Seventy-Seven Clocks

by Christopher Fowler

  The burr of night traffic buzzed like static beyond the windowpanes. He opened her shirt, kissing the tops of her breasts, moistening her flesh with his tongue, and she allowed her mind to drift. But in its eye she saw the stalking figure in the alleyway, the hunching creature of her nightmares. She opened her eyes. The faulty wall light had gone out completely. It was as if she had suddenly been struck blind.

  And shoving down on top of her was a man anxious to devour her body, exposing her breasts, pressing his fingers down towards her sex, stifling her mouth with his.

  She pushed him aside with such force that he fell to the floor, cracking his head against the skirting board, pulling down the lamp from the bedside table. She could not hear beyond the pounding of her heart, could not breathe the suffocating air, could not see in the tiny, stifling room. Her only thought was to locate the door and open it.

  He found her huddled on the landing, wheezing asthmatically, grimacing as she clutched at her chest with both fists, as though she was trying to suck in the light from the neon strips above her.

  ‘It’s me, isn’t it?’ She gave him no answer. ‘Maybe you can’t handle going out with a black guy.’ He should have been angry, but instead he crouched before her, offering his hand. She stared, unable to accept it, knowing that he would only misunderstand. Joseph’s comfortable affinity with the night placed him on the wrong side. He was someone to distrust, not someone to love.

  She wasn’t nervous about sex. She didn’t expect the first time to be the best, because her pleasure would be mitigated by apprehension. But as the darkness had deepened, so had her fears. She assumed all lovemaking involved an undertow of dominance and assertion, but inside her nyctophobia she had no authority. In the act itself— of which she had no experience—she had been terrified of losing control. Perhaps Joseph was right, and she had been unnerved by his skin colour. But it was 1973, for God’s sake, what difference did it make that he was black? Race taboos had been shattered in the sixties. She and her friends had recently marched to stop white kids from killing Vietnamese peasants, so how could she be bothered by the colour of someone’s skin? Racism was a grotesque anachronism.

  But not to her parents, she thought. Was she subconciously worrying what they might say?

  She gathered her coat and left without apology or explanation, unsure of her loyalties—or indeed, of her sanity.

  ‘He’s keeping me awake, Mr May, boots tramping back and forth across the ceiling all night. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I hope he’s not having another one of his brainstorming sessions, smoking that horrible muck in his pipe and listening to his gramophone. He already gave my Hiawatha a nervous breakdown.’

  It was true. Every time her tenant opened the front door, the mongrel cat fell over in fright. Alma Sorrowbridge moved along the hall with theatrical delicacy, her plump hands raised, elbows moving in opposition to her broad hips. As always, she wore red washing-up gloves and an apron dotted with tiny blue cornflowers; May had never seen her attired in any other fashion.

  John May had brought the bad weather in with him. His umbrella trailed pools on the polished linoleum floor as the landlady led the way to the stairs. He had been visiting his partner here for many years, and Alma Sorrowbridge had always insisted on seeing him up. He suspected that, knowing she housed a detective, she had decided to cast herself as a bizarre South London version of Mrs Hudson to Bryant’s Holmes.

  ‘Arthur was telling me that he doesn’t sleep so much these days,’ said May as they edged past a stuffed kestrel squatting beneath a glass dome at the corner of the passageway.

  ‘I don’t mind that, but he plays his music all the time. Gregorian chants, The Gondoliers, Pink Floyd, you name it. And last night, the clattering! Like he was throwing crockery about the room!’ She held the landing door open. ‘My bed’s right underneath. Could you have a word with him?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Mrs S.’ May raised the Victorian brass demon head set in Bryant’s door and let it fall. Beyond, he heard a muffled curse and the sound of breaking china. A burglar bolt was withdrawn, and Bryant peered around the lintel, a disgruntled tortoise head fringed with short spines of uncombed hair.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. You’d better come in. Am I supposed to be somewhere?’

