Lady Clarence looked at the photograph. “She looks quite common. No, I haven’t, who is she?”
I handed it to Elijah and he handed it back to me rapidly. “No.”
“What is this all about, exactly, sergeant?” demanded Lady Clarence.
“The young girl has gone missing.”
“And what has this got to do with us and Mr Albert Chimes?”
“We are just gathering information at present.”
“But you obviously think there is a link,” spoke Elijah, and as he said this he stroked his pocket watch. It was discreetly done but I was transfixed by this gesture. He stroked it almost adoringly, sexually even. I knew then they were involved somehow. But I still had no proof.
“We will leave you alone, to enjoy the opera,” I said, and put my hat back on. The eyes of the portrait followed me out and the manservant shut the door rather abruptly behind us.
“What do you think, sir?” said Constable Walnut. “That painter’s a funny bugger.”
“They know what’s happened to her.”
We caught a cab to the residence of Obadiah Deadlock, who lived in a darker area of town, near a large cemetery. His home was quite shabby on the outside, and I knocked loudly on the door until a plump gentleman wearing a red velvet smoking jacket and a turban opened the door. He was ginger haired and his face was large, white and flabby.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, and we entered into a very dimly lit room. The house itself was in disarray, wallpaper hanging off the walls, mouse droppings on the carpet. A stuffed cobra lying on the sofa and various charts and graphs of planets lay strewn about the floors. In an adjacent room an enormous telescope probed out into the night sky, the floor cluttered with empty plates of bits of food and I could hear mice squeaking and scurrying about. “How can I assist you, gentlemen?” He was at least polite.
“Do you know a gentleman named Albert Chimes?”
“I do not know him personally, but I acquire my clocks through him. He came very highly recommended to me a few years ago.”
“Who recommended him to you?”
“My brother, Nathaniel, who lives in India.”
“He’s on the list, sergeant,” Constable Walnut added.
“List?” Obadiah said.
“A list of clients of Mr Chimes. Please take a look at it and tell me if you know any of them.”
Mr Deadlock’s podgy hands gripped the piece of paper. “Apart from my brother, I only know of Mr Loveheart, although I have never met him. I do not socialize. I am a recluse, dedicated to my life’s work.”
“Which is?”
“The study of the solar system, the planet alignments, the stars. I have written many papers on the matter, all published.”
“May I see your clock?” I asked, and pointed to the mantelpiece where a golden clock sat with a constellation design and the same soft whirring.
“What makes his clocks so special?” I asked.
At this, Mr Deadlock looked a little surprised. “They are unique.”
“In what way, exactly?”
He was quite uncomfortable with this question and hurriedly answered, “The craftsmanship, of course.”
I held out the picture of the missing girl. “Have you ever seen her before?”
“As I have said, I see no one. You are my first visitors for months, excluding delivery men.”
“Your telescope is very impressive.”
“Thank you. I suppose I am a voyeur of the cosmos.” He chuckled to himself.
Walnut scribbled that comment down, scratching his head, not sure what it meant. My eyes were searching over Obadiah’s constellation maps. Some of them looked hundreds of years old, beautifully hand drawn, yellowish paper curling at the edges. Fragmenting. The clock chimed, the cogs in my brain turned, and I said the word, “Time.”
“Excuse me?” replied Obadiah.
“Eight-thirty,” said Walnut.
“It’s a metaphor, you stupid turnip!” cried Obadiah.
I thanked him for his time and left him in the soft darkness, with only the ticking whir of his clock for company.
Our last visit of the evening was to the Loveheart house on the edge of London. In the carriage Constable Walnut ate his sandwiches. Cheese and pickle. Constable Walnut’s greatest joy in life was food.
We were driving through the estate of Loveheart, which was magnificent. It really was something out of a fairy tale. The drive towards the house was covered in great trees which stretched and twisted, and a carpet of wildflowers lined the path. I could for a moment imagine a prince on a white horse galloping through this landscape, it was so dreamlike.