Seventy-Seven Clocks (32 page)

‘Well,’ declared Bryant, wiping his mouth with a napkin, ‘it’s made of brass.’ 

‘Is that it?’ cried May. ‘Isn’t there anything else?’ 

Bryant set down his napkin and checked the pages again. ‘It took them two years to build and calibrate the device.’ 

‘My God, how big is this thing?’ 

‘I don’t know, it doesn’t say. But it’s mechanical, and it runs on electricity. Is it possible that it could still be running? I mean, there’s no such thing as a perpetual motion engine.’ 

‘Does it mention how it works?’ 

‘Only that it relays information to an outside source, where “the necessary steps” are taken.’ 

‘Some help. What about its location?’ 

‘Again no clue, presumably for the sake of security. There is one man who might know. We must talk to Leo Marks’s father. I’ll find out which hospital he’s in. If the old man was supposed to be the keeper of this account,’ Bryant wondered, ‘why did he have to send his son looking for it?’ 

‘Alison Hatfield told me all the valuable guild papers were shifted to the vaults during the war for safekeeping. No doubt Marks assumed that it was the safest place for them. Later, when the attacks on the Whitstables started occurring, the family closed ranks, and Marks Senior realized that he was failing to honour his promise by leaving the document with the back files at the guild. I wonder how many of the Whitstables knew what was in that document?’ 

‘Even if they had heard tales of such a mechanical tontine, I doubt any of them believed it was real. And they’d never admit it if they did.’ 

‘The older generation certainly must have noticed their unfailing good fortune and wondered. The guild even made money in the year of the General Strike. I bet the family did some paper-burning when they heard that William Whitstable had been murdered.’ May rose from the table. ‘If they’d been less worried about their dwindling finances and a bit more concerned about each other, perhaps we’d have been able to halt the bloodshed at the start. Don’t go anywhere. I have to make a phone call.’ 

Bryant sat back with a sigh. He knew that they would end up visiting the hospital tonight, and saw his chances of enjoying a leisurely dessert retreating along with the possibility of a decent night’s sleep.

In the taxi on the way to the Wentworth Clinic in Gloucester Terrace, Bryant read the remaining section of the chronicle, which bore the personal imprimatur of the family patriarch, James Makepeace Whitstable. 

28 December 1881, evening 

Shortly after the performance, we returned to our rooms. One look into the eyes of my colleagues told me that our sojourn to the newly illuminated theatre had convinced them of the veracity of my design. These honest artisans had seen the future, and would now agree to my request. They had each been granted the Grand Order of the Heavenly Stewardship, though doubtless they knew little of what it meant. Would they still be willing to participate in the building of the device when they realized it was to end the lives of others? 

We began to assemble a little after eight. I had given notice to the chambermaids that under no circumstances were we to be disturbed tonight. I had drawn the heavy green curtains shut and had lowered the lights, removing both of the copper lamps from the table, the better to impress upon the assembly the utter seriousness of our venture. 

Radford was the first, creeping into the room apologetically, his club foot sounding hard against the floor. He was closely followed by Lamb, then Chambers, then Suffling. As I had requested, each bore the satin sash of his Stewardship, and now I requested that they don their colours. Radford— Hagith—timidly asked something which had clearly been pressing on him. If, tonight, we would agree the terms under which our mechanism could be constructed, what need was there for our collective presence as the Stewards of Heaven?

 ——I’m glad you asked that, I said, directing him to be seated opposite me, for you may recall our discussions on the role of faith and occultism in the coming scientific age. Their attention held, my Stewards took their places around the octagonal baize table. 

——The system that will preserve our fortunes and remove our enemies for ever will succeed because it is Scientific, I explained, studying each face in turn. So far you have been presented with little more than an engineering proposal, namely the construction of a device that will tabulate our expenditure and calculate the damage inflicted by the enemies of the Company. You agree, Lamb, that such a device is within the realms of possibility? 

——Most certainly, Mr Whitstable, he agreed, although certain problems arise. 

——Namely? I enquired. 

His fingers tugged at his cravat as he attempted to frame his reply. 

