The Clockmaker's Secret E-Book

Jack Benton

• Herausgeber: AMMFA Publishing
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A buried clock holds the key to a decades-old mystery.

On holiday to escape the nightmares of his last case, disgraced soldier turned private detective John “Slim” Hardy comes upon something buried in the peat on Bodmin Moor.

Unfinished and water-damaged but still ticking, the old clock provides a vital clue to an unsolved missing-persons case.

As Slim begins to ask questions of the tiny Cornish village of Penleven, he is drawn into a world of lies, rumours, and secrets, some of which the residents would prefer to stay buried.

Twenty-three years ago, a reclusive clockmaker left his workshop and walked out onto Bodmin Moor, taking his last, unfinished clock with him.

He disappeared.

Slim is determined to find out why.

The Clockmaker’s Secret is the stunning sequel to Jack Benton’s acclaimed debut, The Man by the Sea.

Leseprobe

The Clockmaker’s Secret

The Slim Hardy Mysteries #2

Jack Benton

Also by Jack Benton

The Man by the Sea

The Clockmaker’s Secret

The Games Keeper

Slow Train

The Angler’s Tale

Eight Days

The Clockmaker’s Secret

On holiday to escape the nightmares of his last case, disgraced soldier turned private detective John “Slim” Hardy comes upon something buried in the peat on Bodmin Moor.

Unfinished and water-damaged but still ticking, the old clock provides a vital clue to a decades-old mystery.

As Slim begins to ask questions of the tiny Cornish village of Penleven, he is drawn into a world of lies, rumours, and secrets, some of which the residents would prefer to stay buried.

Twenty-three years ago, a reclusive clockmaker left his workshop and walked out onto Bodmin Moor, taking his last, unfinished clock with him.

He disappeared.

Slim is determined to find out why.

The Clockmaker’s Secret is the stunning sequel to Jack Benton’s acclaimed debut, The Man by the Sea.

“The Clockmaker’s Secret”

Copyright © Jack Benton / Chris Ward 2018

The right of Jack Benton / Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

For Brandon Hale

an inspiration

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

The Games Keeper

About the Author

Contact

Acknowledgments

1

The hike wasn’t going to plan.

The looming granite stacks of Rough Tor were a poor compass marker, shifting along the skyline as Slim Hardy attempted to realign himself with the trace of path which had led him up the hill from the car park.

To his right a small herd of wild moorland ponies blocked the direct route to the ridgeline and the tallest stacks. Their defiant eyes watched every step as Slim skirted around, moving slowly over the boggy, uneven terrain, wary of the granite scree poking through the tuffs of moorland grass.

Slim sighed. He was way off course now, Rough Tor’s long ridge rising almost straight on, and the flat peak of Brown Willy with its sprinkling of rocks appearing straight ahead across a wide, gentle valley. He reached by habit for the hip flask that was no longer there, shook his hand as though to punish himself for his forgetfulness, then sat on a rock to take a breather.

Up on the ridge, the two hikers he had followed from the car park jumped down from among the rocks and headed on towards Brown Willy. As they disappeared from sight, Slim felt a sudden pang of loneliness. At the very bottom of the slope, there were three cars in the car park alongside the blur of red that his pushbike, but of the other walkers there was no sign. Besides the ponies, he was alone.

After a bite of a leftover sandwich and a swig from a water bottle, Slim looked up at the peak, torn by indecision. He had a long cycle ride ahead of him down winding, potholed country lanes, and the battery in his light was flat. As he turned, though, the sun briefly broke through the clouds, and far to the south the English Channel glittered between two hills. To the northwest Slim looked for the Atlantic, but a bank of clouds hung low over the fields, obscuring all but the tiniest triangle of grey that might have been water.

With a persevering grunt he shouldered his rucksack and got back to the hike, but had taken no more than a few steps when a loose rock rolled under his boot, plunging him knee-deep into a pit of grimy water. Grimacing, Slim pulled his foot free of the bog and staggered forward onto drier ground.

