Seventy-Seven Clocks

by Christopher Fowler

  Peregrine Summerfield entered, his bulk filling the narrow door-frame. He waved a bottle of cognac in a meaty fist. Red and yellow gouache still speckled his beard, as if he’d been using his chin to paint with. Perhaps he kept the pigments there as a way of presenting his credentials.

  ‘Where is the old malingerer?’ he asked, studying May. ‘You must be John. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Oh, good things I hope.’

  ‘Not really, no. There he is!’ Summerfield walked into the bedroom and was about to shake his friend’s hand when the sight of the painting stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘I thought you’d be interested,’ said Bryant, propping himself up. ‘Is it the real thing?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Summerfield crouched down and examined the canvas carefully. ‘That’s the beauty of Waterhouse,’ he said softly. ‘He went straight from the idea to the paint pot. No endless squared-up sketches or chalk studies for him. He just rolled up his sleeves. It’s the real thing, all right. This is the intermediate study for the painting. I knew it was in a private collection but had no idea where. Waterhouse did a small oil sketch to start with, then this.’

  ‘Would you like to tell my colleague here a little about it?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Summerfield, unable to remove his eyes from the canvas. ‘It’s a very dramatic subject. Flavius Honorius was the sole ruler of the Western world at the tender age of ten. With his empire overrun by invading tribes, and Rome captured by the attacking Visigoths, he sat on the throne sodding about with his pet birds. His army took all the shit while he married a couple of bimbos and did bugger-all for the collapsing empire. On the few occasions he did get involved, he cocked it all up. Weakest of all the Roman emperors, and a total wanker. Seen here ignoring the desperate pleas of his statesmen to grant them an audience.’

  ‘Is there much of a difference between this and the finished painting?’

  ‘Indeed. The central character was removed completely for the final version. The attendant in the middle of the canvas was felt to be too dominant, so he came out. Where did you find this?’

  ‘It would seem to have belonged to one of our victims.’

  ‘So Bella Whitstable lied to us,’ said May.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Bryant countered, levering himself from the bed and pulling a dressing gown over his pyjamas. ‘We have no reason to assume that she knew which Waterhouse painting her brother had vandalized. These are the sort of people who ferret away valuable items and forget all about them.’

  ‘On a world scale, this isn’t particularly valuable,’ said Summerfield. ‘It’s an unfinished study of a neglected picture, primarily of academic interest, although it is rather beautiful. Waterhouse’s fame rests on later paintings, particularly The Lady of Shalott, painted five years after this. The first one, where she’s in the boat looking dead miserable, not the second one where she’s got a fat arse and looks like she’s breaking wind. It’s in the Tate, I think.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Peregrine,’ said Bryant. ‘You have a way of bringing art history colourfully to life.’ He turned to his partner. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, that will be Alma Sorrowbridge’s heavy foot on the stair. Unless you want to be force-fed Bovril for the next half hour, I suggest we head for the West End with all possible dispatch.’

  ‘The other day you mentioned that there was a resonance,’ said Bryant to Summerfield. ‘The act of vandalism reminded you of something. Did you remember what it was?’ They were squeezed into Bryant’s rusty sixties Mini Minor. May was driving, although he had barely been able to fold his legs beneath the steering column.

  ‘Yes, sorry, I should have called you. It was Whistler.’

  ‘What, the one with the sour-faced mother?’

  ‘James Abbott McNeill, the very same.’ Summerfield was pressed against the roof of the car, trapped like a sardine in a tin. When he turned his head, his beard cleared the condensation from the window. ‘You know, the famous lawsuit against Ruskin.’

  ‘I don’t remember the details, Peregrine. Explain, please.’

  ‘Whistler sued John Ruskin for saying that his painting The Falling Rocket was “flinging a pot of paint in the public’s face.” It made me wonder if your man was doing the same thing in reverse. You know, a member of the public hurling back an indignant reply, sort of thing. Whistler wrote about London: When the evening mist clothes the riverside with poetry, the poor buildings lose themselves in the dim sky, and the tall buildings become campanili, and the warehouses are palaces in the night.’

