“Whitstable ran reform charities. Surely he would have frowned on anything too risque?”
“The Victorians weren’t quite so naive as we like to think. Prostitution was rampant, despite various efforts to clean up the streets. During the day, society whores promenaded through Rotten Row. At night, Leicester Square was host to all kinds of delights. Three years after the alliance was formed, the Empire Variety Theatre was built there and became such a traffic-stopping spot for prostitutes that a plasterboard barrier was erected to shield them from the non-paying public.
No, on this occasion James Whitstable had something else in mind. I was sure I knew what it was, and my theory was backed up when I re-examined the documents Alison Hatfield obtained for you. There, among all those loose bits of paper, was part of a ticket.”
He raised an oblong section of green paper in his hand. “This was James Whitstable’s ticket for a trip next door to the Savoy Theatre, which had just been completed. Whitstable was a keen patron of the arts, remember. Gilbert and Sullivan were presenting their production of
“And this was where James Whitstable took his partners.” May shrugged. “So what?”
“Don’t you think it strange? This particular opera was a topical joke. Its references weren’t entirely understood by cosmopolitan audiences even then. We know from the Savoy records that most of Whitstable’s colleagues had journeyed up from the country. Such esoteric entertainment would hardly have suited their tastes. No, James didn’t want them to attend just so they could enjoy the show.”
“This had better have some point to it, Arthur.”
Bryant savoured his brandy-tea and smiled. “There are moments in history that change our way of looking at the world, don’t you think?” He always enjoyed knowing more about a case than his partner. He paused for another sip, relishing the moment. “Some are obvious events that we all agree on. Kings fall, battles are lost or won. Sarajevo, twenty-eight June 1914. London, three September 1939. Dallas, twenty-two November 1963. Other changes are of a subtler degree, and some go quite unnoticed.
On the night of twenty-eight December 1881, James Whitstable and his partners witnessed an extraordinary symbolic moment. For the first time ever, a public building was completely lit with the new electric light. Darkness was thrown from the corners of the night. In this case, by over twelve hundred electric lamps. They’d tried to do it once before, on the tenth of October the same year. On that occasion, the entire company of the Savoy Theatre came on stage and sang three choruses of ‘God Save the Queen’ in a dramatic new arrangement by Sullivan, but then – fiasco. The steam engine driving the generator in a vacant lot near the theatre couldn’t provide enough electricity, and the stage remained gas lit.
But at the matinee on December the twenty-eighth, they finally got it right. Richard D’Oyly Carte, ever the grand showman, walked onto the stage and ordered the gas lighting to be turned off. He followed with a lecture on the safety of electricity. This was news to the audience; many of them had thought electricity was fatal. Then he took a piece of muslin and wrapped it around a lit lamp, which he proceeded to smash with a hammer. When he held up the unburnt muslin, proving that there was no danger to the public, the audience went wild.
Gas light was unclear, yellowish, smelly, and hot. The new electric illumination was here to stay. Imagine, John! To these men – businessmen, craftsmen – it must have seemed that the myths and mysteries of the shadowy past had truly been swept away by the cold, bright light of scientific reason. There couldn’t have been a more appropriate symbol for them to adopt.”
“You think it was coincidence, or did James Whitstable know about this?”
“Oh, he knew all right. He used the performance as a display to show them they were doing the right thing by signing with him. What an extraordinary start for a grand new era! No wonder James had spoken of the winter solstice, the championing of light over darkness. Why, Victoria herself became queen on Midsummer’s Day! It was the beginning of a bright new Britain. The end of myth and magic, the end of superstitions that could only survive in a nation of shadows. We know the alliance flourished. The original members passed away and their fortunes were handed down to their eldest sons. The money and the power stayed within the inner circle of the family. I’m not sure what happened after that.”
“This is where I can help,” said May, pleased that he could finally contribute something. “Whoever obstructed the expansion of the guild always ended up withdrawing their objections, or vanishing altogether. One by one all their rivals disappeared. I’d say they were most likely beaten or killed for getting in the way of progress. It’s in the company’s overseas records, if you know what to look for. Not so many cases in this country, where investigation might have led back to the alliance, but a lot of skulduggery overseas. Whitstable and his gang took, and they didn’t give much back. And they made sure that they retained control beyond their own deaths. Their fortune was passed down to each generation on one condition: that at some future time, the heirs might be asked to secure the continuing good fortune of the company by performing a simple, unspecified task, something they would be notified about when the time arose.”
“You mean the fathers made their sons killers?”
“Oh, nobody high-ranking got blood on their hands, but yes, I think the winning formula – a formula that was way ahead of its time, I might add – was granted with a burden of responsibility.”
“It’s a strong motive.”
“Death by proxy. A series of murders that would ensure the continued survival of the guild’s financial empire, carried out by the descendants of the alliance’s staff. I just spoke to Longbright. An hour ago she received a telex from the Bombay police confirming something about the window-cleaner, David Denjhi. His father and grandfather had both worked for a company owned by the Whitstable family. Specifically, they were in the employ of Charles Whitstable.”
“But how would the alliance know when someone was dangerous enough to require removal? And if they’re still picking victims, why are they killing members of their own family?”
“The Watchmakers were craftsmen. I think Whitstable got his inner circle to come up with some kind of system for automatically fingering their enemies. But somewhere along the line the system screwed up. And now, nearly a century later, nobody knows how to stop it.”
“Raymond Land is never going to believe this.”
“At least it beats your supernatural explanations.”
“That depends who you find more objectionable, capitalists or satanists. Where do we go from here?”
“To James Whitstable’s most direct descendant,” said May. “We overlooked Charles Whitstable because of his position; how easily we still protect those in power. Berta Whitstable is a very unconvincing liar. The more she insisted her son knew nothing, the more I wondered if he could help us. If anyone knows about the alliance’s device, Charles will.”
“Suppose he was at the guild when Alison called me about the diary? He could have arranged for someone to reach the basement before her. It’s only a short distance from Goldsmiths’ Hall to St Paul’s Cathedral.” Bryant’s brow furrowed. “You mentioned the alliance’s
“No, Arthur, I mean a device. They were craftsmen, remember? I think we’re looking for some kind of automaton.”
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
41
Tiger, Tiger
At five twenty-seven the following morning, the elegant Chiswick home of Christian and Deborah Whitstable lay in darkness, and would remain so until an alarm rang in one hour and three minutes. Only a small porch light, operating on a time switch, stayed alight. The two officers May had insisted on appointing to secure the house were about to come off duty, and waited together in the front garden for the day shift to replace them.
Christian Whitstable had been badly disturbed by his sister Isobel’s trauma. Little Daisy had remained mute
