by Simon Clark
‘Fine.’
‘All right everybody.’ Fabian checked his notes again. ‘Can I finish this before we break for lunch?’
This time when Fabian started speaking Fisher made sure that he couldn’t see his reflection in the glass.
They made lunch a fast one to give them time to find the hidden clock. Later in the afternoon Fabian intended to play recordings of his solo demos. So this was the main topic of conversation over microwave enchiladas and coffee. There was beer in the kitchen but already Fabian had taped a timetable onto the kitchen door. In prominent letters at the top of the sheet were the words, NO BOOZE UNTIL 8 P.M. WORK FIRST. PLAY LATER. As they ate, the hidden clock struck a lone chime to mark the passing of one o’clock.
‘Sounds like a cue if ever I heard one,’ Marko said. ‘You ready?’
Fisher drained his coffee cup. ‘As I ever will be.’
When they left the others eating cake around the table and were in the relative privacy of the corridor, Marko said, ‘If you hate these songs of Fabian’s are you going to leave?’
Fisher felt the dry smile tug the muscles of his mouth. ‘So we’ve been thinking the same thing?’
‘I’m not going to stay in a band if I don’t like its music. Life’s too short.’
Fisher strolled along beside Marko. Outside, blustery weather threw rain at the window.
Marko shook his head at the rattle of raindrops. ‘Jesus, could Fabian have picked anywhere bleaker on earth?’
‘It’s deliberate. He wanted to isolate us here. So we wouldn’t slope off to the clubs.’
‘He found the right place, then. There isn’t so much as a farmhouse for miles. And have you seen that swamp at the back of the house? It just about turns this place into an island.’
Fisher spoke with feeling, ‘Yeah, but if we decide to get out of here Sterling can drive us out in the van.’
‘Knowing Fabian he’ll have thought of that, too. He’s probably got all the car keys hidden under his bed.’
The talk had been flippant but when they both paused to look at each other Fisher found himself thinking: maybe that’s closer to the truth than we think.
When they reached the entrance hall with the twin doors to their right and the elegant staircase sweeping upwards to their left they stopped again.
Fisher asked, ‘OK, Marko, any ideas where the mystery clock’s hiding itself.’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. The chimes come from everywhere.’
‘Hell, you can even hear them outside.’
Marko grinned. ‘So it’s a phantom clock. Let’s tell Fabian that and forget about it.’
‘Yeah, just imagine the look on his face.’
‘Wait, I’ll grab one of these. It might tell us something.’ Marko pulled one of the glossy brochures from boxes stacked by the entrance. They were the sales particulars for the auction of the house. From the date on the cover, beneath a photograph of The Tower in sunlight, the auction had taken place six months ago.
Marko flipped through the pages. ‘Dimensions, specifications, services. Heck, there’s pages of it.’
‘There might be something in the introduction.’
Marko flipped back the pages, then began to read. ‘“The Tower. A substantial property of largely eighteenth-century construction with a medieval core, comprising a thirteenth-century façade of a dwelling house of astonishing preservation …” That goes on to talk about its construction and architectural what-not. Hey, listen to this: “Extensive grounds of woodland, open pasture … and water-based habitat—”’
‘That’ll be the swamp.’
‘“There is a serviceable runway of World War II vintage with civil aviation authority for use by light aircraft. However, military authorities have reserved the right to requisition the facility if required in the unlikely event of national emergency.”’
‘That means World War Three, and the bombers will come back. Any mention of the clock?’
‘Hold your horses, Fisher. But look at this; it says “In 1944 a German fighter plane machine-gunned an outbuilding before being hit by ground fire. The aircraft plunged into the east wing of the property, killing eight servicemen in their second-floor dormitory.” Hey, listen to this: “But such is the durable construction of the house that even though the blast wave resulted in loss of life, damage to the property was limited to a broken window. Its stone structure escaped unscathed.” Isn’t that weird? To include details of an explosion that kills eight men in the house you’re trying to sell?’
