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

by Christopher Fowler

  “And if the Whitstables are discredited, your parents won’t admire them any more,” concluded May. “They want to decide your career, but you won’t let them.”

  Jerry didn’t answer. She could hear Gwen now. Look at my daughter. She was a problem child, but she has a business head on her shoulders – she has real family spirit.

  She wanted to see the Whitstable family fall into disgrace. Then perhaps Gwen and Jack would be forced to put their faith in her, the daughter who had exposed them.

  “You’ll be interviewed by the Met about your involvement in the accident that killed Mr Denjhi,” Bryant told her. “They’ll decide what to do with you, not us. But we can protect you to some extent by placing you under our supervision. For the record, I happen to agree with you. I think the Whitstables are deliberately hiding knowledge of something that is causing all this to happen. Daisy’s parents have already refused to let anyone interview her. Nobody will talk openly to us.”

  “I could get you inside information,” said Jerry, sitting forward.

  “Out of the question,” said Bryant.

  “You said they won’t talk to you, but they might to me.”

  “Go home, Jerry. Get some sleep.” Bryant rubbed his forehead wearily. “You’ll be contacted in due course. Until then, you do nothing, understand?”

  They watched as the girl was escorted from the room. “Involving her would be taking a terrible risk,” warned May.

  His partner waved the suggestion aside. “I have a feeling she’ll continue whether we sanction her or not.”

  “It doesn’t look like we’re going to get any sleep tonight,” May warned.

  Bryant wound his scarf pythonlike around his neck. There was no point in going off duty when the body of Peggy Harmsworth’s attacker waited in the morgue. “In a world like this, only the innocent can afford to sleep. Let’s go and wake Oswald Finch. Nobody rests while I’m up. Tell me about Peggy Harmsworth.”

  “She was taken to the Royal Free Hospital, sedated, and placed under observation. She assaulted the ambulance men and bit one of the nurses. Screaming and laughing, suffering the effects of a hallucinogenic drug, they think.”

  “At least someone’s having a merry Christmas.”

  “That’s an extremely tasteless remark, Arthur. They’re pumping her stomach without knowing what she’s taken. That’s what this case needed on top of murder and kidnap – a madwoman in a cemetery.”

  “Wait a minute…” Bryant’s eyes widened gleefully. “Of course! ‘Mad, I? Yes, very? But why? Mystery!’” he cried suddenly.

  “What on earth are you on about?”

  “Peggy’s another name for Margaret, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is. Why?”

  “Don’t you see? She’s become Mad Margaret. An insane woman, creeping through a darkened graveyard. A character from Ruddigore. It’s Gilbert and Sullivan again.”

  ♦

  As she was escorted back along the corridor, Jerry peered through the window of the next office and spotted Joseph. He lay curled up on a row of seats, wrapped in a heavy grey blanket with his huge boots sticking out of the end. His eyes were closed, his face framed by a corona of wild hair. He looked like Burne-Jones’s painting of Perseus, except he was covered in scratches and bruises, had a bloody nose, and was black.

  She wanted to place her arms around him and kiss the curve of his bandaged neck, to be wrapped in his sleeping warmth. She wanted to tell him things she had never told any man. He would probably never want to speak to her again. She had done nothing but cause him trouble. It felt as if she had never given anyone reason to admire or even like her. Perhaps it was too late.

  She stayed beyond the smeared glass for a moment more, then followed the officer out on to the freezing street.

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  28

  Visited by Devils

  David Balbir Denjhi, aged twenty-nine, was survived by a wife and three children, Janice Longbright noted as she pulled back a corner of her hastily compiled background file. He and his young bride had met in London, having both emigrated to England with their respective parents. David had clashed with the legal system several times, first with tax inspectors over a filed claim for company bankruptcy, then over an accusation of handling stolen goods. This had attracted the unwelcome attentions of the immigration authorities, but he’d come through the ordeal and had satisfactorily proved his right to remain in the country. The woman seated before Longbright seemed calm and sensible. If she had been crying earlier, she gave no sign of it. Mrs Denjhi poured coffee and sat back in her chair, waiting to be asked more questions. The sergeant knew that her life had become a nightmare, culminating in the identification of her husband’s body. Sirina Denjhi had spent several hours making statements to the police, and now faced another interview. Matters would not improve for her; soon she would receive the less sympathetic attention of the press.

