“Mrs Whitstable warned me to be extra careful with Daisy, just before she left,” said Michelle, sniffing hard.
“Why did she say that?”
“Because of what happened to her uncles and her auntie.”
“You mean William, Peter, and Bella?”
Michelle nodded, pushing her lank hair back from her face.
“Did they ever visit their niece? Were they friendly with Mr and Mrs Whitstable?”
“Never, to my knowledge. Luke – Mr Whitstable – hardly knew them at all. Isobel – Daisy’s mother – sometimes saw them.”
“How would you describe Daisy?”
Michelle composed herself and sat up, thinking for a moment. “Very quiet, not an outgoing child. Like her cousins, rather pale, a bit small for her age. Inclined to be moody. She’s a direct descendant from the original Whitstables. She shares the same temperament.”
“I’m a little confused. Did Isobel retain the family name upon marriage?”
“It’s something most of the Whitstable ladies are allowed to do. So long as they stay in the family business.” So long as they stay in the guild, thought Bryant.
“I suppose it has its advantages.” Bryant checked the statement in his hand. “It says here that Daisy was wearing a light summer frock. It was very cold yesterday. Why do you think she’d have gone outside dressed like that?”
“I don’t know,” said Michelle. “It was warm in the house. That’s how Mrs Whitstable likes it.”
“The doors and windows, were any of them kept open, just to help cool the rooms down?”
“No, Sir. And Daisy isn’t allowed to go out of the front door by herself.”
“But you found it open when you went into the hall.”
“That’s right. Someone had put the latch up.”
“You didn’t hear her go out?”
“No, Sir.”
“Think back carefully, Michelle. I want to cover everything that happened from the moment you last spoke to Daisy, whether it has any relevance to her disappearance or not.”
Michelle nodded sadly.
“Let’s start with the last time you were aware of Daisy’s presence in the house. You were standing in the kitchen, making tea…”
It took them an hour to cover the events of the previous afternoon. Michelle cried at several points in her account. In the minutes after she had found the front door open and searched the street, Daisy’s parents had arrived home, and an argument had ensued. Later, Mrs Whitstable had angrily accused her of incompetence and negligence in her duties. Then she had fired her. Michelle explained tearfully that it was more than just a job – that she really loved her charges, even the difficult ones, that she was more worried for Daisy’s safety than for her own future.
Bryant tapped her former statement with the end of his pencil. “There’s a point here I don’t understand,” he said. “You boiled the kettle. You turned down the radio. Then you say you heard Daisy run across the floor upstairs. It says here…” he squinted at the sheet, readjusting his spectacles,“ ‘I could hear her footsteps above the music.’ But by this time the radio was off. Or did you leave it on?”
“No, I turned it down very low.”
“Then how could you have heard music?”
Michelle thought hard. “There was a song playing.”
“Somewhere else in the house?”
“No, not in the house.”
“Coming from next door? Or in the street? What kind of music?”
“Tinkly. I don’t really remember.”
“What, a car radio?”
“No, more like an ice-cream van. Only they don’t come round at this time of year, do they?”
“Does Daisy like ice cream?”
“Very much, but she’s forbidden to eat between meals.”
“Did she have money in her room?”
“Yes, a little bear bank. You don’t suppose – ”
“You don’t happen to know how much money she had in her room exactly?”
“Not right now, but Daisy kept a written note of it. She’s a very practical girl.”
Bryant placed a call to Luke Whitstable, then made an internal call to have someone check the area’s icecream companies and van registrations.
Within the hour he received two return calls. The first from Daisy’s father, confirming that his daughter’s tally showed a discrepancy of fifty pence from her bear bank. And the second from an officer reporting that the ice-cream van allocated to the road where Luke and Isobel Whitstable lived was not due to return until next April.
With a sinking heart, Bryant was forced to acknowledge that the Whitstable family might well have lost another member, and this time, surely, a blameless one.
∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧
21
Connectivity
It was time for Joseph to start looking for another job. He had decided to stay on in London for a while longer, until the money ran out. To return home now would be to admit defeat. Jerry needed help, although he wasn’t sure what kind, or how he could be of use to her. She was already seeing some kind of shrink. She suffered from an overactive imagination, and her insistence on turning everything into a mystery bugged him. The girl seemed drawn to the morbidity of the police investigation. He couldn’t figure her out. When she spoke of her parents, or the conspiracy she imagined surrounding them, it was as if she meant something else entirely; as if her true intentions lay just beneath the surface, and he had yet to bring them into the light.
He was about to leave the room, when the telephone rang.
“It’s my turn to apologize. About last night.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I wanted to…but…”
“Listen, I think we both have some issues to work out first. Are you at work?”
“Yes. Something just came up on my daily schedule. There’s a meeting arranged for this morning in one of the conference rooms. Savoy Theatre Shareholders. Have you ever been a waiter?”
“Yeah, when I was at college.”
“Is it easy? I mean, could I do it? All I have to do is stand beside the coffee pot and serve them when they take their break, right?”
“Jerry, what are you talking about?”
