Seventy-Seven Clocks

by Christopher Fowler

  As the gantry dropped, she flung herself out into the darkness, her deepest fears made real.

  The pit was shallower than she had expected. As she hit the ground, the gantry slammed on to the floor of the stage and broke into singing steel sections. Above her lay a twisted network of galvanized pipes. One of the fallen emergency lights was shining across her eyes. She raised herself on a bruised elbow as the sheeted figure scampered on to the scaffolding to peer down at her.

  Jerry rolled to one side and thrust herself through the gap at the side of the pit, scrambling back into the aisle as the figure darted ahead. The door marked with an emergency exit symbol clanged shut behind him.

  She gave chase and found herself in a red-painted passageway leading to the rear of the theatre. The bar of the external door slammed up with a hard echo, and she turned the corner to find it closing on her. Kicking it wide, she ran out into the downpour and caught sight of the ragged figure lurching away towards the Thames.

  The rain-slick street impeded her progress as she slid on to the Embankment just yards behind the draped man. She could hear her attacker wheezing as he tried to stay ahead. They crossed to the river, where aureoles of light sparkled around the illuminated globes lining the Embankment, marking the causeway to the sea.

  The road in front of her was deserted. There was nowhere for the fleeing beggar to escape or hide. Rain flapped rhythmically from his robes as he loped ahead, his head concealed beneath a dirty brown hat.

  For a moment Jerry was reminded of her dream. The enclosing brick walls were absent, but the beggar was as deformed as her nightmare creatures. The image was too close for comfort, and her pace momentarily faltered.

  A crippling stitch in her side caused her to drop further back. Her quarry veered out into the road, darting through the traffic, nimbly vaulting the fence into the park. Jerry doubled over in pain, her breath coming in hot gasps. There was no point in going on. She couldn’t believe that she had been outrun by what appeared to be a tramp. Pulling her shirttails above her belt, she examined her stomach and found the cause of the trouble. A long red welt was already darkening across the lower part of her ribcage. She had landed badly in the orchestra pit.

  I disturbed the killer in his hiding place, she thought. He knew the police were looking for him. Perhaps he had nowhere else to go. Anxious to find Joseph, she reversed her direction and made a painful journey back to the theatre. She arrived to find him waiting outside for her. He was covered in dirt and dust.

  ‘What happened to you?’ she asked, slapping his shoulder angrily. ‘Why didn’t you answer me when I called?’

  ‘I couldn’t. Someone shoved me into one of the bloody property cupboards.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who?’

  ‘How the hell should I know? I just felt his hands in the middle of my back. The next thing I knew, I was in complete darkness.’

  ‘You’re big enough to take care of yourself. Why didn’t you do anything?’

  ‘Because I was caught by surprise, that’s why.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you call out?’

  ‘I did, but the damned thing was filled with dust sheets. I nearly choked to death. There was an enormous bang, clanging metal, God knows what. I managed to get the door open, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. He’d turned all the lights off.’

  ‘Then there must have been two of them. There was someone on the scaffolding. He tried to kill me.’

  ‘Oh, come on . . .’

  ‘You didn’t see him, but I did. He tipped the gantry over, nearly squashed me flat.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been intentional.’ Joseph looked back at the silent theatre. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘A tramp, I guess. No, more like an actor in a play, someone’s idea of what a tramp should look like.’

  ‘That’s it, then,’ said Joseph. He brushed at his sweater, but only succeeded in matting the dust into wet wool. ‘We disturbed a couple of tramps, probably scared the hell out of them.’

  ‘This was no ordinary dosser, Joseph.’

  ‘There are plenty of homeless kids in the Strand looking for somewhere to sleep. Maybe they managed to break into the theatre.’

  ‘No, this was deliberate. He cut the gantry loose. And there was more than one—you were locked up to be kept out of the way.’

  ‘Listen to yourself. You’re saying that someone tried to murder you.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jerry shouted. ‘They’re dropping like flies around this place, or did you forget? I’m already a witness to two deaths.’

