Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks b&m-3 Read online

  When she had seen it lying there in the drawer she had almost been fooled by it, because of the binding. Although it was much older and in poor condition, the book was similar to the standard Concordance copies kept in the hotel rooms. But it wasn’t one of the Savoy editions. One of those had already been placed in the right-hand drawer of Jacob’s bedside table. She had found this book to the left of the bed. Now she re-examined the unfamiliar name on the flyleaf, W. Whitstable, St Peter’s, Hampstead, and turning the dry, semi-transparent pages within, saw that the Bible was older than she had at first realized. A particular smell exuded from its pages, of church pews and hushed rooms. The printing mark read 1873. Certain letters – S’s and T’s – were joined together at the top. Exactly one hundred years old. It felt as if it had been given as a gift, something which Mr Jacob had valued greatly. She knew that she should take it to the police, but felt sure that if she did so, she would never know the meaning of her discovery.

  Instead she’d gone to the reception desk and begun her search. The phone book yielded thirty-one Whitstables in central London, eight starting with the initial W, three of them in the Hampstead area. She decided that she would ring each of them in turn.

  Pulling the house phone as far as it would reach, she unfolded the notepaper on the knee of her jeans, marked off the first number with her thumb and began to dial. Her first two calls failed to net a reply. Third on the list was Whitstable, William, of Mayberry Grove, Hampstead. By now the sun had fully set and the garden lay in pale gloom. It was never truly dark in the city. Even in deepest night the sky appeared to be made of tracing paper. She studied the dial and waited for her connection to be completed. Instantly, she was sure she had called the correct number. The elderly male voice at the other end was filled with suspicion, as if in anticipation of her call. “Why are you ringing here? What do you want?”

  “Have I reached the home of Mr W. Whitstable?” she asked in her best Savoy telephone manner.

  “William?” There was confusion now. “There’s no one here…”

  “I have something to return to him. Something he’s lost.”

  “Well, what is it?” The speaker was agitated. His words were sliding into one another, as if he was drunk. She had nothing to gain by holding out. “I have a Bible belonging to a gentleman named Mr W. Whitstable.” The single word again. “William.” And a hushed silence.

  Bingo. Jerry smiled in the shadows. “I was wondering if I could return it to the gentleman.”

  “He’s no longer here,” said the speaker hastily. “Send it to me instead.”

  “I wouldn’t trust the post office with something as delicate as this,” she replied. “I’ll bring it to you, if you like.”

  “I don’t think – no, not tonight, I can’t have visitors at night, not now…”

  “Then tomorrow,” she pressed. “I’ll call by in the morning, is that all right?”

  The line went dead. Jerry replaced the receiver, puzzled. At least she had located the Bible’s owner. She considered informing Mr May, just in case there was any trouble, but decided against it. The voice had belonged to an old man. She could handle it. She rose from the armchair and rubbed warmth into her arms, wondering what on earth she was doing.

  ♦

  Mayberry Grove was a cul-de-sac filled with solid Victorian red-brick houses hidden behind swathes of greenery; miniature castles built by confident men whose minds could not imagine the twilight of the empire. As Jerry approached the house she was surprised to find an unfriendly-looking police constable standing in the front garden.

  “I’ve an appointment to see Mr Whitstable,” she said cheerfully, pushing back the wet gate. Having been given no information to the contrary, she was still guessing that the name was correct.

  “Oh, yes? And who are you, then?” The constable was not that much older than she, but had already developed an antagonistic attitude.

  “I spoke to Mr Whitstable last night. I’m returning something that belongs to him.”

  “He can’t have visitors.” The constable rocked back on wide polished boots and gave the top of his walkie-talkie a wipe. “Give it to me and I’ll make sure that he gets it.”

  “He told me I should give it to him myself.”

  “Not possible, lovey.” He gave a dim smile and shifted his gaze away as if he had sighted something in the middle distance. Jerry was just about to argue when the front door burst open and there stood a florid-faced man in an ill-fitting checked suit and crooked tie. He seemed vaguely familiar, and was arguing with a second constable, who had appeared at his side from somewhere within the hall.

  “I don’t give a damn what your superior officer says,” shouted Peter Whitstable. “It’s where I’ve been once a fortnight ever since the end of World War Two, and no blasted low-ranking officer is going to stop me now.”

  “Then you must allow someone to accompany you,” reasoned the officer, trying to keep pace as they marched down the garden path. “It may not be safe for you to go out.”

  “I am well aware of that,” snapped the Major, whirling on the young officer. “D’you think I should change my life for the sake of some cowardly assassin who can’t show his face in the light? Is that what my brother went to his death for? Is that the spirit that made this country great? Never, Sir! I shall face up to the foe with a strong heart and a…” He forgot what the other thing was, and switched metaphors, “…Spring in my step,” he finished vaguely, pushing the second constable from his guard duty at the gate. “And what’s more, I shall be back within the hour.” He slipped the latch and passed into the street.

  “For God’s sake go after him, Kenworth,” said the first policeman. “If we lose him there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “Where is he going?” asked Jerry, looking toward the rapidly retreating figure.

  “For a haircut,” the officer replied, throwing his hands up helplessly. “The Major’s a possible murder target, and he has to go to the Strand just for a bloody haircut.”

  ♦

  Jerry caught up with the Major in an alleyway leading into Haverstock Hill. The younger constable was trailing a hundred yards or so behind them, pausing only to listen to the crackle from his handset. Peter Whitstable reached the main road and turned in the direction of Belsize Park. Jerry hung back, dipping into the doorway of a chemist’s as the Major looked back at the corner. So the man they were following was being kept under surveillance because his brother had been killed? A second death, separate from Jacob’s? This was too bizarre to be ignored. Major Whitstable’s life couldn’t really be in danger, otherwise the police would have put him in protective custody, wouldn’t they? What if the old man wasn’t going to his barber at all? What if he was about to give them all the slip? Perhaps the police had deliberately let him out to see where he would head.

