I grabbed the thickest pencil I could find, drew a circle around the advertisement, and for emphasis, added an exclamation mark before whisking the whole lot up in the Lamson.
I was fully prepared for Mr Whybrow’s – not so much an entrance, more an explosion into the back office. For a moment, he gaped at me, thunderstruck. Then he blurted, “Mrs Beauregard’s popped her clogs!”
“Yes, sir.” Then I noticed the slightly wild look to his eyes. The shock had penetrated to the core of his being. “Do you think she was just waiting for her ring to be found?”
Mr Whybrow shook his head to jolt his gears back into place. “It does happen that way. I’ve never actually met the lady.” He scanned the newsprint; it was probably the first time he’d taken it in properly since he’d fallen flat at the revelation. “Sideboard, dining table – would you have said that the house was particularly lavishly furnished?”
“It was good quality furniture, sir, but nothing really stood out. Just the astronomical clock that’s listed there.”
“Yes, you hadn’t mentioned that before.” He looked at me sharply, curiously. “How much did you observe about that clock, Miss Bluebird?”
I could only splutter. “It had the usual face, but with funny signs around it, and little balls that went round. It was all in horrible marble; it didn’t really belong in that house.”
Mr Whybrow rubbed his chin and mused, h’mming to himself. “Not really a fair question to ask you; clocks aren’t really our metier. But astronomical clocks haven’t been popular in this country for a long time, except huge things in churches. I wonder if it’d be worth taking a shufti.”
“Sir?” Something had obviously clicked in his imagination. “You’d better take a whatever-it-is quickly, sir. The auction starts in an hour.”
“Good Lord, you’re right! Let’s fire up the Dreadnought, Miss Bluebird. This time you can snuggle up in the sidecar.”
It was nice to be able to keep my skirts on for a change. I waited until we were under way before I asked, “Sir – you’ll have to pardon my ignorance, but are astronomical clocks valuable?”
Without looking round, he called back over the engine’s roar. “Potentially, very much so. Didn’t you notice that the disposal is taking place at her house? They’re not even investing in auction room space. There’s every chance that they don’t even know what they’ve got, there.”
Potentially very much so. I could well understand his enthusiasm. Most of the newspaper’s readership wouldn’t know that, either.
I was a little alarmed at the speed with which he took the straight sections, but understood his need for haste. We arrived at the late Mrs Beauregard’s house in good time; I’d warned Mr Whybrow that the house was not in the best of repair, but if he was in any way put off by its first appearance, he kept it to himself. The knowledge that its lonely tenant had died added a deeper tragedy to the house. It might not have looked much, but it had been a haven for Mrs Beauregard for many years.
Mr Whybrow clearly knew what he was about, I was content to follow him inside and take his lead. He checked his fobwatch; we still had half an hour left. My first impression of the house was that it had been violated, but then I was probably the only one present who had known its occupant. The furniture had all been rearranged; the Sheriff’s declaration had gone, as had any family pictures or anything which might have suggested that a person had lived there. This was a small, temporary shop that was spending its short life in a single bankrupt sale of stock.
Only a couple of nondescript individuals were nosing around; I recognised the type as those who ran the seedy second-hand shops to be found in London’s back streets in the Seven Dials area. One man stood by himself at the dining table, meticulously lining up ledgers, ink bottle, ruler and all the other paraphernalia of the auctioneer, but Mr Whybrow made a beeline for the astronomical clock which stood on its sideboard, evidently disdained by his competitors as too unusual for any customers that they were likely to attract.
The clock seemed to be as Mr Whybrow had expected to find it. Gingerly, he turned it round, and opened up the back. For a minute or so, he peered inside without touching anything, mmh’ming to himself.
The auctioneer suddenly appeared at his elbow; his nose reminded me of one of those awkwardly-shaped workhouse potatoes that nobody wanted to peel as it’d involve a lot of peeling for very little potato at the end. His horrible nasal weaselly voice made me shudder. “Would you mind not tinkering with the merchandise, sir? It has to be in good working order at time of sale.”
Mr Whybrow gave him a look that was just on the soft side of stern. “And you are?”
“Samuel Scarper, of Ripov and Scarper, sir.” Mr Scarper beamed, displaying teeth that reminded me of a gin trap.
