Seventy-Seven Clocks

∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

23

Transgression

The Guardian, Tuesday 21 December 1973

POLICE INCOMPETENCE BLAMED FOR DAISY DELAY

The search for Daisy Whitstable, aged seven, taken from her Chelsea home on Sunday afternoon, got off to a poor start due to a fourteen-hour delay, after Metropolitan Police units failed to communicate vital information. Daisy’s disappearance had not been connected to an ongoing investigation of deaths among other family relatives. Because the crucial link had been overlooked, investigative work was set back at a time when it was most needed.

Daily Mail, Tuesday 21 December 1973

NO CHRISTMAS CHEER IN MISSING DAISY HOUSEHOLD

Christmas stockings hang above a merrily burning log fire, waiting to be filled. A saucer of water stands beneath the sparkling, bauble-covered tree, a child’s thoughtful offering for weary reindeer. But unless a miracle occurs, there will be no joyous Christmas laughter in this house, only anguished tears.

For this is the home of little Daisy Whitstable, abducted on Sunday afternoon. Instead of the welcoming sight of a jovial Santa stacking presents at the foot of the bed, there has been an uninvited, grimmer visitor – and instead of emptying his yuletide sack, he has filled it. See our Leader Column: “Is No One Safe in Their Homes? Why We Should All Be Afraid.”

Letter to the Evening News, Tuesday 21 December 1973

Dear Sir,

Your recent suggestion that the ‘sacred flame’ symbol associated with the Whitstable murders has a connection with a secret Nazi assassination bureau is utter hogwash.

The symbol that is currently being flaunted in the national press bears no resemblance whatsoever to the one which made a brief appearance towards the end of the Second World War. It is, however, very similar to the sacred flame of certain Victorian occult societies.

Far from harbouring murderous intent, such societies were merely gathering spots for harmless English gentlemen who welcomed the chance to occasionally escape from the wife and summon up Beelzebub in the company of a few like-minded friends.

Yours sincerely,

The Rev. George Bartlett.

“I want to see John May,” Jerry said, trying to regain her breath after having galloped up the broken-down escalator at Mornington Crescent Tube station.

Sergeant Longbright looked up from a stack of reports and regarded her coolly. “Good morning, Miss Gates. You’re starting early today.”

The desk clock read seven forty-three. Jerry had not slept well, but it was the sergeant who looked as if she had been working all night.

“However, Mr May was even earlier. You just missed him.” She smiled. “He’s doing some more interviews. I’m expecting him back at noon. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No – it can wait.”

She was desperate to share her findings about CROWET, but forced herself to hold on until she could speak to the detectives in person.

“Miss Gates.” Longbright was tapping the pencil against the desk and frowning at her.

“What?”

“If you don’t have anything specific to do here, can you come back later? We’re really busy.”

“Sorry. I thought I could, you know, help or something.” She was about to leave when she noticed the damp-wrinkled theatre brochure on the sergeant’s desk. The front cover showed a painting of the interior of the Savoy Theatre. May had obviously been following the same lead. So much for promising to keep her in the picture.

“At least let me buy you a coffee, Sergeant. You look tired.” Jerry smiled encouragingly.

“I’d love one,” said the sergeant absently. “I can’t get away from this desk.”

“I’ve only got notes. Do you have change?”

“Let me see.” As Longbright turned to the raincoat hanging on the stand behind her and fished through the pockets, Jerry slipped the brochure inside her jacket. She felt she had the right to do so. Joseph had been cheated out of his job, and the police would be unable to help him. It was up to her now.

♦

“You said to drop it if I didn’t find out anything, but I did.” They were seated in the coffee bar opposite the Savoy, where Jerry was supposed to have started her shift ten minutes ago. “I’ll just go to her house and talk to her. What harm can come of that?” She stared into a cup of scalding, foamy tea and sighed. “I can’t get hurt, if that’s what you’re worried about. The police may never discover the truth. Lots of murders remain unsolved.”

“If you think you can make a difference, fine.” Joseph threw his hands up in defeat. “You’ve already stolen evidence from a police station and it’s not even nine a.m. Imagine what you can accomplish by lunchtime. Go and see this woman, pretend you’re from the press or whatever stupid idea you’ve come up with. I can’t stop you.”

Jerry was determined to see the thing through, and that meant finding out more about CROWET. Peggy Harmsworth, née Whitstable, was William Whitstable’s co-director on the theatre committee, and the only other person to be listed by name in the CROWET brochure. Reading the biographies, Jerry had found Mrs Harmsworth to be a Whitstable, grandmother to the abducted Daisy, in what proved to be yet another uncharted branch of this interminable family.

“Do me a favour? Tell Nicholas I have a cold and can’t come in to work.” She reached across the counter to touch his hand, but Joseph withdrew it.

“This is the last time,” he warned.

♦

The rain was drifting through the trees like spider threads as Jerry pushed open the gates of North London’s exclusive Holly Lodge estate. The 1920s mock-Tudor houses were hidden beyond billiard-table lawns, and reeked of wealth. Jerry had rung Mrs Harmsworth to suggest conducting an interview with her for a new lifestyle magazine. Peggy Harmsworth had agreed to be interviewed because she could talk about her favourite charities, and because she had been offered money.

Jerry smoothed out her skirt and rang the doorbell. Her Savoy uniform was smart, and added an aura of respectability. Unusually for a Whitstable, Peggy had chosen to change her name on marriage, although she had left the family name on the CROWET brochure. Consequently, she had not been contacted for the PCU briefing on Sunday.