  “I must understand what happened to my husband,” said Sirina softly.

  Standard interview procedure dictated that the sergeant could not reveal details of the investigation in progress, even if she felt that doing so would facilitate the discussion. Instead she concentrated on David Denjhi’s background.

  “Our families had known each other in India,” Sirina explained, “and although our marriage was not arranged it was understood that one day we might wed. Our parents were business partners, you see.”

  “What kind of business were they in?” asked Longbright.

  “Exporting silk. At first it was very successful, but then David’s father died. Our money was invested in a business that went bankrupt. We lost everything. David was a good father, a good provider. He worked hard to keep his company afloat, still dreaming that one day his children would run it. But it was not to be.” She folded her hands in her lap, looking away.

  “Tell me what happened after the company collapsed.”

  “David set up the window-cleaning firm. He was expanding it, taking on office contracts. His head was filled with ideas.”

  “Did your husband have many friends?”

  “We were his friends. His family. He had no others. People saw him in the street, at his job, but I don’t suppose they really saw him. People don’t, you understand? They don’t notice us. We go about our work, we spend time with our families, but to most English people we’re quite invisible. The hostile ones see us, of course. The others are neither angry nor happy that we’re here – just disinterested. When we came to this country, we thought we had left the castes behind, but we hadn’t. We simply became a new one.”

  Silence settled in the room. “We need to talk about David’s disappearance,” Longbright said. “I know you’ve already made a statement, but I must ask you to think harder. You say he’d been troubled…”

  Sirina Denjhi withdrew a handkerchief from her sari and dabbed her nose. “That’s right. It was on Friday morning. The devil was in him. He would not go to work, and he would not tell me why. He was furious with the children. Our youngest daughter broke a saucer, and he slapped her face. He had never raised his hand in violence before. His mood grew worse and worse. Finally, just after ten in the morning, he stormed out without a word.”

  “You asked him where he was going?”

  “Of course, but he gave me no reply. I watched from the window as he drove off in the van.”

  “Had he ever done anything like this?”

  “No, never.”

  “And the name Peggy Harmsworth, he’d never mentioned it to you?”

  Sirina shook her head. She turned her amber eyes to the sergeant. “You must find out why this terrible thing happened. Perhaps he was possessed. All I know is that we have been visited by devils, and there will be no rest for us until we know the truth.”

  ♦

  By lunchtime the blustery day had swept the sky clean of cloud, and the two detectives sat in the operations room at Mornington Crescent bathed in winter sunshine. Bryant was trying hard to
stay awake, but the long hours were beginning to take their toll. They were awaiting the preliminary forensic report on David Denjhi’s body.

  “You haven’t found any connection at all between Denjhi and the Whitstables?” Bryant asked May.

  “Not on the surface, but it’s conceivable the families had crossed paths in business. I’ll have to go through Denjhi’s company records. And I’ll see if he’d ever had window-cleaning appointments at any of the Whitstable houses. God, Arthur, a window-cleaner. It doesn’t make sense.” He shoved the folder away from him. “Jerry saw him leave the crypt seconds after Mrs Harmsworth screamed, so there’s no doubt about who attacked her.”

  “It’s in,” called Longbright, walking briskly between the typewriters with a pair of document pouches in her hand. Bryant was charmed by his glamorous sergeant, just as he had been by her mother so many years earlier. Last night, without a word of complaint, she had stayed with them through the shift in order to help clear the backlog of interviews. “Finch wasn’t going to release it without speaking to you first, but I managed to persuade him.”