“Alastair Whybrow, jeweller. My card.” Mr Whybrow handed over the said article. “And I can tell you that this item isn’t in good working order. In fact, it’s not working at all. I hope you bore that in mind when you set the reserve price?”
Mr Scarper’s face fell. Of course, he’d been hoping to get away with foisting the defunct monstrosity on some unsuspecting bidder. He deflated a little further, recognising that he would not be able to fool Mr Whybrow. “Yes, sir. Are you interested in the clock yourself?”
“Mmmm – mainly for the case. The action’s had it; too little maintenance to be worth saving. But I might be able to replace it with a modern action and flog it on as a curio.”
Which, to Mr Scarper’s mind, meant that he’d get a pittance for the clock, or nothing at all, so he might as well adjust his reserve price accordingly. But he was not beaten yet. He knew Mrs Beauregard’s effects wouldn’t fetch much, so he might as well make an effort. “Well, the problem with auctions is that nobody knows how much something will fetch until it’s actually been sold. And it looks as if we’re about ready to begin.” He swept his eyes over the room, and nobody else had arrived. There wouldn’t be much in the way of competition. But to make sure, he checked his watch. “If Sir and Madam would like to take their places?”
Madam. I liked that!
Mr Whybrow bit his tongue as he ushered us to a pair of armchairs. He leaned across to me and without moving his mouth, growled, “Whatever you do, don’t move a muscle or say a word. He’ll interpret it as a bid.”
I caught myself about to nod. “Very good, sir,” I muttered from the corner of my mouth.
As we’d expected, the others there were hoping to pick up what was fairly nondescript for an equally nondescript price. I followed Mr Whybrow’s lead, and did my best to exhibit no interest whatsoever as one item after another fell before the hammer, although some didn’t fall at any price. Then we reached the clock.
Mr Scarper, as the only excited person in the room, beamed at each of us in turn. He reminded me of a Sunday school teacher trying to conjure up enthusiasm from a very bored young class. “We now come to this charming ornamental Regency clock.”
I heard Mr Whybrow catch his breath. The clock was no more Regency than we were.
“It’s an astronomical clock, featuring the signs of the zodiac and the planets. Unfortunately it’ll need a little attention – “ He fixed Mr Whybrow with a glare. “Hence the low reserve price of thirty guineas. Do I hear thirty guineas?”
“Yes,” said Mr Whybrow.
The other bidders sat on their hands and looked about the room. Their faces were aghast that some idiot would lay out thirty guineas on something that didn’t even work.
“Do I hear thirty-five?”
Silence. One of the others had to clear his throat, but almost choked as he did so, lest his expectoration be mistaken for a bid.
“Sold to Mr Whybrow of Caledon SouthEnd for thirty guineas. I’d remind you that all bids are cash, sir.”
As he wrestled his wallet from his coat pocket, a minor commotion at the door made all heads turn. In stumbled a man of about Mr Whybrow’s own age, breathless. “Has the clock gone yet?”
“Yes, it’s just been sold.” Mr Scarper indicated my master who handed over a modest sheaf of banknotes and assorted silver. He had to brace himself to heft the clock’s weight; I suspected that its mechanism must have been almost a solid mass of metal inside that casing.
“How much for?” blurted the newcomer.
“Thirty guineas,” replied Mr Scarper, suspecting some embarrassment in the offing.
“I’ll give you forty for it,” the stranger told Mr Whybrow, who shook his head sternly.
“Thanks, but I’d sooner have the clock.”
“Fifty. And that’s my final offer.”
“It’s been sold, and is not now for sale,” Mr Whybrow sternly told him.
The stranger moved to block the door, but Mr Whybrow hunched his shoulders and barged straight through. “I do hate it when someone can’t understand a simple thing like ‘No’,” he told me.
“Why do you suppose he wanted it so badly?” I wondered.
“I’ve no idea, and I really don’t care,” Mr Whybrow returned. “The sidecar should hold it – can you clamp it between your legs until we’re back? If I’d known it was going to be this heavy, I’d have brought a rope.”
Thus, Mr Whybrow came to mount the Dreadnought thirty-one-and-a-half pounds lighter.
[Editor’s note: the English guinea was equivalent to one pound and one shilling; the unit continued to be used long after the coin of that denomination was replaced with the sovereign. Thus thirty guineas was thirty-one pounds and ten shillings. VB].
