“A squad of assassins is on its way here to wipe out the remaining Whitstables. This could turn into the Alamo.”
“What are you talking about? How many ‘assassins’?”
“I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know how many members of the family they’ve been instructed to finish off, either, but if they can arrange to slip a starving Bengal tiger into a suburban house I think we should be ready to expect the worst, don’t you?”
The detectives stepped past their astonished superior and walked towards the house.
“Well, I’m surprised you two have the nerve to show your faces in here again,” said a sour-faced Berta Whitstable, examining the detectives by the light of her raised hurricane lamp. Even at this time of night she was dressed in expensive, garish clothes. She looked like Joan Crawford playing Rochester’s first wife. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were somehow responsible for killing us off.”
“I can assure you it’s nothing to do with me,” said Bryant, removing his wet trilby and placing it on the hat stand. Candles had been placed in saucers and ashtrays throughout the hall. The flickering yellow gloom had reversed the century, returning the building to its true status as a Victorian mansion. “Gather the family together please.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, Mr Bryant?” Berta’s eyes narrowed in fury. “You can’t just keep ordering us about. This is still William Whitstable’s house, and you are trespassing on – ”
“Just fuck off and get the family, will you?” said Bryant wearily. “Pardon my French. It’s late, and the night is far from over.”
Berta stormed off up the stairs, calling for the others in an injured, tremulous voice.
“How many officers do we have altogether?” May asked Land.
“Eight,” he replied. “Nine counting me.”
“Is that all?”
“Four are at the hospital with your sergeant,” the detective superintendent explained. “I think you’ll find that the rest are Met boys making a protest at the way you two have been conducting this case.”
“God, why did they have to pick tonight, of all nights?” cried May. “Have we got all of the windows covered?”
“As far as it’s possible to cover them,” said Land.
“At least we’ve managed to get the men well armed. There are dense woods behind the property. No way of stopping a sniper in there, I’m afraid.”
“You see?” Bryant told his partner. “If William Whitstable had lived in a council house this wouldn’t be a problem.”
He looked up to see a crowd of arguing, angry-faced relatives heading down the stairs towards him bearing torches and lanterns. “My God, it looks like they’re getting ready to go and set fire to Frankenstein’s castle. Right, let’s get everyone into the dining room.”
As usual everyone was talking at once, but this time fear showed beneath the anger and confusion. The dining room was illuminated by a large crystal chandelier filled with fresh candles. Shadows bounced crazily about the ceiling. Bryant half expected to see Edgar Allan Poe taking notes in a corner.
Bryant turned to the gathered family as his partner seated the last of the older children.
“You might not realize it, but this house is under siege,” he began. “We have good reason to believe that assassins will try to attack one or more of you during the night.” Better to frighten them into behaving themselves, he thought. “I want you to keep away from the doors and windows, and stay as near to the centre of the house as possible. We’ll protect the outside of the building as best as we can, but we can’t guarantee you one hundred percent safety. After this night, however, we can promise that you will have nothing more to fear.”
“You mean you’ve finally pulled your finger out and managed to catch someone,” snorted Isobel Whitstable. “Perhaps you’d like to tell us who the culprit is.”
“Now is not the time,” said May, pulling his old friend to one side. “We’re duty-bound to protect them.” He led Bryant away as the Whitstables began hurling insults after him. One of the children threw a plastic beaker at his head. “You’re a pair of hopeless old failures,” the boy jeered.
“I can’t believe they’re being so rude,” said May.
“They’re going through a nightmare,” said Bryant. “They don’t even know if they’ll be alive in the morning.” He turned to one of the officers standing inside the front porch. “Have you seen anyone around? Any sign of disturbance at all?”
“Nothing yet, Sir.”
“The sight of you lot has probably put them off.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “On the other hand, the people we’re after are more loyal and diligent than the men who employed them. They’ll be determined to carry out their instructions if they can. It’s the only way they can ensure their own safety.”
“You sound as if you know more of what we’re dealing with than you’re prepared to tell us,” complained May.
“John, I’ve done some reading from Maggie Armitage’s books about Indian cults. These chaps can put themselves into states of heightened awareness. Look, there’s no point in you getting any wetter. Why don’t you oversee operations inside the house? I can take the perimeter.”
“I suppose it’s better than leaving you to get into a fight with them,” sighed May. “Just be careful.”
Outside, rain drummed through the trees in the woodland beyond, crackling like a forest fire. Land was seated in the front patrol car making a call. Around the house, disconsolate soaked policemen stood in pairs, unsure what they were watching for.
Inside the house, things were just as bad. May was having great difficulty holding the family together in one room. The children had a habit of ducking out the moment his back was turned, the men’s moods ranged from threatening to abusive, and the women were bitterly contradicting one another.
“I have to use the bathroom,” announced Berta Whitstable, rising from her armchair and pushing her way through the door in a jangle of jewellery. “I really can’t believe we’re prisoners in our own property.
As she reached the foot of the stairs, however, she hesitated. Several of the candles on the landing had blown out, and the first floor was virtually in darkness. As she climbed, she found herself listening for sounds from above. The ill-dressed detective had shut the lounge door behind her, and she could no longer hear the familiar hubbub of the family arguing.
Somewhere overhead, rain was falling on a skylight. What a relief it was to be away from her relatives for a moment. She had forgotten how appallingly self-interested they were when gathered all together. She wondered where Charles was. His place was with the family. He had promised to come. Why wasn’t he here?
At the top of the stairs she leaned forward and peered down the darkened hall. The bathroom was right at the end, and only one candle had remained alight. No wonder – there was a chill draught coming in, and now she felt several tiny spots of rain on the back of her neck. Someone had stupidly left a skylight open. Berta walked on down the hallway, the wet air wafting eerily around her shoulders.
She reached the bathroom and saw that the door was half open. The candles on the sink had blown out, but she could see a box of matches beside them. She was reaching out for it when a cold hand grabbed hers. She found herself facing a wide-eyed man who slipped his hand across her mouth and pulled her to him as he slammed the door shut.
¦
“They can’t come down the street because they’ll see the police cars,” said PC Bimsley. “If I had to assassinate someone, I’d climb up one of the beech trees in the wood and shoot them through the windows. With a bow and arrow, so it would make no noise.”
“That wouldn’t work,” Bryant countered. “These men are given specific targets. From outside the house, you can’t tell individuals apart.”
They were standing by the dustbins at the end of the garden, shining their torches into the woods. Rain filled their beams like glittering steel needles. Bryant checked his watch. Two forty-five a.m. His boots were full of icy water.
“How long have you been in the police, Mr Bryant?” asked the young PC.
“Longer than you’ve been alive,” said the detective with unconcealed pride.