As he removed and emptied his left boot, he gave a wistful grin, remembering that a spare pair of socks lay on the bed in his room, left out of his bag to make space for an old paperback from the guesthouse’s borrowing shelf.

Again the sun briefly emerged from the clouds, the granite stacks sparkling in the sudden brightness. The herd of ponies had moved across the hill, leaving Slim with a straight route to the ridgeline.

‘Come on,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not a quitter, are you?’

His boot squelched as he pulled it back on, but with a grimace rarely leaving his face, he finally made it to the ridgeline fifteen minutes later, clambering up the granite stacks to the highest viewpoint. Fog had rolled in, obscuring everything but the slopes of the hill. The old China clay quarries to the southwest were ghosts in the fog, but beyond a murky grey sheet hung over the world.

With the water’s grit like sandpaper between his toes, Slim paused only long enough to take a quick drink before beginning his downward journey. A warm early spring day was quickly reverting to a late winter evening, and only an hour of light remained before complete darkness. Even though the fog hadn’t yet absorbed the little gravel car park into its amorphous grey palette—a speck of red near the lower wall identified his bike—it looked a lot further than the peak had seemed when he was starting out.

He was staring off into the distance, counting the sheep huddled into a natural bowl further down the slope as a way of putting the chill gusts of wind out of his mind, when something shifted under his foot.

He fell hard, catching himself with his hands. He had fallen on the same foot, but this time he turned his ankle, and a blistering pain raced up his leg. He rolled on to his back, eased off his boot and sat rubbing his ankle for a few minutes. Removing his sodden sock revealed the beginnings of an angry bruise, and the exposure to the air sent February chills through his body. The ground here was at least dry, and he sat up and stared upslope, feeling both angry and stupid. Fool me once, fool me twice, he remembered the beginning of a saying his ex-wife had been fond of, although he had forgotten the rest.

He looked around, wondering which rock had tripped him, and frowned. Something poked up between two tufts of grass, fluttering in the breeze.

The corner of a plastic bag, shredded and frayed, its old colour long faded to a grey-white. Slim hesitated before making to pick it up, remembering his tour of Iraqi with the Armed Forces, when such a thing might have indicated a landmine, a marker for local militants still using the area. Every bit of rubbish could have meant death, and in the suburbs of some dirty, dusty towns, Slim had barely dared take a forward step.

To his surprise, it resisted his sharp tug. He pushed his hands into the turf and eased his fingers around the hard, angular shape the bag contained. It spread out beneath the turf, a couple of hand spans across, and his heart began to race. Lost military ordinance? Dartmoor, to the northeast, was used for army drills, but Bodmin Moor was supposedly safe.

He pressed a finger into the hard surface, and it gave a little. Wood, not plastic or metal. No bomb he had ever known had been made from wood.

He pulled back turf that yielded easily and twisted the wrapped object out of the grass. Square corners and carved grooves aroused his curiosity. He untied the knot on the bag and withdrew the object inside.

‘Huh…?’

The bag contained a beautiful, ornate cuckoo clock. Delicate wooden carvings surrounded a pretty central clock face. To his surprise it was still functioning, as a little cuckoo suddenly blasted out of a door above the 12-numeral, its cry a tired puff into Slim’s stunned ears.

2

‘Will you be staying on another week, Mr. Hardy?

Mrs. Greyson, the stern-faced elderly landlady of Lakeview Bed & Breakfast, an establishment which lived up to only two of its three labels, was waiting in the gloomy hall when Slim entered through the front door. Cold and aching from the long ride, and still spooked from how close a swerving Escort with a blown-out engine had come to reducing him to mincemeat, he had hoped to avoid a confrontation until he had at least taken a shower.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ he said. ‘Can I let you know tomorrow?’

‘It’s only that I need to know whether to advertise your room.’

Slim had seen no other customers in the four-room B&B. He forced a smile for Mrs. Greyson, but as he started past her for the stairs, he paused.

‘Say, you don’t know of anywhere locally that does valuations, do you?’

