“No, this was deliberate. He cut the gantry loose. And there was more than one – you were locked up to be kept out of the way.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re saying that someone tried to murder you.”
“Why not?” Jerry shouted. “They’re dropping like flies around this place, or did you forget? I’m already a witness to two deaths.”
“If you were a real witness you’d have seen who did it,” retorted Joseph calmly. “And you didn’t, did you?”
“That’s not the point. If other people can be attacked, why not me? The management’s called a security meeting for all hotel staff. They think we’re in danger. Maybe someone deliberately followed me into the theatre.”
“You’re a hotel clerk, you’re not selling state secrets to the Soviet Union. Why would someone pick on you?”
She felt a knot of rage in her stomach, the anger of not being taken seriously, of being dismissed as insignificant. It was the feeling that had dogged her ever since she was a child.
“Why wouldn’t they?” she cried. “What’s so different about me?”
“You make it sound like you want to be part of it, like you’ve got some kind of victim complex.”
“I just want – ”
“Jerry, I’ve a really big day tomorrow, and I have to get some sleep. Can we talk about it some other time?”
“Well, I’m pleased that you’ve got your career,” she shouted pointlessly, desperately. “I’m glad everything’s so damned perfect in your life. You’re not the only one who’s going to do great things, Mr Ego. You’d be amazed at what I could do!”
“Probably,” he called wearily. “It’s been a weird evening and I’m going to bed. Good night, Jerry. Get some rest.” She kicked out against the wooden casement surrounding the theatre, kicking again and again until stinging tears of fury were forced from her eyes. Above the darkened theatre, the rain stippled the city in glittering sheets.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
15
Oubliette
The offices of Jacob & Marks smelled of age and affluence, oak and mahogany. John May, newly arrived in Norwich on a windy, ragged Thursday morning, found himself surrounded by the burnished parquet and marquetry of fine old wood, and smart young employees who hurried past sporting fashionably conservative suits. No wide lapels and patch pockets here. Legal firms of this calibre dealt only with large companies and old families. Shopkeepers, he had no doubt, were encouraged to go elsewhere.
May had been kept waiting in the law office for half an hour, and as the train’s buffet car had been missing due to the ongoing rail strike, he had so far made up for his lack of breakfast by consuming two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.
Outside the sky was deep and turbulent, the colour of a summer sea, and leaf-churning eddies sucked at the windows, rattling the panes. May had forgotten the glory of the English countryside. Even in December, the verdant contours of low green hills appeared to offer a welcome.
But there was little call for the detective to visit the country. Much of May’s family had gone, and the few friends with whom he bothered to keep in touch were citybound. He took the odd trip to the south coast to visit his sister, but this pleasure was mitigated by the fact that she had three outrageously spoiled children to whom Uncle John represented a combination of cash register and climbing frame.
Bryant, of course, reacted to the idea of visiting any area beyond Finchley with a kind of theatrical horror. Whenever May suggested a trip to the countryside, his partner would convulse in a series of Kabuki-style grimaces meant to convey revulsion at the thought of so much fresh air and so many trees. The farthest Arthur ever traveled these days was Battersea Park, which his apartment overlooked. Bryant had been happy to leave this particular visit to his partner.
At five past ten, Leo Marks blew through the doors exhaling apologies, ushering May into his office while simultaneously firing off complex instructions to a pair of tough-looking secretaries.
The detective had expected to meet a much older man. Leo Marks appeared to be in his late twenties, although his excessive weight and dour dress had added years to his appearance. Seated opposite him, May found himself disconcerted by the fact that the grey pupils of the young lawyer’s eyes turned slightly outwards, so that it was hard to tell if he was looking directly ahead. After asking his secretaries to redirect his calls, he adopted a look of professional grief and turned his full attention to his visitor.
“We were terribly upset to hear of Max’s death,” he began in a measured tone. “It’s been awfully hard on Anne – ”
“His wife.”
“All this speculation in the papers has been having a terrible effect on her. There was talk of a snake attacking him – ”
“Somebody injected Max Jacob with a lethal amount of poison, a rare venom. One of our men found a hypodermic needle in the corridor beyond the washroom.”
“Someone should have told us, Mr May.”
“I’m afraid it only just turned up. It had been trodden into the carpet and missed in the earlier searches. Am I right in thinking that Max and your father were partners?”
“Actually, it was my great-grandfather who set up the firm with Max’s grandfather.”
“So your families have been close for a very long time.”
“We still are. There are loyalties here which go back well over a hundred years.”
“Does your father still work here?”
“Only part-time since his heart attack, although he hasn’t come in at all since Max died. It’s been a terrible blow for him. The worst thing is not knowing.”
“Not knowing who killed Max, or not knowing what he was doing in London?”
Leo Marks swiveled a look encompassing May. “I think I can tell you why he was visiting the city,” he said. May sat forward, waiting. “He had arranged to see Peter Whitstable.”
“Why would he do that? Peter’s sister told me that all financial arrangements were conducted through William. Surely Max would have informed his wife where he was going.”
“Well, it wouldn’t necessarily have been official business. Max and Peter were old friends, you see. They were all at Oxford together.”
“Was Max Jacob in the habit of taking off for London to visit the brothers without telling anyone?”
“Not really, but he had mentioned the idea of making the journey.”
“When was this?”
Leo turned back the pages of his diary. “The previous Thursday. That would have been on December second. He spoke to Peter several times during the course of that week. The brothers were having another argument.”
“You have no idea what they argued about?”
“No. But it wasn’t over money, I can tell you that.”
“How do you know?”
“Their finances are tied up from here. We acted as their stipendiaries, allowing each a set annual amount, the revenue from certain investments and so on. They were quite happy with the arrangement.”
“Who stands to benefit financially from their deaths?”
“No one, immediately. You have to understand that the Whitstable financial empire is so absurdly complex that half of the family beneficiaries won’t see a penny for years to come. I sometimes wonder if Dickens didn’t model the court case from
“That’s straightforward enough. His will appoints his wife Anne as his trustee.”
