Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5)
Page 15
Cyclops pulled to the side of the road near Marble Arch and Mr. Glass assisted me from the coach. "No more than three hours," Cyclops called down. "Sir."
Mr. Glass held up his hand in dismissal and waited at the curb for the traffic to ease. After a moment, I said, "We'll have to take our chances in that gap."
With one hand holding onto my hat and the other picking up my skirts, we dashed across to the Oxford Street side. "Is the traffic as bad as this where you're from?" I asked as we passed by a draper's shop where a lovely red silk had been displayed to best catch the morning light.
"No," Mr. Glass said.
I tore my gaze away from the silks at his curt answer. It took a moment before I realized he wouldn't want to give me too much information about himself if he were an outlaw. The notion both thrilled and worried me.
"Do you live in a city or village?" I pressed on nevertheless.
"A large town at present, but I've lived all over the world."
"Really? Where, precisely?"
"France, Italy, Prussia, and now America."
"Where in America?"
"Here and there." He sidestepped around a boy carrying an empty crate on his shoulder and waited for me to catch up. He shortened his strides to keep apace with me.
"You mentioned a place in New Mexico," I went on. "Broken Creek, was it?"
"Yes."
"How long did you live there?"
"I didn't live there."
"Then where did you live?"
"You ask a lot of questions, Miss Steele."
"I'm naturally inquisitive, but if I am to live in your house, I'd feel more comfortable if I knew you better." There. That didn't sound at all suspiciously nosy, simply cautious.
"This looks like our first stop," he said, nodding at the sign jutting out from the doorway still some shops away. He was definitely avoiding answering.
Mr. Thompson's shop was not unlike my father's or Mr. Mason's, although somewhat smaller. Rent was higher on Oxford Street and there was no space for a workshop at the back. I happened to know that Mr. Thompson no longer made watches or clocks, but sold ones manufactured in Clerkenwell factories.
Mr. Thompson looked up from the cabinet, where he was rearranging watches, and smiled at Mr. Glass. He turned to me and the smile faded. "Miss Steele! What are you doing here?" He backed away and rounded the counter bench, placing it between us.
"Good morning, Mr. Thompson," I said, stepping up to the counter.
He moved to the side, away from me. I followed, but he moved a little farther again and made a great fuss over the selection of watch chains laid out on a velvet mat. His gaze slid sideways, watching me. I hadn't seen Mr. Thompson in two years, and clearly I hadn't changed or he wouldn't have recognized me. He'd been amiable to me back then, so why this odd behavior now?
"This is Mr. Glass," I said. "He's looking for a particular watchmaker who went to America some five years ago."
Mr. Thompson glanced at Mr. Glass and nodded a greeting.
"He would be older than you are, Mr. Thompson," Mr. Glass said. "Do you know of any watchmakers who were in America around that time? He would be quite old now. Your father, perhaps?"
Mr. Thompson, who was about my father's age, shook his head. "My father was a chandler not a watchmaker. And I don't know anyone who has been to America. Do you wish to purchase a new watch, sir? Or clock?"
"Not today."
Mr. Thompson cleared his throat, looked at me then pointedly at the door. He couldn't have been clearer if he'd shouted, "Get out!" at the top of his voice.
I marched out of the shop, Mr. Glass at my heels. I puzzled on Mr. Thompson's greeting until we reached the next watchmaker, a narrow shop of little more than a door's width wedged between a jeweler and tobacconist.
Mr. Baxter, the proprietor, had been a friend to my father and one of the few to come to his funeral, although he'd not stayed after the ceremony. I expected a hearty, friendly greeting at least, as he was a blustery, generous man whose character was as big as his barrel chest. Yet he too stood behind his counter to speak to me, as if it were a shield to hide behind, if necessary. Unlike Mr. Thompson, Mr. Baxter could hardly look at me, and seemed quite ill at ease, something that I would never have associated with him.
We asked our questions, he gave brief answers, and Mr. Glass and I left without being any closer to finding Chronos. We had to cross busy Oxford Street to get to the next shop on my list, one that I'd been dreading before and felt even more anxious about now, after being received so strangely by both Mr. Thompson and Mr. Baxter. I couldn't even describe their receptions as frosty. It was as if they were wary of me. Perhaps they expected me to argue with them over their refusal to allow me into the guild. They had, after all, voted against my admission, along with the other members.
