Seventy-Seven Clocks

∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

24

Closing Ranks

Bryant insisted on driving his battered yellow Mini Minor to their South London appointment. Although his skill in negotiating major intersections had marginally improved in the last few years (the only useful by-product of endless driving tests failed since the late 1950s), he considered a number of traffic signs to be superfluous, including those that involved changing lanes, giving way, or avoiding pedestrians. Weaving through the lunchtime traffic in Victoria proved to be a logistical challenge, but Bryant remained oblivious to the shouts and honks of dumbfounded fellow motorists. Even highway-hardened lorry drivers blanched and braked when faced with Bryant’s blithe disrespect for the road.

“Leo Marks has sent down masses of documents pertaining to the financial history of the Whitstable empire,” said May. “Janice is going through them, but it’s a laborious job. There are literally hundreds of holding companies going back across the century. The family has been suffering from declining fortunes for years. Their philanthropy is well established and beyond reproach, although their business practices throughout the last century show plenty of nasty tarnishes. Lawsuits, maltreatment of workforce, exploitation of minors, racial discrimination, restrictive practices, stuff like that.”

“The Victorians became less forgiving as they expanded their empire.” Bryant peered through the windscreen for an all-clear, then stamped down on the accelerator. “They felt God was on their side. It’s always a mistake mixing religion and business. Look what happened when Christian soldiers moved into the East India Company. In its early days of trading, it prided itself on empathy for other tribes and creeds, but respect fell away as the desire to convert took hold. We need to find somebody who’s been harmed by the Whitstables in their financial dealings. We might hear a few home truths then.”

“They’ve closed ranks against outsiders, Arthur, ever since we began conducting interviews. Their answers sound rehearsed.”

“Then we’ll conquer by dividing them up.”

Bryant and his partner walked briskly along the river footpath at Vauxhall, a dismal part of the Embankment barely cheered by sunlight refracting from the leaden waters of the Thames. Daisy Whitstable had been missing for over thirty-six hours. There had been no new developments in the search for the bogus ice-cream van, and now the capital had begun emptying out for the Christmas holidays.

May kicked out at a stone, sending it skittering. He had never felt so helpless in his search for a common enemy, and the strain of the past two weeks was beginning to show. “I think they’ve been told not to speak to us by a senior member of the family,” he complained.

“I don’t know who. We’ve interviewed virtually all of them.”

“No family is impregnable, Arthur. There must be a weak link. We can’t just wait until someone breaks from the party line.”

On the previous evening, the detectives had attempted to speak to Mina Whitstable, the bedridden mother of William, Peter, and Bella. For the last five years the old lady’s grip on reality had been tenuous, and the deaths of her children had provided the final push into mental aphasia. They were now pinning their hopes on Edith Eleanor Whitstable, a contemporary of Mina and something of an outsider, judging by the rest of the family’s comments about her.

Edith was an irascible sixty-seven-year-old matriarch who owed little loyalty to those around her. Referring to her earlier interview with Sergeant Longbright, May saw that the woman had often been critical of the Whitstables’ business empire, in which she had once taken an active role. Three months earlier she had moved out of the district where she had spent most of her life, choosing to live instead on a small gated estate by the river. May was interested in finding out why. Bryant tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to a number of large redbrick buildings with arched windows.

“I must have written the address down wrong. This is the old Sarson’s vinegar factory.”

“Not any more,” said May. “Looks like it’s been converted into town houses.”

“This sort of property is for single professionals, not dowagers. Why on earth would she want to move here?”

“Perhaps her old house was too large for her to manage.”

The detectives found themselves in a mock-Elizabethan courtyard of pale herringbone brick. “How did she sound on the phone?” asked May as they searched for the old lady’s apartment number.

“Nervous. Certainly not the dragon I was expecting. Here we are.”

Edith Whitstable resided in a ground-floor apartment on the far side of the estate. She had a small manicured garden with brass carriage lamps set in the front wall. The setting seemed out of character for a Whitstable. Bryant gave May a puzzled look as he rang the doorbell and loosened a voluminous purple scarf.

The bird-boned woman who answered the door welcomed them with pleasing warmth.

“You found us,” she said, taking their coats. “I’ve already made tea, or would you prefer something stronger on a raw day like this?”

“Good idea, it’s cold enough to freeze the – ” said Bryant before a look from May stopped him. “Tea will be fine.”

The apartment had the sparse decoration of a newlyweds’ home. If Edith Whitstable had brought any of her old furniture with her, it wasn’t in evidence. A number of iron crucifixes lined the hallway, and there were several more austere religious icons in the lounge.

“I understand you wish to ask me more questions,” she said, setting down a tea tray and starting to lay out the cups. Her hands sported pale indentations from wearing rings that had now been removed. Her dress was floral, cheap, off the peg. Around her neck was a large silver cross. Bryant supposed that she must have fallen upon hard times. Yet, when they had met at Mornington Crescent, he remembered that she had been wearing a pearl brooch and a mink coat.

