Seventy-Seven Clocks

∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

12

Savoyards

She was startled to find blood on the pillow.

She had bitten her lower lip in her sleep. The dream had returned again. Now that she was awake, her face turned to the growing stripe of daylight bisecting the ceiling of her room, she felt the dread of those endless alleys dissolving within her.

In the past week Jerry had seen stranger things, and they had not been dreams. For the first time, reality had proved more disturbing than her imagination. She thought of the swathed body in the barber shop and shuddered. She had succeeded in stepping beyond the comfort zone provided by her parents, and into an area of unpredictability. The thought excited her. Dr Wayland had ended their session with a warning about the harm of allowing what he termed ‘negative aspects’ of her nature to the fore. His main concern was to keep Gwen’s monthly cheques rolling in.

She checked the alarm clock and rolled out of bed. At eight o’clock the house was still silent. Neither Jack nor Gwen would be awake for another half hour. Wait until the papers arrived, she thought, they’d be able to read about the latest gruesome discovery at their only child’s place of employment. Gwen would probably find a way of implying that she was somehow to blame.

Her parents’ friends were all offshoots from the same cultivated tree. The men were higher-echelon professionals; their partners were wives before they were women. In the uppermost branches were the families fortified by generations of old money, trust funds, and minor titles. Below were the rising tendrils of the nouveaux riches. Jack and Gwen were locked into a precise level of British life, sparkling ammonites in their strata of London society. They lived in town, which was becoming too cosmopolitan for some of their friends, a euphemism for their perception that it was filling up with foreigners. In mitigation, Chelsea was an enclave of comfortable white families like themselves. They had a small farmhouse in Warwickshire, and an orange-tiled villa on Cap Ferrat. Gwen considered herself a working woman. She was a voting member on her husband’s business boards, and a hostess on the many charity nights their friends arranged to promote fashionable causes, preferably ones connected with horses or photogenic children. Here in the upper-middle reaches, the rules for social climbing had to be strictly adhered to. Jack’s money was not yet old enough for them to be allowed to behave as they liked.

Further complicating the family’s position was the fact that Jerry’s difficult personality had encouraged her parents to enrol her at a small private school in Chelsea which enjoyed a fine reputation as a clearinghouse for the problem children of the comfortable classes.

Jerry had never had to tidy her own bedroom; that job was reserved for the Swedish au pair. She was not allowed to put posters on the walls because of the pin marks they left. If she told Gwen how she had talked to the police, her mother would probably faint from sheer embarrassment. Jerry had a sneaking suspicion her parents lived in fear of children developing strong imaginations. In their eyes it encouraged creativity, which prevented young people from becoming productive. It was important to them that she did something useful. As she bathed and dressed, she wondered if they would ever allow her to choose her own course in life. So much could happen in the space of a single week. She had glimpsed death and conspiracy, had spoken to the working-class men and women who dealt with it as part of their daily routine, and now she wanted to know more. She still had the Bible in her possession. She needed to consider her next move very carefully.

As she wiped condensation from the mirror and combed back her wet hair, she thought about Joseph Herrick. He had been busy working on his designs for the theatre, but the next time he came past the reception desk, she decided, she would ask him out on a date.

For the first time, it seemed that anything and everything was possible, so long as she kept her own counsel.

Daily Mail, Tuesday 14 December 1973

Exclusive

NEW LINK IN WHITSTABLE DEATHS ‘DENIED BY POLICE’

According to a source close to the police team working in London’s most controversial murder investigation division, vital evidence linking three bizarre deaths in the past week is being deliberately ignored.

From its inception, the Peculiar Crimes Unit has drawn charges of elitism, and faces criticism for its working methods, which encourage experimentation over traditional investigative procedure. Now it is being suggested that a vital clue common to all three deaths has been discounted in favour of obscure ‘alternative’ theories.

William and Peter Whitstable, together with their lawyer Maximillian Jacob, were supposedly murdered in circumstances bearing no links, but the Daily Mail has learned that police know of a symbol common to each victim that had deadly connotations.

The sign of the sacred flame is popularly used by members of the Whitstable family and their business associates. But during the Second World War this very symbol had a more sinister meaning. It was a code used by German assassins to mark predetermined British targets.