But it was the next watchmaker on my list who'd been most vehement in refusing me, according to Father after he returned home the night of the vote. Mr. Abercrombie was president of the guild and had held the position for the past few years because no one dared speak against him. He had inherited a fortune as well as the shop from his father and so could afford the best tools and supplies. The queen had purchased a clock from his father some thirty years ago, and Mr. Abercrombie had made an excellent living off the claim ever since. He now boasted the custom of princes and lords and had four staff working for him in his shop alone. He wielded power within the guild, with every other member bowing to his wishes. If he didn't want a watchmaker to belong to the guild, then he wouldn't be allowed in. Every member would vote as Mr. Abercrombie advised. And if a watchmaker couldn't belong to the guild, he couldn't legally sell watches in England. It was why Father had been so upset when my application had been refused—and it explained why he'd given the shop to Eddie instead of me. Eddie, as a man, was admitted.
Abercrombie's Fine Watches And Clocks was triple the size of Mr. Thompson's shop and occupied a prominent corner. Mr. Glass held the door open for me, but I shook my head.
"You go in and ask your questions without me," I said. "My presence is not required."
He glanced back across the street to Baxter's, frowned slightly, then nodded. "Very well."
I watched through the window. The slender figure of Mr. Abercrombie stood in the center of the shop, his hands at his back. With his oiled moustache and pince-nez perched on the edge of his nose, he looked as respectable as any of his royal clients. He directed one of his staff to take Mr. Glass's hat and coat, but Mr. Glass refused. He spoke and Mr. Abercrombie responded with a quizzical expression. He spoke, presumably to offer to look at Mr. Glass's special watch instead. Although his back was to me, I could see Mr. Glass heave a sigh. He must be tired of hearing the same responses.
Mr. Abercrombie spread out his hands to indicate all his wonderful wares. My gaze followed the motion, and I couldn't stop staring at the lovely mahogany long-case clock with the brass dial displayed behind the counter. It was quite a spectacular piece.
Movement caught my eye, and suddenly Mr. Abercrombie came marching through the door. He caught my arm before I could run off.
"It is you!" He peered over the top of his pince-nez at me. If the rabid look in his eye didn't make me shrink away, his stinking breath certainly did. "What are you doing here, Miss Steele?"
I swallowed and tried to pull away from him, but he held me too tightly. "I'm just shopping, Mr. Abercrombie. Let me go, please, or I'll scream."
"Go ahead and scream. I'll tell everyone you stole from me."
I gasped. "Why would you do that? Why do you hate me so?"
His only response was to dig his fingers in more. I winced as the nails bit through my sleeve to my skin.
"Unhand Miss Steele," came the low growl from behind Mr. Abercrombie. I hadn't seen Mr. Glass emerge from the shop, but he now appeared over the watchmaker's shoulder, a dark scowl scoring his forehead, his eyes as black as thunderclouds.
"You know her?" Mr. Abercrombie said, not letting me go. "What is this? What's
going on?"
"I said, unhand her. Now."
If I were Mr. Abercrombie, and Mr. Glass had spoken to me in such a fiersome way, I would have done what he'd demanded—and quickly. But Mr. Abercrombie didn't. "Tell me what it is you really want or I'll accuse her of theft," he said.
"You can't accuse me of stealing when I've nothing of yours," I snapped. "Let me go, Mr. Abercrombie. You're hurting me." The blood had indeed stopped flowing to my lower arm and hand. My fingers throbbed.
Mr. Abercrombie pulled me against him, grinned in my face, and slipped something inside my pocket. I didn't need to look to know that it would be a watch.
"Thief!" Mr. Abercrombie cried. "Someone fetch a constable! I've caught a thief."
THE WATCHMAKER'S DAUGHTER will be released June 28th 2016, but is available to pre-order at a discounted price. The price will rise on release day, so pre-order it now. Keep up to date with all of C.J.'s news, including book availability, contests, giveaways, and more by signing up to her newsletter.
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SERIES WITH 2 OR MORE BOOKS
The Emily Chambers Spirit Medium Trilogy
The 1st Freak House Trilogy
The 2nd Freak House Trilogy
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The Ministry of Curiosities Series
The Assassins Guild Series
Lord Hawkesbury's Players Series
The Witchblade Chronicles
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Courting His Countess
Surrender
Redemption
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About the Author
C.J. Archer has loved history and books for as long as she can remember and feels fortunate that she found a way to combine the two. She has at various times worked as a librarian, IT support person and technical writer but in her heart has always been a fiction writer. Her first historical fantasy series, THE EMILY CHAMBERS SPIRIT MEDIUM TRILOGY, has sold over 45,000 copies and garnered rave reviews. C.J. lives in Melbourne with her husband, two children and a mischievous black & white cat named Coco.
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