Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks

doing it.”

“Would it? The lawyer might have been killed because of his awareness of the family’s legal structure.”

“The Whitstables’ financial arrangements aren’t secret. Nor are the dispositions of their wills. Leo Marks has already arranged for me to inspect all documents pertaining to the investigation.”

May was exasperated. “Why didn’t you tell me this?” he asked.

“I only spoke to Marks yesterday. But this business with Daisy Whitstable changes everything. Someone wants to get back at the family very badly if they’re prepared to take a child.”

“Perhaps it’s all because William damaged a painting. Or because they all belong to the Watchmakers’ Guild. If there’s a rivalry going on, it certainly isn’t in any of their statements. I’m trying another tack. The guild owns a lot of Central London property. There’s big money at stake. We need to speak to a member, or better yet, someone who’s been thrown out. Unlike the Masons, guild members are allowed to talk to outsiders. Tomlins is the general secretary, but he’s not returning my calls. We need a warrant to search the Watchmakers’ Hall. It’ll take time and a decent reason, and at the moment I don’t have either.”

“Then we need to talk to Mr Lugsea.” Bryant drained his cup and returned it to the tree. “He’ll be able to provide us with some information.”

“Who is he?” asked May. “One of your medieval historian friends?”

“No,” replied Bryant. “He’s my butcher.”

¦

The formica sign read Reginald Lugsea, Your Friendly Battersea Butcher, but the hulking bruiser hooking up rabbits in the window looked far from friendly. Glowering beneath a sweaty red brow, his expression changed as soon as Bryant removed his trilby and made himself known. “Blimey,” Lugsea shouted to his apprentice, an ethereally pale lad who stood disconsolately weighing mince at the rear of the shop. “We don’t often see Arfur in ‘ere, do we, Phil? We was beginning to fink he’d gawn vegetarian.” He raised a chicken and pointed with the tip of his knife to an elderly lady who stood nearby. “This a bit on the big side for you, Missus?”

The old lady looked up from beneath her woolly hat and smiled through Perspex-thick glasses. “Ooh, no, lovely, ta.”

“So, what can I do for you gents?” Reg smacked one of the chicken’s feet off with a thud of his blade. “A nice leg of mutton?”

“Heraldry of the London craft guilds,” said Bryant. “What do you know about it?”

Reg looked at the ceiling as he chopped off the other chicken foot. “The Tudor company halls in general, or did you ‘ave a specific trading family in mind?”

“The Worshipful Company of Watchmakers.”

“Late arrivals, first quarter of the seventeenf century. ‘Cause yer first halls were fruit and fish, round the docklands. Then yer Dyers, Plumbers, Vintners, Cordwainers, Woodmongers, Girdlers, Plasterers, Wax Chandlers – one for every profession.” He held the chicken up by its neck and shouted at the old lady. “You want the giblets, love?”

“Ooh, yes, please.”

He laid the bird down and hacked off its neck, then thrust his fingers up its behind. “Course, they were able to take advantage of the Dissolution of yer Monasteries and the Reformation, ‘cause guilds were able to move into the empty nunneries, like the Leathersellers did in St Helen Bishopsgate round about 1542. Not the Watchmakers, though, ‘cause they was looked after by the Goldsmiths, and shared part o’ their fancy halls.”

“They all had their own heraldic badges, didn’t they?” asked Bryant.

“That’s right,” said Reg. “The Skinners had crowns an’ feathers on their livery, the Fishmongers had herrings with hats on, no lie. Watchmakers was fobs and gold chains, orange on blue if memory serves.” He yanked at the chicken’s interior and produced a handful of innards, which he proceeded to drop into a plastic bag. He reminded May of Oswald Finch, the pathologist.

“What about a radiant flame, red outlined in yellow?” asked Bryant. “That’s not part of the Watchmakers’ livery?”

“Don’t fink so,” said Reg slowly. “Although I seem to remember seein’ it in their colours somewhere.” He thoughtfully knotted the bag and wiped his bloodcovered hands, smearing chicken guts down his striped apron. “I got a feelin’ it’s a recent addition to the Watchmakers. By recent I mean maybe only an ‘undred years old. Sometimes merchants formed special ‘inner circles’ wiv new symbols to separate them from their parent companies. Yeah, that’s prob’ly it. You’ll need to talk to someone on the inside, though.”

“Thanks, Reg,” said Bryant, touching the brim of his hat. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Always a pleasure, Mr B. You sure you don’t want a nice pig’s trotter while you’re ‘ere?” He picked one up and walked it along the counter. “Nice an’ fresh. Was chargin’ round a field last Thursday.”

“Not today, Reg.”

May hiked his thumb back at the butcher as they left the premises. “How did you ever get to know about him?”

“I talk to local people,” replied Bryant. “You should try it sometime, instead of spending your life wedged in behind a desk.”

“Why does he know so much about heraldry?”

“Reg is rather famous.” Bryant gave a knowing smile. “He won the Brain of Britain competition two years ago, specialist subject Tudor Mercantile History, self-taught. It pays never to underestimate the arcane obsessions of the general public. This flame symbol, is it common to all of the Whitstables, I wonder, or just to some of them?”

“An inner circle within the guild. I don’t think I’m going to get any further with Tomlins without scaring him. Not to worry, though.” May unlocked the passenger door of his car and ushered Bryant in. “I think I may have found a mole.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“Go back to the Watchmakers. Which unfortunately leaves you to deal with Daisy Whitstable’s child- minder.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Bryant, fastening his seat belt.

“I just heard that Daisy’s parents are planning to sue us for something called protective negligence.”

“A lawsuit?” Bryant was amazed. “Why would a member of the public try to sue the police? Does no one have faith in the state any more?”

¦

Michelle Baskin was sitting awkwardly on the orange plastic chair in the hallway when Bryant arrived. Sergeant Longbright emerged from her office and drew him aside, handing him a sheaf of papers. “I’ve given her some tea,” she said quietly. “She’s been crying, so you’d better go easy. The workmen are still in your office, I’m afraid. And you’ve an urgent message to call Mrs Armitage. She wouldn’t say what about.”

“I’ll handle that, thanks.” He turned to the distraught nanny, who sat miserably kneading her hands in her lap. “Miss Baskin, would you come with me, please?”

Inside his office, the two workmen were clearing paint from the far wall with their blowtorch. Two distinct bands of colour were discernible beneath the top coat: green, and below that brown. The room stank of petrol. Bryant asked them to wait outside, and opened a window.

“We’ll soon have the air cleared,” he said, ushering Michelle into a seat with a smile.

The girl pulled the remains of a wet tissue from her cardigan and wiped her nose, head bowed. “I understand that there’s been no news yet.”

Bryant pulled a fresh linen handkerchief from his drawer and passed it to her. “You know, children have gone missing for much longer periods than this, and have turned up safely again.”

“Mrs Whitstable warned me to be extra careful with Daisy, just before she left,” said Michelle, sniffing hard.

“Why did she say that?”

“Because of what happened to her uncles and her auntie.”

“You mean William, Peter, and Bella?”

Michelle nodded, pushing her lank hair back from her face.

“Did they ever visit their niece? Were they friendly with Mr and Mrs Whitstable?”

“Never, to my knowledge. Luke – Mr Whitstable – hardly knew them at all. Isobel – Daisy’s mother –