Seventy-Seven Clocks

∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

18

Family

The second-floor conference room of the Mornington Crescent Peculiar Crimes Unit had been planned as a site for future press briefings, but on Sunday afternoon it had been filled with folding chairs and reserved for a very different purpose.

Jerry Gates stood in the doorway, pulled her sweater sleeves over her hands, and surveyed the group before her.

The disparate branches of the Whitstable family had been assembled in the narrow, high-windowed room. So many had turned up that some were left standing around the edges. Everyone was talking at once, arguing, complaining, gesticulating – to each other, to the authorities, to anyone who would listen. Gathered together in this fashion, Jerry could see that the Whitstables possessed certain common physical characteristics, including wayward teeth, large earlobes, and the sort of stress-related blotchiness usually found in cornered jellyfish. It wasn’t an especially attractive sight.

“If I could have your attention for a few moments,” said Bryant, facing the group with his arms raised. “The sooner we get started…” He turned back to May, who was seated on an orange stacker chair behind him. “I don’t believe it. They’re completely ignoring me.” He could barely be heard above the swell of so many simultaneous conversations.

“You’ll have to shout,” said Jerry. “I don’t think they’re used to being ordered about.”

“County folk,” Bryant complained. “They’d pay attention if I was a horse.” He unclipped a microphone from its stand and held it close to one of the wall speakers. The resultant squeal of feedback caused everyone to clap their hands over their ears. Over thirty indignant men, women, and children turned to face the low stage at the front of the room.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” said Bryant, returning the microphone to its stand. He studied his audience like a teacher confronting an unruly new class. Here they were, he thought, the Family Whitstable, well schooled, well shod, and well connected, the cream of British society. The kind of Hard Tory, High Church, pro-hunt landowners idolized in magazines like Tatler. Photographed at weddings or debutantes’ balls they appeared affable and elegant, but gathered en masse, they forgot the rest of the world existed.

“I’ll try not to keep you here too long,” he promised. “It will help if we get to know each other.”

“Isn’t there anyone more senior available to look after this investigation?” shouted a catarrhal young man on the end of the first row.

“We are the senior officers to whom you may direct your questions.” Bryant introduced himself and May, accompanied by a chorus of derisive snorts. A baby started crying and a woman stood up to leave.

“I expect you to stay seated until the end of the briefing,” Bryant informed her.

“Then I expect you to pay my baby sitter.” The woman glared defiantly at him and remained standing.

“You should have thought of that earlier, Madam. I am not prepared to commence the proceedings until every last one of you is sitting down,” said Bryant. The woman made a noisily dissatisfied show, but lowered herself to her chair.

“Who’s she?” shouted someone else, pointing at Jerry. “She’s not one of us.”

“Miss Gates is a witness directly involved in the investigation, and is assisting us,” replied Bryant. “You should all have been given a typed brief by now. Although many of you already know each other, I understand that some of you have not met face to face before. We thought it better to bring the family together like this so that we could explain more clearly – ”

“What do you intend to do about this disgraceful state of affairs?” shouted someone who appeared not to have noticed that the detective was speaking.

“Perhaps you could identify yourself and your relationship within the family when you address the group,” said Bryant. “I’ll be able to place you more easily in the future.”

“Royston Carlyle Whitstable,” came the disgruntled reply. “Alec and Beattie’s son, although what that has to do with – ”

“My colleagues and I will endeavour to explain the course of the investigation to you, Mr Whitstable,” interrupted Bryant. “Or perhaps I should call you Royston, as you all bear the Whitstable name.”

“I hardly think it appropriate we should be on firstname terms,” said Royston. “After all, you’re staff.”

“Would you prefer me to give you all nicknames? It wouldn’t be difficult.”

A horrified hush fell over the room. The Whitstables were not used to being insulted. Bryant faced his audience squarely, fixing his eye on each member in turn. For someone so shabbily dressed, Jerry thought, he could cut an imposing figure of authority when he wanted to.

