The Clockwork Three

by Matthew J. Kirby

  Yakov should have been noticed far more than either of them, but he could almost disappear into a crowd when he wanted to. He stalked along just behind them, a constant, watchful eye on the street. Hannah felt him over her shoulder, like the cougars still said to roam the more wild places in McCauley Park. She did not know why Madame Pomeroy had enemies or who they might be. The woman denied any threat of real harm when Hannah asked about it, but Yakov took no chances. Twice in the previous weeks he had come in close and whispered a word of warning. Hannah had seen him reach inside his robe for something. She had grown cold and held her breath, watching Yakov as he watched the crowd, until the Russian had finally relaxed and withdrawn his empty hand. “My golem,” Madame Pomeroy had said, patting Yakov’s arm. With the Russian, Hannah felt safer on the streets than she ever had before. Except when she used to walk with her father.

  Today they were crossing Gilbert Square on their way back from the clockmaker’s shop to the hotel. “I am so excited to see what Master Branch will create,” Madame Pomeroy said over her shoulder. “Do you know that apprentice boy, Frederick?”

  “Pardon me, ma’am?” Hannah said. She had been thinking about the conversation she had overheard between Miss Wool and Mister Grumholdt weeks before. Her duties for Madame Pomeroy had left her little time to even consider the hidden treasure.

  “You and Frederick seemed to recognize each other.”

  “Well, we met briefly on the street a few weeks ago. But I don’t know him well.”

  “I see. I liked him, didn’t you? He has a very restless soul, but a kind one deep down.”

  Hannah said nothing. There was something kind in Frederick, in his eyes when he looked at Master Branch. He cared for the old clockmaker.

  They continued walking and passed under the visage of the Opera House. Hannah looked up and sighed. Ahead of her, Madame Pomeroy was looking at the Opera House, also. Then, she gave Hannah one of her mild, knowing smiles. “I think I would like to take in a performance some night.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I keep a box reserved. Plenty of seats.”

  Did that mean she would be invited? Hannah stopped in the middle of the square, waiting, and then it came.

  “You shall accompany me, of course,” Madame Pomeroy said, still walking.

  Hannah laughed, clapped her hands, and scurried to catch up. “You are too kind, Madame!”

  “Don’t be silly, child. Ah, here we are. My home away from all my other homes.”

  They climbed the hotel steps. Hannah could scarcely believe it. She had studied music and the plays of William Shakespeare in school. She used to dream of one day attending a performance, of dressing up in a dazzling gown, hair bejeweled, of seeing the actors rather than imagining them. Her father’s illness had stamped out those dreams.

  But now, soon, she was going to the opera, and she already felt warmed by gaslight from the stage, a light that was snuffed right out as they entered the hotel’s main lobby.

  Miss Wool paced the carpet before the grand staircase. The narrow woman looked up as they approached, and it was obvious by her expression that she had been waiting for them. Hannah positioned herself so that Madame Pomeroy stood between her and her boss, like a black lacy shield.

  “Madame,” Miss Wool said, “the hotel manager, Mister Grumholdt, would like a word with you.” She never looked at Hannah.

  Madame Pomeroy sighed. “What about?”

  “You will have to speak with him to discover that.”

  “I see. And where is he?”

  “I’ll escort you to his office.”

  Miss Wool turned on her heel and marched off. Madame Pomeroy looked at Hannah, shrugged, and followed after. Hannah stood where she was, unsure whether she was expected to go as well. Yakov answered that when he put a hand on her back and gave her a gentle push in the direction his mistress had gone.

  They trailed down the hallway. Hannah passed the dining rooms, where her fellow maids were setting places with china and white linen, and then they entered the main ballroom. They crossed the empty floor, footsteps echoing off the polished hardwood. Overhead, the enormous chandelier dripped with crystal and gold, and dust motes floated in and out of the afternoon light. The whole room seemed to glow, as if the walls exuded the joy they had soaked up from countless nights of laughing and dancing.

  They reached the ballroom’s far side, and down another hallway they came to the office of Mister Grumholdt. Miss Wool rapped with two knuckles.