“The refreshment area is just outside the main room. Hopefully I’ll be able to hear every word they say.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Joseph protested. “You’re going to pretend to be a waitress just so you can – ”
“It’s all aboveboard. Why not? I can arrange to switch shifts for the day, although Nicholas is being a real creep. I even get paid. I already checked it out.”
“But what’s the point?”
“People are being murdered and blackmailed and you ask me about the point? Things like this go on all the time and nobody stops them.”
“That’s conspiracy-theory crap.”
“Watergate isn’t crap, it’s real. Men in power abuse their positions. It’s not until individuals take matters into their own hands – ”
“All right,” he interrupted, “do it, but promise me something. If you don’t hear or see anything suspicious, let the police handle it their way.”
“It’s a deal.”
As Joseph replaced the receiver, he had to admit he was intrigued. If he had really lost his job because Miyagawa had been set up, he had a strong case for wrongful dismissal.
♦
PC Charlie Bimsley was at the very end of the Metropolitan Police chain of command. When orders filtered down from the top, when reprimands were issued and disagreeable duties were passed on, they were usually dumped in Charlie’s ample lap. If restaurant dustbins had to be searched for a discarded weapon, if a decomposed body stuck in a drain had to be dislodged, people in power would turn to each other and say, “Let’s get Bimsley to do it.” At least, that was how it seemed to the young constable. Charlie had no idea that in a few years’ time he would father a boy who would become a beat officer, just like his dad. Colin Bimsley
would even end up working for the Peculiar Crimes Unit.
Today, though, Bimsley was one of the thirty or so foot soldiers handling door-to-door inquiries in the pouring rain, asking householders about the disappearance of little Daisy Whitstable. So far the response had been poor, the progress slow. It was no surprise, thought Bimsley as he pushed open yet another garden gate. Most of the residents worked during the day, their houses minded by an army of cleaning ladies, nannies, and gardeners, few of whom spoke English.
As Bimsley rang the bell and surveyed the tailored front lawn, he wondered if his dislike of the neighbourhood stemmed from the fact that he would never have the money to live in such an area.
“Can I help you?” The elderly woman who answered the door was staring suspiciously at him, despite the fact that he was wearing a uniform. She demanded to see formal identification before letting him start his questionnaire. Bimsley impatiently ran through the opening paragraph, explaining that he was trying to establish the exact time and whereabouts of a rogue ice-cream van.
“I remember it clearly, you don’t have to go on,” she snapped, in a tone she probably reserved for recalcitrant dogs. “When I heard it passing I went straight to the window and looked out.”
Apart from the hazy recollections of a Scandanavian au pair in the next street, this was the first positive identification Bimsley had received. “Would it be possible for you to describe the vehicle?” he asked carefully. The rain was falling in heavy sheets now. He could see his breath. “Perhaps I could come in for a minute…” he ventured.
“You stay where you are. Muddy boots on my Axminster, the very idea. Please be quiet while I think.” She pushed past him on the porch and looked along the street, narrowing her eyes.
“A little girl was abducted in this area yesterday,” he added. “Possibly by the driver of the van we’re seeking.”
“I don’t much care for children. Too demanding. I don’t have a television and I don’t read the papers. Too depressing.” She pointed in the direction of the Whitstable house. “It stopped up there. I remember thinking at the time that it was odd to hear an ice-cream van at Christmas, especially one like this.”
“What was different about it?”
“It was plain white, more like an ambulance. Then there was the man inside.”
“You saw the driver?” This was too good to be true.
“Only through the windscreen. He didn’t have a coat on, you see. The regular man always has a white coat. This one didn’t.”
“Is there anything else you recall about him?”
“He was dark.”
“Black?”
“No, more – Indian. He had long hair, most unhygienic where the preparation of food is concerned.”
“You didn’t see the girl?”
“I just took one look, then closed the curtains.”
Bimsley thought for a moment. “Why did you look out in the first place?”
“As I said, it was too late in the year for the van to come around,” she explained, absently twisting her loose wedding ring. “And then there was the tune. They normally play ‘Greensleeves.’ This one was playing something jolly from an opera.”
“Can you remember what the tune was?” asked Bimsley.
“No,” replied the old lady, shaking her head, “but I can tell you it was something by Gilbert and Sullivan.”
♦
“You’re usually on the desk downstairs, aren’t you?” whispered the young girl standing beside her. “My name’s Sandra.” She held out her hand. Jerry shook it and smiled back.
“I’m just filling in for today,” Jerry lied guiltily. “They’re a bit short-staffed.”
For the past ten minutes the two girls had been standing between stainless steel tea urns, behind a low table filled with plates of sandwiches. Until now, neither of them had spoken. Sandra was shy and overawed by the guests. Her hair covered cheeks pockmarked by childhood illness. Jerry wanted to say something that would put her at ease, but realized uncomfortably that to do so might be patronizing. A class gap lay between them like a concealed mine. Jerry wasn’t in awe of these people. She saw them every day at home.
Ahead of them, across acres of crimson carpet, the shareholders sat beyond oak-paneled doors which had been pulled tightly shut. The only sound that could be discerned from within was a muffled murmuring.
