So many ideas had been put forward, and all of them wrong. So many dead ends. The Common Market conference. The Nazi symbol. The sacred flame. Cut through them. Look beyond.
Was it revenge or simple monetary gain? Why were all their suspects Indian? May’s theory: a number of assassins involved, each murder logged and computed from the start. Could it be that John was right after all, and that Alison’s death was a panicky mistake?
There was something else that bothered him. The business with the dates. The winter solstice had passed on December twenty-second. The document forming the Alliance of Eternal Light had been signed at the Savoy on the twenty-eighth. If James Makepeace Whitstable was genuinely concerned with the symbolic act of bringing light to the world, he would have gathered his men a full week earlier.
Dawn broke across the City of London.
Suddenly the Embankment lights began to flick off. Pearls of luminescence, familiar and friendly, looped in hazy necklaces along the riverline, were disappearing, one string after another.
Bryant watched as row after row vanished into the night, all the way down the South Bank promenade, past Coin Street and Gabriel’s Wharf, past the Oxo Building and the Anchor pub, past Spice Wharf and St Katharine’s Dock and Tower Bridge, to the distant lights of Greenwich.
“Oh, my God.”
His mouth slowly opened as he realized the answer. “How incredibly, irredeemably stupid of me,” he said aloud. “How could I ever have been so blind?”
He jumped back from the railing, tucked his scarf across his midriff, and set off as quickly as his frozen limbs would allow.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
39
The Rain Gauge
Jerry’s tongue felt thick and dry from last night’s brandy. It was the first time in years that she had slept without a night-light. Slowly she raised her head and examined the room. She saw dark walls of densely woven brocade, a ceramic washstand and jug, a mahogany dressing table and wardrobe. She rose from the high brass bed and drew back the curtains.
Grey sheets of rain obscured the fields below. A flock of miserable sheep stood huddled beneath a line of dripping beeches. Her watch read nine fifteen. She wondered if her host had risen yet.
Why had Charles chosen to unburden himself to her? Did he find her attractive? He had refused to elaborate on his closing remark about James Makepeace Whitstable. Perhaps he had no intention of confiding in his new apprentice.
After she had washed and dressed, she explored the house. The sound of rain could be heard throughout the upper floors. She smelled old wood burnished with lavender polish, damp and time and emptiness. The rooms were kept in such immaculate condition that they reminded her of Joseph Herrick’s stage sets. They needed a boisterous family to bring them to life.
A broad central staircase led downstairs to the breakfast room where Charles Whitstable, casually attired in a sweater and cords, was already seated with a newspaper. The look on his face when he rose to greet his guest suggested further bad news.
“Please,” said Charles, gesturing at the heated tureens on the table, “help yourself to breakfast. My mother told me there was another attack on the family.”
“What’s happened?” she asked.
“Pippa Whitstable is in hospital. She’s only a little older than you.”
“I’m sorry,” Jerry said, not sure what to make of his reaction. “Are you closely related?”
“Distant cousins. We’ve met once or twice. I thought we were all supposed to be under police surveillance. They’re not saying who attacked her.”
“Have you tried calling the police for information?”
“The line is permanently engaged. I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do to help. The family resents my interference. They think my great-grandfather caused this. They know I administrate the alliance’s business system. But I want to find a way to help them.”
“Do you think you’ll have to return to England permanently?” she asked, seating herself before eggs and coffee.
“Perhaps. Whether they like it or not, the family needs me. And I need to think about taking a wife. With so many of us dying, it’s time we produced a few heirs. Taking over the family’s affairs took up all my time. Everyone had been relying on the alliance to bail them out whenever there was a crisis, but now the system has turned against them. I cleared away their outdated ideas, but all I’ve succeeded in doing is earning their enmity. They think I’m cheating them. They can’t see that the Whitstable ‘empire’ is no more. The land they owned is being auctioned off. Soon there won’t be anything left but the houses they live in. I’m streamlining the group, investing in technology they can’t understand, and this way we may just survive. But to listen to them, you’d think I was diverting their dwindling capital into a drugrunning operation.” He drained the cup and checked his watch. “That’s why it’s important to bring in people with new ideas. I called your father and asked him to join us for lunch. Can you stay on until tomorrow? There’s more I’d like to discuss. Besides, you’re charming company, and you brighten this old house no end.”
She sat back and studied him carefully. She had never met anyone like him before. Charles was mature and urbane. He treated her like a woman and seemed prepared to give her responsibilities. Her mission of subversion had taken on an interesting new aspect.
“Do you think the police will ever catch anyone?”
“The deaths will end as suddenly as they began, and no one will ever be able to say why.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because the same thing has been happening to our overseas rivals throughout the century. Of course, the attacks were never this densely concentrated before, and they took place on another continent, so investigations were never concluded. British justice doesn’t concern itself with the deaths of a few Indian businessmen. But now that the tables are turned on the British, there’s hell to pay.”
“What’s India like?” she asked, watching as he finished his breakfast.
“Vibrant. Shocking. A sinkpit and a paradise.” His eyes maintained their serene quiescence. “In India, the cycle of life is fast and full of fury. The rites of birth and death are closer together. We English seal away our emotions. Our grief, and much of our joy, remains private. Their feelings are more exposed, and it makes them strong. I admire their survival in the midst of so much damage and confusion. My relatives could learn a thing or two from them.”
If she performed well in her new career, he would probably take her with him. But wasn’t her request for a job just a ploy? She had to remember that she had no real intention of taking him up on the offer, even if it represented an escape from the house in Chelsea. The thought of returning there depressed her. She was alarmed to discover how much she liked Charles.
“I have to make a lot of long-distance calls this morning,” he said, rising. “Why don’t you take a look around the estate? We’ll reconvene just before lunch.”
“I’ll be just as happy sitting in the library. Do you have any documentation on the companies that I can read?”
“Now that’s the kind of initiative I like,” he said, smiling for the first time that morning. “I’ll see what I can find for you.” As he passed, he squeezed her shoulder affectionately, and she found herself sharing his pleasure.
¦
To be left alone in the library was a mark of how far she had gained his trust. The room couldn’t have exuded more masculinity if it had been lined with dead stags. There were so many pipe racks and gun-racks and lewd Indian carvings that it reminded her of Peggy Harmsworth’s house in Highgate. She was happy to leave huntsmanship to the gentry. Still, the library’s stock was surprisingly varied, and contained many first editions. For the rest of the morning she read everything she could find about the Whitstables, but judging from the curious gaps
