports whistle he had strung around his neck, and pointed at Isobel Whitstable. ‘You have a question?’ 

‘Being cooped up like this is making me sick. The food is frightful, and we’re having to share bathrooms. How much longer do we have to stay here?’ There was an immediate hubbub of assent. 

‘Until the danger to all of you has passed,’ replied May. ‘You saw what happened when Pippa ventured outside.’ 

The noise level rose sharply, and he was forced to shout. ‘It’s come to my attention that some of you have been trying to speak to the press about your treatment here.’ The family had been giving bitter, sarcastic interviews about their treatment at the hands of the incompetent police. Several secret phone calls had been logged by the security team. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to stop that.’ 

This was followed by a barrage of angry demands. 

‘It sounds like you’re frightened of the papers putting their own investigators on the case,’ said Edith Whitstable, who was still being guarded by her twin grandsons. ‘We want whoever’s doing this run to earth. It’s irrelevant who catches him, just so long as someone does before there’s another death.’ Everyone seemed to agree on that point. 

‘I feel the same way as you,’ said May, ‘but some of the journalists are showing a lack of responsibility in their hunt for a new angle. They might inadvertently reveal something to your enemies.’ 

Before May could field any further questions, Sergeant Longbright entered the room. ‘Alison Hatfield is on the telephone for you. Do you want to take it?’ 

May looked over at the unruly assembly of mothers, fathers, sons, grandmothers, daughters, and babies, all arguing across each other. ‘I’ll call her back. No, on second thoughts, let me take it.’ 

The hallway outside was relatively quiet. He lifted the handset. ‘Alison, how are you?’ 

‘I’m fine. I hope I haven’t disturbed you, but you did say to call if anything—’ 

‘You did the right thing. What’s on your mind?’ 

‘I was going through the basement papers I brought home with me, and found some correspondence between James Makepeace Whitstable and one of the other members of the alliance. It’s mostly shipping arrangements, but he makes reference to the night of the signing, and states that a full account of the event was subsequently written up. He doesn’t say what in, unfortunately.’ 

‘You think he kept minutes?’

‘That’s what I wondered. All papers and personal effects pertaining to the guild eventually revert to the hall, many of them through bequests and donations. I was thinking of going to the office later. Do you want me to look for it while I’m there?’ 

‘Yes, if you don’t mind. I mean, it is a public holiday. You should be enjoying yourself.’ 

‘Oh, this
is
my way of enjoying myself. I can hardly hear you . . .’ By the sound of it, tempers were flaring in the lounge. 

‘I have to go,’ said May. ‘Please, Alison, call me if you find anything.’ 

One of the Whitstable children was tugging at his trouser leg. ‘Come on, Mister Policeman,’ he said with a grin. ‘The mummies are trying to hit each other.’ Clenching his teeth and his fists, May strode back into the tantrum therapy centre formerly known as the front parlour. 

Alison Hatfield had fidgeted about in her apartment, unable to settle, before deciding to return to the lift in the foyer of the Watchmakers’ Company. It was exciting to know that the police were relying on her assistance. She was looking forward to seeing John May again. There was something intriguing and rather sad about him. 

The basement file rooms had been closed for so many years that those in charge of maintaining their order had now retired. She pulled the trellis door shut and as the lift descended she thought about the boxes stored beneath her. The Victorians were great note-takers, letter-writers, and diarists. It was likely that their documents were kept here, within the guild, and had simply been forgotten. Dead files were rarely examined, and mundane artefacts like balance sheets fell beyond the scope of interested historians. 

Her breath clouded across the beam of her pocket torch as she opened the lift door. The corridor ahead was in darkness. She had not asked for the emergency lighting to be turned on again, for fear of arousing suspicion. Any further documentary proof would lie in the room she had begun to explore with May. As she reached the door, she was surprised to find it partially open. She distinctly remembered locking it. She pushed it wide and shone her torch inside. 

Someone had definitely been down here. Chairs and boxes had been moved. Frowning, she crossed the floor and shone her torch into the first carton. This morning it had contained three tied packets of correspondence; now there were only two. Her shoes slipped on sheets of paper. She looked down to find that a number of letters had been dropped or tossed aside. She lifted the sheets and held them to the light. Apart from the caretaker, no one else knew she had been sifting through the documents. Who had been here? 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light scuffling sound in the corridor outside. She scanned the torch beam across to the door, but saw nothing. She knew about the rats that came up from the river; she didn’t want to consider how many might have bred in the ancient cellars. She was about to resume her search when a feeling of unease prickled at the back of her neck. 

Alison was a practical woman, not given to easy fears, but she suddenly knew she was not alone. She lowered the torch beam to the floor and quietly made her way back across the room. As she did so, she sensed another human body. 

The darkness in the corridor was palpable. A slight breeze brushed her face. She began to walk slowly towards the goods lift, keeping the torchlight trained at her shoes. 

There was someone within feet of her, of that she was sure. She stared at the beam. A chill cloud was dissipating in the cone of light, the remnants of someone’s shallow breath. She took another step toward the lift, and another. The metal door stood less than three yards from her. Far below, the river drains faintly pounded, rushing through darkness. 

A scrape behind her as someone or something divorced itself from the wall. Unable to contain her panic for another moment, she ran to the lift with her arm outstretched, grabbing the brass handle and twisting it back, slamming the trellis open and forcing herself inside. As she pulled it shut she saw the bulky shape of a running man. A hand thrust itself through the diamondshaped gap in the bars, grabbing at her sweater. She screamed as she jabbed at it with the torch, but the fingers, groping for a purchase, seized her flesh and pulled. The torch case was lightweight and plastic, and the batteries fell out as she thrashed at the invading limb. 

