Seventy-Seven Clocks (27 page)

‘What’s that way?’ he asked. 

‘I have no idea, and I’m not sure anyone else has.’ She shivered and opened the door, her breath dispelling in the torchlight. ‘It’s always freezing, even in summer.’ She tried a brass light switch on the wall, and a filthy lowvoltage bulb glowed above them. The room was filled with mildewed cardboard boxes. As Alison disturbed one, hundreds of small brown beetles scattered across the floor. 

‘I had the caretaker locate the emergency lighting circuit for me before he went off duty,’ she said. ‘God knows what it runs from. Over here.’ 

She pulled open a box and shone her torch over its contents. The beam picked up the familiar circled flame symbol of the alliance. She pulled out part of a heavy leather-bound file and handed it to him, wiping off a filmy web. ‘I didn’t think I should remove these without you being here, in case it counted as disturbing the evidence or something.’ Gingerly reaching into the carton, she removed a second file. 

‘What are these?’ he asked, puzzled. 

‘I think one of them’s part of the original trading contract for the alliance. It looks like there are some pages missing, but I’ll try and find them for you. The other is someone’s notes, but the handwriting’s illegible. It’s of the same era, so I thought it might be useful.’ 

‘How much more is there?’ asked May, pointing to the boxes. 

‘I don’t think there’s anything else quite as old. The files below this were printed in the mid-1950s. It must have come from another box. To be honest, I don’t much fancy digging any deeper, in case I disturb the rats.’ 

‘Don’t worry, I think you’ve found something important.’ He flipped to the back of the document. The last page read:
This agreement witnessed and signed on December th in the Year of Our Lord 1881, at the Savoy Hotel, London, England
. 

There followed seven signatures. The top one belonged to James Makepeace Whitstable. 

‘Can we go up now?’ asked Alison. She was shaking with cold. May stopped reading. 

‘Of course, how thoughtless of me. You must be frozen.’ 

When they reached the comparative warmth of the entrance hall, he gripped her hand fondly. ‘This is the second time you’ve been a great help to me,’ he said. ‘When this is over I would most enjoy taking you out to dinner.’

 Alison laughed. ‘I’d like that. But I warn you, I’m a healthy eater.’ 

He felt suddenly sorry for her, spending Christmas alone. ‘Do you need a lift anywhere?’ 

‘Thanks, I have my little car.’ 

‘You’re welcome to come over to the unit,’ he offered. ‘We won’t be celebrating much, but we’ll always give you a welcome.’ 

‘That’s very kind of you.’ She smiled shyly. ‘I’d like that very much.’ Turning up her collar, she took her leave, walking briskly off into the rain. 

On his way back to the car, May sneezed so hard that the document beneath his arm nearly disappeared into the gutter. His head felt terrible, but at least he had a further lead. As soon as he reached home, he rang Bryant at his flat in Battersea. 

‘Do you know what time it is, calling here?’ said Alma Sorrowbridge. She sounded tipsy. ‘He hasn’t come back yet. He promised to spend Christmas Eve with me. I cooked him a casserole. I opened a bottle of sherry.’ It sounded as if she’d done more than just open it. ‘He never even rang to apologize.’ 

‘You know his work has to take precedence, Alma.’ 

‘I know, married to the job and all that. He’s told me a hundred times.’ 

‘Do you have any idea what he has planned for Christmas Day?’ May asked. 

‘Yes, I do,’ said the landlady disapprovingly. ‘He’s going over to see that crazy godless woman, the one with the bright clothes and the funny earrings.’ 

Only one acquaintance of Bryant’s fitted that description: the leader of the Camden Town Coven. ‘You mean Maggie Armitage?’ he said. 

‘That’s the one. The nutcase.’ 

‘Perhaps you could have him call me before he goes there. I’m sorry about your Christmas, Alma,’ he added. ‘None of us are having much of a festive season.’ 

As rain rolled against the lounge windows, May blew into a handkerchief and opened the first of the files. The pages smelled musty and corrupt, as if they had become tainted by the words printed within.
No more false leads, he pleaded silently. Take me into the darkness
. He began to read.

