Seventy-Seven Clocks

∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

44

Loyalty

In the taxi on the way to the Wentworth Clinic in Gloucester Terrace, Bryant read the remaining section of the chronicle, which bore the personal imprimatur of the family patriarch, James Makepeace Whitstable.

28 December 1881, evening

Shortly after the performance, we returned to our rooms. One look into the eyes of my colleagues told me that our sojourn to the newly illuminated theatre had convinced them of the veracity of my design. These honest artisans had seen the future, and would now agree to my request. They had each been granted the Grand Order of the Heavenly Stewardship, though doubtless they knew little of what it meant. Would they still be willing to participaté in the building of the device when they realized it was to end the lives of others?

We began to assemble a little after eight. I had given notice to the chambermaids that under no circumstances were we to be disturbed tonight. I had drawn the heavy green curtains shut and had lowered the lights, removing both of the copper lamps from the table, the better to impress upon the assembly the utter seriousness of our venture.

Radford was the first, creeping into the room apologetically, his club foot sounding hard against the floor. He was closely followed by Lamb, then Chambers, then Suffling. As I had requested, each bore the satin sash of his Stewardship, and now I requested that they don their colours. Radford – Hagith – timidly asked something which had clearly been pressing on him. If, tonight, we would agree the terms under which our mechanism could be constructed, what need was there for our collective presence as the Stewards of Heaven?

—I’m glad you asked that, I said, directing him to be seated opposite me, for you may recall our discussions on the role of faith and occultism in the coming scientific age. Their attention held, my Stewards took their places around the octagonal baize table.

—The system that will preserve our fortunes and remove our enemies for ever will succeed because it is Scientific, I explained, studying each face in turn. So far you have been presented with little more than an engineering proposal, namely the construction of a device that will tabulate our expenditure and calculate the damage inflicted by the enemies of the Company. You agree, Lamb, that such a device is within the realms of possibility?

—Most certainly, Mr Whitstable, he agreed, although certain problems arise.

—Namely? I enquired.

His fingers tugged at his cravat as he attempted to frame his reply.

—Keeping it hidden, he said finally. How shall we protect such a piece of equipment and maintain it finely tuned?

—You shall have no need to worry on that account, I assured him. The tontine will provide us with advice. But how can we carry out its instructions? Will Science remove our adversaries? No. For this, we require loyalty beyond the call of normal duty. We are an organization ahead of our time, gentlemen. One day all business will be conducted in such a manner. But let us be the first. Even now, Guildsmen are working to solve the problem of removing our enemies. For without their help, the seeds of destruction are built into our system. Suppose one of our own was apprehended in the process of vanquishing a hated rival? Should he attempt to explain his actions, why, we are done for. And if any one of you were to carry out the deed, how might you feel after? Even the most righteous cause carries a burden of guilt when the death of another is required. The solution lies in India. Gentlemen, I do not ask you to go against God. It is why I have enlisted those who are Heathens. They will be our loyal assassins.

I rose from my place at the head of the table with six pairs of eyes following my every move, and warmed myself against the blazing hearth. Tonight the loyalty of my most trusted men was being put to the test, and I was sure that they would follow me. I had not counted on Radford, of course.

I’ll be d-mned before I have a part of this – – cried Radford suddenly, leaping up.

—It is against my will that you leave our circle now, I replied.

—You have no power to stop me, he exclaimed, turning to the others for approval, but I could see that they were with me. It was time to provide Radford with a demonstration of the faith I command. As my foolish employee tugged at the door (from which I had removed the key) I donned the scarlet robe of Och and began to recite the profane phrases that have been bequeathed for my voice alone. It was a strange sight: Radford tearing at the paneling of the door in desperate panic as the others sat on either flank, mute and immobile, siding with their mentor.

As I raised my hands and completed the summoning gestures of Bethor and Ophiel, the air in the room grew stifling, and the lamp-wicks lowered as though the atmosphere could no longer support their flames.

Just then, Rajeev, my faithful servant, stepped forward from the next room, and awaited my orders.

Radford turned and saw him, and slammed his back against the door in shock. He tried to call out but Rajeev, at my sign, slipped a red silk cord around his throat. As Radford fell to the floor the servant followed him, clinging tight no matter how briskly he tried to brush him aside. When he could no longer draw breath and lay still on the rug, his arms at his sides, Rajeev removed the cord from his swollen throat and silently departed from the room. Lamb drew back the curtains and opened a window. The draught raised the lamps to normal.

Radford was left with little sign of misadventure upon his lifeless body. His death that night was marked by the doctors as asphyxiation due to an excess of drink, and diminished by the hotel for the sake of their reputation.

Still shaking, the others turned back from witnessing this demonstration of loyalty and concentrated their minds upon the formulation of the alliance’s founding document.

We had no further trouble that night.

Bryant slipped the yellowed pages back into their folder. “It’s all here, laid out by James Makepeace Whitstable himself.”

May wiped the window and peered out. “We’re here,” he said.

The clinic had ended its visiting hours for the night. The Wentworth was an expensive private recuperation home for heart patients, and enjoyed the patronage of financially upholstered clients from across the country.

As the taxi pulled up before the entrance, Bryant glanced at his battered Timex. He had purchased it after seeing a commercial in which the timepiece was tied around the leg of a galloping horse. Unfortunately, his operated as if the horse had sat on it.

“If Leo Marks’s father doesn’t want to tell us, we can’t force the information out of him,” he said, digging around for change to pay the driver. “Three pounds?” he complained. “Are you descended from highwaymen, by any chance?”

“We can tell him that we have his son in custody,” replied May. “Come on.”

“You’re not getting a tip,” warned Bryant.

“Don’t worry, mate,” said the driver, snatching his money from the detective’s proffered hand. “I’ve read about you in the papers. You haven’t got any to offer.”

In the marble foyer of the clinic, a smart black-suited receptionist sat reading beneath a low light. “Look at this place,” marveled Bryant. “We should have been lawyers. Everyone hates you while you’re alive, but at least you have a great time when you’re sick.”

“I called earlier,” said May, a trifle too loudly. “We’re here to see Mr Marks.”

The receptionist raised her telephone receiver and whispered into the mouthpiece. Moments later, a young woman in a discreet uniform appeared at the bottom of the stairway.

“Mr Marks is out of danger now, and quite awake,” the nurse said, walking with them to the first floor. “He was asking for a whisky an hour ago, so he’s obviously on the mend. You’re his second visitors tonight.”

“Who else was here?” asked May.

“An Indian gentleman, I didn’t catch his name. I think he’s still with Mr Marks at the moment.” May’s sense of unease caught alight. Grabbing his partner’s arm, he broke into a run.

“Which way?” he called to the nurse.

“End of the corridor and right,” she replied, flustered. “Third door on the left. There’s no rush – ”

They reached the end of the corridor, their shoes squealing on the freshly polished floor. The hallway ahead was in virtual darkness, but they could already see that the door to Marks’s room was wide open.

Their patient lay halfway out of bed, the drip feed severed from his arm, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of its bowl, his left hand helplessly grasping the air.

His right wrist had been nicked, and blood was blossoming across the starched white bedspread.

“We were just in time,” said Bryant. “Mr Marks, we know about the tontine device. You must tell us where it is. We have to stop it.”

“Tell Charles,” the old man mouthed. “Tell Charles, the river. He must look to the Guild at the river.”

“Of course,” whispered Bryant. “Where else could it be?”