Seventy-Seven Clocks

by Christopher Fowler

  ‘You’re a dreadful sentimentalist, Arthur. Look at the crumbling tower blocks and the empty docklands buildings.’

  ‘I know they’re there, and I can’t do anything to change them. I suppose they’ll all get pulled down and replaced. Soon there will be nothing left of the city I played in as a kid.’

  ‘Perhaps the next batch of politicians will improve our lot. I hear this Mrs Thatcher is a rising star. It would be good to have a woman prime minister. She’d be more inclined to kindness, one feels. She could end inequality in the city.’ May withdrew a cigar and lit it. He was allowed one at the end of a case. ‘You know what Tower Bridge reminds me of? The Shepherd’s Market diamond robbery, our second case.’

  ‘Good Lord, you’re right,’ exclaimed Bryant. ‘Remember Sidney Dobson, the deaf explosives expert? The mastermind behind Mayfair’s finest safecracking ring. His old dad ran the Smithfield black-market sausage syndicate during the war. To think that Sidney would have got away with the diamonds if he’d taken London Bridge instead of this one.’

  ‘That’s right. I almost felt sorry for him, stuck in a lorry full of pigs while they opened the bridge for a barge full of illegal bananas.’

  ‘He was very decent about it. The last of the gentlemen crooks. Had a nasty three-legged cat called Wilfred. I visited him in prison, you know.’

  ‘That was nice of you.’

  ‘Not really,’ conceded Bryant. ‘His sister-in-law sold me a car with no brakes. I was trying to find out if he’d heard from her. Sidney told me she’d emigrated to New Zealand, but on the way back from the prison I passed her at a bus stop.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. I couldn’t slow the damn vehicle down. I think she heard me yelling. I suppose men like Sidney are into property scams now. That seems a rather sleazy, backdoor style of crime. The old ways felt more honest.’

  ‘That’s enough, Arthur,’ said May, raising his hand. ‘Looking back is morbid and unhealthy. I think I prefer you cantankerous. Anyway, there are all kinds of interesting crimes now.’

  ‘Did I tell you? I got a postcard from Jerry Gates. She’s on her way to India with some chap. She’d do well to stay away from the Calcutta offices of the Whitstables’ shipping company. Mind you, there’s no one left at the addresses Charles Whitstable gave us.’

  ‘Raymond Land says he’s going to refute the possibility of the entire case with tested scientific evidence.’

  ‘We saw the device with our own eyes. How can they refute that?’

  ‘There’s no concrete proof left, Arthur. Even Land doesn’t believe it, and he was there.’

  A variety of lurid theories had allowed the tabloids to speculate in all kinds of colourful, alarming ways. Yet, despite this and other damning publicity resulting from the investigation, the fickle press had decided to champion the Peculiar Crimes Unit. After all, it had provided them with gruesome entertainment for weeks. Although the official hearing had yet to take place, there was now at least hope for the unit’s future.

  Charles Whitstable’s fate still lay in the hands of the British magistrates’ court. May had to admit that James Makepeace Whitstable’s system was ingenious. It was impossible to estimate how many families had been bullied into accepting his sabotage orders. Many would still be keeping their secret packages for years to come—just in case the cycle renewed itself and the system returned one day.

  The most capricious casualty of the investigation had passed from her life barely mourned. May had been one of the few people to attend the funeral of Alison Hatfield. He had forced himself to stop thinking of an alternative future where she was still alive. He knew that her memory would be better served by destroying every branch of the organization that had ultimately caused her death. Sadly, this would never be entirely possible. Too many companies carried the seal of government approval. They would continue to prosper, aided by powerful financial protection.

  His thoughts were broken by the ghastly sound of Bryant chuckling to himself. ‘What’s so funny?’ May asked, leaning back against the painted balustrade.

  ‘I was just thinking about the Whitstables,’ said Bryant, his breath clouding the air. ‘How W.S. Gilbert would have loved to write about them.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’

  ‘He adored paradoxes. He lampooned every institution in the land by putting lawyers and ministers in topsyturvy situations. Without realizing it, the Whitstables managed to create a paradox worthy of Gilbert himself. The astrolabe, you see.’

  ‘Talk to me while we walk. My ears are getting brittle.’

  ‘The astrolabe destroyed the children of the aristocrats who set it in motion. And its instruments of death were the poor, the very people the system was designed to keep out.’ Bryant sighed and continued walking. ‘Of course, the paradox still exists. We live in a land of upper and lower orders. For every man willing to help those less fortunate than himself, there are ten others ready to exploit him.’ Bryant waved his moth-eaten gloves about. ‘Thanks to families like the Whitstables, the circle may one day turn again from light to darkness.’

  They were standing at the southern end of the bridge, looking back along the river. Above the battered slate roof of Charing Cross station, the clouds shone with a soft citrine light.

  ‘I don’t think London will ever be completely dark again,’ said May. ‘Look.’

  ‘It’s rather a shame,’ replied Bryant. ‘What must it have been like in the world that existed before twentyeight December, 1881? There once was such a thing as absolute darkness. And there was something else perhaps, a collective warmth, a hidden strength. Men and women bound together by superstition and folklore. Families were connected by myths and fantasies. I think something was lost the day they turned on the lights. Something indefinable and very important.’

  ‘You find comfort in darkness. I prefer the world brightly lit; there’s so much more to see.’

  ‘That’s why we complement each other.’ Bryant looked down into the swirling brown waters, at clouds of mud blossoming in the wake of a passing tug. ‘Look at the river. I miss her so much, John. Never a day goes by when I don’t think of her.’

  ‘All this time, you never mentioned Nathalie.’ May had not thought of Bryant’s radiant French fiancée in an age. He didn’t like to recall how she had died so many years ago, slipping and drowning in the fast-flowing waters below them.

  ‘I couldn’t save her, so I must always remind myself of the service I owe others. Why else do you think we return daily to the bridges of London? She brings us here. I have to see her face.’

  ‘Oh Arthur, what’s done is done. We must acknowledge the past, but we have to keep moving on, for ever forward. There’s no other way.’

  ‘I know. Nothing reduces the power of those left behind. That’s their legacy.’

  Unsure how best to reply, May patted his friend on the back and set him off in the direction of the city lights. Their shadows lengthened across the opalescent pavement, where specks of flint danced like reflecting stars.

  About the Author

  CHRISTOPHER FOWLER is the acclaimed author of twelve previous novels, including the Bryant & May novels Full Dark House and The Water Room. He lives in London, where he is at work on his next novel featuring Arthur Bryant and John May, Ten Second Staircase. Visit him on the web at www.christopherfowler.co.uk.