The Singular & Extraordinary Tale of Mirror & Goliath: From the Peculiar Adventures of John Lovehart, Esq., Volume 1 (Notebooks of John Loveheart, E) (9 page)

Mr Loveheart smiled generously. “I would rather stab myself with a fork that let him try that.”

Constable Walnut scribbled down some notes, chuckling to himself.

I handed him the photograph of the girl. “Do you recognize her?”

“No. What has she got to do with Albert Chimes? Has he been a naughty boy and done something terrible to her?”

“Why, do you think he’s capable of such a thing?” I said, staring at him.

“Have you seen his clocks? They are quite remarkable, rather special. My father knew him very well, did a great deal of business with him. He said he was quite a strange man. Unusual people, in my experience, tend to have unusual hobbies.”

“What are you suggesting, Mr Loveheart?”

“I’m not
suggesting
anything, I am telling you that in my opinion he probably killed her, and many other children too.”

“Do you have proof?”

“No, sadly, but have you asked your list of clients why his clocks are so special? Why they would pay a small fortune to have one?”

“Tell me why,” I demanded.

Mr Loveheart sighed. “I am not going to do your job for you, sergeant.”

“Then stop wasting my time. I cannot arrest a man without evidence. If you know something, tell me. A young girl’s life may be in danger.”

Mr Loveheart was quite taken aback for a moment, and then laughed. “Oh, you’re getting cross with me. I have no evidence. You must find that. As for the girl, I think you are too late.”

“Mr Loveheart! Enough of this nonsense.” I was furious with him. “Give me proof so I can arrest this villain”

“I will give you some advice, Detective Sergeant White,” Loveheart said with a dark seriousness. “Don’t arrest him. Kill him.”

“I’m not a vigilante.”

“It will never go trial. He’ll never swing for it. Dearie me. Are you out of your depth, sergeant?” He examined me whimsically. “Yes, you are, aren’t you. You’re a clever chap but you do need assistance with this one. So, let me help you a little. The client list you hold in your hands –
they are all involved.
Including my late father. But I am not. Who have you got left to visit?”

“In the morning we are going to question Dr Edmund Cherrytree.”

“Ahh, the psychoanalyst. He’s a nasty piece of work. Look at his photographs when you are there, sergeant. Especially the ones in his office. Look carefully.”

“He’s wasting our time, sergeant,” noted Constable Walnut. “I think he’s been on the sherry and possibly the laudanum.”

“Shut up, Walnut. Mr Loveheart, stop playing games with me, just tell me what you know.”

“Just look at the photographs, sergeant. You need to see for yourself. You are entering into something very unusual. Also, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lady Clarence has hired someone by now to get rid of you.”

“Why are you telling me any of this?”

“Because I don’t care about these people. They are monsters. And I know a great deal about monsters. Maybe I want to see a happy ending. Maybe I have seen too much horror myself. I believe you have. You know where to find me if you have any other questions. I take it you can see yourselves out.” He gestured at the door.

“Wait,” I said.

“Yes?’ replied Mr Loveheart curiously.

“What is happening to the children? I must know.”

Mr Loveheart looked a little sad, then straightened his lacy cuff. “He’s putting them inside the clocks, sergeant.” And off he walked, grinning like a schoolboy, and left us standing there for a moment, dumbfounded.

A
s the carriage
pulled up outside the headquarters, Constable Walnut stretched out his legs. “Well, it’s been a long night. I could do with a pint.”

There was a commotion and an officer ran up to us. “Sergeant, a body’s been found sir, near Tower Bridge.”

There, the barrel had been washed up against the shore, broken and stinking of something rotting. A small, pale arm hung out of it. A couple of policemen pulled the body of Daphne Withers out.

I’d seen a barrel just like it, in the clockmaker’s cellar.

I
t was terribly smelly
in that part of London. I knocked on the shop door of the clockmaker and waited for him to answer.
Rat a tat tat.
The door creaked open and we stared at one another.

“Hello, Albert. I am John Loveheart, and you have been a very bad boy.”

He let me in, the silly fish – they always do. He lit an oil lamp and we stood in his little curious shop. His pale eyes watched me carefully. “Why are you here?”

“Well, I’m not shopping for clocks. I’m really not interested in extending my life unnaturally. My life is already far too unnatural. I am a little surprised that a wealthy alchemist like yourself would be living in a shit pit.”

He didn’t reply.

“But,” I continued, “I was curious to meet a man so prominent a part in my father’s life. You fuelled his addiction with your little time contraptions. He never had much time for me as a child.”

Mr Chimes replied, “So your daddy didn’t love you enough. Well maybe you weren’t very lovable. It’s late and I’m tired, what have you come here for?”

