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

by Ishbelle Bee

  “You think he did it, sergeant?”

  “He’s either murdered her or sold her. The ribbon was the trophy. I want a full list of children that have gone missing in this area in the last year. He’s made a mistake this time. She’s a barrister’s daughter.”

  “Yes, sir,” Walnut replied.

  “In the meantime, we shall be paying a visit to some of his clients.”

  I spent that afternoon gaining information on Mr Chimes’ clientele list. Of the twenty names, fourteen were located abroad, one was in Scotland. The remaining accessible names were:

  * * *

  Dr Edmund Cherrytree – a psychoanalyst who

  resided in London.

  Lady Rosamund Clarence – widower who resided in

  London.

  Elijah Whistle – a painter of portraits to the aristocrats, whose patron was Lady Clarence.

  Obadiah Deadlock – a notorious recluse, who resided

  in London.

  Lord Loveheart who had disappeared, but his son

  John had made contact with Albert Chimes and

  resided on the outskirts of London.

  * * *

  Letters had been sent ahead immediately announcing our forthcoming arrival.

  I had been trying to formulate a connection. My immediate suspicion was that Albert Chimes was providing these clients with children that he kidnapped and was transporting them in wooden boxes in the guise of clocks. I had worked on cases before of child abduction for brothels and the sex trade.

  I thought of the grandfather clock in Mr Chimes’ shop. I remembered that case. I had been on the scene when the little girl had been pulled out of the clock, still alive. A grandfather gone mad had stuffed two little girls in a coffin under his bed. I remember thinking what sort of world I was living in where this would happen. I thought that would be the last time I saw that awful clock and here it was again, a terrible warning.

  Constable Walnut entered the room rather clumsily and interrupted my thoughts. “Sir, I’ve got the information for you. Sorry, it took a while to go through all the missing person reports.”

  “What have you got?”

  “In the last year, there have been over seventy missing children reported in the East End. I compared it to other areas, sir, and it’s significantly higher. I made some inquiries on Albert Chimes. A lot of large deliveries leaving his shop every month. Large wooden crates.”

  “Large enough to put a child inside?”

  “Yes, sir. Coffin sized.”

  We arrived in the early evening at the impressive and rather intimidating townhouse of Lady Clarence. I made Constable Walnut polish his boots before we left. Lady Clarence sat in the drawing room, wearing a lavish purple gown. Above her, an enormous painting hung, like a mirror, depicting her sitting on the same sofa in the same dress. The effect was unnerving to say the least. A mirror image. A doppelganger trapped in a painting. She was in her fifties with unusual almond shaped eyes and her teeth, which were clenched, were yellow. Sitting by her side, perched like a loyal dog, sat the artist, Elijah Whistle. He was an uncomfortably thin-looking gentleman with oiled black hair and a nervous disposition. His hands trembled slightly, gripping the sofa. I wondered how he could be steady with a paint brush.

  “Lady Clarence and Mr Whistle.” I’d taken off my hat. “Thank you for seeing us.”

  “I have to be at the opera in an hour, sergeant, so let’s make this brief shall we?” she sneered. Her eyes fixed upon me, her doppelganger equally inhospitable.

  “Of course. Could you tell me how you know the gentleman Albert Chimes, please?”

  She didn’t flinch and looked rather annoyed. “Albert Chimes is my clockmaker. I acquire specially designed time pieces from him.” She held out her wrist. “Such as this.”

  I moved closer to her and looked at the wristwatch; it was made of silver and had a ring of little yellow flowers in a precious stone around the clock. It made a tiny humming sound, a delicate whirring.

  “And how did you meet Albert Chimes?”

  “I have never met Mr Chimes. My father used to obtain time pieces from him and I have simply continued to use him for special commissions.”

  I turned and looked at Mr Whistle. “And you, sir, you have also had pieces commissioned from Mr Chimes?”

  Mr Whistle looked a little uncomfortable, his fingers tapping against his knee. “What’s this about exactly, has he done something?”

  “Please answer the question, sir.”

  “Lady Clarence recommended him to me when I needed a new pocket watch. But I have never met him.”

  “Are they expensive?”

  “Very,” said Lady Clarence proudly. “And worth every penny. He’s an artist and unrivalled in Europe as a watchmaker.”

  “May I see your pocket watch, Mr Whistle?”

  Mr Whistle passed it over to me, smoothing his hair back. It was silver with a soft whirring sound.

  “It’s very handsome,” I said. “I wonder if you would look at this list and tell me if you are acquainted with any of the individuals on here?”

  I passed the list to Lady Clarence first, who ran her eyes over it. “The Scottish duke, Campbell, I met at a hunting party a few years ago. Other than Elijah here, the only other person I had any acquaintance with was the former Lord Loveheart. His son John is a rogue and a wastrel, so I hear.”

  “And you, sir?” I said, passing the list to Elijah. His little dark eyes swept carefully over the names.

  “I have heard of Obadiah Deadlock. He is a recluse and astronomer. I have also met Lord Loveheart’s son, who came to an exhibition of my paintings at the Royal Academy. He was quite rude about my work.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said my art was whimsical tripe.”

  Constable Walnut coughed and scribbled down some hasty notes.

  “Really?”

  Lady Clarence responded, “Elijah is a superb portrait artist and has had many commissions. He was my discovery: I found him doing botanical illustrations for a reverend in Hove. I spotted his gift. Saved him from a life of near poverty in that accursed hole.”

  “Hove really isn’t that bad. It’s quite nice in the summer,” remarked Constable Walnut.

  “Thank you, Walnut,” and I gave him a knowing glance to be quiet. I looked again at the portrait of Lady Clarence. “It’s very lifelike. When did you paint it?”

  Elijah fumbled with his answer and looked to Lady Clarence, who replied, “Last summer.”

  Why would he be unsure of the date? I wondered.

  “I am quite fond of still life myself, the odd bowl of fruit,” Walnut persisted.

  “Thank you, constable, I am sure no one is interested in your opinion of art.”

  “Will that be all then, sergeant?” She glared at me.

  “One last question.” I handed her the photograph. “Have you ever seen this girl before?”

  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.

  “This Loveheart chap,” said Constable Walnut, with a mouthful of food. “They say he’s a bit off his head.”

  Our carriage pulled up in front of the house, which was white and enormous. We were welcomed by a butler who led us into a hallway, where a spiral staircase coiled to the heavens, with a violent red carpet dotted with hearts. Mr Loveheart greeted us as he descended the staircase, wearing electric blue velvet with heart shapes embroidered on his waistcoat, and his hair was the most shocking colour of yellow. Constable Walnut leaned toward me. “If he wore that down the East End he’d get knifed pretty quickly.”

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Mr Loveheart. His voice had a soft, supernatural quality to it. He was really quite strange to look at, but fascinating.

  “Good evening, Mr Loveheart. I am–”

  “I know who you both are. How can I assist you in your inquiries?”

  “You recently sent a grandfather clock to Mr Albert Chimes, the clockmaker. How do you know this man?”

  “I do not know him. My father used his services. I returned one of his creations. I’m doing a spot of spring cleaning, getting rid of the clutter.”

  I handed him the client list. “Do you know any of these people, sir?”

  Mr Loveheart took the list and read it, his eyes peeking up from the paper. “I know of them all. I have met only one of them – Elijah Whistle at the Royal Academy. He’s a donkey of a painter, earns his money flattering the rich, painting them on thrones and such.”

  “He hasn’t painted your picture then, sir?”

  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 g
et 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.

  As 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.

  III: July 1888

  Mr Loveheart Visits Albert Chimes

  It 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.”