She hammered the floor buttons, and the lift jerked into life, slowly rising. The fist remained locked around her arm, gripping tightly. Her attacker was being raised from the floor, and had braced himself against the lowering ceiling. Far above, the lift mechanism began to whine as it strained to raise the cage. 

It was a stalemate: the lift could ascend no further, but her attacker could not recall it. Bending her knees abruptly, Allison lifted her legs from the floor. The move caught her assailant by surprise as the deadweight hit his arm. With a sickly crack his hand lost purchase on her sweater and the lift suddenly shot up. 

She slammed to the back of the lift, staying there until she reached the ground floor. The foyer was deserted. If he knew where the basement staircase was, he could be here in seconds. The porter wasn’t due back until tomorrow. Until then, the main door keys were in her purse, inside her desk. She had planned to double-lock the entrance upon leaving. 

Her heels clicked rapidly across the marble floor, echoing in the dark stairways above. She was scared to look back. She could feel her heart bellowing in her chest. Behind her, the staircase door slammed open. She knew better than to waste another moment in the building. Without detouring to collect her coat or purse she ran from the entrance. 

The city streets were utterly deserted. This was Boxing Day, and there was not a soul to be seen. 

Her car was parked in the darkened narrow street behind the Goldsmiths’ Hall. There was no point in heading back there without her keys. She ran along the empty pavement in the direction of St Paul’s Cathedral. Behind her, a dark man dressed in an ankle-length raincoat emerged from the hall. She increased her speed, searching for traffic as she crossed the road. 

Behind, the figure gained speed, his unbuttoned coat beating about him, his damaged arm clearly causing him pain as he closed the gap between them with long loping strides. 

Boots hammered behind her as she lurched across the road ahead. The churchyard of St Paul’s was always kept open. She ran through the gates in the direction of the main entrance. There was bound to be someone at the door. 

As she fled up the steps of the cathedral he lunged out at her, but she had reached the doorway, and offered a prayer of thanks as she slipped inside. 

One of the wardens was switching off the lights. 

She halted, trying to catch her breath. ‘Father . . . there’s a man . . .’ 

A young, bespectacled ecclesiast with thinning hair looked at her quizzically, unsure of the problem facing him. 

She tried again, aware of the figure looming behind her. ‘Someone is following me . . .’ 

The warden looked beyond her to the waiting figure. ‘The service has finished. We’re closing for the night,’ he began. 

‘But this is a church,’ Alison screamed suddenly. ‘You’re not supposed to close!’ 

‘I’m sorry, but you two will have to sort out your differences outside.’ 

He thought they were having a lovers’ tiff! She looked around to see the raincoated figure striding quickly towards her. 

The warden stepped forward, shaking his head and raising his hands in front of him, refusing her entry. Ducking beneath his arm, she ran into the nave, expecting to find other clergymen ready to help her. There was no one in sight. Surely they didn’t entrust the safety of an entire building to one man? 

Scuffling footsteps made Alison turn in fright. Her pursuer had been apprehended by the warden, who was ineffectually attempting to hold him outside. Suddenly the raincoated figure struck the warden hard in the face with the flat of his good hand, knocking him down on to the tiled floor. The sound of the assault reverberated through the cathedral in a dull boom. 

He had stepped around the unconscious form and was moving fast towards her. 

A narrow opening in the right transept appeared in her vision. She took it without thinking and found herself in the steep stairway that led to the Whispering Gallery. She glanced back, only to find him right behind her. 

There was nowhere else to go. 

Up she ran, her heart hammering painfully, the hot blade of a stitch forming in her side. As he reached out again she kicked back with her spiked heel, connecting hard with his chest. 

She reached the gallery entrance. The chill stone balustrade curved away on either side. She intended to follow the path around, knowing that she would be able to see if he changed direction. 

The vast dome rose above them to create a giddying sense of space, its monochromatic paintings fearful and austere. St Paul’s was a gruesomely Christian church, a monument to the idea that redemption invoked awe, not comfort. 

He was panting hard as he came through the door. There was no time to put any distance between them. She stopped and looked back, but the dim exit sign above his head cast a shadow over his face. 

‘What do you want from me?’ she called out. 

No reply came. He was breathing heavily, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet. He seemed disconnected from the pursuit, as though he hardly realized what he was doing. 

‘I didn’t find out anything.’ She took a step back as he slowly approached. ‘I swear I was only trying to help. I can’t do you any harm—please, I don’t want to end up like the others.’ 

The longer she talked, the more she felt she had a chance of being saved. But how? It was obvious that they were alone in the eerie vastness of the cathedral. There was no holy sanctuary for her here, only harsh judgement. He was beside her now. The touch of his hand was soft and almost reassuring. 

‘Sorry, Lady. It’s not my fault.’ 

His voice was little more than an exhalation of air with the trace of an Eastern accent. Alison was so surprised that he had actually spoken that she failed to move as he suddenly seized her, his thick fingers snaking across her opening mouth. He was a powerful man, and effortlessly lifted her off the floor. She saw the bitter irony of facing death surrounded by the very history she had spent her life loving and trying to understand. 

She looked up into his brown eyes. There was no malice in them, just commitment to duty. 

‘So very sorry,’ he whispered again in a tone of genuine regret. With a grunt, he hoisted her twisting body over the balcony and released it. With thrashing limbs and a throat stretched taut by the power of her scream, she plunged a full hundred feet to the floor below. 

Her last sight was of the unforgiving cathedral spinning above her, as the echo of her fall refracted back and forth between the tombs of sleeping saints.