Mrs Fairchild’s face goes pale. ‘I’ve no idea what that means. It’s probably just some prank. Just like the uninvited guest locking you in the loo.’
‘Surely a prankster wouldn’t have access to Frank’s diary—’
‘It’s not Frank’s diary,’ Mrs Fairchild says with a frown. ‘It’s the diary of the ambulance driver who pulled me from the wreckage – a man called Hal Dawkins. His nickname was “Badger”. There was a photocopy of the inscription inside the front cover – it must be with the other pages.’
‘You’ve been sent other entries? Is that why you’ve been—?’
‘Alex? Are you there? The tour bus has arrived.’
I curse under my breath as Edith appears at the door.
A wave of relief seems to pass across Mrs Fairchild’s face at the fact that our conversation is at an end. She glances out the window, where a large silver coach has disgorged a group of Japanese tourists, their leader hefting a Burberry umbrella to guide them to the front of the house.
‘Thanks,’ I say to Edith. ‘Would you mind showing them into the great hall? I’ll be there in a minute.’ When Edith has left, I turn back to Mrs Fairchild, determined not to give up quite yet. ‘When you were telling me about Frank Bolton and the orphanage, you said that he gave the jewelled locket “back” to you? What did you mean?’
Mrs Fairchild looks momentarily confused. ‘My mother had it,’ she says. ‘She gave it to me as she was dying. She told me to take it and keep it safe.’ Her face grows stricken. ‘But then I lost it. I don’t know how, but I did.’
‘Well, it’s great that you got it back.’ I remove the velvet bag from my pocket. ‘I’ll lock it back up in your jewellery box. I took it to London yesterday and showed it to The Clockmaker – like you suggested. Who…’ I feign nonchalance, ‘incidentally, happened to be a Heath-Churchley.’
She smiles guiltily. ‘Yes, you’ve caught me out. I didn’t tell you beforehand so as not to deter you. The H-Cs are old family friends. I recalled that the son fixed clocks – has a reputation for it, apparently. I met him a few times when he was young. Always seemed like a nice chap.’ I detect a slight twinkle in her eye.
‘Right.’ I swallow hard. ‘Anyway, I managed to locate him, and he had a look at it.’ I take the locket out of the velvet bag. ‘Turns out it’s actually a music box. It was broken and he fixed it.’
‘Broken?’ She stares at the locket in my hand like she’s seeing it for the first time. ‘Yes, it was broken – that’s right, I remember now.’ The shutters drop down over her face and I know she won’t share whatever it is she’s remembered.
‘There was a key shoved inside.’
‘A key? To what?’
‘I was hoping you might know.’
She shakes her head emphatically. ‘No.’ Her response is disappointing, but I believe her.
‘Have a look at this.’ I open the clasp on the locket. The bird pops up on its metal perch and begins its slow dance around in a circle. The impossibly tiny hinges on its beak move, the jewels catch the light, and it ‘sings’ its song like the tinkling of bells.
Mrs Fairchild’s cornflower blue eyes grow wider and rounder, following the bird like she’s in a trance. Almost uncannily, the years seem to melt off her face. A sound comes from her throat – a low hum. She closes her eyes. As the song begins again, she opens her mouth and words come out. Words to a song in a foreign language that I don’t understand. But the melody is sweet and simple – a lullaby, maybe. Suddenly she opens her eyes and gasps. ‘Put that away!’ she yells. She cups her hand over mine and snaps the bird back into its silver cage. Her eyes are alight with a strange fire. ‘Mamochka?’ she says, grabbing my arm.
‘Mrs Fairchild?’ I whisper.
Her eyes roll upwards and she sags against me. I just manage to drag her to a chair where she collapses in a dead faint.
‘Help!’ I call out, rushing to the door. ‘I need help!’ I can hear the footsteps of the tour group, the hum of their voices, and shutters snapping on cameras.
Edith rushes over. When she sees Mrs Fairchild draped on the chair, her hand flies to her mouth. ‘What happened?’
‘She collapsed. Fainted, I think.’
‘Should I call an ambulance?’
Behind Edith in the hall, I hear footsteps and worried voices.