——Keeping it hidden, he said finally. How shall we protect such a piece of equipment and maintain it finely tuned? 

——You shall have no need to worry on that account, I assured him. The tontine will provide us with advice. But how can we carry out its instructions? Will Science remove our adversaries? No. For this, we require loyalty beyond the call of normal duty. We are an organization ahead of our time, gentlemen. One day all business will be conducted in such a manner. But let us be the first. Even now, Guildsmen are working to solve the problem of removing our enemies. For without their help, the seeds of destruction are built into our system. Suppose one of our own was apprehended in the process of vanquishing a hated rival? Should he attempt to explain his actions, why, we are done for. And if any one of you were to carry out the deed, how might you feel after? Even the most righteous cause carries a burden of guilt when the death of another is required. The solution lies in India. Gentlemen, I do not ask you to go against God. It is why I have enlisted those who are Heathens. They will be our loyal assassins. 

I rose from my place at the head of the table with six pairs of eyes following my every move, and warmed myself against the blazing hearth. Tonight the loyalty of my most trusted men was being put to the test, and I was sure that they would follow me. I had not counted on Radford, of course. 

I’ll be d-mned before I have a part of this——cried Radford suddenly, leaping up. 

——It is against my will that you leave our circle now, I replied. 

——You have no power to stop me, he exclaimed, turning to the others for approval, but I could see that they were with me. It was time to provide Radford with a demonstration of the faith I command. As my foolish employee tugged at the door (from which I had removed the key) I donned the scarlet robe of Och and began to recite the profane phrases that have been bequeathed for my voice alone. It was a strange sight: Radford tearing at the paneling of the door in desperate panic as the others sat on either flank, mute and immobile, siding with their mentor. 

As I raised my hands and completed the summoning gestures of Bethor and Ophiel, the air in the room grew stifling, and the lamp-wicks lowered as though the atmosphere could no longer support their flames. 

Just then, Rajeev, my faithful servant, stepped forward from the next room, and awaited my orders. 

Radford turned and saw him, and slammed his back against the door in shock. He tried to call out but Rajeev, at my sign, slipped a red silk cord around his throat. As Radford fell to the floor the servant followed him, clinging tight no matter how briskly he tried to brush him aside. When he could no longer draw breath and lay still on the rug, his arms at his sides, Rajeev removed the cord from his swollen throat and silently departed from the room. Lamb drew back the curtains and opened a window. The draught raised the lamps to normal. 

Radford was left with little sign of misadventure upon his lifeless body. His death that night was marked by the doctors as asphyxiation due to an excess of drink, and diminished by the hotel for the sake of their reputation. 

Still shaking, the others turned back from witnessing this demonstration of loyalty and concentrated their minds upon the formulation of the alliance’s founding document. 

We had no further trouble that night.
 

Bryant slipped the yellowed pages back into their folder. ‘It’s all here, laid out by James Makepeace Whitstable himself.’ 

May wiped the window and peered out. ‘We’re here,’ he said. 

The clinic had ended its visiting hours for the night. The Wentworth was an expensive private recuperation home for heart patients, and enjoyed the patronage of financially upholstered clients from across the country. 

As the taxi pulled up before the entrance, Bryant glanced at his battered Timex. He had purchased it after seeing a commercial in which the timepiece was tied around the leg of a galloping horse. Unfortunately, his operated as if the horse had sat on it. 

‘If Leo Marks’s father doesn’t want to tell us, we can’t force the information out of him,’ he said, digging around for change to pay the driver. ‘Three pounds?’ he complained. ‘Are you descended from highwaymen, by any chance?’ 

‘We can tell him that we have his son in custody,’ replied May. ‘Come on.’ ‘You’re not getting a tip,’ warned Bryant. 

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ said the driver, snatching his money from the detective’s proffered hand. ‘I’ve read about you in the papers. You haven’t got any to offer.’ 

In the marble foyer of the clinic, a smart black-suited receptionist sat reading beneath a low light. ‘Look at this place,’ marveled Bryant. ‘We should have been lawyers. Everyone hates you while you’re alive, but at least you have a great time when you’re sick.’ 

