Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks

handkerchief and opened the first of the files. The pages smelled musty and corrupt, as if they had become tained by the words printed within. No more false leads, he pleaded silently. Take me into the darkness. He began to read.

? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?

34

Assailant

I’ve had enough of this, thought Pippa Whitstable angrily. She had been supposed to spend Christmas Eve with Nigel at the RAC Club. Instead, she was being forced to play nursemaid to a bunch of appalling, brattish children. She barely knew any of them. The only time the family met was at weddings and funerals. Now they were being made to live under the same roof, and the police saw the whole thing as a big joke.

She reset the grip in her blond ponytail and sat on the edge of the makeshift bed. It had just passed midnight, too late to call Nigel now; he would already have left for the club.

She could go there and meet him, just turn up. It would be the perfect Christmas surprise. She’d heard he was buying her something very special. God, she’d dropped enough hints about the new Mercedes. Would he be cheap and pretend he hadn’t noticed, palm her off with some pretty Aspreys bauble?

Thank God she had brought her basic black with her. The problem was how to get out of the house without any of the family seeing. At least she had her own room here, even if it hadn’t been aired in centuries and was the size of a rabbit hutch. She wondered how many were still in the front parlour. She could manage the stairs without them seeing her, but the police guard would be waiting on the porch. Even if they could be persuaded to let her pass, they’d insist on telling her mother, who was always prepared to close off any promising avenues of pleasure she might wish to explore. It was a shame she’d not been old enough to experience the Summer of Love, her one great chance to tune in and drop out. Debutantes weren’t allowed to have that kind of fun.

The bedroom window looked more promising. Pippa slipped off the catch and pushed open the frame as quietly as possible. At least the rain had eased to a light drizzle. She was on the first floor, a drop of about fifteen feet. Too far to jump. It was then that she noticed the drainpipe. It had handles, ornate little grips for climbing. Thank God for the Victorians! She quickly changed into her black frock and pumps, placed her purse and make-up in a tiny black bag, and wound up the strap to her collapsible umbrella. Very carefully, she stepped out of the window and on to the first grip, testing its weight.

Solid as a rock. She smiled to herself in the darkness. Moments later she stepped down on to the lawn.

Wiping her dirty hands on the wet leaves of a bush, she looked around for the best way out of the garden. The far end led off into woods. Not a good idea in these shoes, she decided. But the left-hand fence backed against an alleyway, which was accessible via a wooden side gate. She wrenched open the latch and slipped through, careful to leave it slightly ajar so that she could re-enter later.

This was perfect. It didn’t matter how long they were stuck in the house now; she had found herself an escape route. It would be easy to get a cab from Hampstead High Street, but which direction was that? The alley stretched off in pools of rain-sparkling light.

He must have seen her open the bedroom window from a hiding place in the garden, because she had only just turned from the gate when he grabbed her, pressing an icy hand across her mouth and dragging her away from the overhead streetlight. Her first sweeping fit of panic passed as she realized how small her attacker was. He had caught her by surprise and managed to knock her off balance, but now she uprighted herself and dug her heels hard against the ground. You’ve really picked the wrong victim this time, you bastard, she thought, prepared to take him. It would teach him to mess with a taekwondo student.

She could feel his ribs against her spine and threw her elbows back as hard as she could. Bones cracked and shifted; the arm around her shoulder was released. Opening her mouth to admit the fingers pressing against her lips, she bit down hard.

She broke free and began to run as her assailant threw himself at her legs and crashlanded on the flagstoned walkway with her. His fingers snaked through her hair, slamming her head against the wet stone. A blinding pain cut across her right frontal lobe, spurring her to twist him away. When she finally managed to catch sight of him, she was surprised to see the face of a sick old man. He was bald and brown, with lank clumps of long hair above his ears. His eyes were sunken, and almost opaque with cataracts. Most striking of all was his clenched expression, a look of agony and pitiful confusion. As he raised himself on one leg she brought up her fist and punched the tortured face before her, sending him over.

She didn’t expect him to rise again, and did not see the kukri knife in his left hand. He looked down as he thrust it forward, almost as if he was ashamed of trying to take her life.

? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?

35

Darkness Descending

Christmas Day, eleven fifty-five a.m. Jerry looked out at the Scrabble board of frosted white fields of Hertfordshire and speculated about her meeting with Charles Whitstable. According to her father, when news reached him of the Whitstable murders, Charles left unfinished business overseas to return to England, only to be waylaid by urgent financial meetings. Still, he could hold the key to his family’s decimation.

Jack’s keenness to set her working in the family business negated any guilt she felt about deceiving her parents. She was determined to be present at the conclusion of the investigation, and she would uncover the meaning of her mother’s correspondence. A part of her life would be closed so that a new part could open.

Jack’s black Mercedes pulled up outside the gates, its exhaust purling clouds into the chill morning air. A young Indian boy appeared from the gate-lodge and spoke to Jack in clipped public-school English. He showed every sign of recognizing him.

A veil of wind-blasted trees parted as they turned into the drive to reveal the Georgian grandeur of Charles Whitstable’s estate. Her father turned and smiled reassuringly. “Quite a place, isn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful. Have you been here before?”

“No, but Charles often mentioned it.”

“How did you meet him?”

“We got talking at a lodge dinner years ago, and I helped him with some cotton imports. Of course he’s from a guild, and there’s no finer recommendation than that. But Charles is rarely here these days. He came back because this trouble with his family is adversely affecting his stock. He’s having to reassure his shareholders.”

“It sounds like he’s got his hands full. You’re sure he wants to see me?”

“I heard he was keen to find someone he could train up as an assistant. He’s not prepared to trust the job to an outsider. He’ll even consider a woman.” Jack winked. “It’s not just a man’s world any more. Your change of heart has come at the perfect time.”

This is the lion’s den, she thought, and they’re happily putting me in it. Her father turned off the engine and fidgeted with his tie. He had every reason to be nervous. Their meeting was as much for his benefit as her own.

The front door was opened by an attractive young Indian maid. She showed them into the breakfast room, where she said Mr Whitstable would presently join them, and silently withdrew.

They seated themselves within a cluttered treasure trove of Victoriana. The wallpaper featured rose sprigs tied with satin ribbon. Ebonized cane chairs were set about an oak gate-leg table. On a green velvet runner stood bronze animals, penwork chests in black and gold, elaborate rosewood boxes, and sentimental figurines of children and dogs. The atmosphere was smothering, the room unaired.

Neither of them spoke. A slow-ticking grandfather clock provided the only sound. After several minutes, Charles Whitstable entered.

He was tall, six feet three inches at least, imposingly broad-chested, in his late thirties. His conservative black suit and slicked dark hair provided an image somewhere between city stockbroker and lord of the manor, and