‘Distract the tour.’ I switch to damage-control mode. ‘She’s got some smelling salts somewhere – I’ll try those first.’
‘In the kitchen drawer, I think.’ Edith says. ‘I’ll go check.’
‘Okay.’
I go back to Mrs Fairchild and smooth the silver hair back from her face. ‘It’s okay,’ I whisper, though in truth I’m terrified to see her like this. ‘Whatever’s going on, we’ll sort it out together.’
She murmurs something, and my heart seizes up in anticipation of her speaking again in whatever language is programmed deep within her brain. But then her mouth clamps shut and the wrinkles deepen around her lips.
‘Found them!’ Edith returns holding out a little green vial of smelling salts.
‘Thanks.’ I open the vial and hold it under Mrs Fairchild’s nose, turning away myself to avoid the overpowering odour of ammonia. She breathes in, and her nose twitches. She begins to stir just as the lady with the Burberry umbrella enters the room, followed by a clump of tourists. There are a few exclamations in Japanese, and all of a sudden, the click of a camera.
‘No photos please!’ I jump to my feet and rush over to try to move the crowd out the door. But halfway there, my foot catches the edge of the rug and I go sprawling to the floor. The room explodes with the light of photo flashes and the exclamations of gleeful tourists getting way more excitement than they bargained for on their tour of an old English house.
Part 2
‘Only when the clock stops does time come to life.’
― William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury
- V -
13th November 1940 – 12:25 a.m.
Flea and his partner began loading the ambulance with the rest of the bodies. The girl started to shiver, going into shock. ‘Stay here,’ I said to her. I went to the front of the ambulance and rummaged around for a spare blanket that wasn’t already covered with blood. I found one – coarse and crumpled – behind the passenger seat and pulled it out. When I turned back, Flea was bending over the girl’s mother, his fingers groping her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ I said sharply.
‘Nothing, mate,’ Flea stood up, quickly slipping his hand in his pocket. ‘Just checking for a pulse.’
We stared at each other and I saw something unexpected. Cruelty. It was like we hadn’t known each other all our lives and that I was seeing him for the first time. He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. The moment passed.
‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Help us finish loading up.’
I went back to the girl and put the blanket around her shoulder. Her face was blank as she hugged her knees to her chest. Then I helped Flea load Marina’s body into the ambulance. Had she been wearing a ring – the plain gold one she often wore so no one would question her having a child? Her fingers were bare and bloated now. I pretended that her blown-apart limbs were just waxworks like in the museum we visited once on a school trip. That the explosions in the distance were fireworks set off for bonfire night. I went about my work as an actor in a pantomime. One of those Greek tragedies maybe, where everyone goes crazy and ends up killing each other.
When the ambulance was loaded, Flea stood ready to slam the door. ‘You want a ride back to base, Badger?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to get the girl to safety.’
‘Take her to Sadie’s,’ Flea said. ‘She loves taking in strays. Cats usually. But in this case, she might make an exception.’
I nodded. As much as I wished there was another option, it would have to do for tonight. My bedsit was no place for a little girl, and I knew she should have a woman to comfort her. Flea’s landla
dy – a big, mumsy Northerner – would do.
Flea got into the ambulance, his eyes lingered again on the locket around the girl’s neck. As they sped off leaving only me and her, I felt her eyes burning question marks into my skin: What will become of me? Will you leave me too? Why did you save me when there’s nothing left?
- Chapter 15 -
I manage to revive Mrs Fairchild with a cup of tea, and get her propped up on the sofa by the fireplace. I ask Edith to look after her, for fear that seeing me might cause her to relapse. When I catch up with the tour group, a few people whisper and point; and though I try to salvage my dignity, it’s a lost cause. I lead the group through the house as quickly as possible. When the last stragglers are dispatched into the gift shop, I go back to the dining room, but Mrs Fairchild is gone. I find Edith coming down the stairs. ‘She wanted to go to her room,’ she tells me. ‘I said that one of us would check on her after lunch.’
‘Thanks,’ I say.