“And so you should be tired. I would be too if I were hundreds of years old. Why is it you people are obsessed with living so long on this Earth? Please tell me. I would love to know.”

“You wouldn’t understand. Now get out of my shop.”

“Oh you really are no fun at all. And that detective is so close to catching you. I suppose your little time machines don’t bode too well against the hangman.”

“I can disappear easily enough. I am seven hundred years old. I have killed thousands and thousands of...”

I pulled out my little silver pistol and shot him in the head. “Blah blah blah. You’re boring me.”

A black cat with jewel-like eyes watched me from the cabinet, yawning. I picked her up to take her home with me. I thought the ribbon round her neck was quite charming.

W
hen I stepped
into the street, a small boy was staring at me.

“Mr Loveheart?’ he said.

“
Yes?
” I replied, stroking the cat, “And you are?”

“Death.”

“
Ah,
I
see.
” I was intrigued.

“I have been watching you with interest, Mr Loveheart.”

“I suppose I
am
interesting. Is there anything I can help you with? Directions perhaps? Are you lost?”

“Are you an angel or a devil?” and his voice sent ripples of electricity through the night air.

“I haven’t decided yet.” And I wandered off down the grim little alley, whistling.

I
arrived
at the asylum at exactly a quarter past two. A row of fat pigeons sat on the wall, overlooking my arrival, suspiciously. The gates were spiked iron, both gloomy and menacing, encircling the building like the tail of a great dragon, the paving stones underneath wet with a slime trail. The warden’s name was Fuggle and he had wooden teeth, something I hadn’t seen for quite a while. It amused me.

I introduced myself. “Doctor Edmund Cherrytree. I’ve come to see Ernest Merryworth.”

The warden looked me up and down. “Oh, the doctor. You’re doing a study. I remember your letter.”

“Yes, actually I am a psychoanalyst. I have come to examine his behaviour. I am writing a book on the criminally insane.”

Fuggle laughed, his wooden teeth slipping about. “You’ve come to the right place.” He escorted me down a deep, long, white corridor, jingling his keys by his side. “He’s been as good as gold, doctor, since he got the bad news.”

“Bad news?”

“He’s dying. Got a month or so left. Something wrong with his heart.” And Fuggle laughed.

“What’s so amusing?”

“His heart. Of course there’s something wrong with it. He’s a bad sort. You know what he did to his granddaughters.” Fuggle looked at me sideways and continued, “Killed two of them and stuffed the other one in a clock.”

“Man is capable of redemption, Mr Fuggle.”

Mr Fuggle taps his nose. “I’ve seen it all. The very worst of man. Angels can forgive him, Doctor Cherrytree. I won’t.”

We arrived outside the cell of Mr Merryworth. Mr Fuggle opened the door with a little key. Ernest sat by the window reading, and he turned towards me, so I could see the front cover of the book. It was about clock making.

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.

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?”

“I would like to see inside your office,” he said. And I let him in. He was interested in two pictures and a photograph that hung on the wall. The largest painting above my desk was a watercolour of a Norfolk view, a white sail boat drifting lazily along the river. Near the window, the detective then examined another smaller watercolour of a dragonfly trapped in a jam jar. “Who painted these?” he inquired.

“I did. I was rather an amateur artist and photographer before I studied psychoanalysis. Sometimes I feel as though I have had two lives,” and I instinctively touched my watch. For a moment I thought he saw this gesture and looked at me curiously.

He moved over towards the photograph behind the door. And he stood there for some time, examining it, then he plucked it off the wall.

“Tell me,” he said, “about this photograph.”

“It’s a picture of me with Albert Chimes in Paris. We are standing on a bridge.”

“Tell me about your relationship with him.”

“I met him twenty years ago, in Paris. That picture was taken shortly after we met. He had an exhibition of his clocks in a small gallery. They were beautiful things.”

Detective Sergeant White held the photograph in his hands like a holy object.

“Is there something wrong, detective?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “There is something wrong with this picture. You say this was taken twenty years ago and yet neither of you have aged. How is that possible?”

“I really don’t understand what you’re trying to insinuate. You are accusing me of not aging. Are you going to arrest me for it?” and I laughed.

Detective Sergeant White looked very seriously at me. “I believe that somehow these clocks are extending your lives. Children are being murdered and you are involved.”

I sat myself down on the sofa intended for my patients. “You can prove absolutely nothing. And you have now placed yourself in a very dangerous position.”

Detective Sergeant White placed the photograph on the desk and left with his constable. I put the photograph back on the wall and brushed the dust off. Albert Chimes smiled back at me, that wicked old alchemist.