‘Any developer who buys it won’t care; they’re not going to be living here, are they?’ Fisher regarded the staircase that curved upward to vanish into the dark body of the tower above them. He sensed the weight of all that stonework sitting on the buttresses hidden within the walls. ‘It’ll add to the romance of the place.’
‘Yeah, as romantic as Frankenstein’s castle.’
‘Mind if I join you, gentlemen?’
Fisher turned to see one of Adam Ambrose’s girlfriends, the one with short dark hair. She wore a tight-fitting sweater and jeans that were tucked into boots that were a shiny licorice black. One thing that caught his eye was her astonishingly slim waist that flexed in a lithe way as she walked. Kym or Belle? he asked himself. I can never remember which one is which. But I think this is the Eastern European one.
‘So is it all right if I walk with you? To find the clock that is the bane of Mr Fabian’s life?’
He was right. Her Eastern European accent had a delicate exotic quality.
Marko stopped staring at her with an effort. ‘Yeah, fine, OK, sure.’ Blushing, he smiled like a tongue-tied 14 year old.
‘Be our guest,’ Fisher told her. ‘I don’t know how exciting it will be.’
‘But Mr Fabian must have his clock made silent; is that not so?’
‘That’s right, uhm …’
‘I’m the one called Kym. Belle is blonde. You’ll remember now?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Now Fisher found his blood warming as he began to fully appreciate her combination of looks, poise, accent and gentle charm.
‘You’re part of the band?’
‘Yes,’ Fisher said. ‘I’m Fisher. This is Marko.’
‘Fisher? Like a man who catches fish?’
‘That’s just my name. I play bass.’
‘I’m joking. Perhaps Czech humour isn’t to your taste?’
Fisher smiled. ‘It’s fine by me. And welcome to The Tower by the way.’
‘It’s one to creep the nerve, isn’t it.’ She mimed a shiver and rubbed her slender arms. ‘When I look at it, it makes my body cold.’
Marko was staring again.
Fisher said, ‘Marko? Marko.’ Marko snapped out of it. Fisher continued, ‘We’d best find the clock otherwise Fabian will go and sulk in his room.’
Marko beamed his boyish smile again, ‘Mr Fabian to you, Fisher.’
Kym put her hand to her lips as she laughed. ‘I’m sorry. I teased you. I always think the gentleman wishes that we should call him Mister Fabian.’
Fisher still smiled, only he wasn’t at all confident where this woman’s loyalties lay. ‘Any luck with the catalogue, Marko?’
‘Uhm?’
‘The clock.’
‘What are you using there?’ she asked as she reached out slender fingers to lift the document that Marko held so she could see the cover.
‘It’s the sale particulars put together by the auctioneer. We hoped it might mention the clock.’
Marko still had a propensity for the shy grin. ‘We can find out about the history of the place; nothing about the secret clock.’
‘Check in the appendices,’ she told him. ‘There will be a section on mechanical installations and plumbing. There’s no need to stare at me, gentlemen, we have education in Prague, you know? I didn’t grow up milking goats in a peasant shack.’
Marko fumbled pages. After some flicking forwards with a lost expression on his face his eyes suddenly opened wide.
‘Ah, here. “A blind clock built by Joshua Melpesson, installed in 1898. Converted to imperial standard alternating current in 1929. Spring chime sounds hours.” A blind clock? What—’ For a moment he seemed to debate whether to use more vibrant language in front of Kym. ‘What the Dickens is a blind clock?’
Fisher shrugged.
Kym explained, ‘A type of clock where you can’t see the face.’
‘What’s the use in that?’
‘You’re not supposed to see it, Marko,’ she said. ‘You hear it. Don’t you see? In a big house like this it would have been expensive and inconvenient to provide a clock for every room and passageway. However, it would be necessary for inhabitants and domestic staff to keep track of time. So the owner installs a blind clock. It chimes on the hour and everyone here knows the time. See?’ She folded her arms. ‘Don’t keep looking at me like that, gentlemen. I do know what I’m talking about. Such timepieces can be found in the big houses of Eastern Europe, too.’