  “You know what that means,” said Bryant, accepting the papers. “He must have found some positive matches. No one else knows about this yet, do they?”

  “I’m afraid he’s already copied in Raymond Land, Sir.”

  “Bugger, there goes our head start.” Bryant yanked open the first document pouch. “I haven’t got my glasses. Could you decipher?”

  May took the papers. “We’ve got multiple matches. Fingerprints all over the crypt, and on the knife Denjhi threw into the grass. For some reason he decided not to use it on her. Peggy Harmsworth’s blood on the crypt floor, and on Denjhi’s shirt and trousers. It looks as if she banged her head in the struggle. Keys fitting the crypt found on his body. No positive matches with the other deaths, but it’s early days yet. They need to check with the partials found on segments of the bomb that killed Peter Whitstable.” He pulled out another carbon. “Definitely no match with the prints we found on the razor from the Savoy barbershop, though. So we’re dealing with at least two different killers. Oh, and Finch confirms that Denjhi died at the accident site.”

  “You can tell a man is dead by sticking his finger in your ear,” recalled Bryant unhelpfully. “If you put your own finger in your ear you hear a buzz from tiny muscle movements.”

  “Two or more murderers,” mused May. “I suppose it fits in with your Victorian conspiracy theory, not that it makes a blind bit of sense. Anything new to report on that front?”

  “I’ve got some people working on it.”

  “A couple of clairvoyants and a palmist, no doubt.”

  “There’s no reason why you should place more faith in technical wizardry than in the supernatural.”

  “Technology is about accurate prediction, which is more than can be said for your crystal-ball merchants. I know you’ve been seeing them again, Arthur, don’t pretend that you haven’t.”

  Just then the overhead lights momentarily dimmed.

  “So much for the reliability of science,” said Bryant with a mocking smile. “We’re not much good without electricity, are we? Suddenly we’re back in the Dark Ages, telling ghost stories in front of the fire. Janice, your interview with Mrs Denjhi was very thorough, but there’s still one thing I need to know. Where did he get the money?”

  “I’m sorry, Sir?”

  “Denjhi lost everything when his company collapsed. You can’t start a new one without capital outlay. Find out where he got the cash.”

  The telephone rang, and Bryant answered it. “I just wanted to be the first to offer my congratulations to you and your colleagues,” Faraday bellowed. The junior arts minister sounded extremely cheerful. “A job well done, I’d say. I haven’t received your full report yet, of course, so if you’d – ”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” snapped Bryant, although a terrible thought was forming in his mind.

  “Catching our vandal,” Faraday explained. “The news couldn’t have come at a better time. Things were getting pretty sticky with the Aussies, I can tell you.”

  Suddenly the realization dawned on Bryant.

  Raymond Land had read the report and had immediately contacted the Home Office. Faraday seemed to have assumed that with the death of a confirmed assassin, all loose ends connected to the vandalism of the loaned Waterhouse painting were now tied up. It was essential for Land to prove that the new unit was getting results; it had been funded for an initial eight-week trial period. Bryant knew he would be expected to back up his superior. He also knew that he could not do so without compromising everything he believed in.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr Faraday,” he said finally. “We’ve confirmed the identity of the person who assaulted Mrs Harmsworth last night, but that’s all.”

  “How can that be? I don’t understand,” said Faraday with an anguished squeak.

  “Put simply, there’s a murderer very much at large.”

  “You mean you still don’t know who he is?”

  “Worse than that,” replied Bryant. “There’s more than one. And we don’t know who they are.”

  ∨ Seventy-Seven Clocks ∧

  29

  Brotherhood

  After a night of bad dreams, Arthur Bryant arose unrefreshed and sat on the end of his bed, trying to order his thoughts. He hated to admit it, but they had failed. Failed the public, failed themselves. He had not felt this depressed in years. The pestilence attacking the Whitstable family would try to run its course before they could discover its root. Checking the notes he had left for himself on the bedside table, he rang Jerry Gates at her home. An icy-voiced woman, presumably her mother, asked him to hold. A minute later, Jerry picked up the phone.

