Bryant & May 03; Seventy-Seven Clocks b&m-3

by Christopher Fowler

  To perish in such an ignominious fashion as this was terrible. To die below the streets of the city he loved, within its very heart. Bryant wished he was at home, surrounded by his records, his books, and his memories. It seemed such a grotesque, undignified way for life to leave him.

  He twisted his head to watch as Tomlins swung insanely at the wall. In his impatience to fill the room, he was trying to open up the entire drain. Each blow carried the frustration of a blunted life. The wall was cracked in several places, and had begun to bow outwards.

  Tomlins, blinded by his bitter zeal, driven by a lifetime wasted in subservience, once more charged the bricks with his sledgehammer. Suddenly the concrete membrane bulged and split wide in a tsunami of water and brick. Tomlins was lifted from his feet and hurled backwards as the deluge burst over him, slamming him against the fallen astrolabe.

  As the unleashed river rocked his metal prison, Bryant seized the moment, shoving against the brass bar across his chest. He could summon little strength. The freezing water was rapidly dulling his senses. He hammered against the bars again, and was astonished to find the cage rising of its own accord.

  “You’re pleased to see me this time, are you?” asked Jerry Gates, holding out her hand. Amazed, unable to catch enough breath to reply, Bryant reached out and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. “John!” he gasped, pointing to the figure floating facedown in the rising water.

  Jerry steadied him and set off to help his partner.

  Bryant pushed himself free of the mechanical rings and began wading across the room to help her. Through the hole in the wall he watched as the black torrent rushed past. The stench rising from its foul waters was unbearable. The river of darkness thundered on beyond the shattered wall, denied access to the world above.

  He had waded halfway across the room when a pair of wet arms seized him around the neck and pulled him back beneath the surface of the vile torrent.

  Tomlins’s hands sought purchase on his throat, but as Bryant struggled to twist free, one of them pushed down on the top of his head. The detective forced his eyes to remain shut in the pulsing effluent, knowing that the poison content of the river would kill him if absorbed for too long. Now both hands were locked firmly over his skull, holding him under.

  A dull booming sounded in his ears as the deluge thundered through the steel cage, twisting it back and forth. Red flares of light exploded against his eyelids. His lungs were filled with fire.

  And then the hands went limp, and Bryant’s head bobbed up above the surface of the river, suddenly released. Tomlins had rolled back in the water. His upper arm had become trapped in the shifting blades of the astrolabe, pulling him beneath the surface.

  Bryant fought free as the structure groaned and shifted once more. As soon as he was unsnagged, he allowed the current to carry him across the room. Jerry was wading over in his direction. He could not tell if John May was alive or dead.

  He looked back in time to see Tomlins’s arm lift from its mooring as his body swirled towards the opening in the wall, where it was sucked back into the fast-flowing river, to be swept off into the pounding Stygian darkness.

  ♦

  The three of them sat beside one another in the back of the patrol car, soaked and shocked, wrapped in blankets, as an officer drove them to the nearest hospital clinic.

  “Do you mind if I open a window, Sir?” asked the driver. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Are you insinuating that we smell?” asked Bryant weakly.

  “Well, you did get dipped in sh – er, the sewer, Sir.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  May turned to Jerry. She looked as if she was having a wonderful time. “Why did you follow us back to the guild?” he asked.

  “I went to the unit to find Sergeant Longbright, and they told me where she was. I was there in the car when you radioed in your destination. The main door to the building was open, and there was an incredible noise coming from the back of the hall. I just followed it down.”

  “But what possessed you to come here?”

  “Thought I’d return Mr Bryant’s bleeper,” she answered, pulling the bulky box from her sodden coat. “He’d dropped it again.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you wait and give it to him another day?” demanded May, amazed. “He never uses the bloody thing.”

  “I had to return it immediately,” said Jerry. “His apartment keys are taped to the back.”

  May’s mouth fell open.