  ‘No, but I wanted to talk to you.’ May stepped inside, looking around at the framed pictures that covered the walls: Winston Churchill, Dracula, Camus, Nietzsche, Anna May Wong, Laurel and Hardy. There was no recognizable pattern to his partner’s tastes. Beneath the sheet music and first-night programmes for Offenbach’s Orpheus in the Underworld stood a particularly horrible plaster bust of the composer William Walton; why it was in Bryant’s possession he had no idea, but it had sat there undusted for years.

  May ducked before the hall mirror and smoothed his hair into place. His partner was a collector but not a hoarder, and not much of a materialist, either. Everything here was owned for a reason. Often Bryant took something into his apartment simply to preserve it from destruction. He had once told May that he was conforming to the natural traditions of maturity. ‘We spend our youth attempting to change the future,’ he explained, ‘and the rest of our lives trying to preserve the past.’

  The rising wail of the kettle sounded in the kitchen and Bryant went to deal with it, pulling a patched green cardigan around his shoulders. ‘You’re just in time, John. Go into the lounge, but be careful where you tread. I see the weather’s still disgusting. We might as well be living in Finland. What brings you here so early?’

  ‘One of the Whitstable children has gone missing.’

  Bryant appeared in the doorway with a teapot in his hands. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Daisy. She’s seven years old. Walked out of her house between three and four yesterday afternoon and hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Yesterday? Why on earth didn’t someone—?’

  ‘We were only just informed. I’d like you to talk to the nanny. Naturally, she’s distraught. West London has over a hundred staff and civilian volunteers out searching the area. The call didn’t come through to Mornington Crescent because nobody made the connection with our case. Either that, or they deliberately chose to ignore it.’

  ‘Then how did you find out?’

  ‘I was visiting the Bow Street incident room when some of the sweep details turned up on the radio.’

  ‘Someone’s obstructing us. I hope to God this isn’t part of the Whitstable vendetta. It wouldn’t be, would it? Not a child? How are her parents?’

  ‘Mother’s under sedation. They’re both at home.’

  ‘And her brother, Tarquin?’

  ‘He’s only just been . . . How did you know she had—?’

  ‘I told you, look inside.’

  When May did so, he found every cup and saucer, plate, vase, and bowl standing arranged across the floor like pieces in a scaled-up chess game. Coloured lengths of string connected them. Every item of crockery had been given a name and dates with a blue or a red felt-tipped pen. The dining-room chairs had been shifted back against the wall, beside a walnut-faced grandfather clock that ticked sharply.

  ‘The Whitstable family tree,’ Bryant explained, entering and setting down his tea tray. ‘It’s the only way I could get it sorted out in my head. I had to see them properly laid out, who was descended from whom.’ He pointed to a milk jug. ‘Daisy Whitstable is bottom lefthand corner, by the fireguard. Next to her is the egg cup, brother Tarquin. Stepbrother actually, from Isobel’s first marriage.’

  In the centre of the china maze stood two upturned vases and a cafetière—two deceased brothers and a sister, May noted, reading off their dates.

  ‘What are the blue and red tags?’ Some pieces had scraps of paper attached to them.

  ‘Family members killed in the First and Second World Wars. I asked myself why these murders seemed out of place in the present day. The obvious answer is that they originated in events of the past.’ Bryant seated himself and leaned forward with his elbows o
n his knees, surveying the mapped floor.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked May, dropping into the opposite chair. Outside, fresh squalls of rain began to batter the glass.

  ‘Doesn’t this feel like an old score being settled to you?’ asked Bryant. ‘William, Bella, and Peter, one after the other, an entire branch of the family tree chopped away for consciously—or unconsciously—committing some ancient offence.’

  It had crossed May’s mind that his colleague might be allowing his own interest in the past to colour his perception of the case. For the moment he decided not to voice his concern.

  ‘You mean it’s some kind of long-term family revenge?’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly not for financial gain. This particular branch of the tree was pretty bare. None of them had any heirs, and there wasn’t much ready cash about. As far as I can gather, they have little to leave beyond a small lump sum each, some stock portfolios, and some nice furniture in the attic. There are the paintings, of course, but no one has tried to claim them. On the contrary, nobody even seems to have known of the existence of the Waterhouse study. Now, pass me Marion and Alfred Whitstable over there.’