34 / Assailant 

I’ve had enough of this
, thought Pippa Whitstable angrily. She had been supposed to spend Christmas Eve with Nigel at the RAC Club. Instead, she was being forced to play nursemaid to a bunch of appalling, brattish children. She barely knew any of them. The only time the family met was at weddings and funerals. Now they were being made to live under the same roof, and the police saw the whole thing as a big joke. 

She reset the grip in her blond ponytail and sat on the edge of the makeshift bed. It had just passed midnight, too late to call Nigel now; he would already have left for the club. 

She could go there and meet him, just turn up. It would be the perfect Christmas surprise. She’d heard he was buying her something very special. God, she’d dropped enough hints about the new Mercedes. Would he be cheap and pretend he hadn’t noticed, palm her off with some pretty Aspreys bauble? 

Thank God she had brought her basic black with her. The problem was how to get out of the house without any of the family seeing. At least she had her own room here, even if it hadn’t been aired in centuries and was the size of a rabbit hutch. She wondered how many were still in the front parlour. She could manage the stairs without them seeing her, but the police guard would be waiting on the porch. Even if they could be persuaded to let her pass, they’d insist on telling her mother, who was always prepared to close off any promising avenues of pleasure she might wish to explore. It was a shame she’d not been old enough to experience the Summer of Love, her one great chance to tune in and drop out. Debutantes weren’t allowed to have that kind of fun. 

The bedroom window looked more promising. Pippa slipped off the catch and pushed open the frame as quietly as possible. At least the rain had eased to a light drizzle. She was on the first floor, a drop of about fifteen feet. Too far to jump. It was then that she noticed the drainpipe. It had handles, ornate little grips for climbing. Thank God for the Victorians! She quickly changed into her black frock and pumps, placed her purse and makeup in a tiny black bag, and wound up the strap to her collapsible umbrella. Very carefully, she stepped out of the window and on to the first grip, testing its weight. 

Solid as a rock. She smiled to herself in the darkness. Moments later she stepped down on to the lawn. 

Wiping her dirty hands on the wet leaves of a bush, she looked around for the best way out of the garden. The far end led off into woods. Not a good idea in these shoes, she decided. But the left-hand fence backed against an alleyway, which was accessible via a wooden side gate. She wrenched open the latch and slipped through, careful to leave it slightly ajar so that she could reenter later. 

This was perfect. It didn’t matter how long they were stuck in the house now; she had found herself an escape route. It would be easy to get a cab from Hampstead High Street, but which direction was that? The alley stretched off in pools of rain-sparkling light. 

He must have seen her open the bedroom window from a hiding place in the garden, because she had only just turned from the gate when he grabbed her, pressing an icy hand across her mouth and dragging her away from the overhead streetlight. Her first sweeping fit of panic passed as she realized how small her attacker was. He had caught her by surprise and managed to knock her off balance, but now she uprighted herself and dug her heels hard against the ground.
You’ve really picked the wrong victim this time, you bastard
, she thought, prepared to take him. It would teach him to mess with a taekwondo student. 

She could feel his ribs against her spine and threw her elbows back as hard as she could. Bones cracked and shifted; the arm around her shoulder was released. Opening her mouth to admit the fingers pressing against her lips, she bit down hard. She broke free and began to run as her assailant threw himself at her legs and crashlanded on the flagstoned walkway with her. His fingers snaked through her hair, slamming her head against the wet stone. A blinding pain cut across her right frontal lobe, spurring her to twist him away. When she finally managed to catch sight of him, she was surprised to see the face of a sick old man. He was bald and brown, with lank clumps of long hair above his ears. His eyes were sunken, and almost opaque with cataracts. Most striking of all was his clenched expression, a look of agony and pitiful confusion. As he raised himself on one leg she brought up her fist and punched the tortured face before her, sending him over. 

She didn’t expect him to rise again, and did not see the kukri knife in his left hand. He looked down as he thrust it forward, almost as if he was ashamed of trying to take her life.

35 / Darkness Descending 

Christmas Day, eleven fifty-five a.m. Jerry looked out at the Scrabble board of frosted white fields of Hertfordshire and speculated about her meeting with Charles Whitstable. According to her father, when news reached him of the Whitstable murders, Charles left unfinished business overseas to return to England, only to be waylaid by urgent financial meetings. Still, he could hold the key to his family’s decimation. 

