Fuggle coughed into his hand. “Well, I will leave you both to it. I will be outside if you need anything. Just shout.”
“Thank you,” I said, and stared over at Ernest. “I believe you have been expecting me?”
“I got your letter.” His voice was croaky. He was a withered old man. His cell had a small bed and a chamber pot, a desk and chair. The only other item in the room was the book in his hands. “I’m dying.”
“Yes, I’m aware, and I may be able to help you with that. For a price.”
“What do you want?”
“I need to know where your granddaughter is. The one who survived. The one you locked in the clock. If you tell me this I can extend your life.”
Ernest put the book down. “That’s a very tempting offer. And why is my granddaughter so important to you, eh? Do you like little girls, doctor? Do you like to play with them?”
“No. But you certainly do. Where is she?”
“A policeman took her. Adopted her. The last I heard they had gone to Cairo.”
“What is this policeman’s name?”
“Goliath Honey-Flower. He’s Egyptian. Huge bugger. He saved her. Pulled her out of the clock.”
“Thank you.”
“And now will you help me? Will you give me more time, doctor?” and he rested his hand on the book.
“I will send you something in the post, Ernest. You will live.”
“Before you go, tell me what happened to my clock?”
“It never belonged to you. You stole it and it was returned to your employer.”
Ernest looked very sad for a moment. “I loved it. It was the only thing I have ever loved.”
And I left him with his sadness, strange mutterings, and his book on clock making.
It had started to rain when I left Fuggle and his pigeons and walked out of the gates of the asylum. I thought about grandfathers, granddaughters and grandfather clocks. Tickety-tock. The rain fell like seconds and time was laughing, gently. I examined my pocket watch, which had a serpent with ruby eyes. It was soft magic within my hands. I had acquired the watch from Albert Chimes the clock maker. He had told me that inside my watch was the soul of a baby. And I had been so pleased, so very pleased.
July 1888
I suppose at some point I was going to get caught. It was the heat of summer when he arrived. The detective with hawk-eyes.
He was waiting for me in the lobby with his constable. They introduced themselves as White and Walnut, investigating the case of a missing girl and a possible link to the clockmaker Albert Chimes. I was handed a picture of the girl and a client list of Mr Chimes, both of which I examined with unease. “Well, detective sergeant, I don’t recognize the young girl and I am not acquainted with anyone on this list.”
The detective had a very odd expression on his face. “Last night Daphne Withers’ body was found in a barrel floating along the Thames. This morning the body of Albert Chimes was found in his shop. He had been shot in the head.”
Constable Walnut intervened, “And his cat has gone missing.”
“Oh dear,” I said, “I am not really sure I can help you.”
“Can you account for your whereabouts last night, doctor?” The detective had the stare of a mesmerist about him. Deep, like whirlpools.
“Yes. I was here with my assistant, Peter. We were reviewing some of my patient cases and having a late supper.”
Constable Walnut raised an eyebrow.
“Is Peter about to confirm your alibi?”
“No,” I said, and I could see Constable Walnut was very amused with himself. “He will be back later today. I will get him to make a statement at the police station.”
“Thank you. I wonder if you could tell me about the photographs on the walls. If you could explain to me exactly what they are.”
“What do they have to do with your inquiries?”
“I am interested in the individuals who were clients of Albert Chimes. You were one of those clients. And your photographs interest me.”
“Very well. They are spiritualist photographs. They depict the moment the soul leaves the body.”
“How did you acquire them?”
“I am a photographer. I have travelled a great deal in my past. I witnessed some terrible accidents and deaths.”
“And you took pictures while people were dying?” the Detective stared at me. That gaze again. It reminded me of a mirror.
“How exactly do I answer that, detective? Hmm? I couldn’t save these people.”
“You didn’t try.”
“Are you going to arrest me for photographing the human soul?”