Edith and I return to the gift shop and help out Katie – the girl minding the till – with the customers. When the tour bus finally leaves, I go up to look in on Mrs Fairchild, but her door is shut and there’s no answer when I knock. Disappointed, I go outside to the garden and find a quiet bench under the grape arbour. I ring Karen and tell her what happened. ‘The song sparked a memory in her,’ I say. ‘She started singing in a foreign language.’
‘Weird,’ Karen says. ‘What language was it?’
‘I don’t know. Polish? Russian? I’m afraid to ask. She’s still in shock.’
‘Well, I guess if you can’t ask her, you’ll need to go back to Plan B.’
‘Plan B?’
‘You have to go and ask you-know-who.’ Karen is matter-of-fact. ‘And make sure you keep me posted.’
You-know-who. As much as I hate to admit it, Karen’s right.
*
The next day, first thing, I go over to the house to check on Mrs Fairchild, but Edith tells me that she has a migraine and doesn’t want to see anyone – by which I assume she doesn’t want to see me. I arrange for the staff to check on her periodically, and then head back to London.
I retrace my steps from last time, wending my way through the narrow streets to the strange little workshop behind the auctioneers. Heath-Churchley or no, I need to see the Clockmaker.
I arrive at five minutes past the hour, so this time there’s no fanfare of chimes to herald my entrance, just a background ticking like a distant hive of bees. It’s strangely comforting to find the man I’ve come to see alone in his workshop just the same as before.
Instead of announcing myself, I stand at the door watching him work. Over his strange light-blue eyes, he has on a pair of industrial goggles, and his tall frame is stooped over as he heats a piece of metal with a blowtorch. When the metal glows red, he shapes it with a tiny instrument, then quenches the metal in a vat. The liquid makes a sizzling sound and steam rises up. It’s such an odd trade for a posh public school boy, but watching him work with precision and focus, he’s obviously in his element. Dad always used to say that ‘the apple never falls far from the tree’, but nonetheless, he seems much different than the other members of his family that I’ve had the misfortunate to become acquainted with.
He removes the metal from the quench bath and drops it into another vat. He turns a knob to heat the liquid, and puts down his tongs. Then he turns in my direction, like he’s known all along that I’ve been watching.
‘Hi Alex.’ He removes his goggles and pushes his dark hair off his face. ‘I was hoping you’d come back.’
‘Hi,’ I say, unexpectedly pleased that he’s remembered my name. ‘I’m sorry I ran out last time. It’s just—’
‘You discovered my dubious family connections,’ he says with a smile. ‘Before I could even introduce myself properly. I’m Chris – or’ – he straightens up with exaggerated stiffness – ‘Christopher, if you ask my father.’
‘Unfortunately, your father is not my greatest fan.’ I outline the circumstances under which we had the misfortune to meet. I tell him exactly what his father called me, and about his threat to have me ‘out on my ear’. Raw emotion wells up inside me – I shouldn’t care what some buffoon said to me in a fit of anger, but I guess my peasant skin isn’t as thick as I like to think. All the while I’m speaking, he continues to work, but his face creases deeper and deeper into a frown.
‘But you haven’t been sacked, right?’ he sounds concerned.
‘No. Luckily my boss, Catherine Fairchild, is too sensible to be bullied.’
‘Okay, that’s good.’ To my surprise, he starts to chuckle. ‘Poor you,’ he says. ‘I know it isn’t funny, but that’s the way it is with my father – you either have to laugh or cry.’
‘I wanted to tell him where to go.’
‘You should have!’
‘I couldn’t though. I was only doing my job – throughout the whole debacle. I thought I was doing the right thing – by getting the substitute vicar.’ I shake my head. ‘Little did I know.’
‘What a cock-up all around – no pun intended. I can just picture Cee-Cee’s face. Getting her comeuppance can’t have been pleasant.’
‘What do you mean?’ I raise an eyebrow.
‘The wedding was supposed to have happened last year. Until Cee-Cee hooked up with someone on her hen night. They cancelled a week before, rather than on the day. But the result was the same.’
‘Another cock-up.’ I give a little laugh.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He chuckles too. ‘My baby half-sister isn’t exactly a nun. What must you think of us?’