  ‘If you were a real witness you’d have seen who did it,’ retorted Joseph calmly. ‘And you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘That’s not the point. If other people can be attacked, why not me? The management’s called a security meeting for all hotel staff. They think we’re in danger. Maybe someone deliberately followed me into the theatre.’

  ‘You’re a hotel clerk, you’re not selling state secrets to the Soviet Union. Why would someone pick on you?’

  She felt a knot of rage in her stomach, the anger of not being taken seriously, of being dismissed as insignificant. It was the feeling that had dogged her ever since she was a child.

  ‘Why wouldn’t they?’ she cried. ‘What’s so different about me?’

  ‘You make it sound like you want to be part of it, like you’ve got some kind of victim complex.’

  ‘I just want—’

  ‘Jerry, I’ve a really big day tomorrow, and I have to get some sleep. Can we talk about it some other time?’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased that you’ve got your career,’ she shouted pointlessly, desperately. ‘I’m glad everything’s so damned perfect in your life. You’re not the only one who’s going to do great things, Mr Ego. You’d be amazed at what I could do!’

  ‘Probably,’ he called wearily. ‘It’s been a weird evening and I’m going to bed. Good night, Jerry. Get some rest.’

  She kicked out against the wooden casement surrounding the theatre, kicking again and again until stinging tears of fury were forced from her eyes. Above the darkened theatre, the rain stippled the city in glittering sheets.

  15 / Oubliette

  The offices of Jacob & Marks smelled of age and affluence, oak and mahogany. John May, newly arrived in Norwich on a windy, ragged Thursday morning, found himself surrounded by the burnished parquet and marquetry of fine old wood, and smart young employees who hurried past sporting fashionably conservative suits. No wide lapels and patch pockets here. Legal firms of this calibre dealt only with large companies and old families. Shopkeepers, he had no doubt, were encouraged to go elsewhere.

  May had been kept waiting in the law office for half an hour, and as the train’s buffet car had been missing due to the ongoing rail strike, he had so far made up for his lack of breakfast by consuming two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.

  Outside the sky was deep and turbulent, the colour of a summer sea, and leaf-churning eddies sucked at the windows, rattling the panes. May had forgotten the glory of the English countryside. Even in December, the verdant contours of low green hills appeared to offer a welcome.

  But there was little call for the detective to visit the country. Much of May’s family had gone, and the few friends with whom he bothered to keep in touch were citybound. He took the odd trip to the south coast to visit his sister, but this pleasure was mitigated by the fact that she had three outrageously spoiled children to whom Uncle John represented a combination of cash register and climbing frame.

  Bryant, of course, reacted to the idea of visiting any area beyond Finchley with a kind of theatrical horror. Whenever May suggested a trip to the countryside, his partner would convulse in a series of Kabuki-style grimaces meant to convey revulsion at the thought of so much fresh air and so many trees. The farthest Arthur ever traveled these days was Battersea Park, which his apartment overlooked. Bryant had been happy to leave this particular visit to his partner.

  At five past ten, Leo Marks blew through th
e doors exhaling apologies, ushering May into his office while simultaneously firing off complex instructions to a pair of tough-looking secretaries.

  The detective had expected to meet a much older man. Leo Marks appeared to be in his late twenties, although his excessive weight and dour dress had added years to his appearance. Seated opposite him, May found himself disconcerted by the fact that the grey pupils of the young lawyer’s eyes turned slightly outwards, so that it was hard to tell if he was looking directly ahead. After asking his secretaries to redirect his calls, he adopted a look of professional grief and turned his full attention to his visitor.

  ‘We were terribly upset to hear of Max’s death,’ he began in a measured tone. ‘It’s been awfully hard on Anne—’

  ‘His wife.’

  ‘All this speculation in the papers has been having a terrible effect on her. There was talk of a snake attacking him—’

  ‘Somebody injected Max Jacob with a lethal amount of poison, a rare venom. One of our men found a hypodermic needle in the corridor beyond the washroom.’