‘Valuations? Of what?’

Slim lifted his wrist and waved the generic watch he had picked up in a Boots sale a year ago. ‘Thought I might pawn this,’ he said. ‘I was thinking it might be time for an upgrade.’

Mrs Greyson wrinkled her nose. ‘I can tell you how much that’s worth. Nothing.’

Slim smiled. ‘I’m serious. It belonged to my father. It’s a family heirloom.’

Mrs Greyson shrugged as though aware he was spinning a lie. ‘I’m sure you’d be wasting your time, but if you’re really serious, you’ll find somewhere in Tavistock. They have a market every Saturday. It sells all kinds of junk, and no doubt you’d find someone willing to take that off your hands for a very small fee.’

‘Tavistock? Where’s that?’

‘Other side of Launceston. In Devon.’ This last was said with a wrinkled nose, as though to exist beyond the Cornish border was the most heinous of crimes.

‘Is there a bus?’

Mrs Greyson sighed. ‘Why don’t you just rent a car? What kind of person comes to Cornwall without a car?’

The kind who no longer has a driver’s license, Slim wanted to say, but didn’t. Her prejudices ran deep enough already without knowledge of his drink-driving ban.

‘I told you, I’m trying to be environmentally sensitive. I’m attempting to get in touch with my earthly side.’

‘How nice for you.’ Another sigh. ‘We’ll, there’s a timetable pinned to the door of your room, as I’ve told you before.’

Slim didn’t remember whether she had told him or not. True, there was something, but it was faded to near illegibility and most likely years out of date.

‘Thanks,’ he said, giving her a smile.

‘Honestly, you don’t know how lucky you are now that First Bus has started operating in North Cornwall. Used to be, there was only one bus to Camelford all week. It left at two p.m. on Tuesday and you had to wait a week to get home again. Imagine getting stuck in Camelford for a week? An hour’s enough for most people.’

‘That bad, is it?’

Mrs. Greyson missed Slim’s gentle sarcasm. ‘They’ve been after a bypass for years. At least now the buses go twice a day. That was Blair, that was, sorted it out. Things have gone downhill since the Tories got back in. They were after the sea pool at Bude, then the public toilets in—’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Greyson,’ Slim said.

Mrs. Greyson turned back towards the kitchen, mouth still moving silently as though words continued to fall out like drips from a leaking tap, her hands clumsily shuffling a clutch of bills and bank statement envelopes. Slim had just begun to hope the conversation was over when she stopped and turned back. ‘Will you be going out for dinner again tonight?’

Penleven had a single shop that shut at six p.m., and a single pub that stopped serving food at eight-thirty. He had half an hour to make it to his lonely table in the family room or it was a Cup Noodle and a tuna sandwich for the third night in a row. While Slim had his reasons for his extended stay in Cornwall, living up to his nickname name wasn’t one of them.

He nodded. ‘I think I will,’ he said.

‘Well, don’t forget your key,’ she said, something she had said to him every night of his three-week stay. ‘I’m not getting up to let you back in.’

3

Up in his neat, surprisingly large room for a house that was outwardly rather small, Slim took the bundled clock out of his rucksack and unwrapped it from the plastic bag.

He knew nothing about clocks. His last flat had contained a single cheap plastic one the previous occupant had left behind, and to tell the time he invariably used his old Nokia or a succession of bargain bin wristwatches until they were scratched beyond readability.

The clock was a wooden rectangle designed like a winter lodge, with a pointed, overhanging roof and a hole in the bottom for an absent pendulum. The clock face, with its metal roman numerals that were slightly tainted, was surrounded by swirls and carvings: animal and tree designs, symbols that perhaps represented the sun and moon or seasons. In a semi-circle beneath the clock face was a thin strip resembling a moon tilted upwards, or perhaps an unfinished horseshoe. A few illegible scratches had been made in its surface. The whole clock had been coated with a thick varnish primer coat, one to be sanded and smoothed away as the design was finalized and refined.