‘I called earlier,’ said May, a trifle too loudly. ‘We’re here to see Mr Marks.’ 

The receptionist raised her telephone receiver and whispered into the mouthpiece. Moments later, a young woman in a discreet uniform appeared at the bottom of the stairway. 

‘Mr Marks is out of danger now, and quite awake,’ the nurse said, walking with them to the first floor. ‘He was asking for a whisky an hour ago, so he’s obviously on the mend. You’re his second visitors tonight.’ 

‘Who else was here?’ asked May. 

‘An Indian gentleman, I didn’t catch his name. I think he’s still with Mr Marks at the moment.’ May’s sense of unease caught alight. Grabbing his partner’s arm, he broke into a run. 

‘Which way?’ he called to the nurse. 

‘End of the corridor and right,’ she replied, flustered. ‘Third door on the left. There’s no rush—’ 

They reached the end of the corridor, their shoes squealing on the freshly polished floor. The hallway ahead was in virtual darkness, but they could already see that the door to Marks’s room was wide open. 

Their patient lay halfway out of bed, the drip feed severed from his arm, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of its bowl, his left hand helplessly grasping the air. 

His right wrist had been nicked, and blood was blossoming across the starched white bedspread. 

‘We were just in time,’ said Bryant. ‘Mr Marks, we know about the tontine device. You must tell us where it is. We have to stop it.’ 

‘Tell Charles,’ the old man mouthed. ‘Tell Charles, the river. He must look to the Guild at the river.’ 

‘Of course,’ whispered Bryant. ‘Where else could it be?’

On the way back to London, Jerry considered her position. Her new career was supposed to provide her father with a colleague and her mother with a better social circle. Neither of them had imagined that she might prove desirable to Charles Whitstable in another way. 

Arriving home, she saw that Jack had told Gwen the bad news: Charles Whitstable had decided to apprentice their daughter without including her parents in the social upgrade. Unable to bear the awkward silence, she left the house. She reached another decision: to leave the Savoy. Now that her parents had been reduced to a state of confusion and disappointment, there was no point in staying on. Perhaps it would give them pause to think about what they wanted: from her, and from each other. 

She decided to stay away from the PCU, too. Normally she would have headed there hoping to find someone to talk to, only to end up helping Sergeant Longbright with the photocopying. So much for the glamour of police work. From tonight there would be a new beginning. 

Now she stood in the narrow road below Curzon Street ringing the polished brass bell marked C. WHITSTABLE ESQ. 

She looked up at the darkened windows, but there seemed to be no one in. Surely Charles couldn’t have forgotten their arrangement? Tugging her short black dress around her thighs, she sat down on the step to wait. 

Shortly before nine
P.M
. the two detectives appeared in Mornington Crescent at a virtual sprint. ‘Janice,’ called Bryant, searching the offices as he passed, ‘we need Charles Whitstable. What have you done with him?’ 

‘He’s still in the detention room on the second floor,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Raymond wanted to let him go—’ 

‘I gave strict instructions not to let him out of the building.’ 

‘I know, and I didn’t allow him to leave.’ 

‘You’re worth your weight in diamonds, do you know that?’ he shouted back, and they were gone. Sergeant Longbright smiled to herself and touched her hair into place. Like most policewomen, she wasn’t used to being complimented. 

Charles Whitstable had one of Bryant’s nasty scarves tied over his shirt collar and his jacket pulled tight around him. The detention room was freezing. ‘Get me out of here,’ he said angrily as the detectives admitted themselves. ‘I have an engagement to attend. Your uniformed clowns interrupted a very important investors’ meeting. It didn’t help having the police strong-arm their way in to demand an interview.’ 

‘I’m afraid they were acting on Detective Superintendent Land’s orders, Sir,’ explained May. 

‘Your superior is a very frightened man. He seems to think that our family has set out to deliberately destroy his career.’ 

‘Leo Marks’s father was attacked in his hospital bed a little over an hour ago,’ said May. ‘He won’t be doing the polka for a while, but he’ll live.’

