“Yes, but they damned it up with cement because of the danger of flooding.”
May found himself listening for the rush of the underground current. The torch flickered again. He tapped the glass with his hand.
On the other side of the room, Alison ripped open a carton and emptied it. “I think I’ve found them,” she called.
May clambered over the boxes and joined her just as his torch beam dwindled to nothing. She held one of the brochures high and shone her light on it.
The back page bore the stamp of the golden flame burning in heavenly light. The words
One showed the late William Whitstable. The other was a portrait of James Makepeace Whitstable, a man who had been dead for the best part of a century. A man, thought May, studying the stern face in the photograph, who still exerted such power over his descendants that nothing, not even death, would allow them to share their secrets with the outside world.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
23
Transgression
POLICE INCOMPETENCE BLAMED FOR DAISY DELAY
The search for Daisy Whitstable, aged seven, taken from her Chelsea home on Sunday afternoon, got off to a poor start due to a fourteen-hour delay, after Metropolitan Police units failed to communicate vital information. Daisy’s disappearance had not been connected to an ongoing investigation of deaths among other family relatives. Because the crucial link had been overlooked, investigative work was set back at a time when it was most needed.
NO CHRISTMAS CHEER IN MISSING DAISY HOUSEHOLD
Christmas stockings hang above a merrily burning log fire, waiting to be filled. A saucer of water stands beneath the sparkling, bauble-covered tree, a child’s thoughtful offering for weary reindeer. But unless a miracle occurs, there will be no joyous Christmas laughter in this house, only anguished tears.
For this is the home of little Daisy Whitstable, abducted on Sunday afternoon. Instead of the welcoming sight of a jovial Santa stacking presents at the foot of the bed, there has been an uninvited, grimmer visitor – and instead of emptying his yuletide sack, he has filled it. See our Leader Column: “Is No One Safe in Their Homes? Why We Should All Be Afraid.”
Dear Sir,
Your recent suggestion that the ‘sacred flame’ symbol associated with the Whitstable murders has a connection with a secret Nazi assassination bureau is utter hogwash.
The symbol that is currently being flaunted in the national press bears no resemblance whatsoever to the one which made a brief appearance towards the end of the Second World War. It is, however, very similar to the sacred flame of certain Victorian occult societies.
Far from harbouring murderous intent, such societies were merely gathering spots for harmless English gentlemen who welcomed the chance to occasionally escape from the wife and summon up Beelzebub in the company of a few like-minded friends.
Yours sincerely,
The Rev. George Bartlett.
“I want to see John May,” Jerry said, trying to regain her breath after having galloped up the broken-down escalator at Mornington Crescent Tube station.
Sergeant Longbright looked up from a stack of reports and regarded her coolly. “Good morning, Miss Gates. You’re starting early today.”
The desk clock read seven forty-three. Jerry had not slept well, but it was the sergeant who looked as if she had been working all night.
“However, Mr May was even earlier. You just missed him.” She smiled. “He’s doing some more interviews. I’m expecting him back at noon. Do you want to leave a message?”
“No – it can wait.”
She was desperate to share her findings about CROWET, but forced herself to hold on until she could speak to the detectives in person.
“Miss Gates.” Longbright was tapping the pencil against the desk and frowning at her.
“What?”
“If you don’t have anything specific to do here, can you come back later? We’re really busy.”
“Sorry. I thought I could, you know, help or something.” She was about to leave when she noticed the damp-wrinkled theatre brochure on the sergeant’s desk. The front cover showed a painting of the interior of the Savoy Theatre. May had obviously been following the same lead. So much for promising to keep her in the picture.
“At least let me buy you a coffee, Sergeant. You look tired.” Jerry smiled encouragingly.
“I’d love one,” said the sergeant absently. “I can’t get away from this desk.”
“I’ve only got notes. Do you have change?”
“Let me see.” As Longbright turned to the raincoat hanging on the stand behind her and fished through the pockets, Jerry slipped the brochure inside her jacket. She felt she had the right to do so. Joseph had been cheated out of his job, and the police would be unable to help him. It was up to her now.
¦
“You said to drop it if I didn’t find out anything, but I did.” They were seated in the coffee bar opposite the Savoy, where Jerry was supposed to have started her shift ten minutes ago. “I’ll just go to her house and talk to her. What harm can come of that?” She stared into a cup of scalding, foamy tea and sighed. “I can’t get hurt, if that’s what you’re worried about. The police may never discover the truth. Lots of murders remain unsolved.”
“If you think you can make a difference, fine.” Joseph threw his hands up in defeat. “You’ve already stolen evidence from a police station and it’s not even nine a.m. Imagine what you can accomplish by lunchtime. Go and see this woman, pretend you’re from the press or whatever stupid idea you’ve come up with. I can’t stop you.”
Jerry was determined to see the thing through, and that meant finding out more about CROWET. Peggy Harmsworth, nee Whitstable, was William Whitstable’s co-director on the theatre committee, and the only other person to be listed by name in the CROWET brochure. Reading the biographies, Jerry had found Mrs Harmsworth to be a Whitstable, grandmother to the abducted Daisy, in what proved to be yet another uncharted branch of this interminable family.
“Do me a favour? Tell Nicholas I have a cold and can’t come in to work.” She reached across the counter to touch his hand, but Joseph withdrew it.
“This is the last time,” he warned.
