Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks

and searched among the decanters.

“Take a good look around at this lot,” he said. “We are a dynastic fam’ly. Aristocratic British stock. Traditional values. We obey the landowners’ creed: If it’s attractive you shoot it; if it’s ugly you marry it. Not many of us left, an’ gettin’ damn fewer by the day. William and I…Poor William. I don’t s’pose there’s enough of him left to bury.”

“We can catch the people who did this if you help us,” said May, but the Major was not listening.

“We knew what was expected of us in those days,” he was saying. “Have a herd of children, marry the daughters into money, stick the bright sons in business, the dim ones in the Church, and the mad ones in the army. O’ course you make enemies. ‘S only natural.” He sat down heavily with a decanter between his knees. “I s’pose you want to know who killed him.”

“Yes,” said May, relieved that their purpose was finally being understood. “Although you could start by explaining why your brother destroyed the painting.”

“Oh, I don’t know why he did that. Our family has a long association with – ” he paused for a breath “ – the sponsorship of art, so you can imagine my s’prise when I heard what he’d done. I called on him to explain hisself, but he told me I should already understand the reason for his action.” He unsteadily filled a tumbler and lost the decanter to Bryant, who managed to snatch it away. “But I didn’t understand. William was so attached to the past – how could he be responsible for destroyin’ part of it?” May made a lunge for the filled whisky glass, but Whitstable clasped it to his chest with both hands.

“Poor confused William. Our enemies are laughing at us, but we’ll be avenged by our ancestors, you see if we won’t.” His cheeks became suffused with an angry scarlet as he began to shout. “They hate the power of the light because they will be damned by their foul deeds! You should have asked Max Jacob, slimy little weasel, he could have told you. Bit by a snake – a traditional weapon, see, meant to strike fear into – somewhere or other.”

“He’s off again,” murmured May. “Take his glass away, quick.”

But Bryant was not fast enough. Whitstable managed to snatch it up and drain it.

“Was Max Jacob killed by the same person who murdered your brother?” asked May.

The Major stared wildly at the detective. “Don’t be bloody daft, man. My brother was not killed by a ‘person’, and neither was the Israelite. It was not a Who that killed them, Mr May, but a What. And a bloody frightening one at that!”

“Then if you know, tell us,” begged Bryant. “You can avenge William’s death.”

“William, William, William.” He shook his head violently. “There’ll be plenty more joining him now.”

“What do you mean?” asked May. “Are more people going to die?”

“Lots more, lots and lots, blood and bodies everywhere, Armageddon for our entire family, all the way to the end of the light. If you try to do anything, you’ll die, too. For without are dogs and sorcerers and whoremongers and murderers.”

Bryant was torn between leaving the man to sleep it off or questioning him further now. He felt sure that the Major would not answer their questions when he was sober. “We can’t understand you,” he said. “You have to explain what you mean.”

“To know what killed William you must understand us all, and the families of others like us.” He reached out for the decanter and found it missing. “You have to face the true darkness, if you can find it any more, which is bloody doubtful these days.”

Bryant released a hiss of frustration. The Major was never going to give them a straight answer. “If you don’t help us, Peter,” he warned, “I’ll have the guards removed from your house.”

“Then remove them!” he shouted. “I’ll take my chances. I used to box in the war. After tomorrow I’ll be safe.”

“How?”

“Why, my Bella is arriving to take care of me.”

Bryant looked across at his partner and mouthed, “Who’s Bella?”

The Major tipped his head back and dropped the glass to the floor. “My beautiful Bella,” he sighed. “The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all, Amen and good night.” This time he descended into an unshakeable sleep, and was snoring loudly before the detectives left.

? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?

10

Severance

Jerry turned the Bible over in her hands. She was walking through the garden, exhaling clouds into the frosty air, watching as the last dusk-bound starlings left the sky. The peaceful Chelsea backwater in which her family had lived since her birth was green and damp enough to feel like countryside. Trees provided a susurrance that sounded like an off-air TV channel. It was hard to believe that beyond the darkened beeches lay the electric brilliance of the King’s Road.

Behind her, the house was filled with bright, dead light. Gwen and Jack had gone for their usual Sunday night game of bridge, and had turned on every bulb in the house, mistakenly believing that this would deter burglars. Jerry reached the verdigris-covered bench in the small brick arbour and seated herself, turning her attention back to the Bible.

When she had seen it lying there in the drawer she had almost been fooled by it, because of the binding. Although it was much older and in poor condition, the book was similar to the standard Concordance copies kept in the hotel rooms. But it wasn’t one of the Savoy editions. One of those had already been placed in the right-hand drawer of Jacob’s bedside table. She had found this book to the left of the bed. Now she re-examined the unfamiliar name on the flyleaf, W. Whitstable, St Peter’s, Hampstead, and turning the dry, semi- transparent pages within, saw that the Bible was older than she had at first realized. A particular smell exuded from its pages, of church pews and hushed rooms. The printing mark read 1873. Certain letters – S’s and T’s – were joined together at the top. Exactly one hundred years old. It felt as if it had been given as a gift, something which Mr Jacob had valued greatly. She knew that she should take it to the police, but felt sure that if she did so, she would never know the meaning of her discovery.

Instead she’d gone to the reception desk and begun her search. The phone book yielded thirty-one Whitstables in central London, eight starting with the initial W, three of them in the Hampstead area. She decided that she would ring each of them in turn.

Pulling the house phone as far as it would reach, she unfolded the notepaper on the knee of her jeans, marked off the first number with her thumb and began to dial. Her first two calls failed to net a reply. Third on the list was Whitstable, William, of Mayberry Grove, Hampstead. By now the sun had fully set and the garden lay in pale gloom. It was never truly dark in the city. Even in deepest night the sky appeared to be made of tracing paper. She studied the dial and waited for her connection to be completed. Instantly, she was sure she had called the correct number. The elderly male voice at the other end was filled with suspicion, as if in anticipation of her call. “Why are you ringing here? What do you want?”

“Have I reached the home of Mr W. Whitstable?” she asked in her best Savoy telephone manner.

“William?” There was confusion now. “There’s no one here…”

“I have something to return to him. Something he’s lost.”

“Well, what is it?” The speaker was agitated. His words were sliding into one another, as if he was drunk. She had nothing to gain by holding out. “I have a Bible belonging to a gentleman named Mr W. Whitstable.” The single word again. “William.” And a hushed silence.

Bingo. Jerry smiled in the shadows. “I was wondering if I could return it to the gentleman.”

“He’s no longer here,” said the speaker hastily. “Send it to me instead.”

“I wouldn’t trust the post office with something as delicate as this,” she replied. “I’ll bring it to you, if you like.”

“I don’t think – no, not tonight, I can’t have visitors at night, not now…”

“Then tomorrow,” she pressed. “I’ll call by in the morning, is that all right?”