Uproar and outrage followed.
Bryant held up his hands. “We have to separate your prints from those found at the crime scenes. We are dealing with a devious, calculating killer who is capable of devising all manner of disguises and escapes. It’s no use pretending that we can completely protect you from him; no one is ever one hundred percent safe. That’s why we need to know everything you can tell us, no matter how insignificant or how inconsequential it may seem. Think carefully about our questions. I personally witnessed William’s death. I tried to save Bella Whitstable’s life, and saw her die in agony instead. This brave young lady was present at Max Jacob’s death and saw Peter lying with his throat cut. Both of us have since been physically attacked. I want this ended as much as you do, but if you hinder our investigation in any way, I’ll have you charged with obstruction.”
Bryant blew his nose and sat down. The audience sat in stunned silence. Finally, a small girl in the front row ran up and kicked him hard on the shin.
Before everyone began talking at once, May took over from his partner. “No one is saying that this murderer
Instantly, a scrum of furious relatives formed around their desk as questions and insults filled the air.
For the rest of the afternoon the two detectives remained seated in the conference room. The Whitstables were argumentative, imperious, secretive, and, Jerry suspected, naturally misleading in their information, but most of all they were scared. Their bravado was a reflexive action that failed to mask their fear. No one could agree with anyone else, and the more they fought, the more badly they behaved.
Eventually, though, a sense of weary resignation set in. The detectives took prints and distributed questionnaires, in the hope that they would turn up a common suspect. There were still several cousins, uncles, and aunts left to track down, but as none of them were based in London within the present radius of the murders, their safety was of secondary concern.
After nearly five hours of half-hearted promises and vague accusations, they terminated the session. The logging of details would be undertaken by the new night shift, and would then be fed into a central file of information, to be referenced and annotated by May and Sergeant Longbright.
For now, though, May took Jerry and his partner over to the smoky saloon bar of the Nun and Broken Compass for a desiccated cheese roll and a pint of best bitter.
The small backstreet pub had been overlooked in the area’s recent rush toward modernization. Unable to attract a younger clientele, the Nun and Broken Compass had given up the ghost so completely that its only amenities were a hairy dartboard obliterated by overuse and a moulting resident dog of especially peculiar breed and odour.
“I’ve never met anyone like them,” grumbled Bryant, taking a sip from his pint. “The backbone of England? The arse-end, more like. They’re more concerned with losing face than losing each other. Jerry, you’re from a posh family. Are they all like that?”
“No, we’re merely middle-middle-class, because my father works for a living. The Whitstables are upper- middle and lower-upper because they own rather than work, except there are also a couple of knights, who would be middle-upper.”
“Surely you’d be upper-upper if you were titled?” Bryant asked, intrigued.
“No, only a direct hereditary line is upper-upper. You need the big three: blood, property, and peerage. But there are certain similarities between us all. You should see the people my mother has over for her charity bridge nights.”
“Leo Marks mentioned that the Whitstables sustained a certain amount of inbreeding in the last century,” said May. “Life would have been very different for them then. Arranged marriages, inherited land, the protection of name and honour. An attenuated sense of duty – to the nation, to their tenants, and to the family escutcheon. They had a smattering of titled heads, nearly all gone now. Families like the Whitstables need to breed, but they’re dying out.”
“I understand that they’re frightened, but I hate their condescension,” Bryant complained.
“They can’t help it,” replied Jerry. “They’re used to being deferred to.”
“And they have powerful connections,” May reminded them. “Three family members in the foreign office, four high up in the Department of Trade and Industry, others in the Church and the armed forces. Policy makers. Friends of nobility. They’re not a dynasty to be trifled with.”
“Do you think we could be dealing with political assassinations? It seems like they’ve made their fair share of enemies abroad.”
“It would be tempting to think that,” May conceded, “but it feels more personal, don’t you think? I get the feeling that none of them can imagine why they’ve been singled out. If they could, they’d probably be too embarrassed to tell us. Still, something should have come to light by now. At the moment we have their cooperation and we should be thankful for it. So let’s have none of your customary rudeness when dealing with the upper echelons, Arthur.”
“How dare you,” complained Bryant. “I was a paragon of civility. Even when that horrible devil-child kicked me.”
“Let’s see how you behave when the Whitstables exert pressure on Raymond. Or start demanding action from the Home Office. Because they will, you know.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Bryant gloomily. “And they’ll get away with it because their social standing will make sure that the right people listen to them. It’s not fair. Class has nothing to do with intelligence.”
“Arthur, they’re different from the likes of you and me. Jerry, you must agree with me.” May nodded in Jerry’s direction.
“They see you as servants rather than actual people. That makes them different.”
“Nonsense,” snapped Bryant. “Francis Bacon said that new nobility is but the act of power, but ancient nobility is the act of time. The Whitstables know their power is waning, and are trying to hide behind their heritage. We see it all around us these days: England is shedding its skin. It will no longer have to carry the weight of the past upon its shoulders. In all my years, I’ve found that the only real difference between one person and the next is what hurt them as a child and what kind of biscuit they like. Everyone has a favourite biscuit.”
Some of Bryant’s theories left Jerry behind. This was one of them. “If the Whitstables are victims of a postwar sociological change in the nation, I don’t see that it matters what kind of biscuit they like.”
“Childhood attachments,” explained Bryant impatiently. “Your favourite biscuit remains the same throughout your life, but life requires you to make certain changes if you wish to stay in pace with it. The Whitstables are being stranded in the past, left behind by the receding tide of history, and they can’t see it happening.”
“I still don’t see – ”
“Excuse me a moment,” said Bryant abruptly. “There’s something I really must find out.” He rose and took the empty glasses to the bar, catching the landlord’s eye. “Why is this pub called the Nun and Broken Compass?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” said the landlord, pulling a fresh pint. “And it’s rude. You know. A bit Rabelaisian. I don’t want to offend the young lady.”
“Tell us anyway,” demanded Bryant. “It’s been a long day.”
¦
After leaving Mornington Crescent, Jerry called in at the Savoy. She tried ringing Joseph’s room, but there was no reply. Just as she was leaving the lobby, he entered through the revolving doors. He looked terrible.
It was nine forty, and the hotel was finally quiet. The remaining Common Market delegates had left to attend a formal dinner at the Palace. Joseph dropped his bags beside the reception counter and rummaged in his leather jacket for his wallet. “I didn’t think you were on duty.”
“I’m not. What’s wrong?”
“You’ll have to make up my bill,” he replied. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”
“Why, what’s happened?” She came around from the counter and lightly held his arm. “Want to walk for a while?”
The lights on the Embankment swayed like ropes of pearls, reflecting in the empty wet streets that led towards Blackfriars.
“I can’t believe it,” Jerry said. “How could it have happened so suddenly?”
“You tell me. The Japanese just pulled out, without a word of explanation. Miyagawa called me into his office