  “That’s the point,” said Bryant, taking the bleeper and turning it over to reveal a pair of labeled Yale keys sellotaped in place. “I thought I wouldn’t lose it if I needed it to get into my apartment.”

  “Do you mean to say that I owe my life to – to – ”

  “That’s right,” said Jerry, pleased with herself. “If it wasn’t for your partner’s annoying little habits, you’d have drowned.”

  The patrol car sped on across the bridge, towards a lightening sky.

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  53

  Captain of Industry

  For once, Charles Whitstable was at a loss for words. He was still wearing the previous day’s clothes, and had not slept.

  “We just want to know how you did it,” said May, hunching forward on his chair. The workmen had made a surprise return to Mornington Crescent, and there were tools all over the floor. There was also, inexplicably, a large hole in the ceiling.

  “I’m not sure what you’ll even be charged with,” added Bryant, “but it’ll certainly be as an accomplice to murder. Try to explain what happened. Then we’ll decide what you need to put in your official statement.”

  Charles lifted his head from his hands and attempted to smooth his hair back in place. “All right,” he said, resigning himself to the first in a series of trials. “When I went to Calcutta, I found the guild’s group of companies still operating under archaic conditions. There had been no technological advances, no updating of the infrastructure. The offices were staffed by the grandsons of the original owners. Bureaucracy was rampant, even by Calcutta’s standards. Nothing had changed from James Whitstable’s time.

  Back in London, Peter and Bella were moaning about profits dropping. They were all complaining, even the damned lawyers, and no one had the balls to come and sort out the mess. Everything was left to me. I soon noticed that certain ‘obligations’ transmitted from London were being honoured by staff members. Every once in a while, someone would disappear for a few days on ‘company business,’ financed by money orders transferred through the lawyers’ office in Norwich. That staff member would then reappear and continue working without a word of what had transpired. Apparently, this had been going on for years.

  I noticed a pattern in the type of people chosen for this clandestine work. They were always the sons and grandsons of men who had been granted a great favour by the guild at some point in the past.”

  “What sort of favour?”

  “The usual sort of thing – a cash advance for a newlywed, an executive post for a son – a favour that demanded repayment at some unspecified point in the future,” explained Charles. “Employees of even the most distant branches of the Watchmakers could, in extreme circumstances, be granted special deals in the form of large low-interest loans. In return, a brown-paper package was delivered to the home of the borrower, to be kept within the family and opened at a time specified by the company.

  When the time came, instructions were to be carried through to the last letter. The debt was canceled once the rival was out of action. There could be no defaulting on repayment. At least, that was how the system had worked in the past. I arrived to find dissent. People had begun to refuse to honour these ‘obligations.’ They’d been held to promises by their fathers, their grandfathers, but couldn’t see why they should perform favours for the English any more. Victoria’s reign might have gone, but it was a damned long time dying. Our employees had been kept in place with threats and superstitions, but they no lo
nger feared the power of the alliance. India now had its independence, after all.”

  Charles Whitstable looked as embarrassed as a captain of industry could ever be seen to be. “Well, I couldn’t completely abolish the system. But the Calcutta police were becoming suspicious. I had to take control. I had the family’s best interests at heart. The machine provided the competitors of those marked for removal because it was regularly updated in London by Tomlins. I had no idea that the system had begun to backfire, or that it would kill my own family. James Makepeace Whitstable used everyone – his craftsmen, his lawyers, the heirs of his most loyal members of staff. That was the simple beauty of his scheme. All the dirty work was done overseas, thereby keeping his own hands clean. James never dreamed that one day it would all come home.”

  “That was why the assassins used such old-fashioned methods of execution,” May realized. “They were working to a tried and trusted formula. When Max Jacob’s killer used cottonmouth snake venom, it was probably the closest he could get to a native Indian reptile.”