  ‘Very poetic,’ said Bryant, ‘and completely unenlightening. What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘With the study of the painting held by his own family, it’s possible your bloke wanted to increase its worth by destroying the finished article.’ Summerfield stared absently through the window. ‘Perhaps he was performing some kind of symbolic act.’

  ‘Symbolic? Of what, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Well, that’s what you have to find out, isn’t it?’ replied the artist with a smile.

  18 / Family

  The second-floor conference room of the Mornington Crescent Peculiar Crimes Unit had been planned as a site for future press briefings, but on Sunday afternoon it had been filled with folding chairs and reserved for a very different purpose.

  Jerry Gates stood in the doorway, pulled her sweater sleeves over her hands, and surveyed the group before her.

  The disparate branches of the Whitstable family had been assembled in the narrow, high-windowed room. So many had turned up that some were left standing around the edges. Everyone was talking at once, arguing, complaining, gesticulating—to each other, to the authorities, to anyone who would listen. Gathered together in this fashion, Jerry could see that the Whitstables possessed certain common physical characteristics, including wayward teeth, large earlobes, and the sort of stress-related blotchiness usually found in cornered jellyfish. It wasn’t an especially attractive sight.

  ‘If I could have your attention for a few moments,’ said Bryant, facing the group with his arms raised. ‘The sooner we get started . . .’ He turned back to May, who was seated on an orange stacker chair behind him. ‘I don’t believe it. They’re completely ignoring me.’ He could barely be heard above the swell of so many simultaneous conversations.

  ‘You’ll have to shout,’ said Jerry. ‘I don’t think they’re used to being ordered about.’

  ‘County folk,’ Bryant complained. ‘They’d pay attention if I was a horse.’ He unclipped a microphone from its stand and held it close to one of the wall speakers. The resultant squeal of feedback caused everyone to clap their hands over their ears. Over thirty indignant men, women, and children turned to face the low stage at the front of the room.

  ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Bryant, returning the microphone to its stand. He studied his audience like a teacher confronting an unruly new class. Here they were, he thought, the Family Whitstable, well schooled, well shod, and well connected, the cream of British society. The kind of Hard Tory, High Church, pro-hunt landowners idolized in magazines like Tatler. Photographed at weddings or debutantes’ balls they appeared affable and elegant, but gathered en masse, they forgot the rest of the world existed.

  ‘I’ll try not to keep you here too long,’ he promised. ‘It will help if we get to know each other.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone more senior available to look after this investigation?’ shouted a catarrhal young man on the end of the first row.

  ‘We are the senior officers to whom you may direct your questions.’ Bryant introduced himself and May, accompanied by a chorus of derisive snorts. A baby started crying and a woman stood up to leave.

  ‘I expect you to stay seated until the end of the briefing,’ Bryant informed her.

  ‘Then I expect you to pay my baby sitter.’ The woman glared defiantly at him and remained standing.

  ‘You should have thought of that earlier, Madam. I am not prepared
to commence the proceedings until every last one of you is sitting down,’ said Bryant. The woman made a noisily dissatisfied show, but lowered herself to her chair.

  ‘Who’s she?’ shouted someone else, pointing at Jerry. ‘She’s not one of us.’

  ‘Miss Gates is a witness directly involved in the investigation, and is assisting us,’ replied Bryant. ‘You should all have been given a typed brief by now. Although many of you already know each other, I understand that some of you have not met face to face before. We thought it better to bring the family together like this so that we could explain more clearly—’

  ‘What do you intend to do about this disgraceful state of affairs?’ shouted someone who appeared not to have noticed that the detective was speaking.

