The disparate branches of the Whitstable family had been assembled in the narrow, high-windowed room. So many had turned up that some were left standing around the edges. Everyone was talking at once, arguing, complaining, gesticulating – to each other, to the authorities, to anyone who would listen. Gathered together in this fashion, Jerry could see that the Whitstables possessed certain common physical characteristics, including wayward teeth, large earlobes, and the sort of stress-related blotchiness usually found in cornered jellyfish. It wasn’t an especially attractive sight.
“If I could have your attention for a few moments,” said Bryant, facing the group with his arms raised. “The sooner we get started…” He turned back to May, who was seated on an orange stacker chair behind him. “I don’t believe it. They’re completely ignoring me.” He could barely be heard above the swell of so many simultaneous conversations.
“You’ll have to shout,” said Jerry. “I don’t think they’re used to being ordered about.”
“County folk,” Bryant complained. “They’d pay attention if I was a horse.” He unclipped a microphone from its stand and held it close to one of the wall speakers. The resultant squeal of feedback caused everyone to clap their hands over their ears. Over thirty indignant men, women, and children turned to face the low stage at the front of the room.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” said Bryant, returning the microphone to its stand. He studied his audience like a teacher confronting an unruly new class. Here they were, he thought, the Family Whitstable, well schooled, well shod, and well connected, the cream of British society. The kind of Hard Tory, High Church, pro-hunt landowners idolized in magazines like
“I’ll try not to keep you here too long,” he promised. “It will help if we get to know each other.”
“Isn’t there anyone more senior available to look after this investigation?” shouted a catarrhal young man on the end of the first row.
“We are the senior officers to whom you may direct your questions.” Bryant introduced himself and May, accompanied by a chorus of derisive snorts. A baby started crying and a woman stood up to leave.
“I expect you to stay seated until the end of the briefing,” Bryant informed her.
“Then I expect you to pay my baby sitter.” The woman glared defiantly at him and remained standing.
“You should have thought of that earlier, Madam. I am not prepared to commence the proceedings until every last one of you is sitting down,” said Bryant. The woman made a noisily dissatisfied show, but lowered herself to her chair.
“Who’s she?” shouted someone else, pointing at Jerry. “She’s not one of us.”
“Miss Gates is a witness directly involved in the investigation, and is assisting us,” replied Bryant. “You should all have been given a typed brief by now. Although many of you already know each other, I understand that some of you have not met face to face before. We thought it better to bring the family together like this so that we could explain more clearly – ”
“What do you intend to do about this disgraceful state of affairs?” shouted someone who appeared not to have noticed that the detective was speaking.
“Perhaps you could identify yourself and your relationship within the family when you address the group,” said Bryant. “I’ll be able to place you more easily in the future.”
“Royston Carlyle Whitstable,” came the disgruntled reply. “Alec and Beattie’s son, although what that has to do with – ”
“My colleagues and I will endeavour to explain the course of the investigation to you, Mr Whitstable,” interrupted Bryant. “Or perhaps I should call you Royston, as you all bear the Whitstable name.”
“I hardly think it appropriate we should be on firstname terms,” said Royston. “After all, you’re
“Would you prefer me to give you all nicknames? It wouldn’t be difficult.”
A horrified hush fell over the room. The Whitstables were not used to being insulted. Bryant faced his audience squarely, fixing his eye on each member in turn. For someone so shabbily dressed, Jerry thought, he could cut an imposing figure of authority when he wanted to.
“Some of you knew William and his brother Peter. I understand that many of you were fond of Bella Whitstable. We decided it would be of more practical use to bring you together like this, rather than speak to you individually. First of all, I ask you to ignore the speculation that’s been printed in the papers. We are in possession of all the known facts, and will release them to you accordingly.” Bryant eased his tie loose and seated himself on the edge of the press table. “Today’s conversation must be a frank one. If anyone would like their children to be absent from the room, we’ll be happy to take care of them.”
As arranged, Jerry gestured to the open door. Much head shaking. Nobody moved. It was ominously quiet now.
“We haven’t been able to trace everyone yet, but hopefully you’ll be able to assist us in that task. I understand that some family members no longer live within the British Isles. They will be contacted in due course.”
“Look here, who’s going to pay our travel expenses?” asked a heavily made-up woman in the second row.
“We’ll be happy to discuss reimbursement for any inconvenience caused to you,” said May. “You should all know by now that three members of your family have died in unnatural circumstances. As the culprit has yet to be identified, there’s a possibility that others may still be in danger. If you wish to be provided with police protection, we’ll try to come to some arrangement. We face the problem of pinpointing a common enemy of the Whitstable family. Peter, William, and Bella encountered a killer whose plans required preparation and careful timing. I think these deaths were more than just premeditated; they were intended to be symbolic. But of what? To discover that, we must understand the true intentions of your enemy.”
“You want us to do your damned job for you,” complained a citrus-faced elderly woman.
Bryant pointed sharply. “Your name, please?”
“Edith Whitstable. The daughter of Charles and Rachel.” She looked about her for signs of approval and found none.
“What I am trying to do politely, Madam,” said Bryant, “is remind you that the withholding of information is a grave and punishable offence. While Mr May and I will attempt to respect your privacy, we need personal details that you may not wish to give – details of business feuds as well as family arguments.” He knew that his request ran the risk of encouraging malicious gossip and hearsay, but it could not be helped. There was also a possibility that the Whitstables’ business interests would prove politically sensitive, and might be protected from legal access. “In return for your assistance, we’ll undertake to keep the press away from you. At this point, certain questions will be asked. First, does one of you know the murderer personally? Second, might one of you even be the person we’re looking for?”
The room quickly filled with indignant clamour. Bryant knew that, from a legal standpoint, he and his partner were treading on very thin ice.
“Now look here.” A tall young man with narrow features tapering to a feral, pointed nose shoved back his chair and stabbed a bony finger at Bryant. “As I see it you’ve managed to put up a pretty poor show so far. The papers say you were with Bella when she was killed. You’re supposed to be public servants, but I don’t see much service. You’re not doing anything at all to put this chap away.”
“And who are you?” asked May, mildly.
“Oliver and Peggy’s son, Luke Whitstable.” As they quoted their lineage, Bryant tried to mentally locate them on the family tree. They all sounded sure that he would know who they were. Perhaps it was a trait of wealthy old families. He had no idea. He was from the East End; his mother used to clean cinemas.
“Well, Luke, at the moment it’s true we have no way of knowing how, when, or why this person strikes. Normally in a murder investigation, progress must be made in the hours immediately following the victim’s death. Connections are completed by talking to family members. Suspects are eliminated, other names recur. When a culprit is pinpointed, he is tied into the crime with corroborative forensic evidence. But this hasn’t happened in our investigation. Why? Because, despite our endeavours, all the evidence gathered so far has been conflicting, and the crime scenes have yielded no clear forensic signposts. So now we need to interview every one of you, and we expect you to provide us with any documentation we request, including detailed proof of your recent whereabouts. We will also need to fingerprint all of you.”
