Seventy-Seven Clocks (9 page)

‘Won’t take long now, Major,’ said Eric soothingly. 

The searing steel cut a swathe of bristles from below his jawline to the base of his ear lobe. The blade was rinsed clean, and returned to his face hotter than ever. 

‘Whereabouts in India?’ 

‘Calcutta, Sir, about fifteen years ago. 1958, I believe it was.’ 

‘That’s right, I was stationed in Calcutta then.’ 

‘And so was I, Sir.’ 

‘Well, I never.’ 

The blade ran lightly across his chin and bit into the bristles at the top of his trachea—a little too deeply, he thought. 

‘I say, steady on.’ 

The edge of the razor lifted, caressing his throat with its edge, then suddenly pushed forward, a streak of flame crossing his throat. He was sure he’d been nicked. It was unforgivable! 

‘Look here—’ he began. 

With a sudden application of pressure, the honed steel blade popped the skin like a bayonet and smoothly parted it in one wide sweep. The Major raised his arms as a torrent of blood burst forth over the white-hot wound, flowing around his chin and down his neck. He tried to call out but the blade was sawing back and forth, deeper and deeper, severing his vocal chords as the enraged barber whose name was not Eric worked on, his wild eyes glittering in a livid white face. 

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ asked Nicholas, grabbing her sleeve. ‘You were supposed to be on duty over an hour ago.’ 

‘Couldn’t you cover for me?’ Jerry pleaded. ‘This is really important.’ 

‘Why should I? This isn’t the first time you’ve been late when we’ve had a rush on.’ 

Jerry looked desperately towards the doors of the barber shop. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Nicholas released his grip. ‘I’ll be back in just a minute.’ She ran off up the stairs, leaving her protesting colleague behind. 

The doors were locked. She looked at her watch. Tenfifteen a.m. The shop should have opened at nine-thirty. Besides, Maurice never kept the entrance locked. She could see no movement through the frosted glass. The room seemed to be empty. 

She knelt down and peered under the crack of the door. There was a large figure slumped in one of the shaving chairs. One arm hung down towards the floor. The white sheet covering the body was splashed with cerise. 

Then she was on her feet, hurling herself at the door until the wood splintered and the old glass panels cracked from top to bottom. She shoved aside the shattered door and stepped into the salon. The figure lay back in the chair with its throat untidily slashed into a second grimacing mouth. Its face bore a look of disbelief, the eyes protruding in stark surprise. The mother-of-pearl handle of an open razor jutted up from between the victim’s teeth. Only the polished army shoes which poked out beneath the encompassing cape reminded Jerry that she was looking at the brutalized remains of Major Peter Whitstable.

11 / Ancestry 

The heavy wooden lid slammed back in a cloud of fibrous dust. 

John May raised his head above the lintel and shone the torch inside. The attic ran the entire length of the house. The rafters were clean and cobweb free, and a new wooden floor had been laid across the boarding joists, turning the area into a work-space. 

Hauling himself up, May ran his beam over the walls and located a light switch. The single mercury vapour lamp was bright enough to illuminate the centre of the room. He wiped the dirt from his palms and sat back against a packing crate. There were at least twenty sealed tea chests here, unsteady stacks of books, dustsheeted pieces of furniture, carpentry equipment, an old litho press, plaster statues, an upright harpsichord. The Whitstable brothers had hidden away a large part of their past, and all of it would have to be searched. 

He rolled back the dustsheet from an open-topped crate and shone his torch inside. A soot-blackened Victorian dinner service, complete by the look of it, and a number of Staffordshire figurines lying unwrapped and unprotected. He raised a pair and studied them. A soldier mounted upon his steed, his helmet beneath his arm, another beside the barrel of a mobile cannon, probably characters from the Crimean War. Bryant would know who they were. A set of horse paintings that looked to be by Stubbs, a bust of Walpole, numerous leather-bound first editions. He tried to imagine how much the contents of the attic were worth. By the look of it, the brothers had been sitting on a fortune. He wondered who stood to benefit most. 

It was the theatricality of the investigation that bothered him more than anything else. The esoteric upperclass murder belonged to the world of Edwardian fiction. Such deaths simply did not occur in the modern world. A busy week in the West End could yield half a dozen killings of official interest, but they all fell into the standard categories. A young Chinese man attacked with a sword in Chinatown in broad daylight, possibly a triad connection, bad gambling debts. A punter leaving a club on Saturday night, found dead in an alley, seen flashing cash by a group of shark-eyed kids who waited for him to leave. An altercation outside a bar that left one dead and one in critical condition, knives and drink and a row over nothing much at all. Bryant was right—the common run of city crime was vicious and pointless, usually fueled by alcohol. From the business end, it was rarely worthy of attention. 