Between 1941 and 1944 no fewer than thirty-seven English men and women who were perceived to be a threat to the German invasion were coded with the sacred-flame symbol. All were subsequently eliminated in a variety of bizarre scenarios. The sacred flame has a mythological origin connected to German Olympian ideals.

Few now remember the terror that this sign once inspired. The re-emergence of the flame’s use, timed at the start of a conference which is of great importance to Britain’s entry into the Common Market, suggests the return of powerful right-wing German interests.

Experts say that the Whitstable family have exploited profitable export connections with German delegates who are attending the conference. Recently their Hamburg office suffered extensive damage and two members of staff were injured after a firebomb was hurled through a ground-floor window.

Confronted with this fresh evidence, a police spokesperson denied any link with recent German banking offences, suggesting that the connection of the sacred flame was ‘spurious at best’.

On the morning of 14 December, Bryant and May began the second week of their investigation by facing up to two major problems in their search for information.

The first was a lack of available manpower. Theirs was the only division ranking above the existing Area Major Investigation Pools in Britain. These pools were divided by areas, and handled the majority of homicide inquiries. Typically, they were overworked and understaffed. In theory, the new unit was supposed to receive help from the pools’ senior investigating officers, but in practice it was not possible to free them from their essential ‘caretaking’ duties within the AMIPs. This left the division with a single acting superintendent, Raymond Land; two sergeants, of whom Janice Longbright was one; and an inadequate foot-force.

Their second problem was one of time. The first seventy-two hours following a homicide were the most vital. At the end of three days, a strong sense was gained of whether the case would be solved quickly or not. This time had elapsed, in the cases of Max Jacob and William Whitstable, without any agreement on motive, opportunity, or circumstantial evidence. Little had been established beyond the fact that these were three cases of unlawful homicide, with malice a forethought. Now the detectives realized that they were in for a long haul. Consequently, they decided to divide chores according to each other’s specific talents.

Bryant was to question Bella Whitstable about her brothers, while May spent time with the forensic team appointed to the case. The properties of all three victims were now in the process of being searched and catalogued, and Jacob’s family was being questioned for the second time. Witness statements were correlated by Longbright, who added them to the growing paperwork at Mornington Crescent.

Faraday, the junior arts minister, had called twice to find out why no arrests had been made, and an expert from the National Gallery had sent a detailed report on the problems that would beset anyone attempting a restoration of the damaged Waterhouse painting.

Forensic information was starting to arrive on Major Peter Whitstable’s death, but no one could spare the time to match it to the rest of the investigation. Their personnel situation was scandalous, May reflected. Worse still, their detractors in the Met might well have arranged for it to become so.

Equally frustrating was the fact that it was impossible to find time to follow up this morning’s suggestion by the Mail that German business interests were to blame for the deaths. The theory was as plausible as any other, perhaps more so, but Bryant had been forced to dismiss it until a team could be freed to investigate the allegation. And who knew how long that would take?

♦

When he arrived at the morgue, May found Oswald Finch tabling results from his autopsy on William’s younger brother into the Grundig tape recorder that sat on his bench. The air in the white-tiled room was chilled and antiseptic, but could not hide the chemical smell that accompanied the clinical study of death.

“I’m glad you came back.” Finch rose to offer a thin, clammy hand. “How are you getting on with your snake man?”

“Not very well,” admitted May. “It would help if they could get a few readable fibres from him.” Forensics had searched all three corpses, but had failed to find any common substance matches. Quite the reverse, in fact; they had come up with hairs and skin flakes from several different people. It seemed obvious that the murders were linked, but so far they had found no way of proving it.

“Arthur thinks the methods of death are symbolic,” said May. “They’re intended to have a theatrical effect. Why else would anyone go to so much trouble?”

“Your partner always seems disappointed when he hears of anyone dying a natural death,” said Finch, crossing to the banks of steel drawers set in the far wall. “In Jacob’s case I suppose you could be looking at suicide. It’s possible that the wound was self-inflicted. It would explain why he calmly returned to his seat and continued reading the paper. Your bomb man could have been an Accidental. He might conceivably have triggered his own device by mistake. Something has cropped up that I thought you’d be interested in.” He unlocked a drawer and rolled it out, deftly unzipping the plastic bag in which the remains of Peter Whitstable were housed. “This one was more like an execution than an assault.”