  “Come in,” came the reply.

  Miss Wool opened the door. “Step inside, please.”

  Madame Pomeroy turned to her bodyguard. “My, my. It appears as though we’re in some sort of trouble, eh, Yakov?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Enter please, Madame,” Mister Grumholdt called out to them.

  They moved inside, and as Hannah stepped by Miss Wool, the woman smiled at her, a horrible, vicious, satisfied smile, and Hannah shuddered.

  Grumholdt stood behind his desk, vest buttons straining over his belly. “Ah, good afternoon, Madame! And this must be your Russian companion. Hello, sir.” He turned to Hannah, and his grin fell. He stroked his red mustache. “And this must be Hannah. Hmm. I’m glad you’re here, as this largely concerns you.”

  “Does it?” Madame Pomeroy asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Mister Grumholdt said. “You see, Miss Wool has just brought something to my attention. An unfortunate incident that must be dealt with.”

  “What incident?” Madame Pomeroy put her hands on her hips.

  “The incident some weeks ago during which this maid lost the composure we expect of all our staff.”

  Hannah wanted to flee from the office and looked around for some path of escape. She noticed Miss Wool still bore that wicked grin, and realized that this was it. Weeks later, and here was her revenge. Yakov came up and laid his hand lightly on Hannah’s shoulder, as if to steady her.

  Grumholdt pulled his pocket watch from his vest, glanced down at it, and put it away. “Surely you understand that I cannot allow the maid’s misconduct to go unpunished. We will resolve this here and now.”

  “I see,” Madame Pomeroy said.

  “Therefore, I have arranged for you to choose a new attendant from among a selection of better qualified staff.”

  “I see.”

  “I apologize for any disruption this may cause.”

  Madame Pomeroy just stood there. Hannah waited, feeling sick.

  Grumholdt pulled out his pocket watch.

  “Is there someplace you need to be, sir?” Madame Pomeroy asked.

  He looked up, red-cheeked. “Not at all, Madame.”

  “Then listen closely. I have chosen Hannah, and I intend to keep her on. If you remove her from my service, I will leave your hotel.”

  “Leave?” Grumholdt looked to Miss Wool.

  “Yes, leave,” Madame Pomeroy said. “I will leave, and take my money with me.”

  Grumholdt fumbled over his words. “Well, I had no idea … That is, I did not suppose … If it is that important to you …”

  “It is that important to me.”

  “Mister Grumholdt,” Miss Wool said. “May I remind you of our discussion.”

  “I remember it,” he said. “But the situation has changed. Madame Pomeroy, please accept my apologies. You are a gracious guest, and although I do not agree with your choice of maid, I will permit Hannah to continue in your service.”

  “Hans!” Miss Wool shouted.

  “Miss Wool, we’ll discuss this matter in private. Madame Pomeroy, please enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you,” Madame Pomeroy said.

  Miss Wool puffed her cheeks up, eyes bulging, and then shot from the room like a flare of gunpowder. An awkward moment followed as everyone listened to her curses echo down the hall and avoided looking at one another.

  Hannah wiped at a glaze of tears. If it was not certain before, it was now. Once Madame Pomeroy left, she would be fired. Sh
e wondered how long Madame Pomeroy would stay. Usually the wealthier hotel guests stayed for weeks or even months, but Madame Pomeroy was not like other guests.

  Mister Grumholdt cleared his throat. “I must apologize for Miss Wool.” He came out from behind his desk, which was spread with what looked like maps and floor plans to the hotel. “She has been overworked and overwrought of late.”

  “She was very disrespectful,” Madame Pomeroy said.

  “I agree.”

  “Then I have no doubt you will fire her.” Madame Pomeroy turned to Hannah, and gave her an almost imperceptible wink.

  “Fire Miss Wool?” Mister Grumholdt looked startled. “Why, no. Why would I? Oh, I see.” He rocked back on his heels. “Madame, Miss Wool has been supervising my maids for years. I assure you that she has a long history of exemplary service….”