  ‘Someone should have told us, Mr May.’

  ‘I’m afraid it only just turned up. It had been trodden into the carpet and missed in the earlier searches. Am I right in thinking that Max and your father were partners?’

  ‘Actually, it was my great-grandfather who set up the firm with Max’s grandfather.’

  ‘So your families have been close for a very long time.’

  ‘We still are. There are loyalties here which go back well over a hundred years.’

  ‘Does your father still work here?’

  ‘Only part-time since his heart attack, although he hasn’t come in at all since Max died. It’s been a terrible blow for him. The worst thing is not knowing.’

  ‘Not knowing who killed Max, or not knowing what he was doing in London?’

  Leo Marks swiveled a look encompassing May. ‘I think I can tell you why he was visiting the city,’ he said. May sat forward, waiting. ‘He had arranged to see Peter Whitstable.’

  ‘Why would he do that? Peter’s sister told me that all financial arrangements were conducted through William. Surely Max would have informed his wife where he was going.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t necessarily have been official business. Max and Peter were old friends, you see. They were all at Oxford together.’

  ‘Was Max Jacob in the habit of taking off for London to visit the brothers without telling anyone?’

  ‘Not really, but he had mentioned the idea of making the journey.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Leo turned back the pages of his diary. ‘The previous Thursday. That would have been on December second. He spoke to Peter several times during the course of that week. The brothers were having another argument.’

  ‘You have no idea what they argued about?’

  ‘No. But it wasn’t over money, I can tell you that.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Their finances are tied up from here. We acted as their stipendiaries, allowing each a set annual amount, the revenue from certain investments and so on. They were quite happy with the arrangement.’

  ‘Who stands to benefit financially from their deaths?’

  ‘No one, immediately. You have to understand that the Whitstable financial empire is so absurdly complex that half of the family beneficiaries won’t see a penny for years to come. I sometimes wonder if Dickens didn’t model the court case from Bleak House on them.’

  In which case, we could blame the lawyers who set up the system in the first place, thought May. ‘What about Max Jacob?’

  ‘That’s straightforward enough. His will appoints his wife Anne as his trustee.’

  May checked through his notes, feeling as if his questions were leading him around in a circle. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Marks . . .’

  ‘Please, call me Leo.’

  ‘The more I find out about the Whitstables, the less I understand them. The brothers were financially comfortable, established, settled in the most old-fashioned ways. I’m informed that they did nothing more adventurous than read the Daily Telegraph and listen to the radio. They bothered no one. They had once wielded influence in the City, but were no longer powerful men. Then one day, for no apparent reason, William commits an act of vandalism and subsequently explodes, while Peter gets an open razor across his throat. Concurrent with the first act, their family lawyer is injected with the venom of a watersnake, and finally their sister is paralysed with strychnine. Bombs and knives, poison and snakes. And all this Grand Guignol somehow leaves us without suspects.’

  May leaned forward, carefully watching the young lawyer. ‘What on earth were these people hiding? They weren’t random victims; their deaths were carefully arranged, and must therefore serve a purpose. The killer can’t have been looking for some physical object. He’s shown no desire to search their homes. My partner thinks they’re acts of revenge, but I disagree. I think the goal is knowledge of some kind, knowledge that was also intimated to your father’s partner. Something so important and so secret that Max Jacob went down to London without even telling his wife where he was going.’

  ‘I see your problem,’ said Leo, not looking as if he could see much at all. ‘Could someone be trying to humiliate them by associating the family with scandal?’

  There must be an easier way of humiliating people than blowing them all over the Northern Line, thought May, but sensibly kept the thought to himself.

  ‘Tell me more about the Whitstables.’

  Leo Marks massaged his florid jowls with the tips of his fingers. ‘They trace themselves back to the founding members of one of London’s finest craft guilds, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘The Goldsmiths, isn’t it?’

