The Clockmaker's Wife

by Daisy Wood

  ‘It’s chronic catarrh,’ Miss Hart said, as they strolled together beside the Thames after Nell’s meeting with Talbot. ‘Can’t seem to shake it off but I’m not contagious.’

  ‘Poor you,’ Nell replied, as though she cared. ‘How grim. I’ve had one eye infection after another. I expect we shall all end up with scurvy.’

  They had walked downriver as far as Lambeth Bridge, then turned and headed back again. ‘This’ll do.’ Miss Hart stood looking about, then plumped herself down on a bench. ‘All right, fire away.’

  Nell sat beside her. ‘The target is Church House.’ She spoke quietly but clearly. ‘We’re to plant a bomb at the front door this evening, at nine o’clock. I have to keep a lookout at Dean’s Yard from an hour before. Miss Pardue will be waiting by the archway at the entrance to the Yard, with the bomb in a brown holdall. If the coast’s clear, I’ll give her the nod and she’ll leave it at the door. It’ll be primed to explode fifteen minutes later.’

  Miss Hart nodded. ‘Got it. Church House, nine this evening.’

  ‘But Miss Pardue’s small fry,’ Nell said urgently. ‘You have to bring in the people who’ve organised this, they’re the real villains.’

  ‘Just play your part and don’t worry about anything else.’ Miss Hart trumpeted into a sodden handkerchief. ‘It’s all under control.’

  ‘And in return, Miss Coker’s going to look into my husband’s case. Will you remind her?’ Nell laid her hand on Miss Hart’s arm. ‘She gave me her word.’

  ‘And I’m sure she’ll keep it.’ She got to her feet. ‘Well, I’d better be off. Best if we separate now, don’t you think? Good luck.’

  Nell wandered over to the low wall overlooking the river and smoked a cigarette, looking into the swirling grey water. The meeting with Bill Talbot had been strangely unsatisfactory. Miss Pardue hadn’t turned up; apparently, she’d already been given her instructions in a private briefing. Nell doubted Eunice had the guts to go through with her role, but when she expressed those doubts to Talbot, he only gave that oddly childlike smile and said she should give the woman more credit. He seemed excited, jubilant even, rubbing his hands as he talked about the ‘proper drubbing’ London had taken a couple of nights before. She and Miss Pardue were going to deliver the final bobby dazzler, he said; the cherry on the cake, so to speak. Nell had said she couldn’t wait and felt honoured to have been chosen. In fact, she felt nothing at all, not even fear. She had been scoured clean of emotion.

  She spent the afternoon in the cinema, watching Gone with the Wind for the fourth time, followed by the Movietone News. The Italians had been routed in Egypt, declared a cheery announcer, over footage of embarrassed-looking prisoners being marched through the desert. They might as well have been actors, too. After that, an extract was played from President Roosevelt’s latest fireside chat, during which he promised Britain that although his fellow Americans wouldn’t join in the fighting, they would act as the ‘arsenal of democracy’ and send over planes, ships and weapons – which Nell supposed had to be better than nothing. She just hoped they would hurry up about it. She ate an early supper at the Corner House in Piccadilly, then went back to the Palace of Westminster to change into the siren suit and marshal her belongings. She slung the haversack containing her purse and papers on her back, while the Beretta went into one deep trouser pocket and its ammunition into the other, along with her torch, her pass and Arthur’s keys, just in case.

  The waiting was nearly over. She would play her part as agreed and the next day she would pay a final visit to Miss Coker, no matter what she’d said, and extract some sort of commitment from her to help Arthur. And then, at last, she could go home to Alice. She had rung Orchard House that morning but her father had answered, and said in an offhand voice that Rose was too busy with the children to come to the telephone. Nell would have some apologising to do. She set off for Church House, about fifteen minutes’ walk away; better to be early than late. A snatch of piano music floated through an open pub doorway and three girls passed her in a cloud of scent, their arms linked. She had forgotten it was New Year’s Eve, and wondered whether she could be bothered to stay up until midnight. Arthur would want her to hear Big Ben ringing in the new year, but she felt little enthusiasm at the prospect of 1941.

