Seventy-Seven Clocks(35)

His own father had begun life in service. He had kept his family well provided for, and had always maintained his dignity. It had never occurred to him that he might be as worthy as those upon whom he waited. In later years it became a constant source of conflict between father and son.

Bryant turned away and examined the black leather barber’s chair. Someone had done a good job; after being dusted for fingerprints it had been buffed to a fierce shine. You’d never think that just that morning someone had been murdered in it.

The girl was slouching guiltily by the towel rail, contriving to act suspiciously even when there was nothing to be suspicious about. She had a habit of looking down at the ground as she spoke, so that her auburn hair fell across her face, obscuring her eyes.

‘Well?’ asked Bryant, settling down in the barber’s chair and raising his shoes from the floor. ‘You walked in and there was Major Whitstable with the razor sticking out of his mouth. Where was the barber?’

‘He wasn’t here,’ said Jerry. ‘He could have attacked me as well, you know.’

‘I realize that,’ said Bryant.

‘There’s a tradesmen’s entrance to the salon, leading to an alleyway behind the hotel. He had a perfect escape route at hand.’

‘So I see. Has someone warned you about not speaking to the press, by the way?’

‘I wouldn’t want to.’

‘And you’re absolutely sure you saw no one other than the Major in here or outside?’

Jerry shook her head and stared at the door. Thank God the young were so resilient, thought Bryant. The child had witnessed two deaths, which should have marked her as a suspect, except that anyone with an ounce of common sense could see that she wasn’t. She appeared shaken, but intact. Still, there was a chance that she was holding something back.

‘Which brings us to the big question: what were you doing up here at all?’

‘I was going to ask Maurice if he would give me a free haircut,’ said Jerry. ‘What happened to him?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ The less the girl knew, the better. Apparently someone had rung the barber on Saturday and warned him that they were closing the salon to refit some water pipes. Maurice had been told not to come in until Tuesday. Bryant swiveled the chair around to face the girl. ‘I wonder if you know more than you’re telling me?’

‘Look, I just work here.’ Jerry hung her head, picking at a thumbnail.

‘If you remember anything else, no matter how insignificant it may seem, will you be sure to inform me or Mr May?’ asked Bryant, rising. ‘Every sudden death is tragic, but this could also destroy the reputation of a hotel, even one as venerable and respected as this one. You must come to me before speaking to anyone else.’

‘Mr Bryant?’ She raised her eyes to him.

‘Yes?’

‘Is this to do with Mr Jacob?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘It must be, mustn’t it? I mean, didn’t they know each other?’

Bryant was not supposed to discuss the unit’s cases with outsiders, but frequently did so. He figured they needed all the help they could get. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be, don’t you think? But we deal in hard facts, and those seem to have been carefully removed.’

‘I want to help,’ she said. ‘I’m already involved. I can find things out for you.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not really allowed.’

‘But you’re in an experimental unit. It’s been in the papers. If you wanted me to do something, nobody would be able to tell you otherwise.’

He patted her on the arm. ‘I’ll bear that in mind. You’d better get back to work. I’ll probably need to speak to you again.’

Making his way back to Mornington Crescent, Bryant tried to connect the events of the past week. The situation was not only unique; it was absurd. Three deaths—by snakebite, by explosion, by razor. What next? Death by hot air balloon? Cannon? Trident? For a moment he wondered if the whole thing might be an elaborate joke designed to discredit the unit.

‘Watch this.’

Dr Raymond Land handed the experiment over to a pasty-faced young man in a lab coat, who produced a small test tube of what looked like liquid mercury and a paintbrush. Carefully dipping the brush in the solution, he painted a thin strip of liquid on the side of a child’s building block. Bryant withdrew a pair of smeary reading glasses from his top pocket and put them on. May was sitting on the only chair in the room. ‘We have to wait a few moments for it to dry,’ said the young lab technician. ‘It’s something we haven’t seen for years. A form of silver acetylide. You titrate it through ammonia and it comes out like sludge.’ He held up the test tube. ‘While it’s in liquid form it’s fine, but if you let it dry out . . .’ He picked up the child’s block and checked the line of paint. Satisfied, he tossed the block on to the desk. There was a loud bang, and the clearing smoke revealed a blackened pit in the desk top.