“Some of you knew William and his brother Peter. I understand that many of you were fond of Bella Whitstable. We decided it would be of more practical use to bring you together like this, rather than speak to you individually. First of all, I ask you to ignore the speculation that’s been printed in the papers. We are in possession of all the known facts, and will release them to you accordingly.” Bryant eased his tie loose and seated himself on the edge of the press table. “Today’s conversation must be a frank one. If anyone would like their children to be absent from the room, we’ll be happy to take care of them.”

As arranged, Jerry gestured to the open door. Much head shaking. Nobody moved. It was ominously quiet now.

“We haven’t been able to trace everyone yet, but hopefully you’ll be able to assist us in that task. I understand that some family members no longer live within the British Isles. They will be contacted in due course.”

“Look here, who’s going to pay our travel expenses?” asked a heavily made-up woman in the second row.

“We’ll be happy to discuss reimbursement for any inconvenience caused to you,” said May. “You should all know by now that three members of your family have died in unnatural circumstances. As the culprit has yet to be identified, there’s a possibility that others may still be in danger. If you wish to be provided with police protection, we’ll try to come to some arrangement. We face the problem of pinpointing a common enemy of the Whitstable family. Peter, William, and Bella encountered a killer whose plans required preparation and careful timing. I think these deaths were more than just premeditated; they were intended to be symbolic. But of what? To discover that, we must understand the true intentions of your enemy.”

“You want us to do your damned job for you,” complained a citrus-faced elderly woman.

Bryant pointed sharply. “Your name, please?”

“Edith Whitstable. The daughter of Charles and Rachel.” She looked about her for signs of approval and found none.

“What I am trying to do politely, Madam,” said Bryant, “is remind you that the withholding of information is a grave and punishable offence. While Mr May and I will attempt to respect your privacy, we need personal details that you may not wish to give – details of business feuds as well as family arguments.” He knew that his request ran the risk of encouraging malicious gossip and hearsay, but it could not be helped. There was also a possibility that the Whitstables’ business interests would prove politically sensitive, and might be protected from legal access. “In return for your assistance, we’ll undertake to keep the press away from you. At this point, certain questions will be asked. First, does one of you know the murderer personally? Second, might one of you even be the person we’re looking for?”

The room quickly filled with indignant clamour. Bryant knew that, from a legal standpoint, he and his partner were treading on very thin ice.

“Now look here.” A tall young man with narrow features tapering to a feral, pointed nose shoved back his chair and stabbed a bony finger at Bryant. “As I see it you’ve managed to put up a pretty poor show so far. The papers say you were with Bella when she was killed. You’re supposed to be public servants, but I don’t see much service. You’re not doing anything at all to put this chap away.”

“And who are you?” asked May, mildly.

“Oliver and Peggy’s son, Luke Whitstable.” As they quoted their lineage, Bryant tried to mentally locate them on the family tree. They all sounded sure that he would know who they were. Perhaps it was a trait of wealthy old families. He had no idea. He was from the East End; his mother used to clean cinemas.

“Well, Luke, at the moment it’s true we have no way of knowing how, when, or why this person strikes. Normally in a murder investigation, progress must be made in the hours immediately following the victim’s death. Connections are completed by talking to family members. Suspects are eliminated, other names recur. When a culprit is pinpointed, he is tied into the crime with corroborative forensic evidence. But this hasn’t happened in our investigation. Why? Because, despite our endeavours, all the evidence gathered so far has been conflicting, and the crime scenes have yielded no clear forensic signposts. So now we need to interview every one of you, and we expect you to provide us with any documentation we request, including detailed proof of your recent whereabouts. We will also need to fingerprint all of you.”

Uproar and outrage followed.