In the 1970s, most murders still took place at home. Women were more likely to die there than men, nearly half of them suffering at the hands of a husband or lover. Men were slaughtered by acquaintances and strangers, simply because they got out of the house more often than their partners. Ethnic gang violence was unimaginable. Drug-related crimes were unheard of. East Enders still mentioned the Kray brothers in shocked reverence, but nobody really thought they were gentlemen. 

May knew that the statistics of death were inaccurate: doctors were pulling more victims through, more crimes were reported, technological breakthroughs were being made, lawyers were disputing terminology, the boundary lines were shifting. They could be certain of just two facts. Murder was more likely to be committed within the family. And each passing year brought rising figures. 

But as for this . . . 

He looked around at the accretions of more than a century, relics of the past, overflowing from every corner. There was a touch of Robert Louis Stevenson here, the sense of a long-standing family feud reaching a flashpoint. Over what? A contested inheritance? A missing will? The idea sounded unnecessarily Gothic but promising, especially as the family lawyer had also been killed. What other possibilities were there? An unrighted wrong? Stolen virtue? A debt of honour? The danger was that they would overlook the answer in a rush to pin the blame. 

Senior officials were already pushing for a fast arrest. Raymond Land, the unit’s acting head, had already paid a visit to May’s office. The Whitstables weren’t just anyone, he explained; they were a well-connected family whose opinions still carried political clout. Peter had been a personal friend of Montgomery, for God’s sake. He had been with the Eighth Army on the east coast of Italy. He had been decorated for his part in the Normandy invasion. His grandparents had left bequests to Balmoral. Brother William had been introduced to the queen at Sandringham, although Land was unsure of the reason for this. 

But if William Whitstable was such an establishment figure, May had asked, why would he have wanted to risk damaging the Common Market conference by attacking a politically sensitive painting? Could it—a long shot here, thought May—could it be that someone in government circles had taken revenge for the act? 

The meeting had been adjourned with Land virtually accusing him of treason. 

May knew that the political dimension of the case would allow him to limit press damage, but journalists wouldn’t be held at bay for long. A speedy resolve was essential; this was the newly independent division’s first investigation in the public eye, and everyone was watching for results. 

Nothing like a little pressure from above to help a case along
, thought May, as he raised the lid of another packing crate. This box was filled with books on heraldry. Wedged along one side was a slim mahogany case with a small brass key in its lock. They had not been granted clearance to search the house, but May was prepared to bend the rules a little until the next of kin arrived. 

According to his information, Bella Whitstable, the younger sister, had been abroad on a business trip for the past six weeks. She had left a forwarding address with Peter, and had been informed by him of the tragedy that had occurred to their brother. What she did not know, as a British Airways flight returned her from Calcutta, was that her remaining sibling had also suffered a violent death. 

By all accounts the Whitstables were not a close family, but with Christmas approaching Bella had planned to stay with her brothers for a few days. Now she would find herself facing a double funeral. May hoped she was a strong woman. There was nothing so disturbing as coping with death at Christmas. 

He turned the key and opened the case, examining its contents. Inside was a robe of thin blue silk bearing a woven shield, guarded by unicorns. Underneath, the words
Justitia Virtutum Regina
had been stitched in dark golden thread. He felt sure that these were the symbols of one of the City of London guilds. It seemed logical that the brothers belonged to such an organization. He gently closed the case and returned it to the crate. The collected contents of the attic would help them build a picture of the Whitstables, although he doubted they would provide a clue to their killer. Like most upper-class families, the Whitstables were closing ranks at this time of crisis. The press had yet to break the bond of silence that kept the more scandalous details of upper-class crime from public attention. Reporters still worked in Fleet Street, their code of behaviour set by the powerful print unions. The competitive free-for-all that would change the face of British journalism was still a decade away, and accurate information about the aristocracy was hard to come by. 

May returned downstairs and placed a call to Raymond Land. 

‘They’ve just got back to me on your bomb,’ said Land. ‘Your partner was right. It’s a rather unusual mechanical device, extremely effective. Can you call by when you finish up there?’ 

By late Monday afternoon the barber shop at the Savoy had been examined by forensic experts, cleared, and restored to its former pristine condition, with the exception of a six-foot area ribboned with demarcation tape. Arthur Bryant stepped over a section of freshly dusted floor and stood studying his reflection in the tall beveled mirrors above the sinks.
What a scruffbag
, he thought.
I need some better-fitting dentures and a decent winter coat, one without threads hanging from it
. He needed a haircut, too, but places like this weren’t his style. The gleaming chrome and ceramic sinks, the iridescent tiling, and hard white towels all belonged to a prewar world of manservants and valets, and Bryant knew where the class system of the time would have placed him: on the side of those who served. 

His own father had begun life in service. He had kept his family well provided for, and had always maintained his dignity. It had never occurred to him that he might be as worthy as those upon whom he waited. In later years it became a constant source of conflict between father and son. 

Bryant turned away and examined the black leather barber’s chair. Someone had done a good job; after being dusted for fingerprints it had been buffed to a fierce shine. You’d never think that just that morning someone had been murdered in it. 