  ‘What’s their significance?’

  ‘We need them to drink out of.’

  As they sat back with their tea, Bryant produced a sheaf of handwritten notes from behind his chair. It irritated May that his partner had continued working without consulting him, but he knew this to be Bryant’s preferred methodology. At least by now he was used to it.

  ‘William, Bella, and Peter Whitstable had no individual or collective power, financial or otherwise,’ explained Bryant, donning his spectacles. ‘The only thing that could be gained by killing them was personal satisfaction. But is the culprit within the family dynasty or beyond it? It might surprise you to know that every single Whitstable, past and present, is cared for by the Worshipful Watchmakers’ Company. That is to say, they would be awarded an annual stipend in the event of personal injury. Relatives to be compensated in the event of bereavement, and so on, although there’s no case for compensation here. Murder makes the claim exempt.’

  The remark brought something to the fore of May’s mind. ‘You don’t suppose the Whitstables’ collective wealth is being stockpiled by these deaths? You know, concentrated, like a tontine?’ Tontines were briefly fashionable Victorian insurance policies, but the thinking behind them was flawed. As each tontine member died, their savings accrued so that the holdings eventually fell to the last surviving family member. The temptation to assist fate had proved too much for some policyholders to resist, and led to criminal activity. The system was soon scrapped.

  ‘I wondered about that. If one of them was knocking off his relatives, it would soon become obvious who was doing it.’

  ‘Would it? The lawyer might have been killed because of his awareness of the family’s legal structure.’

  ‘The Whitstables’ financial arrangements aren’t secret. Nor are the dispositions of their wills. Leo Marks has already arranged for me to inspect all documents pertaining to the investigation.’

  May was exasperated. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’ he asked.

  ‘I only spoke to Marks yesterday. But this business with Daisy Whitstable changes everything. Someone wants to get back at the family very badly if they’re prepared to take a child.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s all because William damaged a painting. Or because they all belong to the Watchmakers’ Guild. If there’s a rivalry going on, it certainly isn’t in any of their statements. I’m trying another tack. The guild owns a lot of Central London property. There’s big money at stake. We need to speak to a member, or better yet, someone who’s been thrown out. Unlike the Masons, guild members are allowed to talk to outsiders. Tomlins is the general secretary, but he’s not returning my calls. We need a warrant to search the Watchmakers’ Hall. It’ll take time and a decent reason, and at the moment I don’t have either.’

  ‘Then we need to talk to Mr Lugsea.’ Bryant drained his cup and returned it to the tree. ‘He’ll be able to provide us with some information.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked May. ‘One of your medieval historian friends?’

  ‘No,’ replied Bryant. ‘He’s my butcher.’

  The formica sign read Reginald Lugsea, Your Friendly Battersea Butcher, but the hulking bruiser hooking up rabbits in the window looked far from friendly. Glowering beneath a sweaty red brow, his expression changed as soon as Bryant removed his trilby and made himself known.

  ‘Blimey,’ Lugsea shouted to his apprentice, an ethereally pale lad who stood disconsolately weighing mince at the rear of the shop. ‘We don’t often see Arfur in ’ere, do we, Phil? We was beginning to fink he’d gawn vegetarian.’ He raised a chicken and pointed with the tip of his knife to an elderly lady who stood nearby. ‘This a bit on the big side for you, Missus?’

  The old lady looked up from beneath her woolly hat and smiled through Perspex-thick glasses. ‘Ooh, no, lovely, ta.’

  ‘So, what can I do for you gents?’ Reg smacked one of the chicken’s feet off with a thud of his blade. ‘A nice leg of mutton?’

  ‘Heraldry of the London craft guilds,’ said Bryant. ‘What do you know about it?’

  Reg looked at the ceiling as he chopped off the other chicken foot. ‘The Tudor company halls in general, or did you ’ave a specific trading family in mind?’

  ‘The Worshipful Company of Watchmakers.’