“What do you mean?” May attempted to avoid looking at the dry, broad slashes on the major’s throat and the split wounds to his mouth.

“If the attack had resulted from an altercation, that is to say was motivated by sudden anger, I would have expected to find a fair bit of damage to the face, and defence marks. But you say no cries were heard outside the barber shop. His attacker could have armed himself with any number of sharp instruments, but he chose the razor. He was very fast, with powerful strokes through the vocal cords here, across the throat. This chap had no time to struggle. Swift and efficient. And then there’s this.”

He thumbed open the inside of the corpse’s upper arm and shone his pocket torch on the exposed flesh.

“As we’re dealing with a lifelong military man, I wasn’t surprised to find that he had a tattoo,” said Finch. “It’s the placing of it that’s odd. I’ve never seen one on the inside of an arm before. It’s only a few centimetres below the armpit. No one would ever see it.”

John May found himself looking at a familiar aquamarine smudge. The flickering flame symbol was the same as the one he had found on William Whitstable’s cane.

“Did you find this on either of the others?”

“No, only on the Major. Probably has military significance. There must be a way of finding out what it means.”

“Yes,” May agreed, all too aware that he could spare no one for the task. “If the newspapers are to be believed, we’re under attack from modern-day Nazis. The journalists are securing information faster than we are.”

♦

“I don’t know where to begin,” said Bella Whitstable, standing in the angled corridor of her brothers’ attic. “I doubt either of them could remember what had been stored up here.” Judging by her neat make-up and smart appearance, she had passed a good night. She certainly hadn’t sat up for hours crying.

“There are some ceremonial robes,” said Bryant, removing the mahogany box and unlocking it. “Perhaps you know what they represent.” He had a good idea himself, but he wanted confirmation.

“Oh, that’s easy,” said Bella, removing the blue silk gown and holding it to the light. “It’s William’s guild robe. Peter has one as well. Most of the men in our family do.”

“What kind of guild does this represent?” He peered into the box and removed an ermine-trimmed collar. He expected to find a heavy gold chain somewhere, and here it was at the bottom of the box.

“It’s part of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths. We’re a craft guild family. That’s originally where the Whitstables made their money. Gold and silver. Our ancestors can be traced back to the foundation of the guild in 1339.”

Bryant knew a little about the ancient network of guilds that still operated a system of patronage, performing charitable works within the city. Their apprenticeship schools had once been open to all, but were about to become private. Kids from backgrounds such as his would no longer be welcome.

“Did William and Peter still keep up their contacts, attend meetings, that sort of thing?”

“I doubt it. Neither of them was particularly sociable. My brothers were always too suspicious of others to make many friends. It wasn’t much fun growing up with them.”

“So there’s no chance that their deaths might have resulted from some past transgression.” His fingers traced the stitched livery on the robe.

“I don’t think that’s very likely, Mr Bryant. Our business has always been rather bloodless. We’ve never had much trouble from competition.”

For a moment he’d had a vision of the ageing guild members quarrelling over a fraudulent deal, a distant betrayal. The arcane circumstances of the deaths somehow seemed to fit.

“I have to leave soon,” said Bella. “I’m meeting my Savoyards at seven.”

“I should come with you,” said Bryant. “You say this society is connected with Gilbert and Sullivan?”

“Indeed,” said Bella. “We’re attending the new production of Princess Ida. Tonight is the first night.”

How could he have forgotten? Ken Russell’s new version of this work had received praise at its previews. Bryant had promised to buy himself a ticket, but the events of the last week had ended any thoughts of leisure.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to find you a spare seat,” Bella told the pleased detective.

♦

Fans were arriving beneath the illuminated globe of the English National Opera, London’s largest theatre. The purists still attended the Royal Opera House, but there was a sense of fun about the ENO. It was one of Bryant’s guilty pleasures to attend the productions here, although May would have hated finding himself in such a middle-aged audience. His partner welcomed the company of the young, and was always prepared to listen to their opinions.