‘Congratulations,’ replied Charles, unperturbed by the news, ‘you finally managed to save someone’s life. Do you have any idea who did it? At least you have proof that it wasn’t me.’ 

‘I think you have a pretty good idea who it was.’ Bryant circled behind Charles and leaned on his chair. ‘I should have asked myself exactly what you were doing in India.’ 

‘Look, I know my rights. You can’t detain me here without good reason. Do I have to call my lawyer?’ 

‘No,’ replied Bryant. ‘What you have to do is remain nearby for the next twenty-four hours while I wait to hear back from the Calcutta police. Then we’ll have this interview again.’ He tapped his partner on the shoulder, beckoning him from the room. 

‘Janice, we’ll be out for a while. What time do you come off duty?’ 

‘Tonight I don’t,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘We haven’t any cover at the moment. Do you want me to come with you?’ 

Bryant looked her up and down. ‘Make a muscle,’ he said. 

Longbright crooked her arm. 

‘Huh,’ grunted the detective. ‘Sparrows’ kneecaps. You’re safer here. Where can I find a pickaxe?’ 

‘Will a sledgehammer do?’ She remembered seeing the tool bag that the workmen had left in Bryant’s office. 

‘I suppose so.’ 

Overhead, the neon striplights fuzzed and momentarily dimmed. Bryant gave his partner a meaningful look. 

‘For God’s sake stop doing that,’ said May. ‘You’re starting to give me the willies.’ 

* * * 

They climbed into Bryant’s battered Mini and headed into the rain-shrouded city. May was driving so that his partner could continue talking. When Bryant conversed and drove simultaneously, he had a tendency to dislodge the illuminated bollards that stood in the centre of the road. 

‘When Alison was showing me around the basement of the hall,’ said May, ‘I asked her about the rushing noise beneath our feet. She explained about the river drainage, and said part of the floor below had been cemented up at the beginning of the century because of problems with flooding. James Makepeace Whitstable had the rooms partitioned off down there for a very good reason. He diverted the river around them so that no one would attempt to break through the wall, no matter how curious they became. I think if we open up that wall, we’ll find our doomsday machine. Of course, if I’m wrong we’ll probably drown.’ 

As they unfolded themselves from the miniature car, May looked up at the cheerless edifice of the Worshipful Company of Watchmakers. He was convinced that Charles had full knowledge of the guild’s inner circle. The difficulty lay in forcing his hand. 

‘How are we going to get in at this time of night?’ he asked Bryant, who was removing the tool kit from the rear seat and attempting to untangle his scarf from the safety belt. 

‘One good thing about having Charles Whitstable brought in when we had nothing to hold him on—I had his keys lifted from his jacket. I didn’t want to ask him for them in case he tried to warn someone.’ 

Two locks had to be unfastened before the door could be opened, following which they had to key off an alarm system in a cupboard at the foot of the main staircase. May located a battery of light switches and brightened the hall, but they would have to rely on torches, brought along to cope with the unreliable illumination afforded by the basement’s emergency system. 

The lift jarred to a halt. ‘We’re still on the first level below ground,’ said May, puzzled. ‘Alison said there was another floor under this.’ 

‘Perhaps you have to take the stairs.’ 

‘I remember now.’ He pulled open the trellis. ‘The electrics operate on a separate system. We’ll walk down.’ The fire door at the end of the hall had obviously not been opened for years. May was unable to budge it, and it took several blows from the sledgehammer to release the locking bar. As they pushed it back, their torch beams sent hordes of brown rats scurrying into darkness. The walls were wet with condensation. 

‘Be careful on these steps,’ called May. ‘The cement’s softened up in places.’ 

‘It smells like something died down here.’ 

Ahead, the stairway twisted. Bryant stepped gingerly downwards, and nearly fell when his heel pressed down on the bulky body of a dead rat. Turning the torch to his shoe, he saw tiny bleached maggots swarming about the rodent’s head in a diseased halo. The sound of rushing water could be plainly heard now. They reached the foot of the stairway, and shone their torches into the dark hole of the corridor ahead. 

