Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks

May checked through his notes, feeling as if his questions were leading him around in a circle. “I’ll be honest with you, Mr Marks…”

“Please, call me Leo.”

“The more I find out about the Whitstables, the less I understand them. The brothers were financially comfortable, established, settled in the most old-fashioned ways. I’m informed that they did nothing more adventurous than read the Daily Telegraph and listen to the radio. They bothered no one. They had once wielded influence in the City, but were no longer powerful men. Then one day, for no apparent reason, William commits an act of vandalism and subsequently explodes, while Peter gets an open razor across his throat. Concurrent with the first act, their family lawyer is injected with the venom of a watersnake, and finally their sister is paralysed with strychnine. Bombs and knives, poison and snakes. And all this Grand Guignol somehow leaves us without suspects.”

May leaned forward, carefully watching the young lawyer. “What on earth were these people hiding? They weren’t random victims; their deaths were carefully arranged, and must therefore serve a purpose. The killer can’t have been looking for some physical object. He’s shown no desire to search their homes. My partner thinks they’re acts of revenge, but I disagree. I think the goal is knowledge of some kind, knowledge that was also intimated to your father’s partner. Something so important and so secret that Max Jacob went down to London without even telling his wife where he was going.”

“I see your problem,” said Leo, not looking as if he could see much at all. “Could someone be trying to humiliate them by associating the family with scandal?”

There must be an easier way of humiliating people than blowing them all over the Northern Line, thought May, but sensibly kept the thought to himself.

“Tell me more about the Whitstables.”

Leo Marks massaged his florid jowls with the tips of his fingers. “They trace themselves back to the founding members of one of London’s finest craft guilds, as I’m sure you know.”

“The Goldsmiths, isn’t it?”

“Actually a subdivision, the Watchmakers’ Guild in Blackfriars Lane, although obviously there are strong affiliations with the Goldsmiths. There are still many such companies in existence, the Cordwainers, the Coopers, the Haberdashers, and so on, many of whom have their own boards, schools, trusts, and benevolent funds scattered throughout the capital. Inevitably, there are strong Masonic ties. Peter and William were both Masons. So was Max.”

“Is that common? Are there other Masons in the family?”

“Quite a few, I believe. The Whitstables made and lost fortunes through the decades, but I understand that the bulk of their present income derives from alliances forged in Victorian times…”

May shifted in his chair. His hopes of returning by a mid-morning train were fast disappearing. “I need to know much more about the family itself,” he explained. “Their businesses are presumably still active. Surely there are some younger members around?”

“A few, perhaps, but like so many old dynasties in today’s climate, the Whitstables are dying out. There was an unhealthy amount of intermarriage in earlier centuries, but I imagine the partial breakdown of the class system did the most damage. We do have a rather incomplete family tree for them, and some of their current addresses. I could let you have a photocopy.”

“That would be a great help.”

“You’ll have your work cut out if you’re planning to contact them all. Their last big population boom was a hundred years ago. Most of the grandchildren have long since married, divorced, or departed the country.”

“I still need to speak to as many of them as I can,” said May. With three members of the same family murdered there was no telling how many other lives were in danger.

“I understand.” Leo rose and summoned one of his sturdy young secretaries. “There was one other thing.” He pushed a red-leather appointment book across his desk. “On the day Max went down to London there were no engagements marked in his diary, but there was this.” He tapped his finger at the top of the page, where a number had been written: 216. “Does it help in any way?”

“Not that I can think of,” said May, who had already noted the doodle which encased the number. A burning flame, drawn in the exact same style of Peter Whitstable’s tattoo.

¦

“I never said they deserved to die,” exclaimed Arthur Bryant indignantly. “How dare you put such words into my mouth.”

“You more or less suggested as much,” said May, unrolling the Whitstable family tree and pinning it to the notice board beside his desk. Back in London the winter sky was the colour of gutter water, the clouds marshalling themselves around the damp buildings in preparation for another stormy assault.

“I merely said that I disapproved of the way the Whitstables made their money. The British upper crust exploited their colonies and destroyed the lives of their workers to preserve a status quo not worth clinging to. They deserve everything they get.”

“Including murder? I might remind you of your humanitarian oath at this point.” As he spoke, the two workmen who had entered the already overcrowded room a few minutes ago began to fire up an ancient blowtorch.

“What the hell are they doing?” May shouted above the din.

“I’m having the room returned to its original colours,” said Bryant brightly. “You saw the paint on the sill.”

“Do they have to do it right now?”

“If we don’t do it now, squire, we won’t be able to start until after Christmas,” said one of the workmen, shifting a crate to reach the window.

“We need to contact all the surviving relatives listed on the chart,” said May, attempting to concentrate on the business at hand.

“I’ve requested a source list for the strychnine,” said Bryant. “According to Land, the granular fineness is very unusual. That’s not the way it’s usually made commercially available.”

“Good. Janice has found a two-man team willing to check out the visiting members of the Australian Art Commission, and I’m afraid we need to make another appointment with Mr Faraday. It’s essential to pinpoint a connection between the deaths and the destruction of the painting, if there is one.”

Bryant walked over to the unfurled family tree. “Why did Max Jacob come here?” he wondered aloud. “What did Peter Whitstable tell him that was so important he had to drop everything and come to London? There’s some terrible principle at work, John. I can feel it. Everything’s out of alignment. There’s the cause and effect of each murder to consider.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you can usually see who a murder affects the most. But these crimes are free of motive and, more important, they have no real effect. They don’t change anything. How does Max Jacob’s murder benefit anyone? How on earth does Bella’s? Unnatural death is usually linked to sex and money. Why not in these cases? Take a look at this.” He tapped a name on the family tree. “Bella Whitstable never married. She’s the end of the line.”

“How many remaining family members are still living in this country?”

“There are certainly more than fifteen, possibly as many as thirty. Peter Whitstable had a wife who divorced him in the late sixties, so she’s not represented on the tree. There are two sons from the marriage, but they’re living abroad with an uncle. There’s also a Charles Whitstable living somewhere overseas. The rest are up here.”

“If Jacob looked after the fortunes of the whole family, it shouldn’t be hard finding a motive for his death.”

“Cherchez la femme,” said one of the workmen, wiping his hands on his blue overalls and relighting the blowtorch. “You can bet there’s always a woman involved.”

“Thank you very much,” said Bryant icily. “If we need your help, we’ll ask for it.”

“I reckon you could do with a hand, judging by what the papers are saying about you lot,” said the other workman.

“Perhaps you’d like to handle the investigation while we do the window frames.” Bryant turned to face the