Jack’s keenness to set her working in the family business negated any guilt she felt about deceiving her parents. She was determined to be present at the conclusion of the investigation, and she would uncover the meaning of her mother’s correspondence. A part of her life would be closed so that a new part could open. 

Jack’s black Mercedes pulled up outside the gates, its exhaust purling clouds into the chill morning air. A young Indian boy appeared from the gate-lodge and spoke to Jack in clipped public-school English. He showed every sign of recognizing him. 

A veil of wind-blasted trees parted as they turned into the drive to reveal the Georgian grandeur of Charles Whitstable’s estate. Her father turned and smiled reassuringly. ‘Quite a place, isn’t it?’ 

‘It’s beautiful. Have you been here before?’ 

‘No, but Charles often mentioned it.’ 

‘How did you meet him?’ 

‘We got talking at a lodge dinner years ago, and I helped him with some cotton imports. Of course he’s from a guild, and there’s no finer recommendation than that. But Charles is rarely here these days. He came back because this trouble with his family is adversely affecting his stock. He’s having to reassure his shareholders.’ 

‘It sounds like he’s got his hands full. You’re sure he wants to see me?’ 

‘I heard he was keen to find someone he could train up as an assistant. He’s not prepared to trust the job to an outsider. He’ll even consider a woman.’ Jack winked. ‘It’s not just a man’s world any more. Your change of heart has come at the perfect time.’ 

This is the lion’s den
, she thought,
and they’re happily putting me in it
. Her father turned off the engine and fidgeted with his tie. He had every reason to be nervous. Their meeting was as much for his benefit as her own. 

The front door was opened by an attractive young Indian maid. She showed them into the breakfast room, where she said Mr Whitstable would presently join them, and silently withdrew. 

They seated themselves within a cluttered treasure trove of Victoriana. The wallpaper featured rose sprigs tied with satin ribbon. Ebonized cane chairs were set about an oak gate-leg table. On a green velvet runner stood bronze animals, penwork chests in black and gold, elaborate rosewood boxes, and sentimental figurines of children and dogs. The atmosphere was smothering, the room unaired. 

Neither of them spoke. A slow-ticking grandfather clock provided the only sound. After several minutes, Charles Whitstable entered. 

He was tall, six feet three inches at least, imposingly broad-chested, in his late thirties. His conservative black suit and slicked dark hair provided an image somewhere between city stockbroker and lord of the manor, and he bore a natural air of authority. 

‘Geraldine. You’ve grown since I last saw you.’ His handshake was firm and cold. Jerry smiled back and met his eye. This was the man who had once thought of her as a daughter? It was like meeting a stranger. He was deeply tanned, almost as if he was wearing stage makeup. There was an absolute stillness in his face that quickly became unnerving. Charles approached her father and welcomed him. ‘Jack, I’m sorry we’ve seen so little of each other. I’ve been meeting with investors, trying to calm their nerves. Liverpool is not to be recommended in the winter.’ 

He seated himself in one of the cane chairs. ‘Well, young lady, you’ve blazed quite a trail since we last met.’ For a moment, Jerry feared her real motive in coming here had been discovered. ‘Let’s see—you dropped out of school and embarrassed your parents. You made yourself ill, took a spell in care, indulged yourself at the expense of those who clothed and fed you. You’ve been acting like a child for long enough.’ Charles pressed a brass buzzer on his desk. ‘You’ll soon be eighteen, but why should I assume you’re ready to start behaving like a responsible adult?’ 

The maid appeared in the doorway, and Charles gestured to her. Jerry shifted uncomfortably on her chair. 

‘I appreciate your honesty, Mr Whitstable. I know only what I read about your family in the papers, so you have the advantage over me. My parents have long wanted to find me employment in family business.’ She couldn’t resist a glance at Jack. ‘Father thinks that I can be of use to you, and I’m willing to learn.’ 

‘You have no plans for university, Geraldine. You haven’t had a guild apprenticeship. What makes you assume you could handle our kind of managerial training?’ 