  Perhaps they were just incompetent.

  Because now the Major had sidled between the stalled traffic on the hill and was heading into another of the still-misty alleys on the far side of the road. Jerry glanced back, and saw that the constable had missed the move. It was a good job one of them had been watching. As the traffic lights flicked to amber, universal British driving code for ‘pedal to the metal’, she darted between revving engines to the opposite pavement and ran into the alley. All she saw was the usual collection of effête Hampstead stores selling Provence potpourris and patchwork cats. No barbershop.

  At the end of the passage she could hear the throb of a taxicab, and she ran forward just in time to see the Major’s ample rear disappearing into the vehicle. By the time she had reached the kerb, the cab had pulled away, U-turning past her as it headed down the hill. She passed the befuddled constable, who was shouting into his squawking handset.

  Where would someone like the Major still be able to have his hair cut in such a severe military style? She was trying to think of as many places as possible when she remembered the constable’s complaint: his charge insisted on visiting the Strand. There was only one p
lace he could possibly be heading for. Jerry flagged down an empty cab and leaned in at the window.

  “The Savoy, please. As quickly as possible.”

  “Right you are, love.”

  In less than ten minutes they were pulling up beneath the shining metal letters of the hotel entrance. The steel canopy on the front of the building always reminded her of a Rolls-Royce grille. The barber shop within was timeless and traditional, just right for a man of the Major’s appearance.

  Inside, the foyer was already crowded with newly arrived delegates for the Common Market conference, due to start in Whitehall this morning. Jerry made her way through the groups, ignoring Nicholas’s puzzled look as she headed upstairs to the barber shop. There, within a gentlemen’s world of white-tiled walls, stainless-steel fittings, and chrome-trimmed leather shaving chairs, she knew there was a chance of locating her quarry. And perhaps he could be persuaded to explain the link between a Victorian Bible and a dead lawyer.

  ♦

  One question had occupied Peter Whitstable’s mind since the police had informed him that his brother was dead. How could it have happened? How? These days, of course, they had many enemies. That was only to be expected. The world was changing so quickly. There was no time left for chivalry or honour. The war had seen to that. What was the point of trying to do the decent thing when your adversaries seized the moment to steal a march on you? He had always loved his brother dearly, but the sad fact was that poor William had lost touch with the modern world.

  As the taxi left the Aldwych he saw the homeless wrapped in cartons of corrugated cardboard and thought, My God, there are people actually sleeping in the streets again. What had their high ideals done for these people, and the thousands like them who arrived at the stations looking for a city that would somehow work miracles? In a hundred years, nothing had changed. The city’s underclass comprised men and women of good intent, people who had been systematically robbed of their ideas and their self-worth as they were forced to the gutter by their masters.

  Major Whitstable’s eyes were blinded by tears as the cab turned into Savoy Street. He kept his head turned from the driver as he paid the fare. Bad morale for the servants, he thought from habit, then remembered; there were no more servants. We are all equal now. Try telling that to the kids in the shop doorways, he thought as he walked through the congested foyer of the hotel. The damaged, the disenfranchised, the teen runaways – the other people – were just blank faces to the well-heeled guests here. How dare they look in on a world to which they had no claim? We are all equal now, he thought bitterly, if you don’t count the judges and landowners and politicians and diplomats. If you don’t count families like ours.

  He ascended the curving stairway and opened the glass door at the top. The smell of fresh soap and hot towels restored his humour a little. Surprisingly for a Monday morning there were no other customers, and even Maurice seemed absent. A barber he had never seen before was honing an open razor on an umber leather strap.

  “Good morning, Major,” said the man cheerily. On second glance, perhaps he had seen him before. The brilliantined hair combed across the tanned bald patch and the tiny waxed moustache were certainly familiar, but this chap seemed to be wearing make-up. The barber’s face was painted an unsubtle shade of chalk, and the colour ended at his brown neck. How odd.

  “Good morning,” said Whitstable testily, removing his jacket. “What’s happened to Maurice?” He removed the Victorian watch he kept in his waistcoat and tapped it irritably.

  “Believe there’s a bit of a bug going around, Sir,” said the barber. “I’m Eric.” He didn’t look like an Eric. To be honest, he looked like an Indian, and a very sickly one at that. The Major decided to let it pass.

  “Well, Eric, I suppose we’ll have to start from scratch.”

  He studied his watery eyes in the beveled wall mirror. “Not at all, Sir,” said Eric genially. “I had the pleasure of shaving you once long ago, and Mr Maurice informs me that nothing has changed in the way of your personal ablutions. Please take a seat.”

  As the barber leaned close he became aware of an odd smell, a forgotten scent. It was vaguely familiar, like lime chutney. Something the fellow had been eating? Indian smell, Indian accent. He frowned.

  Eric flapped out a white apron with a crack of fresh linen that sounded like a gunshot, and swirled it over Whitstable’s head like a matador preparing to antagonize a bull. The Major closed his eyes and listened to the sounds he had heard all his life. Fresh shaving foam slapping in a ceramic bowl, the rhythmic stropping of an open blade. He felt the stiff bristle of the badger flowering foam across his cheeks, and the years melted away. “Where did you shave me before? Not here, surely?”

  “No, Sir. In India.”

  The lights above the mirror dazzled and flared through his half-shut eyes as he felt the first sharp prick of the blade upon his throat. Even in the desert, in Rommel’s darkest days, he had never shaved himself, and nor had William. Such times were gone for ever. “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. Ten-fifteen 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.

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  11

  Ancestry

  The heavy w
ooden 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.