  While he blustered, Hannah remembered what Mister Grumholdt had said about floor plans to Miss Wool weeks earlier, and she stole a glance at the desk. The papers were yellow with age, and she struggled to make sense of them. There was a map of McCauley Park, with a circle drawn around an area by Grover’s Pond. Then, on a sheet of building plans labeled TOP FLOOR, someone had scrawled the name STROOP over what appeared to be a second suite next to Madame Pomeroy’s. But as far as Hannah knew, there had only ever been one suite up there.

  “No, Madame,” Mister Grumholdt said. “Mister Twine, our owner, would never let Miss Wool go.”

  “I make it a habit to avoid that word, sir,” said Madame Pomeroy.

  “What word?”

  “Never,” said Yakov.

  Mister Grumholdt squinted at Yakov as if he had forgotten the Russian was there. “Yes, uh. Well put, sir.” He pulled out his pocket watch.

  “What time do you have?” Madame Pomeroy asked with an impish smile, and pulled out her own timepiece.

  “A quarter to three.”

  “I think your watch is off.”

  “Off?” He laughed with condescending tolerance. “I don’t think so. Mister Twine gave me this watch upon my appointment as general manager, and I doubt very much that he would bestow a watch that couldn’t keep proper time. In fact, Madame, time and again I find this watch to be the only clock in this hotel capable of doing so.” He put it away and patted the pocket. Then he returned to his chair behind the desk, looked down, and seemed to notice the maps and plans. “Oh,” he said, and hurried to riffle them into a pile. “Pay no mind to all this.” And he turned them over as if to hide them.

  Madame Pomeroy looked at the hotel manager for a long moment. “Come, Hannah. Yakov.”

  She spun on her toes and walked out. Yakov waited for Hannah and then followed behind her. They left the hotel manager’s office and, as they walked, Hannah threshed thoughts in her head like grain, trying to separate what was important from what was not.

  All was not lost yet. If Hannah found the treasure, it would not matter when Madame Pomeroy decided to leave, and Miss Wool could do her worst. And now Hannah had a name by which to pursue the mystery, a name that meant nothing to her. The floor plans she had seen were old and odd. She needed someone she could talk to about all of this, someone who knew the history and workings of the hotel, and no one knew the hotel better than Alice, the gardener.

  They reached the main lobby, and Madame Pomeroy was about to mount the marble stairs, which the stonemasons had finished with for now.

  “Ma’am?” Hannah said.

  “Yes, child?”

  “May I go visit with a friend of mine from the staff? I won’t be long.”

  “Well, I suppose. I was going to lie down for a nap, anyway. But mind you, I don’t want you getting anyone else in trouble with Miss Wool.”

  “I won’t.”

  “All right then, run along.”

  Hannah curtsied. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She waited until Madame Pomeroy had ascended the first flight of stairs before heading for the kitchens. She found a tray of almond pastries, grabbed two in each hand, and stuffed them in her apron pockets when Charles, the head chef, was not looking. She left the kitchen and returned to the lobby. She strolled down the wide corridor that divided the east and west wings of the hotel. The hallway ended where two enormous glass doors opened onto the hotel gardens, admitting a breeze scented with grass clippings.

  Hannah stepped out onto a gravel path that crunched beneath her feet. The gardens sprouted thick between the hotel wings, like a bouquet in a woman’s arms. Hannah walked in the shade of towering oaks, past fragrant rosebushes, and by the hedge maze trimmed square as stacks of bricks. She found her way to a corner of the grounds where Alice had surrounded her small shed with a wall of dense and thorny bushes. Hannah had talked with Alice many times before, but had never been inside. Rumor claimed the old woman slept in there during the summer months, on a bed of pine boughs. Others said she had a cottage somewhere deep in McCauley Park.

  Hannah reached the edge of the gardens and came up against the tangled barrier. “Alice?” she called out.

  “Go away, please!”

  “Alice, it’s Hannah. I need to ask you some questions!” She reached into her pockets. “I brought you almond pastries!”

  Silence.

  “Alice?”

  “Hello, dear.”