  ‘Perhaps you could identify yourself and your relationship within the family when you address the group,’ said Bryant. ‘I’ll be able to place you more easily in the future.’

  ‘Royston Carlyle Whitstable,’ came the disgruntled reply. ‘Alec and Beattie’s son, although what that has to do with—’

  ‘My colleagues and I will endeavour to explain the course of the investigation to you, Mr Whitstable,’ interrupted Bryant. ‘Or perhaps I should call you Royston, as you all bear the Whitstable name.’

  ‘I hardly think it appropriate we should be on firstname terms,’ said Royston. ‘After all, you’re staff.’

  ‘Would you prefer me to give you all nicknames? It wouldn’t be difficult.’

  A horrified hush fell over the room. The Whitstables were not used to being insulted. Bryant faced his audience squarely, fixing his eye on each member in turn. For someone so shabbily dressed, Jerry thought, he could cut an imposing figure of authority when he wanted to.

  ‘Some of you knew William and his brother Peter. I understand that many of you were fond of Bella Whitstable. We decided it would be of more practical use to bring you together like this, rather than speak to you individually. First of all, I ask you to ignore the speculation that’s been printed in the papers. We are in possession of all the known facts, and will release them to you accordingly.’ Bryant eased his tie loose and seated himself on the edge of the press table. ‘Today’s conversation must be a frank one. If anyone would like their children to be absent from the room, we’ll be happy to take care of them.’

  As arranged, Jerry gestured to the open door. Much head shaking. Nobody moved. It was ominously quiet now.

  ‘We haven’t been able to trace everyone yet, but hopefully you’ll be able to assist us in that task. I understand that some family members no longer live within the British Isles. They will be contacted in due course.’

  ‘Look here, who’s going to pay our travel expenses?’ asked a heavily made-up woman in the second row.

  ‘We’ll be happy to discuss reimbursement for any inconvenience caused to you,’ said May. ‘You should all know by now that three members of your family have died in unnatural circumstances. As the culprit has yet to be identified, there’s a possibility that others may still be in danger. If you wish to be provided with police protection, we’ll try to come to some arrangement. We face the problem of pinpointing a common enemy of the Whitstable family. Peter, William, and Bella encountered a killer whose plans required preparation and careful timing. I think these deaths were more than just premeditated; they were intended to be symbolic. But of what? To discover that, we must understand the true intentions of your enemy.’

  ‘You want us to do your damned job for you,’ complained a citrus-faced elderly woman.

  Bryant pointed sharply. ‘Your name, please?’

  ‘Edith Whitstable. The daughter of Charles and Rachel.’ She looked about her for signs of approval and found none.

  ‘What I am trying to do politely, Madam,’ said Bryant, ‘is remind you that the withholding of information is a grave and punishable offence. While Mr May and I will attempt to respect your privacy, we need personal details that you may not wish to give—details of business feuds as well as family arguments.’ He knew that his request ran the risk of encouraging malicious gossip and hearsay, but it could not be helped. There was also a possibility that the Whitstables’ business interests would prove politically sensitive, and might be protected from legal access. ‘In return for your assistance, we’ll undertake to keep the press away from you. At this point, certain questions will be asked. First, does one of you know the murderer personally? Second, might one of you even be the person we’re looking for?’

  The room quickly filled with indignant clamour. Bryant knew that, from a legal standpoint, he and his partner were treading on very thin ice.

  ‘Now look here.’ A tall young man with narrow features tapering to a feral, pointed nose shoved back his chair and stabbed a bony finger at Bryant. ‘As I see it you’ve managed to put up a pretty poor show so far. The papers say you were with Bella when she was killed. You’re supposed to be public servants, but I don’t see much service. You’re not doing anything at all to put this chap away.’

  ‘And who are you?’ asked May, mildly.

  ‘Oliver and Peggy’s son, Luke Whitstable.’ As they quoted their lineage, Bryant tried to mentally locate them on the family tree. They all sounded sure that he would know who they were. Perhaps it was a trait of wealthy old families. He had no idea. He was from the East End; his mother used to clean cinemas.