Bryant held up his hands. “We have to separate your prints from those found at the crime scenes. We are dealing with a devious, calculating killer who is capable of devising all manner of disguises and escapes. It’s no use pretending that we can completely protect you from him; no one is ever one hundred percent safe. That’s why we need to know everything you can tell us, no matter how insignificant or how inconsequential it may seem. Think carefully about our questions. I personally witnessed William’s death. I tried to save Bella Whitstable’s life, and saw her die in agony instead. This brave young lady was present at Max Jacob’s death and saw Peter lying with his throat cut. Both of us have since been physically attacked. I want this ended as much as you do, but if you hinder our investigation in any way, I’ll have you charged with obstruction.”

Bryant blew his nose and sat down. The audience sat in stunned silence. Finally, a small girl in the front row ran up and kicked him hard on the shin.

Before everyone began talking at once, May took over from his partner. “No one is saying that this murderer will strike again, but you must be vigilant. Don’t let your children talk to outsiders. Don’t allow neighbours to become familiar with your daily routine. We want to make sure that you stay alive.”

Instantly, a scrum of furious relatives formed around their desk as questions and insults filled the air.

For the rest of the afternoon the two detectives remained seated in the conference room. The Whitstables were argumentative, imperious, secretive, and, Jerry suspected, naturally misleading in their information, but most of all they were scared. Their bravado was a reflexive action that failed to mask their fear. No one could agree with anyone else, and the more they fought, the more badly they behaved.

Eventually, though, a sense of weary resignation set in. The detectives took prints and distributed questionnaires, in the hope that they would turn up a common suspect. There were still several cousins, uncles, and aunts left to track down, but as none of them were based in London within the present radius of the murders, their safety was of secondary concern.

After nearly five hours of half-hearted promises and vague accusations, they terminated the session. The logging of details would be undertaken by the new night shift, and would then be fed into a central file of information, to be referenced and annotated by May and Sergeant Longbright.

For now, though, May took Jerry and his partner over to the smoky saloon bar of the Nun and Broken Compass for a desiccated cheese roll and a pint of best bitter.

The small backstreet pub had been overlooked in the area’s recent rush toward modernization. Unable to attract a younger clientele, the Nun and Broken Compass had given up the ghost so completely that its only amenities were a hairy dartboard obliterated by overuse and a moulting resident dog of especially peculiar breed and odour.

“I’ve never met anyone like them,” grumbled Bryant, taking a sip from his pint. “The backbone of England? The arse-end, more like. They’re more concerned with losing face than losing each other. Jerry, you’re from a posh family. Are they all like that?”

“No, we’re merely middle-middle-class, because my father works for a living. The Whitstables are upper-middle and lower-upper because they own rather than work, except there are also a couple of knights, who would be middle-upper.”

“Surely you’d be upper-upper if you were titled?” Bryant asked, intrigued.

“No, only a direct hereditary line is upper-upper. You need the big three: blood, property, and peerage. But there are certain similarities between us all. You should see the people my mother has over for her charity bridge nights.”

“Leo Marks mentioned that the Whitstables sustained a certain amount of inbreeding in the last century,” said May. “Life would have been very different for them then. Arranged marriages, inherited land, the protection of name and honour. An attenuated sense of duty – to the nation, to their tenants, and to the family escutcheon. They had a smattering of titled heads, nearly all gone now. Families like the Whitstables need to breed, but they’re dying out.”

“I understand that they’re frightened, but I hate their condescension,” Bryant complained.

“They can’t help it,” replied Jerry. “They’re used to being deferred to.”

“And they have powerful connections,” May reminded them. “Three family members in the foreign office, four high up in the Department of Trade and Industry, others in the Church and the armed forces. Policy makers. Friends of nobility. They’re not a dynasty to be trifled with.”

“Do you think we could be dealing with political assassinations? It seems like they’ve made their fair share of enemies abroad.”

“It would be tempting to think that,” May conceded, “but it feels more personal, don’t you think? I get the feeling that none of them can imagine why they’ve been singled out. If they could, they’d probably be too embarrassed to tell us. Still, something should have come to light by now. At the moment we have their cooperation and we should be thankful for it. So let’s have none of your customary rudeness when dealing with the upper echelons, Arthur.”