I wave my hand. ‘Well, if your family is that “old and proud”, I suppose you can do what you like.’ I pause. ‘But I didn’t know she was your half-sister.’
‘Same father, different mother,’ he clarifies. ‘My mum was from another stodgy old family – the Stanleys. Cee-Cee’s mum was Dad’s bit on the side Dad and Mum divorced and he married Cee-Cee’s mum. My mum’s remarried too. She lives in the south of France.’
‘Got it,’ I say. ‘Come to think of it, the mother-of-the-bride mentioned a step-son – were you supposed to be there at the wedding?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Cee-Cee and I aren’t close, but we’re still family. I never made it, though. I got a phone call saying that the wedding was off just as I was about to leave London.’
‘Well at least it wasn’t a wasted trip.’
He tidies up the tools on his desk back into their slots in the leather pouch, still looking amused. ‘Yes, but now, I’m afraid, we’ve all got to go even further afield. Since you’ve seen so much of my family’s dirty laundry, Alex, you might be interested to know that the wedding’s back on.’
‘What? You’re kidding.’
He grins. ‘Now that the wild oats are well and truly sown, they can get down to the business of being Mr and Mrs Churchley-Thursley. Try saying that five times fast.’
I laugh. ‘It’s good to hear they worked things out – I guess.’
He nods. ‘Third time’s a charm – maybe. Though Dad isn’t going to spring for a venue like yours again. It’s a registry office and reception at the family pile in Scotland.’
‘Such a shame.’ I pull a face in mock sympathy.
‘Isn’t it just?’ He finishes putting away the tools and indicates around him. ‘As you can guess, I’m a bit of a black sheep.’ His face is warm and merry. I can’t quite figure him out, but in spite of everything, he makes me feel at ease. ‘But enough about sordid family details. I don’t suppose you came all the way here to talk about Cee-Cee’s wedding. At least, I hope not.’
If Tim had said the same thing, I’d have taken it as flirtatious innuendo. But from Chris, I interpret it for what it is – interest in the locket.
‘I brought this again.’ I take the jewelled bird out of its bag and lay it on his worktable under the light. ‘I need to find out more. Mrs Fairchild told me it was just a “trinket” – a “child’s toy”. She can’t – or
won’t – tell me much else.’
He picks up the locket and turns it over in his fingers, once again looking almost mesmerised by the glittering jewels, the enamel and the filigree work. He flips the locket open with his thumb. The jewelled bird sings its song once through, and he closes it. ‘A child’s toy,’ he muses. ‘Maybe.’
My spirits droop. ‘If that’s all it is, then I don’t want to waste your time…’
He glances at me his pale eyes sparkling. ‘The question is, though, who was the child?’
‘What do you mean?’
He sets the locket back on the table and moves over to his desk – an antique table at the edge of the room covered with towers of books and papers.
‘Have you heard of the House of Fabergé?’ He takes a book from the top of the stack. It’s bookmarked in several places with yellow stickies.
‘As in the Russian Easter eggs?’
‘That’s the one.’ He sets the book in front of me. It’s hardbound with a blue and silver jewelled egg on the cover. ‘They were most famous for eggs. But really the eggs were just the tip of the iceberg.’ He flips the book open to the first sticky. There’s a picture of a splendid gold and enamel clock. ‘They did jewellery of course, but also clocks and music boxes. Read the description.’
He points to the text under the photo and I read the passage aloud: ‘The Charlottenburg Clock featured an intricate gold and enamel dial with tiny gold-leaf edged scales that fanned out into a sunburst. Inside, the brass clockworks were elaborately chased and could be seen upon opening the clock face. However, it’s most notable feature was its internal glockenspiel works which featured a menagerie of clockwork animals and birds.’
‘Birds!’ I flip through the next few pages. ‘Is there a picture?’
‘Sadly not. Many of Fabergé’s most priceless pieces were lost in the various wars: the Russian Revolution, World War One, World War Two.’ He sighs. ‘The Charlottenburg Clock was one of the casualties, I’m afraid.’
Finding Secrets Page 11