  Shining her torch through the arch leading to Dean’s Yard, the grassy quadrangle outside Church House, she found the place deserted. Yet the night was pitch black and she could only see a few feet ahead. There might have been a hundred people lying in wait under cover of darkness, and indeed, she hoped there were, ready to pounce on Miss Pardue and deal with the bomb she was carrying. Or would they be waiting inside the building? A dim blue lamp illuminated the entrance to Church House; the three doors were locked and there was no sign of a caretaker.

  Nell walked on, wondering why she felt so uneasy. Bill Talbot was not to be trusted, she knew that. Why had he chosen Miss Pardue to plant the bomb, while Nell herself had the secondary role of keeping watch? Did he suspect her? What if the bomb were primed to explode as soon as Eunice Pardue set it down, rather than half an hour later? And yet there wouldn’t be much point in killing Eunice, annoying though she was. Actually, what was the point in bombing Church House at all? The place was empty and nobody was meant to know Parliament had been meeting there, so the public wouldn’t appreciate its significance. And for another thing, why was the plot called Operation Handle? The handles of the holdall, perhaps? It seemed a tenuous link. Nell stopped for a moment to listen as the familiar sound of the Westminster Chimes rang out, followed by Big Ben striking eight. An hour to go.

  That was when she realised. She stood for a moment, transfixed with horror. How could she have been so stupid? Bill Talbot had lured her here to get her out of the way. Church House was merely a distraction. She ran back through the arch and out into the street, her mind racing. There wasn’t much time; she would have to make every minute count. Think! Where was the nearest telephone box? There was one on Great George Street, near the corner of Parliament Square. She arrived out of breath, her heart thudding, to find it occupied. She yanked open the door. A red-faced man stinking of whisky was bellowing into the receiver, ‘You know I love you, Beryl.’ He broke off. ‘What on earth—?’

  ‘Forgive me. This is a matter of national importance,’ Nell said, fighting for breath. ‘I must use that telephone.’

  ‘You’ll wait your turn, young lady.’ He made as if to push the door closed, but Nell kept her foot in the way and produced the Beretta, thumbing back the safety catch. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t notice the gun was unloaded.

  ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘Don’t make me shoot you.’

  ‘Good God.’ He hung up and stumbled past her without another word, weaving into the night.

  Her hands trembling, Nell shook out some coins from her purse and dialled the Whitehall number. It was answered by a man on the third ring. ‘I’ve an urgent message for Miss Coker,’ Nell began, and then, ‘Oh, sorry.’ What was the damn phrase? ‘I’ve left my suitcase at Paddington Station.’

  ‘The lockers there are so convenient,’ came the laconic reply, and she could go ahead.

  ‘You must tell Miss Coker immediately that Church House is a red herring.’ Her voice shook. ‘Have you got that? Call off the men at Church House. The intended target is Big Ben. I repeat: the intended target is Big Ben.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  London, December 1940

  The tune of the Westminster Chimes, Arthur had told Nell more than once, was based on a passage from Handel’s Messiah. Once Nell realised Operation Handle was in fact Operation Handel, everything fell into place. Attacking Big Ben at the very moment that people all over the country – all over the world, even – were gathered to hear him ring out would be a far worse blow to morale than an explosion in some deserted building. There probably wasn’t even a bomb in the holdall, which was no doubt why Miss Pardue had been deputed to carry it. Eunice would do as she was told and not look inside
the bag. Talbot must have realised Nell was working with the Ministry and knew she would pass on everything he told her. If attention was focused on Church House at the precise moment an attack was taking place elsewhere, he would have free rein. Nell couldn’t bear to think of an explosion rather than Big Ben announcing the nine o’clock news, and the new year being greeted by silence. But would Miss Coker get her message in time and if she did, would she act on it?

  She stood for a moment outside the telephone box, dithering. She could sense people moving around her in the blackout, hear their footsteps and muffled laughter. War or no war, this was still a night for celebration, and she was the only one with any idea of the danger they were in. Panicking, she ran down the steps to the underground station and through the secret entrance to the Palace of Westminster, flashing her pass at the guard, who knew her by now. There was no point asking anyone for help; it would take too long to explain, and who would believe such an extraordinary story? She could hardly believe it herself.