I wasn’t at all embarrassed to be seen clamping half a hundredweight of mechanical ruin in a wrestler’s hold; I knew he’d have sound reasons for buying it, although I could not see how he hoped to recoup his lost labour costs on the ring from a pile of junk that hadn’t worked since the year dot.
“I noticed that her ring wasn’t put up for sale, sir,” I remarked, once we were under way.
“She was probably buried in it,” replied Mr Whybrow. “Either way; I don’t sell second-hand jewellery, but I can at least make sure that some of her things are treated with respect.” As he spoke, I detected a familiar fanatical gleam in his eye. He was going to try to make the clock work. I was sure of it.
I waited eagerly in the shop for him to put the bike away and return with the clock. His mutters told me that he was still rattled by the stranger at the auction. “Fifty guineas indeed – and sight all but unseen. If someone’s prepared to throw away fifty guineas on this, then it’s worth three or four times that.”
I knew he was going to waste no time in taking it apart. “May I look, sir?”
“By all means! You might just see some real craftsmanship here. Now, where are we – “
He had the back off in a trice, slipped his lupe over his eye and took in the mechanism. I’d never seen such a mess, but it was a disciplined mess, if you know what I mean. Mr Whybrow reminded me of a dirty old man who had just received a copy of The Yellow Book in the post as he aimed his beam of light inside.
“Ohh, yes. The fellow who built this knew what he was about. And he had no steam tools to help him; all hand or treadle-operated.” Mr Whybrow slumped back in his chair and hmm’d for a moment, taking in the whole action before him. “What can you tell me about this, Miss Bluebird?”
“It’s certainly old, sir. In need of a clean, I expect. That’ll take you a while, getting it all apart and back together again.”
“It will; we can be sure of that. But that’s not what I meant. Have a look at the astronomical details on the face. Notice anything?”
Something wasn’t right about it, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Mr Whybrow put me out of my misery. “The Earth is at the centre of the universe. Everything revolves around this planet. That dates it to the early seventeenth century; no later. But look at the back.”
Of course. It struck me with a blacksmith’s sledgehammer. “It’s got jewels in!”
“Corr-rect! They didn’t use jewels for movements until the early 1700’s, and the case is certainly eighteenth-century. This thing’s been reconditioned, no more than two hundred years ago. And by a master. I’ve never seen workmanship like this before.” He leaned forwards and darted his little light hither and thither. “Can’t see anything obviously broken, although I won’t know for certain until I’ve had it apart. But it could just be that it needs a good clean. Those fancy fronts have a thousand places dust can get in. No glass face, you see.” He turned to me triumpantly.
“How much would it be worth, once repaired?” I dared to ask.
“Whatever anyone’s prepared to pay for it,” came the immediate reply. “This is no factory piece; it’s unique. And certainly worth more than fifty guineas.”
“I expect there’s a lot you could do with that sort of money, sir,” I hazarded, suspecting a plan which he’d so far kept to himself.
Mr Whybrow shook his head. “Like Mister Holmes, I play the game for its own sake. I’d never expected to have one of these on my desk if I lived to be a thousand, and once it’s gone, I’ll never see another. Besides,” he tapered away, a little ashamed. “I wouldn’t like to think of cashing in on a widow who didn’t have tuppence to rub together. I wish to God she’d brought this to me while she was still alive; I could have got it working for her and her retirement would have been assured.”
“She was a very proud lady, sir; she knew she’d have to ask it of you as a favour.”
“Aye, that’s probably it.” Mr Whybrow fumbled about in his pocket for his tiny toolset. “Why don’t you go and do some shopgirling or something? And if I’m not out of here by seven – “ he leaned over with a conspiratorial leer that made me shudder. “Mine’s a large cod and chips. Plenty of salt and vinegar.”
I left him to it. For the rest of the afternoon, I saw him only as a pair of shoulders mantling the clock, with an ever-growing pile of gears, shafts, foliots and sundry clocky components lined up on his desktop. From time to time I looked in to keep the coffee pot replenished, and to turn up the oil lamp when the long winter night descended early, but he gave no sign of recognising my presence, nor did I remind him that I was there. But as I quietly closed the door behind me, I gave him a sympathetic chuckle. It did me good to see him so happily engrossed.
