My name is Alfred Chimes. I run a small clock-making and repair shop in East London, and I am seven hundred years old and not yet dead. The question then remains, how have I managed to prolong my life? The answer, I’m afraid, is not a pretty one. I am a killer of children. I stuff their souls into my clocks. Do you know what the soul of a child looks like? They are fairylights, little dazzling things. Zooming, sparkly and hopelessly scatty. Food for angels.
I make very fine clocks, for a very fine price. I suppose I am part serial killer, part magician. To the human eye, I look about eighty years old and I stoop and shuffle about. My beard is long and white. No one suspects what I really am. I am essentially overlooked. I am the wallpaper, always in the background.
Today I received a gift, wrapped in pink paper with love hearts all over it. It was a handcrafted grandfather clock, one that I had made many years earlier. The message on the card read:
* * *
Thought you’d like it back. I fancied a clear out.
Mr Loveheart ?
* * *
It had been battered about a bit and the soul was missing but it was still a very beautiful clock, good enough to lick all over.
I had previously sold it to his father, who had been a very good client of mine until his untimely disappearance. I had heard of his son, this notorious Mr Loveheart. Mad as a hatter, they said. An eccentric. Funny dress sense. Unlike his father who had seemed to me an introverted gentleman, with an obsession for time machines. Fell into one, so rumour had it. And now his son had contacted me. Curious fellow.
I wheeled the clock into the back room of my shop. With a little love I could bring it back to its former glory and sell it on at a nice price.
And then the doorbell rang and in stepped a policeman, very smartly dressed. Not at all the usual type. His face had strong features: a large nose and the most piercing hawkish eyes. Accompanying him was an officer of a lower rank, who fumbled with his jacket and didn’t wipe his feet on the doormat.
“Good morning, sir. My name is Detective Sergeant Percival White and this is Constable Walnut. We are investigating a missing child case and have been making inquiries locally. Do you have a moment for some questions?” His voice was strong and steady. Incorruptible, I thought.
“Of course, sergeant. What would you like to know?” What an interesting day. A gift from an eccentric and a visit from the police.
“The girl’s name is Daphne Withers, daughter of a local barrister. She went missing two days ago,” and he showed me a photograph of her. Hair long and yellow, tied with a ribbon. I remembered her coming into my shop for a gift for her father. I remembered stuffing her into a barrel and throwing her into the Thames. Her essence was in a beautiful little wristwatch sitting in my window, a lady’s watch with a topaz decoration of a butterfly.
“Hmm. I am afraid I have never seen the child.”
Something changed in the expression of the detective. It was light moving through shadow.
“That’s interesting.”
“How so?” I inquired plainly.
“Her mother says she was coming to your shop to acquire a watch for her father as a present for his birthday.”
“Well, I am rather old. I don’t remember everything clearly much anymore.”
Constable Walnut scribbled something down. I continued, “I suppose if she had been the daughter of a market trader, you wouldn’t be making any inquiries.”
Detective Sergeant White looked steely at me. “It is true that police resources are not always fairly distributed to every missing child case, but I make a point of investigating them all, sir.”
“I am sure you are a credit to your superiors.”
“Please take another look at her picture, Mr Chimes. Maybe it will jog your memory.”
I examined the picture again. Clicked my tongue in a way I thought gave the impression of racking my old brain for a memory. It reminded me of her hair and the way it smelt lemony.
“No, I really can’t recall her face.”
“How long have you been in this shop, sir?”
“Oh, it must be fifty years. I really should retire, but I love my work so much.”
“Do you have an assistant?”
“No, I work alone. I have a cat though,” and I pointed to the black lump of fur with the jade eyes which sat perched on the chair. “Her name is Cleopatra.”
She was the only witness to my atrocities and she, I am sure, would remain silent on the matter.
“How’s business?” asked Constable Walnut.
“Very good, thank you. I get a lot of requests for handmade pieces. Some of my clients live abroad and most of them are rich, with peculiar tastes. But I do get the odd person frequent my shop, though most around this area can’t really afford my prices.”
“Are you married, or have anyone staying with you?” inquired the detective.
“I am completely alone and I have sadly never married. I was never lucky enough to meet the right woman.”
Detective Sergeant White looked eagle-eyed around the shop, and it was then that he spotted something. I realized I had made a mistake. Around Cleopatra’s neck was a yellow ribbon, which I had taken off the girl, kept as a memento. He had spotted it. But it surely wasn’t enough proof.
The detective examined the photograph of the girl and then stared at the cat. “Would you mind if we looked around the premises?”