Several unmarked police vans had succeeded in discreetly moving clothes, bedding, personal effects, security equipment, and food supplies into the house. The remaining seventeen Whitstables were driven to the rear entrance and installed within its gloomy brown rooms. Shortly after this, Bryant and May risked a visit to make sure that their reluctant charges had settled in.
“No matter what they say, I don’t want you to lose your temper,” cautioned May as they passed the undercover surveillance car parked in front of the main entrance. “Try to remember that we are public servants.”
“That shouldn’t be difficult,” muttered Bryant. “They treat everyone as if they’re hired help.”
May approached the brightly lit porch and rang the doorbell according to the prearranged signal. “This attitude of yours isn’t easing the situation, you know. Try to be nice.”
“What am I supposed to say?” asked Bryant. “It’s demoralizing, trying to help a bunch of arrogant ingrates who aren’t prepared to give us the time of day. What is it that makes them so superior? Owning a few smelly sheep-fields and getting the Queen’s Award to Industry. If we weren’t doing our duty and providing a service we’d be invisible to them. We should have got rid of the class system two hundred years ago, when the Frogs had their spring clean.
“Anarchist,” said May. “You’re as guilty as the rest of us. Look at the way you’ve been treating the workmen repainting the office.”
“That’s different,” sniffed Bryant. “They’re common as muck, for God’s sake.”
“So what would you do? Machine-gun the royal family?”
“Now that you mention it, that’s not a – ”
“So you’ve finally arrived to gloat.” Berta Whitstable, a voluminous, overdressed woman in her fifties, was holding the door open before them. She had elected to wear all of her most valuable jewellery rather than leave it behind. She looked like a lady mayoress receiving unwelcome guests. “We’re freezing to death in here. The least you can do is show us how to start the boiler. I presume you’re good with your hands.”
The detectives entered. In the hall, noisy children chased each other to the foot of the stairs, thrilled to be staying up so late. Several adults sat morosely in the parlour as if waiting to be told what to do.
“Are there going to be pheasants?” asked one pimply young man with a half-broken voice. “We always have game birds at Christmas.”
“I don’t know,” replied Bryant truthfully. “Did you remember to bring any?”
“Cook takes care of those things.” The boy scratched his Adam’s apple, thinking. “There
“Surely there are enough of you here to handle the household chores.”
“We never cook at home. Annie does everything, but they wouldn’t let us bring her because she’s just a domestic.”
“Well, this will be an exciting experience for you, won’t it?” said Bryant maliciously. “You’ll be able to write a book about it.
“Arthur…” warned May angrily.
“You mean we have to make our own beds?” said someone else. Bryant turned to address the speaker, a young woman in a blue Chanel suit with blond hair arranged in an elaborate chignon.
“I’m afraid so – Pippa, isn’t it? You’ll be roughing it for a while, putting on your own pillowcases, emptying the vacuum-cleaner bag, that sort of thing. It’ll be grim, but I’m sure you’ll pull through. We’ll bring supplies in to you, and you’ll be allowed out in pairs accompanied by a guard, but only for short periods. Like being in prison, really.”
Everyone groaned.
“Of course, I
“That shouldn’t be a problem, providing of course that it’s your turn on the roster to leave the house,” said Bryant, enjoying the sense of power. “Unfortunately, you won’t be able to telephone out, because of the risk that one of you may accidentally mention your whereabouts.”
“Just how long do you propose to keep us here?” Berta Whitstable’s voice overrode questions from the others.
“Nobody’s keeping you here,” replied May. “This is for your own protection. Until we find out why this is happening, and who is causing it.”
“And just how long will that be?”
“I hope it’ll be for no more than two or three days,” Bryant said. “There will be a roll call every night and every morning. And a curfew.” More groans. It was harder to protect the outside of the house at night. There were too many trees around the building.
Once all the questions had been answered, the detectives ran through the name list, checking everyone off. Bryant looked at his notepad in puzzlement. There was one name he didn’t recognize. “Who is CH?” he asked.
There was an uneasy silence.
Several of the men awkwardly turned their attention to their children. Bryant turned to Berta Whitstable. “Do you know?”
“That would – probably – be Charles,” she replied.
Bryant frowned. There had been no Charles Whitstable marked on the genealogical table. “I don’t understand. I thought everyone was accounted for.”
“Your family tree shows only the Whitstables living in this country. Charles is based overseas.”
“Where?”
“In India. Calcutta, to be exact.”
“Are you absolutely sure about this?” asked May.
“Of course I am,” said Berta. “I should know. He is my son.”
“Do you have a number where he can be reached?”
“Berta!” called one of the men. “You have no right to bring Charles into this. It’s better to leave him where he is.”
Bryant’s interest was piqued. “I think perhaps we should discuss this in more detail,” he said, placing a hand on Berta Whitstable’s broad back and guiding her out of the room.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
33
Into Darkness
The Imperial overlooked the Thames, and was newly furnished to appear old. The restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling windows ensured that the rooms were airier and lighter than anything on the menu, and its waiters had been especially selected for their arrogance. The place had instant appeal for the kind of inherited- wealth forty-somethings who salted their meals before tasting them, and who referred to dessert as pudding. The seventies were not a good time to eat out in England, unless you liked coq au vin, trout with almonds, and half a grapefruit served as a starter.
Gwen regularly dined at The Imperial without her husband. Jerry was surprised to find the restaurant so busy on Christmas Eve. She had donned a dark suit and blouse for the occasion. It was Gwen’s favourite outfit, purchased for a party that Jerry had spitefully failed to attend.
Jerry spotted her mother sitting at a crimson-clothed table, morosely studying the centrepiece. Gwen looked thinner in the face, as if some private burden had begun to take its toll. She smiled wanly at Jerry’s approach.
“Mother.” Gwen accepted a light kiss on each cool cheek. She liked to be called that.
“So.” She studied her daughter as she unfolded a napkin into her lap. “I thought we should at least spend part of the holiday season together. Your father sends his apologies. He’s having one of his migraines.” They both knew this meant Jack had drunk too much at his company dinner the previous evening. He always spent Christmas Eve sleeping it off in preparation for a major onslaught on his liver.