‘Who’s going first, then?’ 

‘I suppose I will,’ offered May. 

‘Thank God for that,’ said Bryant, much relieved. 

Their shoes splashed in shallow puddles as they followed the passageway. The walls were marked with furred spears of mold. Two sets of irregular markings showed where doorways had been sealed up with cinderblocks and cement. ‘It can’t be either of those,’ said May. ‘The brickwork’s too modern.’ 

‘The 1930s, at least,’ agreed Bryant. ‘What about this one at the end?’ They had reached another, larger sealed doorway. The entrance was almost twice as high as the previous ones they had passed, and had been closed off with standard-sized house bricks. The paintwork covering them matched the walls. 

‘This has to be it,’ said May, crouching to study the cementwork. 

‘The best way to find out is by dismantling the wall.’ Bryant ran his fingers over the mildewed surface. ‘It shouldn’t take much. The bricks are soft. Too much water vapour in the air. Give them a bash with your hammer.’ 

May gave the sledgehammer a practice swing. ‘I hope you’re right about this.’ The first blow gouged a shallow path through the rotten mortar. May kept the hammer swinging, concentrating on one part of the wall. His partner stood off to one side, listening as the sound of water continued to grow. The next blow dislodged a pair of bricks. 

May lowered the hammer and shone his torch inside. ‘Oh, you’re going to love this.’ 

Before his partner could see, May continued to swing the hammer until the hole was large enough to climb through. Then he stepped back. ‘You figured out where it was,’ he said. ‘You should be the first to go inside.’ 

‘Er, thank you,’ said Bryant uncertainly, stepping over the low brick wall and ducking his head. The floor of the room was covered with six inches of icy water. Something in the dark was slowly ticking with a heavy steel ring, like a giant grandfather clock. Bryant pressed his back against the inner wall and raised his torch. 

The light from the torch beam reflected a dull gleam of curved brass. The device was between twenty and twenty-five feet high, circular in construction, resting on a base of four cylindrical brass pipes. Its appearance reminded Bryant of an astrologer’s instrument, an astrolabe, consisting of skeletal globes laced within one another, so that each could move independently of the rest. 

At the centre was the most mechanically complex part of the instrument, a partially enclosed steel dome housing a series of cogs and ratchets that allowed the movement of the various metal bands comprising each globe. As they watched, one of the inner bands shifted fractionally, providing a subtle alteration in the composition of the whole. 

Immediately there was a buzz and a tiny blue flicker of electrical light at the centre of the device, as if a new connection had been made. 

As Bryant approached, he could see that each of the brass strips on the outer globe was calibrated with finely engraved measurements. Then he noticed that all of the curving bands were marked, one with minutes and hours of the day, another with the days of the year, and another with the years of the century. Others were inscribed with monetary equations for accruing interest, and financial configurations covering every possible eventuality. At the end of every arm was a tiny enamel-faced clock, set in an engraved gold bracket. 

‘Look at all the clocks,’ said May. ‘There must be dozens of them.’ 

‘One for every heir and rival in the Whitstable empire,’ added Bryant in awe, looking at the names attached to them. He tallied them quickly. ‘Seventy-seven in all.’ 

‘James Makepeace Whitstable gave his stewards commemorative gold watches. All of the victims had Victorian gold timepieces. Even Daisy had a gold christening clock.’ 

Bryant knew that they were looking at the cold, damaged heart of the Whitstable empire, a manufactured embodiment of everything that had grown flawed and had failed in imperialist England. 

The pair stood mesmerised by the vast, imperceptibly turning machine, their torch beams bouncing from one section to another. The room was silent but for the steady steel tick from the centre, and behind that, the fainter ticking of dozens of smaller clocks. 

‘It’s like an orrery,’ said Bryant, awed. ‘You know, one of those mechanical models of the solar system.’ 

‘It’s beautiful,’ agreed his partner, slowly stepping back against the wall. As he did so, he brushed against the warm flesh of another living creature. His shout of fear filled the room, echoing as the metal bands of the astrolabe acted like tuning forks, reinforcing his cry to an unbearable din.