  As she hurried through the colonnade, the smaller bells sounded the quarter hour. If her theory was right, there were forty-five minutes to go. She tried to think calmly. What was the plan? Talbot must have planted a bomb inside the belfry; it would be impossible for an aeroplane to target the clock tower accurately in the dark. That was why Lord Winthrop had wanted to be shown around the belfry, and why Arthur had to be got out of the way so he wouldn’t stumble across the bomb and raise the alarm. And Ralph Watkinson, too. There had to be a clockmaker on standby in the tower on New Year’s Eve, but it could only be Talbot and not either of them. She stopped for a moment to load the Beretta, her fingers trembling so violently that it took several minutes, making sure the safety catch was on before she replaced it in her pocket.

  At the foot of the clock tower, she waited for a second by the heavy wooden door, listening, then slowly, gingerly, tried the handle. It was unlocked and swung open more quickly than she’d anticipated, with an alarming creak. She grabbed to reach it, and stood on the threshold with her heart pounding loudly enough to drown anything else. Faint noises came from above, but shining her torch up the stairwell would be an immediate giveaway. The idea came to her that she must learn from Hetta, and become lithe and stealthy as a cat. Putting her foot on the first stone step, she began to climb, her ears attuned to the slightest sound and her heart pounding. There was no time to waste, yet she had to keep quiet. Nearing the belfry at last, she heard the sound of voices and people descending the staircase towards her; a couple of people, she thought, and most probably men, their tread heavy and deliberate. Uncertain whether to carry on or turn back, she gambled on hurrying ahead, taking the stairs two at a time as quietly as she could, grasping the banister with one hand and her gun in the other. The clockmakers’ room was unlocked, thank God, so she slipped inside, her breath tearing at her chest. Keeping the door open a crack, she listened as the footsteps grew louder.

  ‘It all seems to be running smoothly,’ someone said, and she recognised Lord Winthrop’s voice. ‘Like clockwork, if you’ll pardon the pun.’

  The other man laughed.

  ‘The pilot’s on his way,’ Winthrop went on, ‘so the rest is up to you and Cooke. He’s outside with the searchlight but that’s only a backup. We’re relying on you, Talbot. Don’t let us down.’

  ‘Never fear, sir,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be in position, ready and waiting.’

  The sound of footsteps grew fainter as they descended. She leaned against the wall. It had come as no surprise to hear Lord Winthrop’s voice. The man was a snake; she’d known that all along. ‘The pilot,’ he had said. So the tower was to be bombed from the air after all! Cooke was outside with the searchlight, yet Talbot had the starring role. He was going to be ‘in position’, but where? She remembered the expression he’d used: ‘the final bobby dazzler’, that’s what he’d said about the operation. And then she remembered Arthur telling her Lord Winthrop had been particularly interested in the Ayrton light above the belfry. She sank to her haunches, horrified. They were going to illuminate the tower from inside and out.

  Think, she told herself, trying to remember everything Arthur had told her about the Ayrton light. Before the war, it had been lit whenever Parliament was sitting after dark. There was a control switch by the Speaker’s chair in the Commons chamber, and she was sure Arthur had mentioned another, in the engineers’ workshop. Talbot would switch on the light from there when the time came; he wouldn’t risk venturing into the House of Commons. Putting the gun back in her pocket, she opened the door and stepped outside.

  Immediately she was seized from behind, her arms pinioned, and thrust back into the room. A light shone in her face, and behind it was Bill Talbot.

  ‘Thought I heard something.’ He twisted her arm behind her back, making her cry out, and spun her around. ‘You’re meant to be at Church House. How’s Miss Pardue going to manage on her own?’

  ‘You won’t get away with this,’ she muttered between clenched teeth, struggling in his grip. He was surprisingly strong. ‘The police know about your plan and they’re on their way.’