‘Enterprise is served by individuality, not conformity. That rather makes me a Whitstable in spirit, if not in name.’ She had cribbed that part from the CROWET brochure. 

Charles Whitstable rose and walked to the floorlength windows that overlooked the estate’s misty grounds. ‘I need someone I can trust. There aren’t many younger members of our family left. Too few children.’ 

‘I understand. You need someone with new ideas.’ 

‘Exactly.’ Charles turned from the window. ‘Jack, I think you can leave the two of us to chat for a while.’ 

‘I should stay with Jerry,’ said her father, half rising in his seat. In that fleeting moment, she saw the discomfort in his eyes. He was afraid of Charles. But why? 

‘That won’t be necessary. Come on, Jack, it’s Christmas Day. You should be with your wife. Jerry can stay for dinner and keep me company.’ 

‘But there’s no public transport today . . .’ Jack began. 

‘Then she can stay over. I’ll have one of the rooms aired. You can collect her in the morning.’ 

Even though they had yet to discuss her terms of employment, Jerry knew that she had been accepted into the poisoned embrace of the Whitstable family. 

Maggie Armitage lit a joss stick and set it in the nosehole of an African spirit head. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘Get rid of the smell of damp in here.’ They were standing in her front room above the World’s End pub, opposite Camden Town Tube station. The streets outside were as bright and empty as an abandoned film set. The windows of the flat were misted with condensation. Water dripped steadily through a black patch on the ceiling. A few faded postwar paper chains had been strung between the corners in a desultory attempt to usher in some Christmas cheer. 

Maggie was only a little over five feet tall, but what the white witch lacked in height she made up for in vivacity. All problems, national, local, or personal, were dealt with in the same brisk, friendly manner. For all the complexity of her personal belief system she was a practical woman, and it was this streak of sound sense that had kept the Coven of St James the Elder alive at a time when so many other branches were shutting up shop. 

With their ranks now swollen to include a number of part-time honorary members, meetings took place in the flat every Monday evening, and were concluded rather more raucously in the pub downstairs. Much of the coven’s work was of a mundane nature—inter-coven correspondence was dealt with, and a mimeographed newsletter was produced. Public queries had to be answered, a forum for the discussion of world events was chaired, and new excuses were invented for avoiding eviction notices. 

‘You’ve managed to hang on to this place, then.’ Bryant warily eyed the saturated ceiling. 

‘The landlord’s been trying to sling us out for years, but his heart isn’t in it any more,’ said Maggie. ‘Especially since Doris put an evil enchantment on his car.’ 

‘I thought you didn’t do that sort of thing.’ 

‘Well,’ she confided, ‘we don’t as a rule, but he was being a real pain in the arse.’ 

‘Did it work?’ 

‘I think so. Whenever he comes around to collect the rent he’s always half an hour late and his hands are covered in oil. Would you like one of my special Christmas cups of tea?’ 

‘I don’t know,’ said Bryant, narrowing his eyes at her. ‘Is it full of strange herbs and aromatic spices?’ 

‘No, Earl Grey with a shot of brandy.’ 

‘Oh, that’s all right then.’ He shifted a stack of magazines and seated himself. ‘Where’s everyone else?’ 

‘We finished early with just a few madrigals because Maureen’s cooking her family Christmas dinner, which she’s against in principle, being a practising pagan. The others have gone downstairs to the pub. They’re busy arguing about the origins of Yggdrasil, the cosmic axis. Things can get quite heated.’ 

‘I’m afraid I’m not familiar—” Bryant began. 

‘Well, you should be!’ said Maggie, pouring a generous measure of Calvados into his cup. ‘It’s why we put presents under the Christmas tree. Yggdrasil is the eternal tree of Northern belief, the great natural core that links our world to heaven and hell. Decking the tree is an act which symbolically brings us the gifts of wisdom. And strangely enough, it has something to do with your investigation.’ 

Bryant couldn’t wait to hear this one. Maggie crossed the room, nimbly skirting a pair of buckets collecting rainwater, and removed a large volume from one of the overflowing bookcases. ‘I’ve been delving into your dilemma, and I believe I’ve come up with something.’ She set the book down on the table before her. ‘This is an album of Christmas beliefs, printed in Scandinavia at the end of the nineteenth century. After our last meeting I started thinking about your Mr Whitstable and his Stewards of Heaven. I couldn’t see what had inspired him to form this kind of society, although it didn’t surprise me one bit that he had.’ 

