‘Give him a coffee, by all means,’ said Bryant, ‘but let’s ask him a few questions. We might get some honest answers while he’s in this state.’
The house smelled of lavender polish and old Scotch. None of the furniture could be dated after the late 1900s. Oils and watercolours of every size and description filled the walls, butted frame to frame. It was as if they had stepped into a cluttered Victorian home untouched by passing decades. Heavy green-velvet curtains kept light and time at bay. Bryant’s eyes grew brighter as he examined the gilt-framed photographs on the walls lining the kitchen corridor.
‘It’s like wandering into the past,’ he remarked.
‘How dare you, Sirr,’ slurred the Major suddenly, raising his head and fixing Bryant with a bloodshot eye. ‘To gentlemen of enlightenment, this was our time of glory. Let others tear down the past with their caterwauling music and their free love . . . and . . .’ He collapsed, unable to summon a third example.
May sat their man on a straight-backed chair while Bryant made strong coffee. Beneath the sink were more than a dozen empty whisky bottles. Major Peter Whitstable had not turned to alcohol to numb the news of his brother’s death. He and Johnnie Walker were old friends.
The kitchen was immaculate in the old-fashioned manner of having been scoured to the point of erosion. A vast iron hob dominated the room. Copper saucepans hung in gleaming rows. A Victorian ice-cream drum stood beside a rack of spoons and ladles, and looked as if it was still in use. As Whitstable didn’t seem capable of organizing this himself, the brothers most likely had a housekeeper.
‘Jus’ put a shot in it, there’s a good chap,’ he mumbled as Bryant passed him a steaming mug. When no such action was forthcoming, the Major removed a silver flask from his jacket, unscrewed the cap, and tipped in an ample measure before either of the detectives could stop him.
‘We have no desire to impose on you in a time of grief,’ began May, ‘but some urgent questions must be addressed.’
Whitstable slumped back in his chair. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ he said. ‘Or rather, I can.’ He promptly fell asleep. Bryant nudged him awake, none too gently, and prised the spilling mug from his hands.
‘Th’ bastards won’t get away with it,’ Peter Whitstable cried, swinging his great head from one face to the other. ‘We’re not the only ones against this, you know.’
‘What happened to your brother?’ asked May. ‘Why should someone want to kill him?’
‘’S obvious,’ said Peter Whitstable, making a halfhearted attempt to sit up. ‘Enemies. Anarchists. Sybarites and sodomites. None of us are safe! The country’s gone to—where has it gone?’
‘We’re not going to get any sense from him,’ whispered May.
‘Let me try.’ Bryant dragged a chair close. ‘Major Whitstable—Peter—may I call you that? I know you’d like to be left by yourself. If you want we can take the guards from your house and leave you alone, in peace.’
‘God, don’ do that!’ he shouted, terror clearing his drunken stupor. He sat forward, his eyes widening. ‘We’re in terr’ble danger, horrible things could happen!’
‘Then you think whoever killed your brother will come after you?’
‘I do believe that. Yess.’ He patted his pockets for the whisky flask. ‘And you, too, if you get in the way. Darkness is rising, y’see.’
‘Explain what you mean,’ challenged May.
‘S’plain, yes. Follow me.’ Whitstable lurched to his feet, holding a finger to his lips, and beckoned to the detectives. ‘Have to come upstairs.’
At the first landing, Bryant had to move fast to stop the Major from falling backwards. A gloomy room opened from the landing. Here the smell of furniture polish and dead air was stronger than ever. The heavy floor-length curtains were parted no more than a foot. Photograph frames and military trophies cluttered the green-baizecovered mantelpiece, and dingy oils of horses filled the walls. The Major weaved his way over to a walnut sideboard and searched among the decanters.
‘Take a good look around at this lot,’ he said. ‘We are a dynastic fam’ly. Aristocratic British stock. Traditional values. We obey the landowners’ creed: If it’s attractive you shoot it; if it’s ugly you marry it. Not many of us left, an’ gettin’ damn fewer by the day. William and I . . . Poor William. I don’t s’pose there’s enough of him left to bury.’
‘We can catch the people who did this if you help us,’ said May, but the Major was not listening.