‘What do you mean?’ May attempted to avoid looking at the dry, broad slashes on the major’s throat and the split wounds to his mouth.
‘If the attack had resulted from an altercation, that is to say was motivated by sudden anger, I would have expected to find a fair bit of damage to the face, and defence marks. But you say no cries were heard outside the barber shop. His attacker could have armed himself with any number of sharp instruments, but he chose the razor. He was very fast, with powerful strokes through the vocal cords here, across the throat. This chap had no time to struggle. Swift and efficient. And then there’s this.’
He thumbed open the inside of the corpse’s upper arm and shone his pocket torch on the exposed flesh.
‘As we’re dealing with a lifelong military man, I wasn’t surprised to find that he had a tattoo,’ said Finch. ‘It’s the placing of it that’s odd. I’ve never seen one on the inside of an arm before. It’s only a few centimetres below the armpit. No one would ever see it.’
John May found himself looking at a familiar aquamarine smudge. The flickering flame symbol was the same as the one he had found on William Whitstable’s cane.
‘Did you find this on either of the others?’
‘No, only on the Major. Probably has military significance. There must be a way of finding out what it means.’
‘Yes,’ May agreed, all too aware that he could spare no one for the task. ‘If the newspapers are to be believed, we’re under attack from modern-day Nazis. The journalists are securing information faster than we are.’
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ said Bella Whitstable, standing in the angled corridor of her brothers’ attic. ‘I doubt either of them could remember what had been stored up here.’ Judging by her neat makeup and smart appearance, she had passed a good night. She certainly hadn’t sat up for hours crying.
‘There are some ceremonial robes,’ said Bryant, removing the mahogany box and unlocking it. ‘Perhaps you know what they represent.’ He had a good idea himself, but he wanted confirmation.
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said Bella, removing the blue silk gown and holding it to the light. ‘It’s William’s guild robe. Peter has one as well. Most of the men in our family do.’
‘What kind of guild does this represent?’ He peered into the box and removed an ermine-trimmed collar. He expected to find a heavy gold chain somewhere, and here it was at the bottom of the box.
‘It’s part of the Worshipful Company of Goldsmiths. We’re a craft guild family. That’s originally where the Whitstables made their money. Gold and silver. Our ancestors can be traced back to the foundation of the guild in 1339.’
Bryant knew a little about the ancient network of guilds that still operated a system of patronage, performing charitable works within the city. Their apprenticeship schools had once been open to all, but were about to become private. Kids from backgrounds such as his would no longer be welcome.
‘Did William and Peter still keep up their contacts, attend meetings, that sort of thing?’
‘I doubt it. Neither of them was particularly sociable. My brothers were always too suspicious of others to make many friends. It wasn’t much fun growing up with them.’
‘So there’s no chance that their deaths might have resulted from some past transgression.’ His fingers traced the stitched livery on the robe.
‘I don’t think that’s very likely, Mr Bryant. Our business has always been rather bloodless. We’ve never had much trouble from competition.’
For a moment he’d had a vision of the ageing guild members quarrelling over a fraudulent deal, a distant betrayal. The arcane circumstances of the deaths somehow seemed to fit.
‘I have to leave soon,’ said Bella. ‘I’m meeting my Savoyards at seven.’
‘I should come with you,’ said Bryant. ‘You say this society is connected with Gilbert and Sullivan?’
‘Indeed,’ said Bella. ‘We’re attending the new production of Princess Ida. Tonight is the first night.’
How could he have forgotten? Ken Russell’s new version of this work had received praise at its previews. Bryant had promised to buy himself a ticket, but the events of the last week had ended any thoughts of leisure.
‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find you a spare seat,’ Bella told the pleased detective.
Fans were arriving beneath the illuminated globe of the English National Opera, London’s largest theatre. The purists still attended the Royal Opera House, but there was a sense of fun about the ENO. It was one of Bryant’s guilty pleasures to attend the productions here, although May would have hated finding himself in such a middleaged audience. His partner welcomed the company of the young, and was always prepared to listen to their opinions.