‘It didn’t?’ 

‘Oh, no. You have to imagine the Victorian empire builders as they were. Champions of industry, taming the savages, spreading the word. How grand they must have thought themselves! How godlike! People like James Whitstable saw themselves as superior human beings, educated, enlightened, and powerful. They wanted to separate themselves from the rabble, to have their worth acknowledged by their peers. And they sought methods of spiritual improvement. Sometimes, however, they got sidetracked into bad habits. These days one tends to dismiss the Victorian age as a time of mindless imperialism. It comes as rather a shock to recall that the youthful Queen Victoria envisaged a new era of democracy, tolerance, and freedom for all. Things turned out differently due to the rigours of the class system, and because men like Whitstable put themselves above the common herd. Power is about access, and private societies are designed to exclude.’ 

She opened the book at its mark and revealed a pair of graceful watercolour drawings. One was a traditional evocation of Saint Nicholas with his reindeer. The other was a representation of the god Odin, astride an eightlegged creature with horns. Both looked very similar. The distance between these two mythical icons was far less than Bryant had realized. 

‘I felt it was significant that Whitstable saw himself as Och, the Bringer of Light. The group photograph reminded me of something, but I couldn’t think what it was. Then I remembered. The room in which the seven men were standing was decorated for Christmas. You could see holly lining the mantelpiece. Now, Christmas is a unique festival, originally celebrating not the birth of Christ but the rebirth of light following winter’s shortest, darkest day. Do you want a mince pie?’ She shook a tin at Bryant that sounded as if it contained rocks. ‘Midwinter has always been regarded as a time of terrible danger. To primitive man, it must have seemed that the nights would continue to lengthen until darkness reigned continuously. The people of Britain sought to ward off this all-consuming darkness with rites and ceremonies, and have continued to do so for over five thousand years. What a relief it must have been for them to find the days lengthening again! What an excuse for a party! You probably know that the festival of Christmas celebrates this turning point; the triumph of light over darkness, and thus the victory of good over evil, Satan held at bay for another year. People whinge about Christmas becoming too commercial, but before heavenly choirs of angels made it so bland and solemn it was a marvelously rowdy pagan celebration.’ 

‘And this has something to do with James Makepeace Whitstable?’ 

‘Sorry, I thought I’d made myself clear. Let’s assume that the photograph of the Alliance of Eternal Light was taken at the end of December. The Winter Solstice is the twenty-first or twenty-second of December. You see?’ 

‘Not at all,’ admitted Bryant. 

‘Look at the pictures,’ said Maggie patiently. ‘Saint Nicholas is a cleaned-up Christian version of the fearsome one-eyed pagan god Odin, the original “Old Nick.” Odin’s horse, Sleipnir, becomes Rudolph the reindeer. When was the first murder committed?’ 

‘The sixth of December.’ 

‘The feast day of Saint Nicholas. The first day of the battle between light and darkness. A battle that can’t end until the light starts to lengthen once more, after the twenty-second of December.’ She closed the book and handed it to him. ‘I’m afraid your murders aren’t over yet.’ 

‘But it’s Christmas Day. The days have already started to lengthen again.’ 

‘Have they?’ asked Maggie. ‘With the terrible weather we’ve been having in the past few weeks, we’re well below the seasonal average for hours of daylight. Instead, we’ve had more and more darkness. What about all the power cuts? The government isn’t giving in. They’re forecasting three hours of darkness every evening, and they reckon it will get worse. Perhaps the sacrifices aren’t working.’ 

‘I can’t afford to believe that the world is descending into darkness because a secret society has failed to restore the daylight, Maggie. Next you’ll be trying to make me believe that there’s a chamber full of cloaked figures somewhere clutching knives at a sacrificial altar.’ Bryant scratched at his unshaven chin, confused. ‘You’re assuming that Whitstable’s alliance is still active, but we’ve found no evidence of that. Why would they act now, after waiting so long?’ 

‘Perhaps it’s some kind of anniversary.’