I could have probably thrown a party in the shop, and Mr Whybrow would have been none the wiser, but I settled instead for killing time with some of Mr Prout’s harmony exercises.
I had long since developed the art of telling when a customer was going to come in, by their footfall in the street. This one was male, disciplined, possibly with a military bearing; late middle-age, I surmised. Well, as he went past the window, that particular surmise was wrong. He was little older than Mr Whybrow. But otherwise he was tall, erect of bearing, and well-groomed without being dandyish. Almost plain, in fact; not the sort I’d expect to buy jewellery. In fact, had his clothing not been of a better quality, I’d have suspected a plain-clothes policeman.
He even cleared his throat with that same officiousness, by way of introduction. “You are Sparkle of Sound, owned by Alastair Whybrow?”
Why do people always ask that? Do they really think we’d put someone else’s name above the door? “Indeed, sir.”
“You recently acquired a Regency astronomical clock.”
Uh-oh. There was little point in denying it, with Mr Whybrow visible through the party windows, hunched over the item in question and letting slip the occasional staccato mutter in Anglo-Saxon. “We did, sir.”
“I’m Harold Beauregard, brother-in-law to the late Eleanor. We’re interested in acquiring the clock; we feel it should belong in the family. I’m authorised to offer a hundred guineas for its immediate purchase.”
[That’s a hundred and five pounds Sterling, dear reader. Remember? VB]
“I’m sorry, sir. Even as we speak, Mr Whybrow’s cleaning it, and he’d never sell something which doesn’t work. Especially for a hundred guineas.”
The customer essayed a smile in the hope of softening me up. It only made me more wary of him. “But he will get it working; I doubt an artist of Mr Whybrow’s stature would take on something like that unless he was confident he could repair it.”
Trying to patronise him was another bad mistake, but the Artist of Stature picked that moment to drop a screwdriver on the floor and imply, very loudly, that it was doing something unrepeatable with a very small someone whose parents had not been married.
“It’s old, sir, but he has every expectation of restoring it to its full functionality.”
“All the better,” declared the customer, although I suspected that whether or not the clock actually worked was of no importance to him. I could recognise an act when I saw it. “How long would it take, do you think?”
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr Whybrow insists that the clock will be staying with him, and will not be resold. He’s always wanted one like that.”
“Come, Miss. Surely you can appreciate that families like to keep heirlooms under their own wings? A hundred guineas for a fairly common make is a generous offer, I’d have thought.”
Now, he was treating me as if I was stupid. That, I despise. “Mr Whybrow is not given to changing his mind, sir, and I really wouldn’t recommend disturbing him right now.”
Mr Whybrow bore me out by slipping and cutting his finger, and loudly calling upon certain masculine parts that I wasn’t supposed to know about.
The customer cringed. “Well – the offer stands; I’ll call back tomorrow and see if Mr Whybrow’s prepared to reconsider. It’s obviously not convenient right now. Good day, Miss.”
I was glad when he took Mr Whybrow’s vituperation as a hint to leave. I was beginning to feel very uneasy about that clock. It was clearly no ordinary piece, but beyond its value as an antiquity, I couldn’t see any reason why someone should be prepared to pay over the odds to acquire it.
If there was an answer, Mr Whybrow would have it. I let him work undisturbed until it was time for his fish and chips, and while he was wolfing it down as though there’d be no tomorrow, I apprised him of his caller.
Mr Whybrow gulped twice and swallowed. “News travels fast. Don’t suppose he left a card?”
I took in the sprawl of esoteric disjecta membra on Mr Whybrow’s desktop as a distraction from my embarrassment at the oversight. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t. I was a little disturbed by him, to be honest. I can’t believe he’s really her brother in law.”
“Oh?” said Mr Whybrow around a mouthful of cod.
“Twenty years too young, and had ‘policeman’ written all over him, although I can’t imagine what a policeman would want with that clock. If it was in any way hot, he’d have produced a warrant and made off with it legally and for free. And he said it was Regency; he’d obviously been speaking to the fellow at the auction room.”
”And knows no more about it than his colleague did.” Mr Whybrow snorted, screwed up the empty newspaper that had held his fish and chips, and took a swallow of coffee. “If he’s who he claims to be, then it’s a pity he wasn’t so interested in his sister when she was still alive.”