“How dare you,” complained Bryant. “I was a paragon of civility. Even when that horrible devil-child kicked me.”

“Let’s see how you behave when the Whitstables exert pressure on Raymond. Or start demanding action from the Home Office. Because they will, you know.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Bryant gloomily. “And they’ll get away with it because their social standing will make sure that the right people listen to them. It’s not fair. Class has nothing to do with intelligence.”

“Arthur, they’re different from the likes of you and me. Jerry, you must agree with me.” May nodded in Jerry’s direction.

“They see you as servants rather than actual people. That makes them different.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Bryant. “Francis Bacon said that new nobility is but the act of power, but ancient nobility is the act of time. The Whitstables know their power is waning, and are trying to hide behind their heritage. We see it all around us these days: England is shedding its skin. It will no longer have to carry the weight of the past upon its shoulders. In all my years, I’ve found that the only real difference between one person and the next is what hurt them as a child and what kind of biscuit they like. Everyone has a favourite biscuit.”

Some of Bryant’s theories left Jerry behind. This was one of them. “If the Whitstables are victims of a postwar sociological change in the nation, I don’t see that it matters what kind of biscuit they like.”

“Childhood attachments,” explained Bryant impatiently. “Your favourite biscuit remains the same throughout your life, but life requires you to make certain changes if you wish to stay in pace with it. The Whitstables are being stranded in the past, left behind by the receding tide of history, and they can’t see it happening.”

“I still don’t see – ”

“Excuse me a moment,” said Bryant abruptly. “There’s something I really must find out.” He rose and took the empty glasses to the bar, catching the landlord’s eye. “Why is this pub called the Nun and Broken Compass?” he asked.

“It’s a long story,” said the landlord, pulling a fresh pint. “And it’s rude. You know. A bit Rabelaisian. I don’t want to offend the young lady.”

“Tell us anyway,” demanded Bryant. “It’s been a long day.”

♦

After leaving Mornington Crescent, Jerry called in at the Savoy. She tried ringing Joseph’s room, but there was no reply. Just as she was leaving the lobby, he entered through the revolving doors. He looked terrible.

It was nine forty, and the hotel was finally quiet. The remaining Common Market delegates had left to attend a formal dinner at the Palace. Joseph dropped his bags beside the reception counter and rummaged in his leather jacket for his wallet. “I didn’t think you were on duty.”

“I’m not. What’s wrong?”

“You’ll have to make up my bill,” he replied. “I’m leaving first thing in the morning.”

“Why, what’s happened?” She came around from the counter and lightly held his arm. “Want to walk for a while?”

The lights on the Embankment swayed like ropes of pearls, reflecting in the empty wet streets that led towards Blackfriars.

“I can’t believe it,” Jerry said. “How could it have happened so suddenly?”

“You tell me. The Japanese just pulled out, without a word of explanation. Miyagawa called me into his office this afternoon and said that the Tasaka Corporation were returning to Japan at the end of the month. They’ve canceled their plans for the production and all subsequent events, and they’re selling the theatre to a British consortium. The deal has already been completed. They’ve fired the entire production team. Miyagawa was very apologetic.”

“Why couldn’t they have told you earlier?” asked Jerry.

“Perhaps they thought we might jeopardize their deal somehow. I’m out of a job.”

“What are you going to do now?” she asked. The thought of his leaving chilled her.

“Head back to San Diego, I suppose.” He looked up at the starless sky, his voice betraying the hurt he felt. “There’ll be other times. Other opportunities. They paid me for next month. It wasn’t the money. It was the chance to do something I believed in.”

“I’m so sorry, Joseph.” She thought for a moment. “Why don’t we find out who they’ve sold it to? The Savoy’s a listed building. It can only be used as a theatre. Maybe you can get work with the new company.”

“I was wondering about that.”

“Then it’s worth a try. There are loads of cheap bed and breakfasts around Earl’s Court. Please, you must stay on.”

The hand he slipped around her waist took her by surprise, but when his lips pressed against hers she yielded.