Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks

Over what? A contested inheritance? A missing will? The idea sounded unnecessarily Gothic but promising, especially as the family lawyer had also been killed. What other possibilities were there? An unrighted wrong? Stolen virtue? A debt of honour? The danger was that they would overlook the answer in a rush to pin the blame.

Senior officials were already pushing for a fast arrest. Raymond Land, the unit’s acting head, had already paid a visit to May’s office. The Whitstables weren’t just anyone, he explained; they were a well-connected family whose opinions still carried political clout. Peter had been a personal friend of Montgomery, for God’s sake. He had been with the Eighth Army on the east coast of Italy. He had been decorated for his part in the Normandy invasion. His grandparents had left bequests to Balmoral. Brother William had been introduced to the queen at Sandringham, although Land was unsure of the reason for this.

But if William Whitstable was such an establishment figure, May had asked, why would he have wanted to risk damaging the Common Market conference by attacking a politically sensitive painting? Could it – a long shot here, thought May – could it be that someone in government circles had taken revenge for the act?

The meeting had been adjourned with Land virtually accusing him of treason.

May knew that the political dimension of the case would allow him to limit press damage, but journalists wouldn’t be held at bay for long. A speedy resolve was essential; this was the newly independent division’s first investigation in the public eye, and everyone was watching for results.

Nothing like a little pressure from above to help a case along, thought May, as he raised the lid of another packing crate. This box was filled with books on heraldry. Wedged along one side was a slim mahogany case with a small brass key in its lock. They had not been granted clearance to search the house, but May was prepared to bend the rules a little until the next of kin arrived.

According to his information, Bella Whitstable, the younger sister, had been abroad on a business trip for the past six weeks. She had left a forwarding address with Peter, and had been informed by him of the tragedy that had occurred to their brother. What she did not know, as a British Airways flight returned her from Calcutta, was that her remaining sibling had also suffered a violent death.

By all accounts the Whitstables were not a close family, but with Christmas approaching Bella had planned to stay with her brothers for a few days. Now she would find herself facing a double funeral. May hoped she was a strong woman. There was nothing so disturbing as coping with death at Christmas.

He turned the key and opened the case, examining its contents. Inside was a robe of thin blue silk bearing a woven shield, guarded by unicorns. Underneath, the words Justitia Virtutum Regina had been stitched in dark golden thread. He felt sure that these were the symbols of one of the City of London guilds. It seemed logical that the brothers belonged to such an organization. He gently closed the case and returned it to the crate. The collected contents of the attic would help them build a picture of the Whitstables, although he doubted they would provide a clue to their killer. Like most upper-class families, the Whitstables were closing ranks at this time of crisis. The press had yet to break the bond of silence that kept the more scandalous details of upper-class crime from public attention. Reporters still worked in Fleet Street, their code of behaviour set by the powerful print unions. The competitive free-for-all that would change the face of British journalism was still a decade away, and accurate information about the aristocracy was hard to come by.

May returned downstairs and placed a call to Raymond Land.

“They’ve just got back to me on your bomb,” said Land. “Your partner was right. It’s a rather unusual mechanical device, extremely effective. Can you call by when you finish up there?”

By late Monday afternoon the barber shop at the Savoy had been examined by forensic experts, cleared, and restored to its former pristine condition, with the exception of a six-foot area ribboned with demarcation tape. Arthur Bryant stepped over a section of freshly dusted floor and stood studying his reflection in the tall beveled mirrors above the sinks. What a scruffbag, he thought. I need some better- fitting dentures and a decent winter coat, one without threads hanging from it. He needed a haircut, too, but places like this weren’t his style. The gleaming chrome and ceramic sinks, the iridescent tiling, and hard white towels all belonged to a prewar world of manservants and valets, and Bryant knew where the class system of the time would have placed him: on the side of those who served.

His own father had begun life in service. He had kept his family well provided for, and had always maintained his dignity. It had never occurred to him that he might be as worthy as those upon whom he waited. In later years it became a constant source of conflict between father and son.

Bryant turned away and examined the black leather barber’s chair. Someone had done a good job; after being dusted for fingerprints it had been buffed to a fierce shine. You’d never think that just that morning someone had been murdered in it.

The girl was slouching guiltily by the towel rail, contriving to act suspiciously even when there was nothing to be suspicious about. She had a habit of looking down at the ground as she spoke, so that her auburn hair fell across her face, obscuring her eyes.

“Well?” asked Bryant, settling down in the barber’s chair and raising his shoes from the floor. “You walked in and there was Major Whitstable with the razor sticking out of his mouth. Where was the barber?”

“He wasn’t here,” said Jerry. “He could have attacked me as well, you know.”

“I realize that,” said Bryant.

“There’s a tradesmen’s entrance to the salon, leading to an alleyway behind the hotel. He had a perfect escape route at hand.”

“So I see. Has someone warned you about not speaking to the press, by the way?”

“I wouldn’t want to.”

“And you’re absolutely sure you saw no one other than the Major in here or outside?”

Jerry shook her head and stared at the door. Thank God the young were so resilient, thought Bryant. The child had witnessed two deaths, which should have marked her as a suspect, except that anyone with an ounce of common sense could see that she wasn’t. She appeared shaken, but intact. Still, there was a chance that she was holding something back.

“Which brings us to the big question: what were you doing up here at all?”

“I was going to ask Maurice if he would give me a free haircut,” said Jerry. “What happened to him?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The less the girl knew, the better. Apparently someone had rung the barber on Saturday and warned him that they were closing the salon to refit some water pipes. Maurice had been told not to come in until Tuesday. Bryant swiveled the chair around to face the girl. “I wonder if you know more than you’re telling me?”

“Look, I just work here.” Jerry hung her head, picking at a thumbnail.

“If you remember anything else, no matter how insignificant it may seem, will you be sure to inform me or Mr May?” asked Bryant, rising. “Every sudden death is tragic, but this could also destroy the reputation of a hotel, even one as venerable and respected as this one. You must come to me before speaking to anyone else.”

“Mr Bryant?” She raised her eyes to him.

“Yes?”

“Is this to do with Mr Jacob?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“It must be, mustn’t it? I mean, didn’t they know each other?”

Bryant was not supposed to discuss the unit’s cases with outsiders, but frequently did so. He figured they needed all the help they could get. “It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be, don’t you think? But we deal in hard facts, and those seem to have been carefully removed.”

“I want to help,” she said. “I’m already involved. I can find things out for you.”

“I’m afraid that’s not really allowed.”

“But you’re in an experimental unit. It’s been in the papers. If you wanted me to do something, nobody would be able to tell you otherwise.”

He patted her on the arm. “I’ll bear that in mind. You’d better get back to work. I’ll probably need to speak to you again.”

Making his way back to Mornington Crescent, Bryant tried to connect the events of the past week. The situation was not only unique; it was absurd. Three deaths – by snakebite, by explosion, by razor. What next? Death by hot air balloon? Cannon? Trident? For a moment he wondered if the whole thing might be an elaborate joke designed to discredit the unit.