“He knows more about the clock than he was letting on, that’s for certain.”
Mr Whybrow gave me a squint. “You’re not, by chance, wondering if he’s anything to do with Jasper and his partner?”
The possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but I shook my head. “I don’t think so, sir. Until a few days ago, we didn’t even know of the clock’s existence.”
“Mmmm my thoughts too. Well, thanks for my dinner, Miss Bluebird. My compliments to the chef. If you want to go home now, do feel free. I’ll be at this for some time, I fear.”
“Then I’ll bid you good night, sir, and good luck.”
I went home and spent a peaceful while at the keyboard; by now I was feeling adventurous enough to attempt Handel’s little Suite in G major. Mr Whybrow had given me a copy of CPE Bach’s famous “Essay,” which told me all I needed to know about ornamentation and fantasia style, and I began to feel like a real musician as I worked out where to put all the trills, mordants, and assorted twirly bits.
The clock struck eleven. I wondered if Mr Whybrow was still hard at it, and went to check. I found him asleep at his desk, which was a lot tidier than it had been. He wasn’t snoring, but the great undulations of his back told me that he wasn’t just asleep, he was anaesthetised. I didn’t have the heart to wake him, so I nipped home for a blanket. Covering him carefully, I stoked the stove as quietly as I could, until I could be sure it’d incandesce gently throughout the night, and left him be. I was tempted to blow him a kiss, but I knew that would wake him and I’d be caught in the act.
What I did do, as an afterthought, was to give some attention to his security. He looked so vulnerable slumped there; even if he’d had a revolver within arm’s reach, he’d never get to use it before any wrongdoer had had his evil way. I was not inclined to relax my guard over Jasper, and I still harboured nagging doubts about Mrs Beauregard’s would-be brother-in-law.
Drawing inspiration from Mrs Boltclyster’s own safeguard, I took a bucket out to the street and shovelled up a few pounds of horse residue which had been deposited since Mr Gongfermer’s last round with his cart. Although the shop never closed, I knew that by this time, no more customers would call until the morning, so there would be little risk of clobbering an innocent target. Thus I left the door slightly ajar, with the bucket propped up on top of it.
Then I returned home and sat down to wait. I knew that I could end up sitting in vain the whole night, but I owed Mr Whybrow a lot; this was the least I could do.
As it transpired, I did not have long to wait. It must have been shortly after one in the morning when the night was rent by a harsh metallic clanging and a desperate cry which, strangely, sounded like two cries. But I had no time to ponder the conundrum. Grabbing my revolver, I ran out into the street, I was just in time to see the intruder leaving yucky footprints to mark his route as he fled, covered in ten pounds of best quality Caledon dung.
I didn’t care how many I woke; I erupted with laughter, my guffaws echoing from the nearby shop fronts.
“Got you, you scoundrel! Let’s see you explain that to your superiors!”
“Exactly whom were you trying to get, Miss Bluebird?”
My laughter stopped abruptly, as did my heartbeat. A large shadow stood ominously on the threshold, slowly coming to terms with the mess blanketing him from top-knot downwards. Mr Whybrow had taken the bucket’s full force.
“I suppose it goes without saying that you’re responsible for this?”
Oh – my – Gawd. I tried to put a brave face on it. “Only half responsible, sir. I thought he might come back, so I prepared a little warning for us. And – well, he did come back.”
The dim streetlight cast enough glimmer on Mr Whybrow’s ordure-streaked face to highlight a tensing of his mouth. “And his timing couldn’t have been better. I woke up and was going out for a smoke when I opened the door and got two surprises. One, you can see; the other was our visitor of earlier, who’d returned with a crowbar which events proved unnecessary. I wouldn’t care to say which of us was more surprised.”
Mr Whybrow, unarmed as he was, had clearly been too surprised to flee. The heavy silence seemed to be forcing some sort of reply from me. I was emboldened a little by his lack of anger; I think he’d accepted that he’d suffered through misfortune rather than malice. “I can’t say I’m surprised that he ran, if the first thing he saw was you, sir,” I said. Then, deeply ashamed, I mumbled, “I’m terribly sorry, sir. It’ll brush off when it’s dry.”
