the weapon against the wall. His hand grabbed the detective’s coat, trying to pull him over. Bryant held tightly to the torch, shining its pulsing beam in his attacker’s face. Wide brown eyes stared back as the figure released a frightened cry. Bryant swung the torch hard and connected with flesh. The hand clutching his coat suddenly released its grip.
Bryant stumbled to the stairs and was halfway up when he was tackled from behind. This time, strong arms pulled his legs from under him. He felt himself falling, the torch beam flaring and whirling as he crashed over the steps into a pile of boxes. By the time he had righted himself, his attacker had climbed the stairs and slammed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock.
Bryant groaned, more in fury than in pain. He thumped the side of the torch, but the batteries were dead. Somewhere above a door slammed shut, then another. If he ever managed to get out, he would never live this down. No one knew he was here except May, and his partner was used to not hearing from him for days.
He pulled himself from his perch on top of the squashed boxes and felt in his pockets. Although he was a non-smoker, he always kept a light on him because of the name of the match company. Bryant & May were the bearers of illumination; it was an old joke, and one which still brought comfort. He removed the matchbox from his pocket and struck a light.
In the flare of the burning splinter he found himself sitting opposite a four-foot-high painting in an ornate gilt frame. He must have dislodged it from its packing crate as he had fallen.
Now the painting, in turn, began to topple forward. As it did so, in the moment before the match burned Bryant’s fingers, he saw the figure of a Roman emperor feeding his pigeons.
The sulphurous smell of the match filled his nostrils, and he was in darkness again. Bryant fumbled another from the box. Even in the flickering light that was afforded, he could see the signature: it was the mark of John William Waterhouse.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
16
The Coming of Night
John May stood at the foot of the Staircase Hall and carefully refurled his wet umbrella. On either side of him stood pallid marble statues, offering representations of the four seasons. Overhead, a gigantic electrolier hung suspended from the gilded central dome. The supporting spandrels bore the arms of Richard II, by whose charter the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths had been incorporated in 1393.
The Goldsmiths’ Hall stood behind a pair of discreet iron gates in Foster Lane, and nothing outside had prepared him for the dazzling sights within. Golden heraldic mouldings shone down from every wall. Mirrors held an eternity of reflected crystal. Ornamental carvings had been created purely for the delight of the beholder. Displays of ceremonial plate glowed with exuberance, filling the discreet glass cabinets which lined the corridors.
May had called Alison Hatfield, the public-relations officer representing the Worshipful Company of Watchmakers. He was interested in discovering the extent of the Whitstable family’s dealings with the Watchmakers’ Guild. Her heels ticked across the marble floor as she approached, donning a raincoat as she walked. Miss Hatfield had enormous pale eyes set in a slender face, and all the nervous energy of someone excessively underweight.
“We’ll try not to make this too boring for you,” she said, shaking his hand. “Do let us know if we rattle on too much. There’s a lot of history here.”
“I’m here to learn,” said May.
“Well, where to start?” Miss Hatfield smiled generously. “The front rooms were badly damaged by bombing in 1941, and of course much of the building isn’t open to the public. Mostly that’s the part involved with the day-to-day running of an active livery company. The craft guilds still support their own trade, of course.”
“I was admiring the silver plate.” May attempted to keep pace with his guide.
“It’s not just for display, you know. It serves a practical purpose. Many of the silver pieces were created to act as a reserve fund in times of need. I’m afraid much of it was sold off in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.”
They stepped into the grey, rainswept street. “It’s not very far.” Miss Hatfield marched on, unbothered by the downpour. “The Watchmakers are a relatively new organization, of course. The first portable timepieces didn’t appear until shortly after 1500, when a German locksmith figured out how to replace weights with a mainspring. The guild wasn’t formed until 1625, after iron movements had been superseded by brass and steel. Quite late, as craft guilds go. Here we are.” She stopped before another iron gate and rang the bell. A buzzer sounded in reply, and she pushed open the gate.
“I’ll hand you over to my opposite number,” she said, leading him briskly along a richly decorated corridor. “Well, he’s actually the Company’s general secretary.”
“Would the Watchmakers have a list of members readily available?” asked May.
“The guilds maintain entirely separate identities,” Miss Hatfield explained. “I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Mr Tomlins about that.” She ushered May into a small modern office which contrasted starkly with the elaborate embellishments outside. Seated behind an absurdly large desk, a rotund man in a tight grey suit was speaking softly into his Dictaphone. His hooded eyes made him appear half-asleep.
“He’ll be with you shortly,” said Miss Hatfield, clasping her hands together.
“Thank you very much, Miss – ”
“Please, call me Alison.” She plainly felt that she was trespassing on alien terrain, and took her leave with a nervous smile. May studied the bare room as Tomlins continued to ignore him. The official finally looked up, but made no attempt to offer his hand.
“I understand you want to know more about the Watchmakers,” he said in an alarmingly high voice. “Perhaps I may ask why?”
Something about his manner instantly annoyed May, who decided to divulge as little as possible. “We have an ongoing investigation that could indirectly involve the guild,” he said. “I’m collecting background information that may throw some light on the matter.”
“If I am to provide that, I need to know the exact nature of the investigation.”
“I’m afraid it’s out of the question at the present time,” said May. “But you could help by showing me around.”
Tomlins was clearly reluctant to provide anything but the most minimal service. This was surprising, considering that he acted as the guild’s main contact with the public. As they walked from room to room, each one filled with display cases of ornate gold and silver watches, he spoke only when he was asked a direct question.
“What is your company’s link with the Goldsmiths?” asked May, genuinely interested in what had always been, for him, a hidden side of the city.
“The Goldsmiths were founded nearly three centuries before us.” Tomlins’s small, highly polished shoes protested as they walked. “The craft of watchmaking is one of ornamentation as well as mechanics. The Goldsmiths helped our members to become adept in the use of rare and precious metals. Obviously, gold and silver are still the most popular materials for watch cases.” They passed a pair of matching portraits, Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort, unrecognizably youthful.
“There seems to be a lot of symbolism in the decoration of these items,” said May.
“Indeed. Craftsmen have always included certain personal images and signs in their engravings.”
“Have you ever seen one like this?” He produced a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it to reveal the circled flame symbol they had first traced from William Whitstable’s cane.
“I don’t think so, no.” Tomlins shook his head, but May was unconvinced by his hasty rebuttal.
“Do you all meet socially?”
“Who do you mean?”
“The guild members. The old Watchmaker families. You still hold regular meetings?”
“There are certain annual functions to attend, yes. Whether we wish to meet outside of these engagements is entirely up to individual members. Many of our members are also Masons, and naturally some of these gatherings overlap.”