  “Yesterday you mentioned something about your father working for the Whitstables,” said Bryant.

  “That’s right, he had contracts with a couple of their companies.”

  “There’s something you could do for me.”

  “Anything. Just name it.”

  “You could find out about the people he deals with. I realize this might involve a certain disloyalty to your father. I need documentation concerning deals with silk manufacturers and exporters in Calcutta and Bombay. You might talk to your father and find out if he’s seen or heard anything unusual. You know the investigation almost as well as we do. You should know what to ask, and what to look for.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll get on to it right away.”

  “Call me if you find anything, anything at all. Do you have the number of my direct line?”

  “No.”

  “Neither do I. It’s written down somewhere…”

  “I’ll find you, don’t worry,” she promised.

  The morning had dawned cold and dull, the weather Bryant loathed the most. His appointment with Peregrine Summerfield was set for nine a.m. He would walk as far as Vauxhall Bridge, then hail a cab. It was a pity the trams had stopped running in 1952; one used to pass right by the front door of his building. He missed the hiss and crackle of the gliding cars.

  That was the difference between himself and May. John had no attachment to the past, sentimental or otherwise. He was interested in moving on. He saw life as a linear progression, a series of lessons to be learned, all extraneous information to be tossed away, a continual streamlining of ideas.

  Bryant collected the detritus of historical data as naturally as an anchor accumulates barnacles. He couldn’t help it; the past was as fascinating as a classic beauty, infinitely fathomable and for ever out of reach. But this was one secret he was determined to lay bare. He would stake his life on the answer lying in the Whitstable family’s burst of good fortune at the end of the last century. Could there really have been an event of such magnitude that it involved an entire dynasty? A moment of such farreaching consequence that even now, nearly a hundred years later, it was reaping a revenge of misery and destruction?

  As he reached the eastern edge of t
he park, a phrase resounded in his head. The sons shall be visited with the sins of the fathers. James Whitstable and his kindred Olympian spirits, the Seven Stewards of Heaven. The Inner Circle. The Alliance of Eternal Light. They were one and the same. How the Victorians loved their secret societies, their gentlemen’s clubs and hermetic orders, their table-rappings, recitals, and rituals, gatherings primarily designed to exclude.

  Was that it? Who had James Makepeace Whitstable and his friends wanted to exclude this time? Their society of seven was no mere parlour game for the menfolk, somewhere to escape from family responsibilities. Their alliance was built within the family itself.

  If its purpose was not to exclude, then it must be to protect.

  To protect the lives of the Whitstable clan? No, these men were well respected and powerful. They would have made dangerous enemies. What else might they have wanted to protect? Their money? Wasn’t that far more likely? He looked out at the Thames, a curving olive ribbon two hundred and fifteen miles long, flowing back and forth with the pulse of the moon.

  The art historian was late, as usual. Summerfield was sporting the traditional English art-history uniform: an ancient tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, a brown woolly tie, baggy corduroy trousers, and battered loafers, presumably intended to identify him to civilians in the event of an art emergency. He noisily hailed Arthur across the forecourt of the Royal Academy in a shower of pipe ash, then clapped him on the back as they entered Burlington House together.

  Although he had been a regular visitor in his youth, Arthur had not called at the Academy for quite a while, and was pleased to find it unchanged, Michelangelo’s spectacular Carrara marble tondo of The Madonna and Child with the Infant Saint John occupying its traditional space. Every accepted member of the foundation submitted a piece of his or her work to the Academy as a gift, with the result that Reynolds, Gainsborough, Constable, and Turner were all represented on its walls. The Academy’s summer exhibition, an event of unparalleled blandness open to all artists irrespective of nationality or training, had been dismaying critics for more than two centuries.