  Hannah jumped. The voice came from her left, out of nowhere, and then Alice emerged from the bushes. She was short, but Hannah had never been able to tell if that was simply because her back was so bent. She wore a checkered apron, and had hair that was white and see-through like a dandelion puff.

  Hannah pulled out the pastries. “Here you are. Baked fresh today.”

  Alice’s eyes widened. She clapped some of the dirt from her hands in a cloud, but her fingers were still filthy as she reached for the sweets. She took them gingerly, as if they were still hot. As she bit into the first she paused, and then grinned with stuffed cheeks. She swallowed and said, “This tastes like François’s handiwork.”

  “François?”

  “The head chef.” Another bite, and the pastry was gone.

  “The head chef’s name is Charles.”

  “Charles the dishwasher?” She started on the second pastry.

  “I heard he used to be a dishwasher. Years ago.”

  Alice scratched her head, and a few pine needles fell from her hair. “Is that so? Time flies, I must say.” And she took another bite.

  “Alice?”

  “What, dear?” The second pastry vanished, followed by the third. How could such a small woman eat so much so fast?

  Hannah tried to sound casual. “Could I ask you a few questions?”

  Alice shrugged. She stuck the last pastry in her mouth whole. She chewed, chipmunkish, and swallowed. “Fair is fair,” she said. “You brought me four almond pastries, so you may ask me four questions.” She turned away and plunged into the shrubs. “Come along, dear!” she called.

  Hannah took a breath, wondered what she would see on the other side, and pushed her way into the brush. A branch immediately whipped her in the face, scratching her cheek.

  “Ow!” she cried.

  “Watch yourself,” Alice called over her shoulder. “And go ahead and ask your first question.”

  Hannah labored to keep up with the old woman, who seemed to know some nature magic that let her slip through the bushes unimpeded.

  “Well,” Hannah said, grunting. “I was wondering. Were there ever two suites on the top floor of the hotel?”

  “Yes,” Alice said. “You know how Mister Twine is, always changing things. From boiler room to attic, that hotel’s a different building than the one Mister Twine built back when he was a fiery young man.”

  Mister Twine, a young man?

  Alice continued walking. “Not like my garden. The only change I allow is growth, and I forbid anything to be dug up until it dies. Three questions left.”

  Hannah’s skirt snagged and she wrenched it free, tearing it, and then tumbled through the last stretch of bramble into a clear
ing. There, in a perfect patch of sunlight, Alice’s weathered gardener’s shed slouched toward several makeshift worktables. Pots of all shapes, sizes, and colors lined the tables, and each pot held a seedling. Beyond them, a wooden trellis arched over a wrought-iron bench, and a hydrangea bloomed behind it, pale blossoms as big as soup tureens. Hannah thought it a charming sitting area, but felt sad when she pictured Alice there alone.

  The old woman walked over between two of the tables and motioned for Hannah to join her. “Look at these flowers,” she said, clucking and fussing over her plants like a nursemaid. “These are just for me. Aren’t they glorious?”

  “They are wonderful,” Hannah said, although she could not tell one start from another. They all just looked green and tender.

  “This one is a snapdragon. Oh, but don’t worry, dear, it doesn’t really bite. These are pansies, my shy country debutantes come to the big city for the ball. And these are hyacinths. They’re haughty with everyone, so don’t you pay them any mind.”

  “Um, I won’t.” Hannah noticed a table off by itself against the shed, bearing plants that were mature. “What about those?”

  Alice looked and then leaned in. “Those are my herbs, dear. They’re wise, you know, and they guard their secrets well, but I am clever, too. I’m figuring out their uses. Oh, and don’t worry. I won’t count that as your second question.”

  That turned Hannah’s thoughts back to the reason she had come. “Alice, why did Mister Twine change the top floor?”

  “I can’t really say, dear, any more than I can say why he ripped up the carpets time and again, or why he knocked down those columns out front. Oh, but weren’t they majestic?”

  “I never saw them.”

  “No? What a pity. Like a pagan temple in Roman times. But I do remember he changed those suites around the time that guest died.”

  Hannah thought about the floor plans. “A guest named Stroop?”