My advice earned me a stiff glare. “Well, more to the point, he knows that we’re onto him now. But with any luck he’ll have taken the hint.” Mr Whybrow gave himself a quick look of disgust and said, “Well, don’t stand out there in the cold. Come on in.”
My lungs wanted to turn inside-out as I followed him. The stench of the fresh, unrotted ordure was lion-killing, but I had no right to complain, as I’d inflicted it on him.
“Fire up the stove a bit, will you?” He vanished into my nice new convenience – I had no right to protest about that, either, and as I made up the stove, I gave him full credit for not swearing like a trooper as my ears followed him feverishly brushing himself down. Finally, the toilet flushed and Mr Whybrow returned, marginally more wholesome than he had been. He’d managed to brush off the worst of the mess; he still reeked to high heaven, but I could at least breathe.
He shoved the poker into the stove and turned it over a couple of times, before pouring out two mugs of coffee. “Can’t see us getting back to sleep now,” he grunted. “So our mystery purchaser is indeed determined?”
“Mmm, thank you, Sir.” I sipped gratefully. The aroma of the coffee acted as a talisman against my malodorous master; I wasn’t even afraid of his anger any more. “That’s how it would appear. I don’t think he seriously expected to acquire it, earlier. I think he just wanted to confirm that it was here.”
Mr Whybrow lit a cigar from a glowing coal and sat on the edge of his desk. “I’m inclined to agree with you. I don’t think he’s a policeman, either.”
“Who is he, then?”
“Since the late Mr Beauregard was a navy man, I’d suggest that our visitor comes from one of the more discreet parts of the Admiralty. The question is, why are they so interested in that clock? I’ve stripped it down to the last nut, and I can’t find anything in it beyond the finest craftsmanship I’m likely to see. All those tiny gears, hand-cut – “ he broke off, musing dreamily.
“I wonder if he’d found someone to repair it?” I suggested, to bring him back to the subject.
“Doubt it. I’ve a receipt, which he won’t have. No clockmaker would touch this without one; he’d recognise it as stolen straight away.”
“Then why is someone so anxious to recover a clock that doesn’t even work?” I insisted.
Mr Whybrow looked at me, with a little start. “It does work. All it needed was a damn good clean, like I said.”
I studied the clock; in the excitement, I hadn’t noticed that it was giving out a happy, regular tick. All the little planets gleamed like gemstones; the thing was still ugly to look at, but I was breathless at the beauty of its sheer ingenuity, with all those tiny mechanisms cut by clumsy human hands, to work in perfect synchronisation.
A gleam of pride lit Mr Whybrow’s face as he basked in my fascination. “Do you know the planets? This has only five others, apart from the Earth. That’s partly what dates it. Uranus wasn’t discovered until 1781, and it isn’t there.”
I found myself swept up with his enthusiasm; thanks to the coffee and his cigar, his dousing had diminished to a mere miasma. Then some little bell rang at the back of my mind. “Sir – what does ‘in trine’ mean?”
“It’s an astrological term; it refers to two bodies sixty degrees apart. Or a hundred and twenty. Where did you hear that?”
“Mrs Beauregard, sir. She said that when Mars and Venus were in trine, her husband would be proved innocent. She said that she’d spent her nights watching the sky, waiting for some sign, but when the planets fell in trine, nothing happened. Now, I’m wondering if she meant - ”
“The clock,” pronounced Mr Whybrow. “Of course; the poor old thing had seized up with dust and fluff. Now, don’t ever do what you’re about to see me doing. The innards won’t like it.”
There was no disguising his eagerness as he reached around the back of the clock and carefully advanced the time. It was like watching the universe suddenly burst into life as the zodiacal signs rotated, and the planets all swirled about doing their own little waltz. I kept my eyes on Mars and Venus. Then, suddenly, the clock gave an uncomfortable yet deliberate clunk and a little drawer shot out of the front of the plinth.
“Good Lord!” I took half a pace back.
“’Mister Whybrow’ will do fine,” he said as he pounced on the drawer. He extracted a single sheet of paper, folded several times; although slightly darkened with age, the drawer’s perfect seal in its carcase had kept the dust out. He unfolded it, letting me read over his shoulder.