The girl was slouching guiltily by the towel rail, contriving to act suspiciously even when there was nothing to be suspicious about. She had a habit of looking down at the ground as she spoke, so that her auburn hair fell across her face, obscuring her eyes. 

‘Well?’ asked Bryant, settling down in the barber’s chair and raising his shoes from the floor. ‘You walked in and there was Major Whitstable with the razor sticking out of his mouth. Where was the barber?’ 

‘He wasn’t here,’ said Jerry. ‘He could have attacked me as well, you know.’ 

‘I realize that,’ said Bryant. 

‘There’s a tradesmen’s entrance to the salon, leading to an alleyway behind the hotel. He had a perfect escape route at hand.’ 

‘So I see. Has someone warned you about not speaking to the press, by the way?’ 

‘I wouldn’t want to.’ 

‘And you’re absolutely sure you saw no one other than the Major in here or outside?’ 

Jerry shook her head and stared at the door. Thank God the young were so resilient, thought Bryant. The child had witnessed two deaths, which should have marked her as a suspect, except that anyone with an ounce of common sense could see that she wasn’t. She appeared shaken, but intact. Still, there was a chance that she was holding something back. 

‘Which brings us to the big question: what were you doing up here at all?’ 

‘I was going to ask Maurice if he would give me a free haircut,’ said Jerry. ‘What happened to him?’ 

‘It doesn’t matter.’ The less the girl knew, the better. Apparently someone had rung the barber on Saturday and warned him that they were closing the salon to refit some water pipes. Maurice had been told not to come in until Tuesday. Bryant swiveled the chair around to face the girl. ‘I wonder if you know more than you’re telling me?’ 

‘Look, I just work here.’ Jerry hung her head, picking at a thumbnail. 

‘If you remember anything else, no matter how insignificant it may seem, will you be sure to inform me or Mr May?’ asked Bryant, rising. ‘Every sudden death is tragic, but this could also destroy the reputation of a hotel, even one as venerable and respected as this one. You must come to me before speaking to anyone else.’ 

‘Mr Bryant?’ She raised her eyes to him. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘Is this to do with Mr Jacob?’ 

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ 

‘It must be, mustn’t it? I mean, didn’t they know each other?’ 

Bryant was not supposed to discuss the unit’s cases with outsiders, but frequently did so. He figured they needed all the help they could get. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be, don’t you think? But we deal in hard facts, and those seem to have been carefully removed.’ 

‘I want to help,’ she said. ‘I’m already involved. I can find things out for you.’ 

‘I’m afraid that’s not really allowed.’ 

‘But you’re in an experimental unit. It’s been in the papers. If you wanted me to do something, nobody would be able to tell you otherwise.’ 

He patted her on the arm. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. You’d better get back to work. I’ll probably need to speak to you again.’ 

Making his way back to Mornington Crescent, Bryant tried to connect the events of the past week. The situation was not only unique; it was absurd. Three deaths—by snakebite, by explosion, by razor. What next? Death by hot air balloon? Cannon? Trident? For a moment he wondered if the whole thing might be an elaborate joke designed to discredit the unit. 

‘Watch this.’ 

Dr Raymond Land handed the experiment over to a pasty-faced young man in a lab coat, who produced a small test tube of what looked like liquid mercury and a paintbrush. Carefully dipping the brush in the solution, he painted a thin strip of liquid on the side of a child’s building block. Bryant withdrew a pair of smeary reading glasses from his top pocket and put them on. May was sitting on the only chair in the room. ‘We have to wait a few moments for it to dry,’ said the young lab technician. ‘It’s something we haven’t seen for years. A form of silver acetylide. You titrate it through ammonia and it comes out like sludge.’ He held up the test tube. ‘While it’s in liquid form it’s fine, but if you let it dry out . . .’ He picked up the child’s block and checked the line of paint. Satisfied, he tossed the block on to the desk. There was a loud bang, and the clearing smoke revealed a blackened pit in the desk top. 

‘. . . it becomes totally unstable,’ concluded the technician, somewhat unnecessarily. 

‘That’s state property,’ said Land, examining the damage. 

‘What would a device designed to house such a chemical reaction look like, do you reckon?’ asked May. ‘How big would it have to be?’ 

‘Not large at all, just so long as the drying area for the liquid was maximized sufficiently. Here.’ He produced a pad from his pocket and began to draw. ‘Working from a reconstruction incorporating the slivers of metal we found in William Whitstable’s stomach, we get something like this. The liquid is contained in a section here . . .’ 

‘I wondered why one piece was silvered,’ mused Bryant. ‘It was part of the liquid chamber.’ 

‘A preset clockwork mechanism releases it into a flat drying chamber that might work from, say, the heat of the body. As soon as it’s dry, the device is armed and lethal.’ The technician held up the finished drawing to reveal a metal chamber the size and shape of a pocket watch.