Peggy was seated in the drawing room awaiting her visitor. In its sixth decade, her face had developed a timeless look tightened by disillusionment and low body fat. Her sleek dark hair was arranged in a chignon and fixed with a gold clasp. At her feet lay a small, hypertense dog of the kickable variety. Peggy did not look as if she was about to countenance any nonsense. Nor, judging by the tumbler of Scotch at her side, was she entirely sober. After a brief but frank discussion about payment, they settled down to work.

Jerry looked around at the antelope heads peering forlornly from the walls. “Did you kill these yourself?” she asked.

“One inherits so many ghastly things from one’s family.” Peggy ground out her cigarette in an antelope-foot ashtray.

No tea and biscuits here, thought Jerry gloomily. She rose and examined the smouldering ashtray-foot. “I assume there are three others like this.”

“I thought you came here to ask impertinent questions about my life. It’s a little late to give me lessons in ecology.” She tapped out another Sobranie and lit it. “For God’s sake, sit down; you’re making me nervous. Let’s get the interrogation over with.” She exhaled a funnel of blue smoke and sat back, like Circe awaiting the effect of a spell.

Jerry cleared her throat. “Obviously, I’d like to detail your charity work for London’s neglected theatres, but naturally our readers would like to know how you’re coping with recent tragedies. Do you think the abduction of your granddaughter is connected to these deaths?”

“Of course I bloody do!” Peggy exploded. “Anyone can see we’re being decimated.”

“But who hates you enough to do such a thing?”

She tipped back her head and fired another jet of smoke at the ceiling. “That’s rather the question, isn’t it? All international businesses make enemies. When your main aim is to throttle the life from the home competition, you’re bound to tread on a few toes. Of course, these days nobody behaves in an openly vicious fashion. Rivals don’t get obliterated, they get gently squeezed out, like spots. We’re hardly the Krays.”

Peggy fanned smoke away from her face. “Don’t misunderstand me. The financial world is as cruel as it ever was, but subtler. The Whitstables haven’t destroyed anyone in years. Our grandfathers behaved like bastards, but then so did everyone else. The East India Company had set a fine example at the start of the last century – exporting opium to China, monopolizing the drug, and fostering the addiction of the Chinese so that Britain could profit from imported tea and silks. They had always had to fight for their trading rights. The British were outraged after the Black Hole of Calcutta, but that was nothing compared to what we did to the poor bloody Indians. Yet despite its independence, India still carries our legacy – look at the hopeless red tape we left behind in their government. I don’t suppose they teach you this sort of thing at school any more.” She peered suspiciously through the smoke at Jerry. “There’s always been bad behaviour in the outposts of the business world. But I thought you wanted to talk about my theatre work.”

“Yes, I read your brochure. Where did the CROWET symbol come from?”

“It’s the symbol of the Alliance of Eternal Light. It’s not as grand as it sounds, merely an organization founded by some of the Watchmakers’ Company.”

“Who, specifically? James Makepeace Whitstable – the gentleman on your brochure?”

“Yes, it was James’s inspiration. No doubt the name came to him in one of his evangelical moods.”

“What are the alliance’s modern-day duties?”

“It’s a philanthropic trust involved in charity work, mainly raising money for churches and hospitals, although it originally began as some kind of get-rich-quick scheme. The family coffers were almost empty, and James came up with a plan to fill them. Whatever he did, it worked for a hell of a long time. Much of the Whitstable fortune was created by him. Now it’s evolving into a holding trust for organizations like CROWET. We’ve just taken over the restoration of the Savoy Theatre. A Japanese consortium was handling it, but we managed to buy them off. Rather, the Japs suddenly dropped out, leaving us with a successful bid for the building. It was almost too good to be true.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we’ve always wanted the Savoy. Now, with the alliance’s help, we’ll be able to ensure that the theatre reopens in the New Year.”

“Who runs the alliance now?”

“The whole family has helped out from time to time. There are no outsiders involved.”

Jerry was disappointed to hear that the guild’s inner organization was nothing more than a family charity. But would Peggy tell her if it wasn’t? “Does the alliance keep records of its history?”

“I suppose so,” said Peggy, reaching down to scratch the dog about its ears. “They’re probably tucked away at the guild, but I don’t see why you need to look at those.”

“We’d like to tell readers about your good works. By the way, why theatre restoration?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are theatres of particular interest when you usually support churches and hospitals?”

“The alliance has been connected with the London stage since its inception, don’t ask me why. I’m not sure anyone remembers now.”

“I like your brochure.” Jerry removed it from her pocket. “Do you happen to know who designed it?”

“We have freelance people we call upon for printing and suchlike,” Peggy said, clearly disinterested.

Jerry flipped through the booklet. “I couldn’t help admiring the paintings that illustrate the copy. Holyoake, Sickert, Chapman, Crowe, most of them Royal Academy. Any particular reason for that?”

“Of course. We never do anything without a reason. The Royal Academy had a strong link with the foundation of the alliance, and the connection has been maintained. James Whitstable was an honorary Academy member. I’m not sure why. You’d really have to ask the RA.” She eyed her Scotch tumbler with longing. “Most of the interesting things that happened to our family occurred for the benefit of God, profit, and civic duty. Until now, that is. You’d think we were being punished for some past transgression. But murder and abduction? What kind of transgression would we have had to commit?”