  He held her easily with one arm, cupping a hand to his ear. ‘Funny, I don’t hear them. Well, apologies, but I can’t stay here chatting. Goodbye, Mrs Spelman. For the last time.’

  He shoved her across the floor, so violently that she stumbled and fell. She heard the door slam shut behind her and bolts on the other side being slid across, top and bottom. Struggling to her feet, she threw herself against it, hammering with her fists, shouting at the top of her voice although there was nobody to hear. Talbot’s footsteps receded below and she was left entirely alone. Far above her head came a tremendous clatter and rumble, as though huge rocks were falling down the stairwell. The smaller bells were ringing out. She had half an hour left to live.

  She had screamed, losing control for a moment, and then driven her fingernails so fiercely into her palms that they drew blood. If she panicked, she had no chance. Shining the torch around, she took stock. Escaping via the door was impossible: the bolts that had been fitted on the outside for extra security were impregnable. The windows were too small to squeeze through and anyway, she was over a hundred feet above the ground.

  ‘Help me, Arthur,’ she begged, trying frantically to remember everything he had shown her that evening – a lifetime ago, it seemed now – in this very room. And then, looking up, she found her one chance of escape: the inspection hatch directly opposite, set into the curved wall of the weight shaft. ‘Danger, void behind this door,’ read a notice on the front.

  Her hands shaking, at last she found the key that would fit and managed to unlock it. The shaft stretched down into a dark, bottomless abyss. She knew there were sandbags at its base, although she couldn’t see them, but they wouldn’t be enough to save her if she fell. A safety bar had been placed across the entrance to warn the unwary; holding on to it, she looked up and down the shaft in search of the weights. Two of them were out of her reach below, but the middle one (Arthur would know which gear train it controlled) hung above her head, descending by halting degrees every couple of seconds. The weights hung beneath a circular wheel, suspended by steel wires that ran around this pulley and back up to a barrel on the clock mechanism. The wires had to be strong, of course. Strong enough to support her weight? Well, she was about to find out. The bile rose in her throat as she wiped her clammy palms down her thighs. Her hands would slip and the wires would cut them to pieces. She ran back to the workbench, scattering tools and clock parts until she found a couple of chamois leather polishing cloths that she wrapped around each hand.

  Rushing back to the door, she saw the weight hanging directly opposite in the shaft. It was now or never. Screwing up every ounce of courage she possessed, she ducked under the safety bar and leapt into the void. She was aiming for the wire cable, slender as a cotton thread. She missed it, of course, but was able to grab the rim of the pulley with one hand. Her legs thrashed in mid-air and the cylindrical weight beneath th
e pulley bucketed from side to side, yet she managed to grip the pulley with her other hand and achieve some sort of equilibrium, wrapping her legs around the weight and clinging on for dear life. She daren’t look down so she lifted her head to gaze up at the clock mechanism. Dear God, if Arthur could see her now! If she weren’t so terrified, she might have laughed. But this was no time for humour: the cables that supported her were too insubstantial and she was dangling hundreds of feet above the ground, the weight still lurching haphazardly. Already her legs were cramping and her hands burned where they gripped the sharp pulley rim. The weight was descending agonisingly slowly; she couldn’t hold on much longer.

  She didn’t need to. Daring to glance down for the first time, she spotted another opening in the weight shaft, a few feet below. It was covered by a wire grille that looked flimsy enough, framed at the top and bottom by another two projecting safety bars. If she could use her body to swing the weight a little nearer, she might be able to reach the top bar. It wasn’t easy, but at last she gained some momentum. Not enough, though: her fingers only brushed the bar as the weight descended. Soon she would miss her chance. Gripping the cables above the pulley, she hauled herself up so that she was standing on top of the weight, holding on at each side. Bending her knees, she crouched down, reaching for the top bar with one hand. The chamois leather fell away, fluttering down into the empty dark, but her grip was firm enough without it. She waited a couple of seconds, steadying herself, then grabbed hold of the bar with her other hand and swung her legs off the weight to kick at the grille. It stood firm. For a moment she hung from the top bar, dangling, until she managed by dint of frantic scrabbling to find purchase with one foot on the bottom bar, and then the other.