  “What an apt Victorian process,” snorted Bryant. “Butcher your rivals, dupe the locals, and improve your own fortune. If anyone gets caught it’s only an invisible foreigner, a third-class citizen, and who’ll believe him against the word of a white man? So men like poor Denjhi had their lives destroyed by the debts of their forefathers. His conscience prevented him from killing Daisy Whitstable, so he was used again. But he beat the system a second time. Instead of lethally poisoning Peggy Harmsworth, he diluted the concoction, hoping to spare her life without failing to honour his debt.” Bryant rose and refastened his shapeless brown cardigan. “You have the deaths of your own family on your conscience. It’ll be interesting to see if we can make you pay in the courtroom.”

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  54

  Mother & Daughter Revisited

  Gwen Gates stared at the glowing end of her cigarette and smiled ruefully. The room was flooded in cold sunshine as panels of light reflected from the wet pavements outside. She wore no make-up and was wrapped in a heavy white towelling robe. Jerry had rarely seen her mother like this, in what Gwen would regard as an unfinished state.

  The hour was still early. Jack had gone to thrash a ball about at the Highgate Golf Club. Gwen had heard Jerry moving about and had come down, almost as if she had sensed something was different about today. She looked up at her daughter now, and for a moment Jerry felt a flicker of sympathy. It had been a shock to discover that Gwen’s desire to improve her social standing had outweighed her love for her only daughter, but it was as if something Jerry had always suspected had now proved to be true.

  The knowledge produced little satisfaction, only the bitter taste of betrayal. Her love had been weighed as a commodity, quantified and traded off for something more rewarding. And yet, there was still the faintest trace of a bond between them.

  “If it’s any consolation, I’m ashamed for not speaking up and stopping you going back to Charles Whitstable’s house.”

  “You just wanted me to work for him and be accepted by the Whitstable family,” Jerry replied, folding the flap of the nylon backpack over and clipping it shut. “You’d convinced yourself I wouldn’t remember what had happened. Even if I’d taken up Charles’s offer, he would never have given you the things you wanted. If and when he gets out of jail, that’s assuming he even goes, he’ll carry on with his business quite happily without me or you. All of them will. The Whitstables will carry on long after all the press and television coverage, after all the scandals and investigations. The Whitstables don’t need anyone else. Poor Gwen, let down by yet another man. First Jack, then Charles Whitstable.”

  “You’re a very cruel girl.”

  “I’m not a girl any more, Mother. You must have been able to see that nothing would ever change for us. What were you hoping for? Did you think you would get Jack’s respect back? That’s long gone. What do you want any more privileges for, anyway? It’s not as if they would have made us different people.” She checked the spines of a few paperbacks and added them to the bag. There were some books she had to take with her wherever she went.

  “I thought it would be nice if you could marry well.” Gwen’s voice was soft and tired.

  “If I really wanted what the upper classes have, I’d have to be as dishonest as them.”

  “I never meant to be dishonest with you, Jerry.” Gwen seemed to find the taste of the cigarette disagreeable, and ground it out. “I simply wasn’t honest with myself. You have no idea what it was like being so close to them, and so far away. To tiptoe around the edges of their lives, always within sight of something better. I wanted to have what they had, for you as well as me. It didn’t seem fair.”

  “Well, it’s not what I want.” Jerry picked up the bag and walked to the door. “That’s why I have to go. I want to make my own changes. You’re right, the Whitstables aren’t fair. They keep what’s theirs by building barriers. The whole rotten country’s founded on them. It’s a nation of boxes and walls. Mostly walls.”

  “You’re being naive if you think you can change anything. Nothing changed for me.” Concern shadowed Gwen’s face. For whom, Jerry couldn’t tell. “You have no idea of the things that went on.”

  “Perhaps not,” said Jerry. “You never talked about – ”

  “What could I have said? How could I have described the contemptuous looks on those damned faces?” She checked herself. “Half the family hasn’t talked to me for years. Oh, they’ll give cold smiles when you’re around, and cut me dead behind your back. All the clever little cruelties, the endless subtle indignities. Because of you, and the way you behaved. The trouble you caused.”