Bella Whitstable had changed into an alarmingly loose black-beaded gown that had been brought down from her brothers’ attic and smelled of mothballs. County women rarely adapted from the field to the foyer. Bryant was in no position to criticize his escort, as he sported his usual battered brown overcoat, topped with another of his landlady’s unnecessarily prolonged scarves.

“They should be around here somewhere,” said Bella, searching the crowded vestibule from the steps. “You can’t miss them.”

“Oh, why is that?” asked Bryant, before catching sight of a group that appeared to be in fancy dress. One of them, a short, bespectacled man clad in doublet and hose, came over and pumped Bella’s arm.

“Oh, well done,” he cried, examining her gown. “A perfect revival Lady Blanche!” He indicated his own clothes. “I’ve gone for the James Wade 1954 production. The original’s too laden down with fur and chain mail, unless you’re King Hildebrand. I was supposed to be Cyril, but the chap taking Florian fell off a tandem this morning and landed on his keys, so I took his place.”

Bryant touched Bella’s arm. “You mean they’re all dressed in character?” he asked.

“Certainly,” said Bella. “The Savoyards differ from other Gilbert and Sullivan groups. They live out the parts of each opera. It’s not as foolish as it sounds. Our functions raise money for charity, and pay for the preservation and restoration of related artefacts.”

“I take it your brothers had no connection with the group?” asked Bryant.

“Good heavens, no. In our family, theatre is something for the men to sleep through.”

Noting the size of some of the ladies’ headdresses, Bryant tried to imagine how the rest of the audience would feel about this embellishment to the evening’s programme, until it was explained to him that the Savoyards had reserved Boxes G and H on the right side of the theatre, where they would be able to enjoy themselves in relative privacy.

As they reached the boxes, Bryant examined the faces of the assembled Savoyards, and found himself searching for possible suspects. With fifteen minutes to go before curtain up, champagne was opened, and several members approached Bella to offer awkward condolences. One of the Savoyards was sitting on the far side of the box in a visored steel helmet that hid his face. Bryant excused himself from Bella’s side. It was important to ascertain that there was no danger here, and that began by knowing everyone’s identity.

“Hello, there.” He pulled up a small gilt chair. “Mind if I join you?” The man in the plumed helmet said something Bryant could not understand and pointed helplessly to the side of his head. Bryant loosened a wing nut with his fat fingers and worked the visor free. The face revealed was sweaty and russet-coloured.

“Phew, thanks,” said the knight gratefully. “Damned thing keeps jamming. I should have picked someone else.” He held out a hand. “Oliver Pettigrew. I’m not normally dressed like this. I’m an estate agent. You’re the police chap.”

“That’s right,” said Bryant, unwinding his scarf and placing it on the back of the chair. Below them the hubbub rose as the auditorium filled up.

“What do you make of this business, then? Both her brothers gone in a week, and yet she’s here tonight. What a trouper, eh?” Pettigrew shook his head in wonderment.

“How often do you meet?” asked Bryant.

“Once every six weeks for a costume reading, usually in a church hall, every Gilbert and Sullivan revival of course, at charity functions, and at fund-raisers to keep original G and S manuscripts and props in the country. There’s a great interest in the operas throughout the Commonwealth, and in America. We even have an official chapter of the Savoyards in Chicago.”

“I’m a bit of a Gilbert and Sullivan fan,” admitted Bryant, “but I’d never heard of you before Bella told me.”

“It’s fallen out of fashion over here,” said Bella, picking up the conversation. “There’s a reaction against anything popular in this country, don’t you think? People forget that Gilbert’s satirical targets – the judicial system, the House of Lords, the police, and royalty – made him the bad boy of his age.”

“That’s right,” agreed Knight Pettigrew, fiddling with his wing nut. “He ridiculed affectation, snobbery, and nepotism. Gilbert’s rude lyrics kept him from receiving a knighthood until he was nearly dead. The Victorian age died with them, you know. Lewis Carroll, Ruskin, Gladstone, William Morris, D’Oyly Carte, Oscar Wilde, and Queen Victoria herself – all gone with the end of the century.”

“Mr Sullivan’s music is the music of the common people,” said Bella enthusiastically, not that she knew anything about common people. “It’s a direct descendant of the folk songs that once bound our country together.” She refilled their glasses. “That’s why the guild supports it.”

