“Why didn’t you bring the document to us? You must have realized that it was connected with Miss Hatfield’s death.”
“Because,” Marks answered softly, “my father was under strict instruction never to reveal its contents to anyone outside the family, whatever the circumstances.”
“Who gave him such instructions?”
“His father. And he got them from James Makepeace Whitstable,” he replied, “in 1883.”
♦
May placed an arm around his partner’s shoulder. “Come on,” he said, “I need some air. Let’s get out of here.”
They could see their breath in the corridor. “Why is it so cold in this building?” asked Bryant as they reached their outer office. “My blood’s stopped moving.”
“We’re still trying to clear airlocks from the heating system,” Sergeant Longbright explained. “I’ve had to let most of the staff go home. It should be fixed by next weekend.”
“I may be dead by then. Has there been any change in Peggy Harmsworth’s condition?”
“The doctor says if her present status doesn’t change soon, she’ll suffer brain damage. They can only administer limited medication because of the impairment caused by the drugs in her system.” The sergeant hadn’t slept for two days. There were four pencils in her hair and five half-drunk cups of coffee lining her desk. She was typing with gloves on, and, for the first time in living memory, wasn’t wearing eyeliner.
“Where’s Raymond?”
“He’s over at the safe house. The family were demanding to see someone immediately, otherwise they’re going to leave the building and report their grievances to the Home Office and then the press. Neither of you were available.”
“Thank God for that,” said Bryant. “Don’t they realize how much safer they are staying together? Didn’t they ever watch old horror films? It’s the ones that go off to the cellar with a torch that get a sabre through the windpipe.”
“Get your stuff and let’s go,” said May.
Bryant could hear people shouting beyond their office window. The noise level was extraordinary. He crossed the room and looked out. “Just look at this lot, howling for blood.” He snapped the blinds shut and collected his bag from his desk.
The Peculiar Crimes Unit was under siege. By eleven a.m. journalists had surrounded the building and had begun calling up to the first-floor windows. They were furious that Raymond Land had failed to set a press conference following the deaths of Deborah and Justin Whitstable, and had remained outside, demanding that the superintendent appear before them with an explanation. Land had, however, managed to slip from the rear of the building without doing so. It was now half past five, and there was no sign of the mob dispersing.
“You’d better use the rear stairs,” said Longbright. “I’ll find you if things get worse.”
“How could they get any worse?” asked May. “We’ve nothing to hold Marks here on. He has a watertight alibi for the night of Alison’s murder. We can’t even hold him for removing the diary without permission, because it was supposed to be in his father’s custody in the first place. Has Jerry Gates come in?”
“I haven’t seen her for days,” admitted Longbright.
“Mr Bryant, are you all right?” The detective was steadying himself against the wall. He looked as if he was about to pass out. Thunder rumbled ominously overhead. “It’s this blasted cold. I’ll be all right when I get something to eat. I need carbohydrates. Potatoes. Gravy.” They caught a cab to the north side of Fitzroy Square, where Gog and Magog was just opening its doors for the evening. Named after the statues of the two giants that had adorned the Guildhall until it was bombed during the Second World War, the restaurant offered a selection of Victorian and Edwardian delicacies that the uninitiated found alarming.
Bryant brought his partner here only on birthdays and in times of great upheaval. May knew that they should be feeling guilty, stopping to eat while mayhem was occurring around them, but sometimes more could be achieved across a restaurant table than in an interview room.
“‘Nature has burst the bonds of art,’” said Bryant, removing his wet coat. “You remember who said that, John?”
“It was the night we confronted William Whitstable outside his house. You reckoned you’d heard the phrase somewhere before.”
“That’s right, I had. This morning, I remembered where.”
Although they ate here infrequently, their host greeted them like old friends and showed them to a table beneath the moulting head of a wall-mounted elk. “It’s Gilbert and Sullivan, of course,” said Bryant. “But I couldn’t recall from which opera. Then I remembered that the poet Bunthorne sings the line in Patience. Taken with the marked Bible, it confirms – ”
“That William Whitstable knew about the alliance as well.”
“Precisely. Perhaps all of the victims did. I think the Whitstable family is divided into those who know about the survival of the alliance and those who don’t. God, how they like to keep their secrets. Now we begin to see the real reason why William damaged the painting on that rainy Monday afternoon at the National Gallery.”
Bryant raised his hands, framing an image. “Imagine this. After a severe fire the Savoy Theatre is put up for sale, and to everyone’s horror an offer from the Japanese is accepted over the British bid. Government help remains unforthcoming. The prime minister has his hands too full with the unions to care about keeping a theatre in British hands. Peter Whitstable concocts a strategy with the family lawyer: they’ll take charge of the Savoy by arranging to have the Japanese compromised and removed. The Whitstables want the theatre because of its symbolic place in their family history.
Their secret system can no longer be trusted to take care of business rivals – for some mysterious reason it isn’t working properly any more, and hasn’t been for some years. The family is having to fight its own business battles. Peter and his lawyer must take control of the situation. They discuss their plan with William, but he disapproves of their illegal tactics. The Japanese have shown nothing but good intentions. The Whitstables, on the other hand, are about to behave like common crooks, swindling them out of the deal.