She’d wasted her time. Jerry dragged at the hem of her ill-fitting waitress outfit, trying to work it below her knees. The least the duty manager could have done was to find her some clothes that fitted properly. It had taken her ages to pin her unruly hair beneath the white cap. She looked over and found Sandra smiling apologetically.
“It’s difficult keeping your legs warm in this weather, isn’t it?” said Sandra, ducking her head. “Then you come in here and it’s so hot. I’ve got these heavy wool tights and they’re itching like mad. They should be coming to an end about now.” She nodded toward the conference room, referring to the group rather than her underwear arrangements.
“Who are they?” asked Jerry. “Do you know?”
“Friends of the Savoy, something like that,” said her new friend, her voice barely above a whisper. “Something to do with the theatre next door.” From within came the sound of chairs being shoved back. The meeting had been concluded, and Jerry was no wiser than she had been before.
As the oak-paneled doors were folded open and the committee members filed out towards the refreshment table, she examined their faces, trying to see them as conspirators, but it was impossible; a less sinister group of people would have been hard to imagine. They looked like an average English church congregation. Most of the ladies were middle-aged and wore firmly pinned hats. The gentlemen were suited and spectacled, conservatively dressed by family tailors.
As she began filling coffee cups and handing them out, Jerry strained to catch exchanges of dialogue. Beyond the odd phrase referring to investments and healthy rates of return, there seemed to be very little business being discussed. Of the two couples nearest to her, one was airing the problem of waterlogged lawns and the other was complaining about an obscene play at the National Theatre. It was hopeless.
After a further ten minutes the room began to clear, and Sandra started packing away her end of the table.
“I wonder if I have time for another cup?” asked a pink-cheeked old dear in a ratty-looking fur coat.
Smiling wanly, Jerry took her cup and refilled it. “Thirsty work in there, was it?” she asked.
“Oh, no, not really.” The old lady accepted the cup and began heaping sugar into it. “But it’s all very exciting, nevertheless.” She leaned forward secretively. “We’re buying a theatre,” she confided.
“Really?” Jerry joined her halfway over the table, a fellow conspirator. “Who’s we?”
“Cruet,” replied the old lady.
Jerry frowned. Was she looking for the salt? “I’m sorry?”
“The Committee for the Restoration of West End Theatres,” she replied. “crowet.”
“Oh, I see. And you’re taking over the theatre next door?”
“That’s right. Two years ago I helped save the otters; last year it was typhoid; but this is much more interesting. How did you know which theatre we’ve purchased? It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“Oh,” Jerry replied lightly, “we had a Japanese gentleman staying here who was going to buy it.” She waited while the old lady stirred her tea. “But the deal fell through.”
“So I believe. The yen isn’t strong at the moment, or something like that.”
“Rachel, dear, we’re going via the Brompton Oratory, do you need a lift?” called one of the remaining men. The old lady smiled vaguely at Jerry and pottered away to join the group.
CROWET, thought Jerry. It had to be registered somewhere, and it could lead her to a murderer.
∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧
22
Lux Aeterna
John May strode along the marble-fa
ced corridor, his dark mane bouncing at his shirt collar. Having had enough of Tomlins’s refusal to return his phone calls, he had decided to pay a surprise visit to the Goldsmiths’ Hall.
He pushed open the door at the end of the main chamber and entered, sweeping past a pair of startled secretaries. Tomlins was seated at his desk, fountain pen poised above a sheaf of documents. His eyes bulged in his florid face as he recognized the detective.
“Mr May, I told you I’d call you once I had found someone you could talk to,” he said, attempting to preempt May’s complaint.
“And when might that be?” asked May. “As I see it, you’re deliberately attempting to obstruct an investigation.”
“It’s not as easy as you think.” Tomlins recapped his pen with deliberate care. “I mentioned the fact that you would like to discuss certain aspects of the Whitstable family’s lives with someone who knew them, but I’m afraid I’ve had very little response. Perhaps people have no wish to speak ill of the dead.”
“Why would anyone speak ill?” May seated himself in the only other chair. “Weren’t they liked? You told me you barely knew them. How many guild members do you have here?”
“Oh,” Tomlins waved his hand airily, “it would be hard to estimate…”
“Mr Tomlins, let me make things simpler for you.” May was beginning to lose his patience. He had seen such men in every walk of life, ‘clubbable’ men who used the privilege of membership as a class weapon. “I want exact figures from you right now, this morning, or I’ll have you brought in and your files sequestered as evidence. I want to know how many members of the Worshipful Company of Watchmakers there are, and how many of those belong to this little inner circle of yours, the one which uses the symbol you couldn’t recognize, the sacred flame. Then we’ll start going through names and if necessary we’ll interview every single person on your list.”
Tomlins’s smile froze on his face. “You must understand that this is information we never give out…” His voice climbed even higher than usual.
May waved the objection aside. “You send your members mailings; every organization does. Your secretary must have the names and addresses. I’ll ask her.” He rose.
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