  “I’m sorry, Gwen. I didn’t know.”

  “Well,” she said bitterly, “there’s a lot you still don’t know. People are monstrous. When you’re protected by money, there are a thousand ways to hurt someone.” She clearly had no intention of allowing her daughter to feel sorry for her, and changed the subject. “What are your plans? Where are you going to go now?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll try to find some places where there aren’t so many restrictions.”

  “That’ll be a lot harder than you think. God, you’ve some learning to do.”

  “Then I’ll learn.”

  Jerry’s career at the Savoy had ended. She had been forced to give it up after realizing that it was Nicholas who had collected the photographs for Peter Whitstable. May had uncovered that particular detail during his interviews. The management had subsequently caught her slapping Nicholas around the face. The satisfaction of her stinging palm still stayed.

  Her mother was pacing in front of the lounge door, as if frightened to see it opened. “You barely know this boy Jacob.”

  “His name’s Joseph. He wants to travel for a while, and so do I.”

  “You’re not planning on getting married, are you?” Gwen asked cautiously.

  “Of course not. It’s the seventies. Nobody needs to get married any more. We’re just friends.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say that will make you change your mind.” Gwen searched for a fresh cigarette, something to occupy her hands.

  Joseph Herrick had talked about touring Europe, and Jerry had jumped at the chance. His Christmas, unlike hers, had been a quiet one.

  “Say good-bye to Dad for me. Don’t let him worry.”

  “I think he’ll be rather pleased for you. Especially if he sees it as a defeat for me.”

  “Oh, Mother. What are you going to do?”

  Gwen glanced up at the clock. “I’m supposed to be chairing one of my charities in an hour. I have a feeling it’s arthritis.”

  “Then you’d better get ready,” Jerry said, smiling.

  Gwen lit her cigarette and looked out of the sun-smeared window. “I don’t know. I may go for a walk instead.”

  “The park should be nice.”

  “I was thinking more of Harrods.”

  She tu
rned back to Jerry, her eyes narrowing. “Tell me,” she asked, “what’s the point of having children if they only leave?”

  “Because of the love,” Jerry replied. “I always wanted to be able to love you.”

  “Yes,” Gwen agreed, taking a step toward her, then thinking better of it. “It may surprise you, Geraldine, but there is love.”

  “I’ll let you know where I am,” Jerry promised. As she looked back at her mother from the door, standing squarely in the centre of the hallway, her hands by her sides, her feet bare, she saw how fragile Gwen’s life had been, and how much emptier it would be now.

  “I’m going to come back,” she said.

  “I’d like that very much, Jerry. I wish – ”

  “What?”

  “I wish I could go away somewhere. Start learning again.” She gave a rueful half smile.

  “You can learn right here,” Jerry said. “You don’t need to go anywhere.”

  “That’s simple for you to say. Everything’s easy to the young.”

  “At least you could try, Mother.”

  “Mother.” Gwen turned the word over, as if hearing it for the first time and trying it for size. Finally, she raised the palm of her right hand in farewell, coolly watching as Jerry walked to the end of the road. But even as Jerry turned the corner, she knew that Gwen would be standing at the door long after she had passed from sight.

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  55

  Turning On the Lights

  Tower Bridge was the gateway to London, the first bridge a ship encountered upon its passage into the Thames. Its Gothic turrets are merely stone clad over steel, and have guarded the river for barely a hundred years, yet it has become as definitive a representation of the city as the Tower of London itself. Below the bridge, smelt, dace, roach, and perch have been known to swim with flounders and elvers through the thick brackish water of the Thames. The riverbank here was once a thick slope of orange sand known as Tower Beach. From the 1930s to the 1950s, families swam and played on it as if day-tripping to the Brighton seashore.