Slim gave a bemused shake of his head. He had never encountered a handmade clock before. If someone had taken the time to create something so complex, why wrap it up in a bag and bury it on the moor?

Interestingly, despite the lack of a pendulum it was still ticking, even though the hands were a couple of hours off correct time—it was now showing nearly eleven—and the bottom was badly water-damaged where the bag had ripped open. Slim tried to take the back off to look inside, but it was screwed tight, and with no tools of his own he didn’t want to bother Mrs. Greyson again before morning. The wood, though, had the burned dirt smell of peat, as well as an aged mustiness. Slim could easily believe the clock was older than his own forty-six years.

Slim fetched a damp cloth from the corner washbasin and gave the clock a wipe down. The varnish quickly reached an imperious shine as grit and dust came away. Details in the carvings became more apparent: mice, foxes, badgers and other staples of British wildlife hiding among the filed curves and arcs of trees. With the firm click of the clock mechanism suggesting a mechanical knowhow equal to the artistic, whoever had built this clock had done it with great pride and an exceptional level of skill.

Slim set the clock up on the dresser beside his bed then fetched his coat. It was time for his nightly trek out to the local pub, hopefully in time to catch the last food orders. He didn’t feel like a Chicken & Mushroom Pot Noodle for the third night in a row. It wasn’t that he hated Pot Noodles, it was that the village’s little shop only stocked the one flavour. On the one night he had leveled up and bought a tin of beans and sausages, he had found it to be three months out of date.

As he headed out into the light drizzle that was a mainstay of Bodmin Moor and its surrounds after nightfall, he couldn’t stop thinking about the clock.

Had he found a bag of gold, it couldn’t have been more mysterious.

4

‘So, who are you, really, Mr. Hardy?’ Mrs. Greyson said, holding back his breakfast plate as though its delivery were reliant on his answer. ‘I mean, you stay here at my guesthouse in the middle of nowhere for weeks on end, and all you do every day is walk on the moors or wander about the village. Are you here for any particular reason?’

Slim shrugged. ‘I’m a recovering alcoholic.’

‘Yet you dine in the Crown every night?’

‘Call it penance,’ Slim said. ‘I’m confronting my personal demons. Plus, I always sit in the family room, out of sight of the booze.’

‘But why here? Why Penleven? If I hadn’t noticed your inability to remember basic functions like to take your front door key when you go out, I might imagine you to be a spy in hiding.’

Slim shrugged. ‘I couldn’t afford to go abroad. And I’ve always been attracted to Cornwall, particularly the cold, dark, featureless parts most people avoid.’

‘Well, there’s nowhere more like that than Penleven,’ Mrs. Greyson said with an air of slight disappointment, as though she had once had an opportunity to leave but missed her chance. ‘There are only a couple of hundred people in the village, but at least we’re not a winter ghost town like many of the coastal villages.’

‘Ghost town?’

‘Boscastle, Port Isaac, Padstow … they’re all holiday homes. Thriving in summer, deserted in winter. We might not be a bustling community, but at least there’s always a friendly face in the shop or the pub.’

On the occasions he had ventured into the Crown’s bar to order his meal, Slim had seen few friendly faces but lots of downtrodden ones, slumped over their pints, staring into space. Perhaps it was the winter—at night the wind howled, rattling his window hard enough, he feared sometimes, to rip it out of the wall, and it was proper dark on the road up to the guesthouse, not the city-dark Slim was accustomed to. Or perhaps it was that there was little to talk about in these parts. Slim got no reception on his phone unless he walked a mile uphill towards the A39, but for someone with more to forget than look forward to, it was an ideal situation.