“My darling Eleanor,
“If you are reading this, then I am no more in this world and my arms await you in the next. Know and be certain that whatever I did, was for the best, and that you remain safe. I know that I’ll shortly be taken from you, so this brief note must suffice to remind you of my love for you, and the lengths to which I will go, to care for you.
“I remain, eternally yours
“Cuthbert.”
He placed the note on his desk, where I could still see it, and quietly ruminated over it in his own time. I couldn’t see why this note should have been so significant; it was the sort of thing a man would send his wife after that dreadful last visit to the condemned cell.
Finally, Mr Whybrow said, “It all makes sense.”
“Sir?” I nudged.
“He was executed for murdering one of his own colleagues, yes? That gave rise to the belief that he was working for the other side. The press execrated him at the time, as Germany was starting to build up their navy, but reading between the lines – a man who was surrendering to the noose so deliberately wasn't protecting himself. He killed his colleague to protect someone else.”
“You mean that he was protecting a German spy? But surely he could have saved himself by revealing their identity?”
Mr Whybrow sighed and gave me a patient smile. “My dear Miss Bluebird, that’s precisely what he did not want to do. Haven’t you worked it out yet?”
I gave him a blank look and shook my head.
“Mrs Beauregard was the German spy! And although she’d never seen this last testament, she knew why he did what he did. This - ” he nodded to the note. “Was his farewell kiss. And the Admiralty know it’s in there, naming the spy they were looking for as clearly as a theatre poster.”
It was so obvious. Oooh, I felt such a clod! But only for a moment. That little note, brief as it was, told me that I was in the presence of something very special. I murmured, “He must have really loved her. I can’t imagine anyone risking a visit to Mister Billington over me.”
“I can,” Mr Whybrow croaked, cryptically as though I was not meant to overhear. “I should get some sleep, Miss. I’ll take this heap home with me; even the Admiralty’s best men won’t find it there.”
“Not if they can’t find their way past a bucket of horse manure,” I added.
Mr Whybrow chuckled. He moved to pick up the clock, and paused. “Yes, I owe you for that, Miss Bluebird.” As a fresh horror broke on my face, he added, “You acted with the best of intentions and an admirable initiative. And thanks for the blanket and stove. That was very sweet of you.”
I must have been tired. I could only stand there, in semi-drunken disbelief for the moment that it took him to place his hands on my shoulders and kiss me on the cheek. Even the almost visible manure-cloud hovering about him was eclipsed by the soft pressure of his lips. By the time I’d recovered enough to feel the slightly damp patch with my fingertips, he was gone.
The next day, I was surprised to see the clock standing on the counter like a mechanical shopgirl. Mr Whybrow had been waiting for my arrival; he bounced out of the office with a new spring in his step. He carried with him a thin tang of Jeyes’, which I tried not to notice.
“Ah, there you are, me dear! Gave him a bit of a dustdown, as you can see. What do you think?”
“I think that if you’re hoping for a quiet life, it’s not a good idea to leave it in public, sir.”
Mr Whybrow did not seem at all put out. “On the contrary. I’m hoping very much that it’ll guarantee a quiet life. And if I’m any judge of persons – hark! Isn’t that footfall familiar to you?”
It was. I bit my lip as the Admiralty man’s footsteps clacked on the cobbles, getting louder. And yes, he approached the door –
I’m sure Mr Whybrow must have found it as difficult as I was, to bite off his laughter. The government man had not entirely escaped the deluge that had swamped Mr Whybrow; he had bathed, smothered himself in cologne and lavender, yet still a faint tang of
“Good morning, sir. Alastair Whybrow,” my jeweller briskly introduced although I gave the customer a scowl, not having forgiven his slight in the shop the previous day.
His breezy welcome caught our visitor off-guard. “I – ah, came to see if you’d reconsider my offer. Your shopgirl informed me that you wouldn’t be interested – I presume she told you that I’d called?”
I gave him a dirty look that made him wilt. As if I hadn’t done my job!
“I’ve considered it,” Mr Whybrow told him, slightly hesitant. “I’m not sure you realise what you have here.”
“Why – yes, sir; a valuable family heirloom – “
“Precisely. A valuable family heirloom. A unique work, executed by a master – I’d say in the early-mid sixteenth century and renovated extensively between 1730 and 1770. Not a factory-piece, as you told my shopgirl.” He fixed the stranger with a glare that could have cut masonry, just to make sure he knew how things stood.