Does William tell Peter and Max that he’ll have nothing to do with it, that family ideals are being betrayed? No, in typically excessive Whitstable fashion William makes a public statement by destroying the painting that commemorates everything that the alliance once stood for.”
“Then William couldn’t have known that his brother was simply planning to continue the practices of his ancestor.”
“There’s the irony.” Bryant accepted a menu. “Peter and the lawyer knew exactly what James Makepeace Whitstable had been up to, but it seems that William genuinely had no idea. If only we could talk to them now.”
“We don’t need to. We have a first-hand account of the event from the old man himself.” May tapped the side of his briefcase.
“You have the diary with you?”
“It’s not a diary, just a brief chronicle of the alliance and its aims, something James must have read out to his future partners. But he’s added his own notes at the end.”
“Let me see it,” pleaded Bryant.
“In a minute. Food first.”
Their waiter listed the specials without explanation of their contents, it being assumed that if you ate here, you knew what you were in for. “We have spring, Crécy, or julienne soup,” he offered, “chaud-froid pigeons with asparagus, forequarter of mutton with stewed celery, thim bles, and – ”
“What have you got for dessert?” asked Bryant, rudely interrupting him in mid-flow.
“Anchovy cheese, Aldershot pudding with raspberry water, rice meringue, cabinet pudding, and gooseberry jelly.”
Bryant sat back, delighted. Like the Victorians they emulated, the restaurant kept an ostentatious table. This was the first time the detective had thought about something other than the Whitstable family in weeks. May opened his briefcase and withdrew the yellowed pages of the a
ccount. “To be honest, I was having trouble reading it,” he admitted. “It’s written in such convoluted gobbledygook I thought it would be better to let you translate.”
Bryant wasn’t sure whether to take this as a compliment or an insult. He accepted the document and carefully opened it, attempting to read the title as he searched for his spectacles. “A proposition for inducing financial longevity, eh? Sounds dodgy.” Each page was covered in finely wrought black ink. After this followed a separate document, also handwritten. The heavy italicization of the letters made deciphering difficult. While May tasted the wine, his partner read on. After a while, he banged his fist on the table so hard that a pair of waiters resting at the rear of the restaurant jumped to attention.
“So that’s it!” he cried. “I knew it had to be something of the sort.”
“What is it?” asked May, not unreasonably.
“Much as I hate to say so, you were right. Why else would James Whitstable have invited craftsmen to be the founding members of the alliance, and not financial experts? He suggested the building of a mechanical device. Listen to this: ‘For if our lawyers can create a scheme for life annuity such that the overall dividend augments upon the demise of each subscriber, why not a form of mechanical tontine? These are modern times, and such an automated auguring device could be created wherein the subscribers and beneficiaries of the Worshipful Company of Watchmakers might be provided for long after their deaths, by the simple expedient of the creation of a device to inhibit the encroachment of our rivals.’ Dear God, no wonder this country’s in a state if it was based on language like this!”
Bryant took a sip of wine and leaned forward, laying the pages before him. “So James Whitstable sees the finances of the guild failing. Foreign rivals are producing cheaper wares in direct competition to the guild’s own exports. He must act quickly, or their empire will be undermined and nothing will be left for their heirs. He is taken with the germ of an idea, and invites to London the men who may be persuaded to help him carry out his plan.
On the afternoon of twenty-eight December 1881, he lunches with his group, filling the craftsmen’s susceptible heads with talk of light and dark, preserving the strength and sanctity of the guild, and God knows what else. No doubt these loyal, hardworking men are easy to entice. They’re probably amazed to be in London at all – and to be taking lunch at the Savoy!
After the meal, he trots them to the theatre next door – to witness a display which he has already been informed will take place. Suddenly they see that everything he says is true; James Makepeace Whitstable has predicted the future, when light will triumph over darkness for all time. They’re given proof that a bright new age is about to begin. Who could fail to be impressed?
Whitstable then leads them, awe-filled, back to his suite, and draws up a charter which they sign. He presents each of them with a commemorative gold pocket watch manufactured by the Watchmakers’ Guild, inscribed with the sacred flame. He wraps up his speech in supernatural mumbo-jumbo, invoking the curse of the Stewards of Heaven. Then he swears them all to secrecy, and looks to them for a solution to his problems.
And his work pays off. The craftsmen put their heads together, and come up with a tracking device that will calculate the guild’s accumulation of profit according to the information fed into it. The machine will also identify the owners of shares.”
“You mean to tell me that the Alliance invented a primitive form of computer?”
“No, because their system isn’t binary. Unfortunately, they were craftsmen before they were mathematicians. But you’re on the right track. I’m only halfway through. Let me read the rest.”
“Your pigeon’s getting cold, or hot, or something,”May pointed out.
But he had lost Bryant to the pages. Once in a while the detective would release a ‘Hmmm’ or an ‘Aha!’ Finally he looked up, realized that his meal was still sitting before him, and began to eat voraciously. Neither spoke until the plates were cleared.