“The guild?” Bryant’s ears pricked up. “You mean money from the Goldsmiths helps to run the Savoyards?”

“Sometimes,” said Bella. “It works both ways. There are many charities involved.” She twisted her gold wristwatch and checked the time. “I think it’s about to start.”

Bryant was reasonably familiar with the plot of Princess Ida, a heavy-handed satire on women’s rights, but he had never seen it performed. Its tiresome recitative was the reason why it was rarely produced these days. A pity, for it contained what was known as ‘Sullivan’s String of Pearls’ in the second act, a sequence containing some of the composer’s finest work.

The opera consisted of three acts, with two intermissions of fifteen minutes each. At the first of these, the Savoyards turned to each other with the falling of the curtain and argued excitedly. The production had obviously found favour with them. The setting had been updated to seventies London with reasonable success. The new version allowed for a variety of jokes surrounding the women’s liberation movement, but it was the singing that elicited the group’s enthusiasm. Bryant caught Bella Whitstable heading for the door of the box and called her back. “If you want to go to the lavatory,” he suggested, “please take someone with you.”

“I was only going to powder my nose,” she replied somewhat archly.

“Then kindly do it here,” said Bryant. “I don’t want you out of my sight.”

Knight Pettigrew had removed his helmet and was refilling his champagne glass. Several more Savoyards had entered from the other box. The bejewelled outfits of the women and the polished silver gilt of the men’s armour glittered in the soft red gloom, although someone dressed as a ragged beggar in a floppy hat seemed to have got a raw deal. Bryant had to admit that it was a dottily pleasant sight.

Pettigrew tapped him on the arm. “You know, people don’t realize how much of Gilbert and Sullivan is buried in the national consciousness,” he said. “Take Princess Ida. The lyrics owe a considerable debt to Tennyson, did you know that? The BBC was playing the first act on September the third, just before Neville Chamberlain announced that we were at war with Germany. And you know the last lines that were heard that fateful day before they faded out the music? ‘Order comes to fight, ha, ha, order is obeyed.’”

Bryant glanced at his new friend’s eager face and knew that he possessed hundreds of similar anecdotes. People like Pettigrew were harmless enough, but it was usually dangerous to show too much of an interest. As the estate agent rattled on, Bryant wondered how many of the others had told their colleagues about their odd hobby.

The house lights flickered and dimmed for a moment, presumably to notify the audience that it was time for them to return to their seats.

He became aware of a commotion on the other side of the box. Several women were bent over someone in a chair. He rose, crossing to find one of them fanning Bella with a programme.

“She feels faint,” she explained. “It’s very warm in here. Do you think we should take her outside?”

“I’ll be fine, really,” said Bella. “I just feel a little strange.”

“She was complaining that her limbs were stiff,” said her friend. “I wondered if – ” She got no further, because Bella suddenly fell forward, her muscles contracting violently. Everyone jumped back in shock as her limbs began to spasm.

“She’s having a fit!” Pettigrew was pushing into the knot of horrified onlookers.

Bryant grabbed the two largest men he could see. “Hold her down,” he ordered, snatching up the walkie-talkie handset attached to his belt. It was the one piece of equipment he had not managed to lose.

“Put something soft between her teeth that she can bite on,” said Pettigrew. “Something she can’t swallow.”

“Does anyone have any Valium?” asked Bryant, kneeling beside her. Several women immediately opened their handbags.

Bryant called for an ambulance and watched Bella’s back arching in agony as she thrashed on the floor of the box. The men were fighting to hold her arms and legs, but the power of her involuntary flexing was kicking their hands away. Someone was hammering on the door behind them.

“Get them to stop banging,” shouted Bryant as one of the women scurried to the door. He had a good idea what had happened, and knew that sudden light or noise would only increase the intensity of her spasms. Bella’s face, twisted in an agonized muscular rictus, was beginning to turn blue. He administered the Valium as the St John’s ambulance men entered the box.

Bella’s convulsions began to lessen, but the protuberance of her startled eyes and the frozen grimace of her mouth suggested that her time was running out. As he helped to fasten the stretcher’s restraining straps, Bryant caught a brief glimpse of the audience reseating itself below, oblivious of the real-life drama unfolding above their heads. He could only wait and pray that the medics had arrived in time.