“It shouldn’t take long.” May checked his notes. “Your husband Samuel died two years ago, is that right?”

“Yes. Cancer of the spine. He was in pain for a long time. The children were a great help.”

“You have two boys, don’t you? Jack and Harry?”

“Hardly boys, Mr May. They’re in their early fifties.”

“What relation were you to William, Peter, and Bella Whitstable?”

“They were my cousins. We can all be traced back to James and Rosamunde in the middle of the last century. I suppose you know all about them?”

“No, our investigations don’t go back quite that far.”

“Oh, but they should! James was a fascinating man – kind, charming, a devout Christian. He carried out so many wonderful works, as did his children. Alfred, his oldest son, founded several charitable missions in the East End, you know.”

“What about Daisy Whitstable?”

“A terrible business,” said Edith without hesitation. “Her grandparents are also my cousins. Her patérnal grandfather was shot down in the Second World War.”

A clang of metal sounded in the next room, followed by a grunt. Edith chose to ignore it.

“I understand you recently moved house,” said Bryant. “You must miss the old place, seeing as you grew up there. The recession can’t have been favourable to family fortunes.”

“Selling up has had its good and bad sides, Mr Bryant,” Edith said, nervously brushing the fingers of her right hand over her cross. “It has brought our family closer together. And it has helped me to rediscover my devotion to Our Saviour.”

“I should imagine the money helped, too,” added Bryant.

“It’s no secret that we’ve had financial difficulties since Samuel died. With the house sold I’m solvent once more.”

“Couldn’t you have borrowed from someone else in the family?”

“Neither a borrower nor a lender be, Mr May. Besides, none of us are as wealthy as we used to be, so we can’t lean on each other for financial support.”

Another clang and grunt sounded from the next room.

“You say you’ve been brought closer together as a family, Mrs Whitstable. Some cynics have suggested that’s because of the recent assaults. Perhaps you all want to keep an eye on each other.”

“You’re not suggesting that one of us killed them?”

“You tell me,” said Bryant irritably. He hated having to fight his way through the family’s layers of obfuscation and misdirection.

“It’s quite impossible,” said Edith, affronted, her hand now clasping the cross at her throat. “We may be larger and a little more eccentric than the average English family, but at heart we get on very well together. We are not demonstrative in our loyalties and affections. Nor do we believe in hysterics or histrionics. We go about our duties as honest English folk who have worked hard for their homeland and their children. In that respect we’re really quite normal.”

Bryant looked doubtful. A clang and a shouted oath boomed through the wall. Edith smiled peacefully. May threw his partner a look. “Is there somebody in the next room, Mrs Whitstable?” he asked.

“You must forgive the boys,” she explained. “I’m living with my grandchildren, my Harry’s sons. They’re doing their exercises.” She turned in her chair and called out. “Steven, Jeffrey, would you come here please?”

Two musclebound young men entered the lounge. They were identical: both blond, both broad, both narrow-eyed and feral-featured. They had been lifting weights, and were out of breath. Both had silver crosses fastened around broad necks.

One of them lowered a vast arm to his grandmother’s shoulder. “Is everything all right, Edith?” he asked, looking sourly at the detectives. His crystal-cutter accent suggested public schooling.

“Fine, boys. My friends were just leaving,” she said with a nervous smile. The detectives rose awkwardly and were ushered from the lounge. Bryant tried to see into the other rooms as they were being returned to the hall, but one of the twins threw his arm across the corridor, barring the way. “We’ll see them out for you if you like,” he offered.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Edith firmly. “Everything’s fine.”

The boy caught his brother’s eye and held it, smiling. “Praise the Lord,” he said.

“Just like any normal family,” snorted Bryant as they marched back along the Embankment path.

“Well, she doesn’t look as if she’s been abducted,” replied May. “She’s not being held there against her will.”

“Maybe not, but she was minding her words. I’m willing to bet that her grandsons have been installed to keep watch over her.”

“I don’t know, Arthur. We have to be able to trust somebody. She sounded perfectly innocent.”

“When it comes to the Whitstables,” said Bryant, “innocent is not a word that readily springs to mind.” Talking to Edith about James Makepeace Whitstable had confirmed his suspicions. Although the family’s allies and enemies had been created in the distant past, their influence reached through to the present. Connections were maintained. Duty was done. That was the common link – the all-pervading Victorian sense of duty.

He was sure that even now the trail was far from cold and the danger far from over. God forbid she was dead, for there would be a public outcry of such proportions that it would threaten the entire investigation. They were expected to produce a culprit, and fast.

Bryant had a hunch that they were seeking no modern-day murderer. The answer might lie buried in the convoluted lineage of the Whitstable family, but he felt sure it was simple – and still waiting to be unearthed.