  ‘Well, Luke, at the moment it’s true we have no way of knowing how, when, or why this person strikes. Normally in a murder investigation, progress must be made in the hours immediately following the victim’s death. Connections are completed by talking to family members. Suspects are eliminated, other names recur. When a culprit is pinpointed, he is tied into the crime with corroborative forensic evidence. But this hasn’t happened in our investigation. Why? Because, despite our endeavours, all the evidence gathered so far has been conflicting, and the crime scenes have yielded no clear forensic signposts. So now we need to interview every one of you, and we expect you to provide us with any documentation we request, including detailed proof of your recent whereabouts. We will also need to fingerprint all of you.’

  Uproar and outrage followed.

  Bryant held up his hands. ‘We have to separate your prints from those found at the crime scenes. We are dealing with a devious, calculating killer who is capable of devising all manner of disguises and escapes. It’s no use pretending that we can completely protect you from him; no one is ever one hundred percent safe. That’s why we need to know everything you can tell us, no matter how insignificant or how inconsequential it may seem. Think carefully about our questions. I personally witnessed William’s death. I tried to save Bella Whitstable’s life, and saw her die in agony instead. This brave young lady was present at Max Jacob’s death and saw Peter lying with his throat cut. Both of us have since been physically attacked. I want this ended as much as you do, but if you hinder our investigation in any way, I’ll have you charged with obstruction.’

  Bryant blew his nose and sat down. The audience sat in stunned silence. Finally, a small girl in the front row ran up and kicked him hard on the shin.

  Before everyone began talking at once, May took over from his partner. ‘No one is saying that this murderer will strike again, but you must be vigilant. Don’t let your children talk to outsiders. Don’t allow neighbours to become familiar with your daily routine. We want to make sure that you stay alive.’

  Instantly, a scrum of furious relatives formed around their desk as questions and insults filled the air.

  For the rest of the afternoon the two detectives remained seated in the conference room. The Whitstables were argumentative, imperious, secretive, and, Jerry suspected, naturally misleading in their information, but most of all they were scared. Their bravado was a reflexive action that failed to mask their fear. No one could agree with anyone else, and the more they fought, the more badly they behaved.

  Eventually, though, a sense of weary resignation set in. The detectives took prints and distributed questi
onnaires, in the hope that they would turn up a common suspect. There were still several cousins, uncles, and aunts left to track down, but as none of them were based in London within the present radius of the murders, their safety was of secondary concern.

  After nearly five hours of halfhearted promises and vague accusations, they terminated the session. The logging of details would be undertaken by the new night shift, and would then be fed into a central file of information, to be referenced and annotated by May and Sergeant Longbright.

  For now, though, May took Jerry and his partner over to the smoky saloon bar of the Nun and Broken Compass for a desiccated cheese roll and a pint of best bitter.

  The small backstreet pub had been overlooked in the area’s recent rush toward modernization. Unable to attract a younger clientele, the Nun and Broken Compass had given up the ghost so completely that its only amenities were a hairy dartboard obliterated by overuse and a moulting resident dog of especially peculiar breed and odour.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like them,’ grumbled Bryant, taking a sip from his pint. ‘The backbone of England? The arse-end, more like. They’re more concerned with losing face than losing each other. Jerry, you’re from a posh family. Are they all like that?’

  ‘No, we’re merely middle-middle-class, because my father works for a living. The Whitstables are uppermiddle and lower-upper because they own rather than work, except there are also a couple of knights, who would be middle-upper.’

  ‘Surely you’d be upper-upper if you were titled?’ Bryant asked, intrigued.

  ‘No, only a direct hereditary line is upper-upper. You need the big three: blood, property, and peerage. But there are certain similarities between us all. You should see the people my mother has over for her charity bridge nights.’