‘But how can you hear it all over the house?’
As they climbed the stairs she scanned the walls, then pointed. ‘See the air vents set in the walls? They are also sound conduits, you know? Like the old speaking tubes on ships. The tubes conduct the sound of the chimes from the clock. If those are the outlets for the sound there will also be a box, perhaps made of tin, that will act as a resonator to … how you say? Amplify the sound, much like your Marshall amplifiers.’
Fisher nodded. ‘Well, I’m convinced. The only question now is, where did they hide the clock?’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘That is the salient question. Where? It is a clock that need not be displayed so it might be buried in the walls.’
Marko grunted. ‘Then we might not find the damn thing anyway.’
She began to climb the stairs at a faster pace, ‘Oh, there will be an inspection hatch. Its mechanism will require periodic maintenance. Yes?’
At the first floor she struck off along the corridor. She was so eager to find the hidden clock she didn’t bother with the lights.
‘Ah, gentlemen,’ she called out. ‘Quickly! Come and see what I’ve found!’
CHAPTER 9
Kym stood with her palms resting on top of the timber balustrade. Marko and Fisher followed behind along the corridor. She thought: they’re surprised at what I know. They think that because I am one third of that triangular relationship of Adam’s that I’m some kind of idiot. But they are nice men. I like them. They are unpretentious. Unlike Fabian. He’s a cold fish of a man.
Now she delighted in revealing what she’d found. ‘You have to press that strip on the wall. See, it switches on the lights. They’re on a timer.’ Along the wall ran a narrow strip of metal at waist height. ‘Go on, press it, Fisher. It won’t bite you.’
He was good-natured enough to know that she was teasing in a friendly way. He touched the silvery strip. Immediately light sprang from globes set in the ceiling.
‘Now come see what I’ve found. Be quick. The lights are governed by a timer. They’ll probably go out in a moment.’
They joined her at the balustrade. If anything it resembled a balcony that didn’t look out, but looked in. She enjoyed the surprise on their faces when they stared downward to see a wall of rough stone; it was the colour of sun-bleached bone. Set in the wall were a row of five windows on the second floor. On the first floor was a low oblong doorway that even a child would have to stoop to pass through. At either side of that dwarfish aperture were two more sets of windows. They were framed by slabs of black stone that also formed the lintel to support the wall of roughly hewn stones. Above the front door was the weathered carving of what might have been a bird or dragon. Wings were visible, and a long curving neck that terminated in a head with wide-open jaws.
Fisher said, ‘I take it that’s what they describe as the medieval core of the house.’
‘Oh? It says so in the book?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘It’s called The Good Heart.’
Marko whistled. ‘So why have they built one house inside another house?’
Kym shook her head. ‘No, the other way round. What you’re seeing is the front of the house that was here many centuries ago. It had ancestral importance, yes? You follow? Like a family heirloom? So, rather than demolish the old house when they built The Tower in the eighteenth century, they constructed it so the new structure enveloped the old house. Now you have a building within a building like those Russian dolls that contain yet a smaller figure within the body.’ They were impressed. ‘In fact, within that older house, you might even find the remains of a yet more ancient dwelling.’
At that moment the lights went out plunging them into darkness. With the fire doors shut to the staircase not a glimmer of light penetrated the gloom.
‘You can find that strip on the wall again?’
‘Got it.’ That was Fisher’s voice. A second later the ceiling lamps came on to throw their light onto the pale stone. Simultaneously the hidden clock struck two. The shimmering chimes ghosted through the air. They hung suspended for a moment in sustained hum before dying away.
‘Fabian will be expecting us back to hear his songs.’
‘Ah, Marko, Mr Fabian is cracking his ring-master’s whip?’
‘We’re committed to making this work,’ Fisher told her. ‘That’s why we’ve taken the trouble to come here.’