  ‘Actually a subdivision, the Watchmakers’ Guild in Blackfriars Lane, although obviously there are strong affiliations with the Goldsmiths. There are still many such companies in existence, the Cordwainers, the Coopers, the Haberdashers, and so on, many of whom have their own boards, schools, trusts, and benevolent funds scattered throughout the capital. Inevitably, there are strong Masonic ties. Peter and William were both Masons. So was Max.’

  ‘Is that common? Are there other Masons in the family?’

  ‘Quite a few, I believe. The Whitstables made and lost fortunes through the decades, but I understand that the bulk of their present income derives from alliances forged in Victorian times . . .’

  May shifted in his chair. His hopes of returning by a mid-morning train were fast disappearing. ‘I need to know much more about the family itself,’ he explained. ‘Their businesses are presumably still active. Surely there are some younger members around?’

  ‘A few, perhaps, but like so many old dynasties in today’s climate, the Whitstables are dying out. There was an unhealthy amount of intermarriage in earlier centuries, but I imagine the partial breakdown of the class system did the most damage. We do have a rather incomplete family tree for them, and some of their current addresses. I could let you have a photocopy.’

  ‘That would be a great help.’

  ‘You’ll have your work cut out if you’re planning to contact them all. Their last big population boom was a hundred years ago. Most of the grandchildren have long since married, divorced, or departed the country.’

  ‘I still need to speak to as many of them as I can,’ said May. With three members of the same family murdered there was no telling how many other lives were in danger.

  ‘I understand.’ Leo rose and summoned one of his sturdy young secretaries. ‘There was one other thing.’ He pushed a red-leather appointment book across his desk. ‘On the day Max went down to London there were no engagements marked in his diary, but there was this.’ He tapped his finger at the top of the page, where a number had been written: 216. ‘Does it help in any way?’

  ‘Not that I can think of,’ said May, who had already noted the doodle which encased the number. A burning flame, drawn in the exact same style of Peter W
hitstable’s tattoo.

  ‘I never said they deserved to die,’ exclaimed Arthur Bryant indignantly. ‘How dare you put such words into my mouth.’

  ‘You more or less suggested as much,’ said May, unrolling the Whitstable family tree and pinning it to the notice board beside his desk. Back in London the winter sky was the colour of gutter water, the clouds marshalling themselves around the damp buildings in preparation for another stormy assault.

  ‘I merely said that I disapproved of the way the Whitstables made their money. The British upper crust exploited their colonies and destroyed the lives of their workers to preserve a status quo not worth clinging to. They deserve everything they get.’

  ‘Including murder? I might remind you of your humanitarian oath at this point.’ As he spoke, the two workmen who had entered the already overcrowded room a few minutes ago began to fire up an ancient blowtorch.

  ‘What the hell are they doing?’ May shouted above the din.

  ‘I’m having the room returned to its original colours,’ said Bryant brightly. ‘You saw the paint on the sill.’

  ‘Do they have to do it right now?’

  ‘If we don’t do it now, squire, we won’t be able to start until after Christmas,’ said one of the workmen, shifting a crate to reach the window.

  ‘We need to contact all the surviving relatives listed on the chart,’ said May, attempting to concentrate on the business at hand.

  ‘I’ve requested a source list for the strychnine,’ said Bryant. ‘According to Land, the granular fineness is very unusual. That’s not the way it’s usually made commercially available.’

  ‘Good. Janice has found a two-man team willing to check out the visiting members of the Australian Art Commission, and I’m afraid we need to make another appointment with Mr Faraday. It’s essential to pinpoint a connection between the deaths and the destruction of the painting, if there is one.’

  Bryant walked over to the unfurled family tree. ‘Why did Max Jacob come here?’ he wondered aloud. ‘What did Peter Whitstable tell him that was so important he had to drop everything and come to London? There’s some terrible principle at work, John. I can feel it. Everything’s out of alignment. There’s the cause and effect of each murder to consider.’