But as for this . . .
He looked around at the accretions of more than a century, relics of the past, overflowing from every corner. There was a touch of Robert Louis Stevenson here, the sense of a long-standing family feud reaching a flashpoint. Over what? A contested inheritance? A missing will? The idea sounded unnecessarily Gothic but promising, especially as the family lawyer had also been killed. What other possibilities were there? An unrighted wrong? Stolen virtue? A debt of honour? The danger was that they would overlook the answer in a rush to pin the blame.
Senior officials were already pushing for a fast arrest. Raymond Land, the unit’s acting head, had already paid a visit to May’s office. The Whitstables weren’t just anyone, he explained; they were a well-connected family whose opinions still carried political clout. Peter had been a personal friend of Montgomery, for God’s sake. He had been with the Eighth Army on the east coast of Italy. He had been decorated for his part in the Normandy invasion. His grandparents had left bequests to Balmoral. Brother William had been introduced to the queen at Sandringham, although Land was unsure of the reason for this.
But if William Whitstable was such an establishment figure, May had asked, why would he have wanted to risk damaging the Common Market conference by attacking a politically sensitive painting? Could it—a long shot here, thought May—could it be that someone in government circles had taken revenge for the act?
The meeting had been adjourned with Land virtually accusing him of treason.
May knew that the political dimension of the case would allow him to limit press damage, but journalists wouldn’t be held at bay for long. A speedy resolve was essential; this was the newly independent division’s first investigation in the public eye, and everyone was watching for results.
Nothing like a little pressure from above to help a case along, thought May, as he raised the lid of another packing crate. This box was filled with books on heraldry. Wedged along one side was a slim mahogany case with a small brass key in its lock. They had not been granted clearance to search the house, but May was prepared to bend the rules a little until the next of kin arrived.
According to his information, Bella Whitstable, the younger sister, had been abroad on a business trip for the past six weeks. She had left a forwarding address with Peter, and had been informed by him of the tragedy that had occurred to their brother. What she did not know, as a British Airways flight returned her from Calcutta, was that her remaining sibling had also suffered a violent death.
By all accounts the Whitstables were not a close family, but with Christmas approaching Bella had planned to stay with her brothers for a few days. Now she would find herself facing a double funeral. May hoped she was a strong woman. There was nothing so disturbing as coping with death at Christmas.
He turned the key and opened the case, examining its contents. Inside was a robe of thin blue silk bearing a woven shield, guarded by unicorns. Underneath, the words Justitia Virtutum Regina had been stitched in dark golden thread. He felt sure that these were the symbols of one of the City of London guilds. It seemed logical that the brothers belonged to such an organization. He gently closed the case and returned it to the crate. The collected contents of the attic would help them build a picture of the Whitstables, although he doubted they would provide a clue to their killer. Like most upper-class families, the Whitstables were closing ranks at this time of crisis. The press had yet to break the bond of silence that kept the more scandalous details of upper-class crime from public attention. Reporters still worked in Fleet Street, their code of behaviour set by the powerful print union s. The competitive free-for-all that would change the face of British journalism was still a decade away, and accurate information about the aristocracy was hard to come by.
May returned downstairs and placed a call to Raymond Land.
‘They’ve just got back to me on your bomb,’ said Land. ‘Your partner was right. It’s a rather unusual mechanical device, extremely effective. Can you call by when you finish up there?’
By late Monday afternoon the barber shop at the Savoy had been examined by forensic experts, cleared, and restored to its former pristine condition, with the exception of a six-foot area ribboned with demarcation tape. Arthur Bryant stepped over a section of freshly dusted floor and stood studying his reflection in the tall beveled mirrors above the sinks. What a scruffbag, he thought. I need some better-fitting dentures and a decent winter coat, one without threads hanging from it. He needed a haircut, too, but places like this weren’t his style. The gleaming chrome and ceramic sinks, the iridescent tiling, and hard white towels all belonged to a prewar world of manservants and valets, and Bryant knew where the class system of the time would have placed him: on the side of those who served.