‘Then I’d best silence the clock, so you can work in peace.’ She held out her hand to Marko. ‘If I can have the book.’ Quickly she fanned through the pages. ‘Surveyors should be professional; therefore, they need to have stated the location of the clock mechanism. Ah, here … I suspected so. The medieval core of the house is situated in its centre. Leading to it is the ornamental walkway known as The Promenade. Therefore, the tower extends directly above The Good Heart, so it becomes the ideal location for the clock mechanism. Yes. The service hatch is located in a buttress just within that doorway down there.’
‘You can’t go down there.’
Kym looked at Marko in surprise. ‘Why ever not?’
‘There’s no power in that part of the house. They shut down everything apart from the power to the ground floor in the wing we’re using.’
Fisher frowned. ‘Well, the lights work up here.’
Kym shrugged. ‘An oversight, or they’re on the same circuit as the emergency lighting.’
‘But they might not work down there.’
‘I know,’ she told them brightly. ‘You two gentlemen remain up here in the gallery. Whenever the lights go out put them on again. I can see switches down there at the end of the façade. Once I’ve switched on those I can find the clock mechanism and make Fabian happy with the quiet we’ll bring. You’re OK with that?’
Fisher said, ‘You’re confident you can take care of the clock?’
‘Take care? Oh, I see. Take care of the clock, meaning killing it. Well, I won’t hurt it. I’ll simply remove the fuse so it doesn’t work. I can replace the fuse when we leave. See, you’re looking at me as if I’ve grown three heads. Yes, the workings of the clock don’t concern me. My university degree is in engineering, for the study of locomotion by electrical means. I wrote dissertations on Volta and the Linear motor. I don’t think an electrical clock should present difficulties, do you?’
The two shook their heads. Fisher asked, ‘And you don’t want us to come down with you?’
‘You’ll have noticed I’m a big girl now, Mr Fisher. Stay here with Marko to work the light, so I can see. I’ll be back here in five minutes.’
The lights went out. She heard the tap of a hand on the light switch that ran the full length of the corridor. A second later radiance flooded them to spill over the balustrade. It illuminated the front of the ancient farmhouse that until 200 years ago stood four-square to the brutal elements of this northern land.
Fisher waited by the balustrade while Marko hung back near the corridor wall where the strip switch ran along its length. Kym would have to walk downstairs then ent
er the walkway beneath him through a door in the entrance hall. The light switches were set in the wall right at the end of the preserved shell. He’d never seen anything quite like this before. Years ago he’d visited a hotel that had been built on the site of a monastery. The first floor of the monastery had over the years sunk underground. The hotel utilized this ancient subterranean level as its wine cellar. This, however, had been lovingly – obsessively? – preserved. The bone-grey walls stretched up perhaps two full storeys in front of him, a height of perhaps twenty-five feet. He looked directly into the glazed windows that were so small and deep-set that they were nothing like modern windows. They radiated an aura of something alien rather than antique. The little panes supported by an intricate web of lead strips glinted with a dark violet hue, as if that house within a house had filled itself with liquid shadow to conceal whatever might reside there. Just to look at the structure with its bowed walls and misshapen windows invited notions that the entire structure had at various times become soft as warm plastic that resulted in its dimensions losing their symmetry. Its appearance also reinforced the notion that this house didn’t obey the normal rules of the universe. Only too pungently he recalled the way his room had imploded last night, until it felt as if his body was being crushed by the jaws of a monster. Without being fully conscious of the action, his hand rubbed the sore bruise on his chest. Then there was the reflection in the glass this morning; it didn’t behave as a reflection should. Strange times, Fisher, he told himself. Strange, strange times.
‘Can you see her yet, Fisher?’ Marko leaned forward over the balustrade to look down into The Promenade, which formed a chasm some twenty feet wide and thirty feet high in the centre of the building.
‘Marko, you’re supposed to stay near the switch in case the … there, it’s proved my point.’
The sixty-second timer killed the lights again. Darkness was instantaneous.
‘No sweat, Fisher, I’ll find it.’