Mr Whybrow continued. “Now, I bought that piece in good faith and paid a fair price for what was a pile of inert nuts and bolts. I’ve since cleaned it up, and as you can see, it’s in full working order. You won’t need me to tell you that this clock would be the star turn at Christie’s or Sotheby’s. My own professional valuation – for which I won’t charge you – is that it’d fetch a reserve price of about two thousand guineas. There are many folk of substance who are interested in astrology, after all.”
The stranger blanched. This was something his employers had not prepared him for.
Mr Whybrow fixed him with a curious squint. “You appear to me to be a gentleman of substance, sir. I, for my part, am entitled to a realistic compensation, not to mention payment for the labour I’ve put in on this piece. On the other hand, I recognise the sentimental value attached to it. Now, two thousand guineas is just my estimate of the reserve price. It could easily go for twice that. ”
I could see the stranger tensing, willing him to get to the bit he wanted to hear.
He did. Blithely, Mr Whybrow announced, “I am, however, prepared to let you have it for half the estimated reserve. If you were to return with a thousand guineas - in cash, mind – no cheques, sight drafts or IOU’s - you may walk away with the clock and a receipt confirming not only your legal ownership, but a confirmation that it has been cleaned professionally.”
A thousand - my immediate thought was that he was insane. But he knew what he was doing. The customer seized rigid, but only for a moment.
“A thousand,” he murmured.
Nod from Mr Whybrow. “You’re lucky to get it for that. I’m fairly certain you won’t have a thousand guineas in cash about your person; I’ll look after the clock until you can return with it. It’s going on display, and if anyone gives me a better offer before you’re back, I’ll let them have it. So you’d better be quick. Miss Bluebird, would you mind keeping an eye on it in the meantime? And do keep your revolver handy.”
“Of course, sir.” I beamed twice as broadly, knowing how he was fleecing the government agent, who was already a cloud of dust heading for the doorway. I hoped he’d slip in a bit of manure that had been missed in the sweeping up, but there I was unlucky.
I appreciated Mr Whybrow’s sense in putting the clock well inside the shop, our customer would be less inclined to save himself a thousand guineas with a quick smash and grab. Our customer had given in surprisingly easily, when one considered the sum involved. I suspected that his superiors must have been prepared to go to any lengths to get the clock, and had a pile of money at the ready. Mr Whybrow must have entertained the same suspicion, for as soon as the clock was standing before the counter, he retired to the office to write out a receipt.
We were not kept waiting for long. I was surprised how little room a thousand and fifty pounds took up when tightly packed, but Mr Whybrow kept the receipt until he’d counted every note, with me overlooking him, toying with my revolver. Finally, the customer left, lugging the heavy great clock in his arms, while Mr Whybrow stood admiring the sheaf of banknotes.
“I do hope he doesn’t drop it,” I said.
“That’s his problem. What I want to see, is the look on his face when he figures out how to get the drawer open, and finds it empty.”
At that, we both doubled up with laughter. Yes, Mrs Beauregard would be keeping her secret.
Then I noticed Mr Whybrow studying me as though wondering how to draw my attention to a particularly colourful boil which I’d just sprouted.
“Sir?”
“You think I’ve gone back on my word. Making money out of Mrs Beauregard’s misfortune,” he explained, his tone just the level side of accusing.
Oh – Grrrr! “Sir, I know you better than that. The money’s value is of secondary importance. It’s just a thank-you gesture from beyond the grave, for having kicked a corrupt government in the – “
“Cobblers,” Mr Whybrow supplied. It was a completion, not a disagreement. “Yes. I don’t think she’d have sold the clock even if she’d known what it was worth. What did matter to her is that the secret her husband died for, should remain safe from those who’d killed him.”
“And that’s all that matters to us,” I completed. But he still had a slight uncertain look about him, not entirely convinced that I was convinced. Oh – Grrrr again! With an impish sigh, I stepped up to him. “I think she’d want me to give you something else by way of thanks, sir.”
Mr Whybrow had no time to ask what that was, as I grabbed his lapel and yanked him down to plant a kiss squarely on his cheekbone.
“Got you back, sir – Stinky!” I laughed. Then I ran out of the shop before he could think of taking a carpet-beater to my bustle.
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