As though giving up the hunt for the snippet of gossip that might briefly elevate her profile among the tongue-wagging older members of the community, Mrs. Greyson set Slim’s breakfast down and stood back, folding her arms, standing watch for a few moments before abruptly turning on her heels and marching back into the kitchen. Slim was left alone in the guesthouse’s cramped dining area: three tables pushed so tight against the walls they had marked the wallpaper, and one floating in the middle as though forgotten. Mrs. Greyson, in some act of defiance against his nerve at burdening her with his business, laid up the least desirable spot of all for Slim each morning, on a table tucked behind a door into the hall. The menu, with three of the four options crossed off, consisted only of a boiled cabbage fry up with an occasional side helping of baked beans. Slim had so much wind he had to leave his bedroom window open at night.

At least the toast was consistently pleasant, and the coffee, while lacking the extra something Slim might once have added, was strong and tasted like it was brewed yesterday, the way Slim liked it.

He finished up quickly, shouted thanks to Mrs. Greyson then headed out before she could corner him again. He was greeted by a damp wind whistling off Bodmin Moor a couple of miles to the east that challenged his jacket to keep him both dry and warm. Even when the moors were dry, Penleven was shrouded in the same mist-rain, as though owner of its own microcosmic weather system.

The bus was an acceptable ten minutes late, and took him on a seemingly endless meander through forested valleys along narrow, snaking lanes until finally emerging in the valley of the pretty town of Tavistock. Laid out along a stretch of the River Tavy, it was a pleasant collection of historic streets lined by surprisingly cosmopolitan shops. Enjoying the rare comfort of people, Slim took the opportunity to upgrade the old soap in Mrs. Greyson’s bathroom, buy himself a t-shirt from H&M, and then took lunch in a Wetherspoons pub. Returning to his purpose after a big screen rugby game had finished, he located the indoor market near the river and asked around for an antiques dealer. Three people recommended Geoff Bunce, the owner of a bric-a-brac store tucked into the northeastern corner beside a bustling café.

‘I need a clock valued,’ Slim told the white-bearded Bunce, whose girth and facial hair gave him the appearance of an out-of-season Father Christmas, a look accentuated by the suspenders that stretched over his protruding belly.

‘Let me take a look.’

Bunce turned the clock over several times, humming under his breath with contented appreciation, every so often glancing up at Slim with a suspicious narrowing of his eyes.

‘You mind if I open up the back?’

‘Sure.’

As Bunce got to work with a screwdriver, Slim took a seat beside his desk and let his eyes drift over the shelves and boxes loaded with bric-a-brac. Not so much antiques as dusty junk from pasts long forgotten.

‘You a friend of old Birch?’ Bunce said abruptly.

‘What?’

Bunce held out a water-damaged envelope.

‘Old Birch. Amos.’

Slim frowned, wondering if Bunce had slipped into a Cornish dialect. Then, with a hint of frustration, the man repeated, ‘Amos Birch. The man who made this clock. Lived over in Trelee, near Bodmin Moor. Owned a farm. In his early days, used to sell his clocks right here in Tavistock market, before he got well-known. He was a friend of yours?’

‘Yeah, a friend.’

‘Then I’ll guess this belongs to you.’ The man shook the envelope as though to remind Slim of its existence.

Slim took it, immediately feeling the aged delicacy of the paper coupled with damp. If he tried to open it, the envelope would fall apart in his hands, and any message contained within would be lost.

‘Ah, that’s where that got to,’ he said, giving the storekeeper an unconvincing grin. ‘I was looking for that.’

‘Sure you were, Mr.—?’

‘Hardy. John Hardy, but people call me Slim.’

‘I won’t ask why.’

‘Don’t. It’s not a story worth telling.’

Bunce sighed again. He turned the clock one more time. ‘It’s unfinished,’ he said, confirming what Slim had already surmised. ‘I’m guessing your friend Birch gave this to you as a gift? He couldn’t have sold it in this condition, a man of his reputation.’

‘It sounds like you knew him well.’

‘School friends. Amos was two years older but there weren’t a lot of kids around. Everyone knew everyone else.’

‘I guess that’s small communities for you.’

‘You’re not from round here, are you, Mr. Hardy?’

Slim had always felt he spoke with a neutral accent, but that by itself made him an outsider where strong Westcountry accents were expected.