  ‘Late arrivals, first quarter of the seventeenf century. ’Cause yer first halls were fruit and fish, round the docklands. Then yer Dyers, Plumbers, Vintners, Cordwainers, Woodmongers, Girdlers, Plasterers, Wax Chandlers— one for every profession.’ He held the chicken up by its neck and shouted at the old lady. ‘You want the giblets, love?’

  ‘Ooh, yes, please.’

  He laid the bird down and hacked off its neck, then thrust his fingers up its behind. ‘Course, they were able to take advantage of the Dissolution of yer Monasteries and the Reformation, ’cause guilds were able to move into the empty nunneries, like the Leathersellers did in St Helen Bishopsgate round about 1542. Not the Watchmakers, though, ’cause they was looked after by the Goldsmiths, and shared part o’ their fancy halls.’

  ‘They all had their own heraldic badges, didn’t they?’ asked Bryant.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Reg. ‘The Skinners had crowns an’ feathers on their livery, the Fishmongers had herrings with hats on, no lie. Watchmakers was fobs and gold chains, orange on blue if memory serves.’ He yanked at the chicken’s interior and produced a handful of innards, which he proceeded to drop into a plastic bag. He reminded May of Oswald Finch, the pathologist.

  ‘What about a radiant flame, red outlined in yellow?’ asked Bryant. ‘That’s not part of the Watchmakers’ livery?’

  ‘Don’t fink so,’ said Reg slowly. ‘Although I seem to remember seein’ it in their colours somewhere.’ He thoughtfully knotted the bag and wiped his bloodcovered hands, smearing chicken guts down his striped apron. ‘I got a feelin’ it’s a recent addition to the Watchmakers. By recent I mean maybe only an ’undred years old. Sometimes merchants formed special “inner circles” wiv new symbols to separate them from their parent companies. Yeah, that’s prob’ly it. You’ll need to talk to someone on the inside, though.’

  ‘Thanks, Reg,’ said Bryant, touching the brim of his hat. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Always a pleasure, Mr B. You sure you don’t want a nice pig’s trotter while you’re ’ere?’ He picked one up and walked it along the counter. ‘Nice an’ fresh. Was chargin’ round a field last Thursday.’

  ‘Not today, Reg.’

  May hiked his thumb back at the butcher as they left the premises. ‘How did you ever get to know about him?’

  ‘I talk to local people,’ replied Bryant. ‘You should try it sometime, instead of spending your life wedged in behind a desk.’

  ‘Why does he know so much about heraldry?’

  ‘Reg is rather famous.’ Bryant
gave a knowing smile. ‘He won the Brain of Britain competition two years ago, specialist subject Tudor Mercantile History, self-taught. It pays never to underestimate the arcane obsessions of the general public. This flame symbol, is it common to all of the Whitstables, I wonder, or just to some of them?’

  ‘An inner circle within the guild. I don’t think I’m going to get any further with Tomlins without scaring him. Not to worry, though.’ May unlocked the passenger door of his car and ushered Bryant in. ‘I think I may have found a mole.’

  ‘What do you propose to do?’

  ‘Go back to the Watchmakers. Which unfortunately leaves you to deal with Daisy Whitstable’s child-minder.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Bryant, fastening his seat belt.

  ‘I just heard that Daisy’s parents are planning to sue us for something called protective negligence.’

  ‘A lawsuit?’ Bryant was amazed. ‘Why would a member of the public try to sue the police? Does no one have faith in the state any more?’

  Michelle Baskin was sitting awkwardly on the orange plastic chair in the hallway when Bryant arrived. Sergeant Longbright emerged from her office and drew him aside, handing him a sheaf of papers. ‘I’ve given her some tea,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s been crying, so you’d better go easy. The workmen are still in your office, I’m afraid. And you’ve an urgent message to call Mrs Armitage. She wouldn’t say what about.’

  ‘I’ll handle that, thanks.’ He turned to the distraught nanny, who sat miserably kneading her hands in her lap. ‘Miss Baskin, would you come with me, please?’

  Inside his office, the two workmen were clearing paint from the far wall with their blowtorch. Two distinct bands of colour were discernible beneath the top coat: green, and below that brown. The room stank of petrol. Bryant asked them to wait outside, and opened a window.