Do you want a mince pie?” She shook a tin at Bryant that sounded as if it contained rocks. “Midwinter has always been regarded as a time of terrible danger. To primitive man, it must have seemed that the nights would continue to lengthen until darkness reigned continuously. The people of Britain sought to ward off this all-consuming darkness with rites and ceremonies, and have continued to do so for over five thousand years. What a relief it must have been for them to find the days lengthening again! What an excuse for a party! You probably know that the festival of Christmas celebrates this turning point; the triumph of light over darkness, and thus the victory of good over evil, Satan held at bay for another year. People whinge about Christmas becoming too commercial, but before heavenly choirs of angels made it so bland and solemn it was a marvelously rowdy pagan celebration.”
“And this has something to do with James Makepeace Whitstable?”
“Sorry, I thought I’d made myself clear. Let’s assume that the photograph of the Alliance of Eternal Light was taken at the end of December. The Winter Solstice is the twenty-first or twenty-second of December. You see?”
“Not at all,” admitted Bryant.
“Look at the pictures,” said Maggie patiently. “Saint Nicholas is a cleaned-up Christian version of the fearsome one-eyed pagan god Odin, the original ‘Old Nick’ Odin’s horse, Sleipnir, becomes Rudolph the reindeer. When was the first murder committed?”
“The sixth of December.”
“The feast day of Saint Nicholas. The first day of the battle between light and darkness. A battle that can’t end until the light starts to lengthen once more, after the twenty-second of December.” She closed the book and handed it to him. “I’m afraid your murders aren’t over yet.”
“But it’s Christmas Day. The days have already started to lengthen again.”
“Have they?” asked Maggie. “With the terrible weather we’ve been having in the past few weeks, we’re well below the seasonal average for hours of daylight. Instead, we’ve had more and more darkness. What about all the power cuts? The government isn’t giving in. They’re forecasting three hours of darkness every evening, and they reckon it will get worse. Perhaps the sacrifices aren’t working.”
“I can’t afford to believe that the world is descending into darkness because a secret society has failed to restore the daylight, Maggie. Next you’ll be trying to make me believe that there’s a chamber full of cloaked figures somewhere clutching knives at a sacrificial altar.” Bryant scratched at his unshaven chin, confused. “You’re assuming that Whitstable’s alliance is still active, but we’ve found no evidence of that. Why would they act now, after waiting so long?”
“Perhaps it’s some kind of anniversary.”
“No, the big one would surely be one hundred years. That’s not due yet. And you’re suggesting the alliance wages some kind of occult war by actually murdering people; if that were the case, they would surely be going after their true foes, the enemies of day and light. These deaths are occurring
“I agree with you,” said Maggie reluctantly. “It doesn’t make sense. But a lot can happen in nearly a hundred years. The system has inverted itself somehow. Perhaps it’s not stoppable.”
“It’s killing them one by one, Maggie. If they knew the danger of such a society, don’t you think the Whitstables would try to expose it?”
“Perhaps they daren’t confide in the police. Perhaps they’re too scared of what might happen.”
Bryant thought of the uneasy silence that surrounded the mention of Charles Whitstable’s name. “Perhaps they know they can do nothing to halt it,” he said uneasily.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
36
Internecine
Laden with the volumes on pagan winter rituals that Maggie Armitage had lent him, Bryant drove back from Camden Town to his Battersea apartment. He arrived to find his partner furiously pacing the floor.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” May snapped. “We’ve been trying to page you for hours, but there’s been no response.”
“That’s odd,” said Bryant, pushing past him to remove a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. “My bleeper’s in the tie drawer of my wardrobe. You should have been able to hear it from in here.” He searched for a corkscrew. “I promise I’ll try to get used to new technology before one of us dies.”
“Arthur, there’s been another attack.”
“What are you talking about? I rang in first thing this morning and everything was fine.”
“That’s because they didn’t discover Pippa Whitstable was missing until they got around to searching her bedroom. The Met constable on guard forgot to conduct a morning roll call.”
“Pippa…” Bryant’s cheerful demeanour evaporated.
“She sneaked out last night and was stabbed in the alley beside the house.” May ran a hand through his chestnut mane, exasperated. “She’ll live, but she’s not much use as a witness. Says her attacker was a small Indian man, and that they ‘all look the same’ to her.”
“She’s been around too many white people. There’s madness at work here. It’s like an epidemic – the more we seek to contain it, the more virulent each outbreak becomes.”
“We need to do something fast.” May was studying him, concerned. “Have you eaten anything today?”
Bryant shook his head. “It’s been the last thing on my mind.”
They located the casserole his landlady had prepared the night before. “Where is Alma?” Bryant asked, suspiciously eyeing the steaming bowl as he unwound his scarf.
“She gave up waiting for you and went to stay with her sister in Tooting.” May ladled chunks of stewed beef into bowls. “Tell me what happened with the spiritualist.”
“Maggie’s not a spiritualist, John. The fields are only vaguely related. It’s like calling your dentist an optician. She’s managed to establish the source of my occult connection.”
“Whitstable’s secret alliance?”
“Yes, and you won’t like it. Someone in the family has failed to carry out the ritual that should ensure the renewal of light to the world.”
“
“I’m not sure about that,” replied Bryant, peering into his bowl and sniffing. “Why would James Whitstable deliberately sacrifice the future generations of his family? I’m still missing something.”
“Part of your brain, by the sound of it,” muttered May, seating himself at the table. “I hate to disappoint you, but the Whitstable alliance was formed for a more mundane purpose.”
“Which is?”
“We must go back to the unit. I locked the trading contract in my desk. It’s safe there until I can arrange to have it properly analysed.” The forensic department operated beyond the official jurisdiction of the PCU, and was running shifts with a skeleton staff through the Christmas break.
“I suppose we’ve missed the queen’s speech,” said Bryant gloomily, filling their glasses.
“I don’t understand you,” said May. “You’re a republican, and yet you want to hear the queen.”
“She’s a good woman who happens to be surrounded by idiots. Every outmoded hierarchy is the same,” said Bryant. “Look at the Whitstables. They still trade on the respect of their ancestors, but that respect was created by fear. There’s nothing noble about power won in that fashion. And apart from that, they’re horrible people. How’s the casserole?”
May prodded an indeterminate piece of vegetable matter with his fork. “If your landlady cooks like this because she cares about you,” he said with a grimace, “I dread to think what she’d make if you fell out.”
¦
They arrived at the Mornington Crescent unit to find their office door wide open. The workmen had downed tools for the Christmas holiday. Water was pouring in through the unsealed frames. The office reeked of turpentine.
