¦
“Watch this.”
Dr Raymond Land handed the experiment over to a pasty-faced young man in a lab coat, who produced a small test tube of what looked like liquid mercury and a paintbrush. Carefully dipping the brush in the solution, he painted a thin strip of liquid on the side of a child’s building block. Bryant withdrew a pair of smeary reading glasses from his top pocket and put them on. May was sitting on the only chair in the room.
“We have to wait a few moments for it to dry,” said the young lab technician. “It’s something we haven’t seen for years. A form of silver acetylide. You titrate it through ammonia and it comes out like sludge.” He held up the test tube. “While it’s in liquid form it’s fine, but if you let it dry out…” He picked up the child’s block and checked the line of paint. Satisfied, he tossed the block on to the desk. There was a loud bang, and the clearing smoke revealed a blackened pit in the desk top.
“…it becomes totally unstable,” concluded the technician, somewhat unnecessarily.
“That’s state property,” said Land, examining the damage.
“What would a device designed to house such a chemical reaction look like, do you reckon?” asked May. “How big would it have to be?”
“Not large at all, just so long as the drying area for the liquid was maximized sufficiently. Here.” He produced a pad from his pocket and began to draw. “Working from a reconstruction incorporating the slivers of metal we found in William Whitstable’s stomach, we get something like this. The liquid is contained in a section here…”
“I wondered why one piece was silvered,” mused Bryant. “It was part of the liquid chamber.”
“A preset clockwork mechanism releases it into a flat drying chamber that might work from, say, the heat of the body. As soon as it’s dry, the device is armed and lethal.” The technician held up the finished drawing to reveal a metal chamber the size and shape of a pocket watch.
“Just the sort of thing that a smart Edwardian gentleman would carry upon his person,” said Bryant. “Thanks for the demonstration.” He tapped May on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “Come on, you. We’ve an appointment to keep.”
By eight-thirty p.m. the concourse at Victoria Station had only a light groundswell of homebound commuters passing between the trains and ticket windows.
Bryant stood at the barrier watching the arriving passengers. “You realize if she’s anything like the rest of the family, she’ll be wearing a crinoline and bustle.” He looked across at May, who was checking his watch.
“That must be her.”
Bryant followed his partner’s pointing finger. Bella Whitstable was broad and stocky, a woman who looked like she spent her time beekeeping or repairing dry-stone walls. She came at them with a purposeful gait and sensible shoes. The practicality of her winter jacket was lightened with a spring of lapis lazuli, and gold earrings balanced the severity of her haircut. Her handshake was firm and dry, her manner direct.
“I don’t want you to mollycoddle me,” she informed the detectives. “It’s no secret that we didn’t get along, William, Peter, and I, but of course it horrifies me that they met such terrible ends.”
“So you know about Peter,” said May, surprised. “It would have been hard to avoid items like this,” replied Bella, holding up a copy of the
DEATH RIDDLE OF SAVOY SHAVE
Dead man was brother of Tube explosion victim
The press were well and truly on their tails now. As Peter Whitstable’s identity had yet to be divulged, May wondered how they had managed to link the two deaths so quickly. The official statement for the Hampstead Tube bombing suggested that a technical fault had occurred in one of the carriages. The subterfuge had been necessary to prevent the public from worrying that the IRA was renewing its Christmas attacks on the city.
“I’m sorry you had to find out in such a manner,” said May, taking her bag. “There was no way we could contact you in time.”
“I quite understand,” said Bella, with considerable coolness. “It will take me a while to fully appreciate what has happened.”
“Under the circumstances I wouldn’t advise staying at the house.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but that’s where I’d like to be. I have family belongings there. I’m not fond of London, and intend to spend as little time here as possible.”
They made their way to a waiting squad car. “You can ask me anything you like,” said Bella, seating herself. “I have just returned from a city where sudden death is part of everyday life. I won’t get sniffly on you.”
“You say you didn’t get along with your brothers?” Bryant reminded her.
“The feuds between us all seem so trivial now. I couldn’t bear all that living in the past. It seemed so unhealthy. William didn’t approve of my finding a partner so soon after our mother died, and put an end to the relationship. I never forgave him for that. There were other things – certain financial arrangements that caused problems. It’s hard to be specific. You’ll have to give me some time to think.”
“We will need details of the beneficiaries to the wills. I suppose Peter told you that their lawyer, Max Jacob, is also dead.”
“Yes, it seems so extraordinary. I wonder if any of us are safe. I wish I could throw some light on all of this, but I simply don’t know where to begin.”
“There is the question of the funeral,” said Bryant gently. “Although perhaps you’d like to discuss this later…”
“William and Peter will be interred together. There is a family vault at Highgate,” said Bella, looking out of the window at the retreating station. “It would seem to be the best thing.”
“We want your permission to maintain a police presence at the service,” said May. It was not uncommon for a murderer to attend the burial of his victim.
“I understand. Do you have any idea of the kind of person you’re looking for?”
“We’re hoping that you can help us there,” said Bryant. “Why do you think William lived so much in the past?”
“Oh, we’re an old-fashioned bunch. The family’s history is the history of England.” Bella rummaged in her bag, produced a vast linen handkerchief, and gave a brisk honk into it. “I don’t think William was even aware of the modern world. The late nineteenth century was our grand time. Our ancestors’ fortunes grew with the empire, and so did the family. Sons and daughters in every outpost. Unforgiving Christians and hard-nosed businessmen. It was the same with so many old families. Now they’re like us, in sad decline. Although I don’t suppose they’re disappearing in quite the same lurid manner. I wonder if we have any business rivals at the moment. You should check that, Mr Bryant.”
“We’re trying, although it will be more difficult to do so now that Peter has died. Had both of your brothers retired?”
“Apart from a bit of dabbling on the Stock Exchange. I heard about William and the painting. What an appalling thing to do.”
“You have no idea why he might have committed such an act?”
“None at all. I can’t imagine that either of them had any real enemies. And who would want to kill them over a painting? It wasn’t even of any importance, from what Peter told me.”
“How well did you know Max Jacob?”
“I didn’t, I’m afraid. He handled the family estate and all of its financial dealings, but he only ever dealt with William.”
“He lied to his family about coming to London,” said May. “If he met up with William, we have no evidence of it.”
The car had reached St John’s Wood. Bella was momentarily distracted by a passing apartment building. “Look at that,” she said, pointing to a sign on the wall. “Tadema House. What a marvelous painter Alma-Tadema was. How we all loved the Pre-Raphaelites, Peter included. Mother owned several, you see. All donated to galleries now, of course.”
“Did she own any paintings by Waterhouse?” asked Bryant.
“No, I don’t think so. Is that what my brother destroyed, a Waterhouse?”
Bryant nodded.
“What could he have been thinking of?” Bella blew her nose again. As the car arrived in Hampstead, a light