“Well,” declared Bryant, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “it’s made of brass.”
“Is that it?” cried May. “Isn’t there anything else?” Bryant set down his napkin and checked the pages again. “It took them two years to build and calibrate the device.”
“My God, how big is this thing?”
“I don’t know, it doesn’t say. But it’s mechanical, and it runs on electricity. Is it possible that it could still be running? I mean, there’s no such thing as a perpetual motion engine.”
“Does it mention how it works?”
“Only that it relays information to an outside source, where ‘the necessary steps’ are taken.”
“Some help. What about its location?”
“Again no clue, presumably for the sake of security. There is one man who might know. We must talk to Leo Marks’s father. I’ll find out which hospital he’s in. If the old man was supposed to be the keeper of this account,”
Bryant wondered, “why did he have to send his son looking for it?”
“Alison Hatfield told me all the valuable guild papers were shifted to the vaults during the war for safekeeping. No doubt Marks assumed that it was the safest place for them. Later, when the attacks on the Whitstables started occurring, the family closed ranks, and Marks Senior realized that he was failing to honour his promise by leaving the document with the back files at the guild. I wonder how many of the Whitstables knew what was in that document?”
“Even if they had heard tales of such a mechanical tontine, I doubt any of them believed it was real. And they’d never admit it if they did.”
“The older generation certainly must have noticed their unfailing good fortune and wondered. The guild even made money in the year of the General Strike. I bet the family did some paper-burning when they heard that William Whitstable had been murdered.” May rose from the table. “If they’d been less worried about their dwindling finances and a bit more concerned about each other, perhaps we’d have been able to halt the bloodshed at the start. Don’t go anywhere. I have to make a phone call.”
Bryant sat back with a sigh. He knew that they would end up visiting the hospital tonight, and saw his chances of enjoying a leisurely dessert retreating along with the possibility of a decent night’s sleep.
∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧
44
Loyalty
In the taxi on the way to the Wentworth Clinic in Gloucester Terrace, Bryant read the remaining section of the chronicle, which bore the personal imprimatur of the family patriarch, James Makepeace Whitstable.
28 December 1881, evening
Shortly after the performance, we returned to our rooms. One look into the eyes of my colleagues told me that our sojourn to the newly illuminated theatre had convinced them of the veracity of my design. These honest artisans had seen the future, and would now agree to my request. They had each been granted the Grand Order of the Heavenly Stewardship, though doubtless they knew little of what it meant. Would they still be willing to participaté in the building of the device when they realized it was to end the lives of others?
We began to assemble a little after eight. I had given notice to the chambermaids that under no circumstances were we to be disturbed tonight. I had drawn the heavy green curtains shut and had lowered the lights, removing both of the copper lamps from the table, the better to impress upon the assembly the utter seriousness of our venture.
Radford was the first, creeping into the room apologetically, his club foot sounding hard against the floor. He was closely followed by Lamb, then Chambers, then Suffling. As I had requested, each bore the satin sash of his Stewardship, and now I requested that they don their colours. Radford – Hagith – timidly asked something which had clearly been pressing on him. If, tonight, we would agree the terms under which our mechanism could be constructed, what need was there for our collective presence as the Stewards of Heaven?
—I’m glad you asked that, I said, directing him to be seated opposite me, for you may reca
ll our discussions on the role of faith and occultism in the coming scientific age. Their attention held, my Stewards took their places around the octagonal baize table.
—The system that will preserve our fortunes and remove our enemies for ever will succeed because it is Scientific, I explained, studying each face in turn. So far you have been presented with little more than an engineering proposal, namely the construction of a device that will tabulate our expenditure and calculate the damage inflicted by the enemies of the Company. You agree, Lamb, that such a device is within the realms of possibility?
—Most certainly, Mr Whitstable, he agreed, although certain problems arise.
—Namely? I enquired.
His fingers tugged at his cravat as he attempted to frame his reply.
—Keeping it hidden, he said finally. How shall we protect such a piece of equipment and maintain it finely tuned?
—You shall have no need to worry on that account, I assured him. The tontine will provide us with advice. But how can we carry out its instructions? Will Science remove our adversaries? No. For this, we require loyalty beyond the call of normal duty. We are an organization ahead of our time, gentlemen. One day all business will be conducted in such a manner. But let us be the first. Even now, Guildsmen are working to solve the problem of removing our enemies. For without their help, the seeds of destruction are built into our system. Suppose one of our own was apprehended in the process of vanquishing a hated rival? Should he attempt to explain his actions, why, we are done for. And if any one of you were to carry out the deed, how might you feel after? Even the most righteous cause carries a burden of guilt when the death of another is required. The solution lies in India. Gentlemen, I do not ask you to go against God. It is why I have enlisted those who are Heathens. They will be our loyal assassins.
I rose from my place at the head of the table with six pairs of eyes following my every move, and warmed myself against the blazing hearth. Tonight the loyalty of my most trusted men was being put to the test, and I was sure that they would follow me. I had not counted on Radford, of course.
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