Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams from Severn House
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
Recent Titles by Jane A. Adams from Severn House
The Naomi Blake Mysteries
MOURNING THE LITTLE DEAD
TOUCHING THE DARK
HEATWAVE
KILLING A STRANGER
LEGACY OF LIES
SECRETS
GREGORY’S GAME
PAYING THE FERRYMAN
A MURDEROUS MIND
FAKES AND LIES
The Rina Martin Mysteries
A REASON TO KILL
FRAGILE LIVES
THE POWER OF ONE
RESOLUTIONS
THE DEAD OF WINTER
CAUSE OF DEATH
FORGOTTEN VOICES
The Henry Johnstone Mysteries
THE MURDER BOOK
DEATH SCENE
KITH AND KIN
THE CLOCKMAKER
THE CLOCKMAKER
Jane A. Adams
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First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2019 by Jane A. Adams.
The right of Jane A. Adams to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8888-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-609-8 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0226-0 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
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PROLOGUE
3 February 1929
It wasn’t that she was exceptionally beautiful, more that she was striking. Colourful. And on such a drab February day as this one, colour and vibrancy were more than welcome.
He had been looking out for her, and she had got on the train one stop after him. He couldn’t recall the name of the village; this train stopped everywhere. Slow and tedious and not particularly warm. She had glanced into the compartment he occupied – he and a couple he assumed were married. Sitting opposite one another, the husband with his nose buried in a newspaper and she with her eyes fixed on a book, they had said little to one another since the journey began, so it was hard to judge the exact status of their relationship. But the presence of the older woman meant that she felt at liberty to enter the compartment and sit down in the corner furthest away from him. A quick glance was all she had shot in his direction, also taking in the couple and their bags on the luggage rack, but it had been enough for him to admire her eyes, a browny grey, like smoky quartz, and her hair, beneath the dark-blue hat, a vibrant, almost ruby red. Her dress, peeking out from her dark coat, was an equally extravagant and almost emerald green.
Startling, he thought. Exotic, and the thought made him smile.
She was not obviously beautiful, not like Becky. Becky was pale, a real English rose – for all that her parents were anything but – with dark hair and hazel eyes. Small and fragile, like a bird; he knew that she was gorgeous and that everyone said he was a lucky young man … so why was he so drawn to this more robust and curving beauty sitting across the carriage from him? She did not look his way, after the brief nod of greeting that took in everyone in the carriage, and soon also had her attention taken by a magazine.
Idly, Joseph peered at their reading matter. The man was absorbed in the business pages of Friday’s Financial Times – two days out of date, Joseph thought, so either he was desperate for news or he only fancied himself knowledgeable. The wife, if that’s what she was, very properly, if drably clad in a slim-fitting tweed skirt and camel coat, read Evelyn Waugh, which Joseph considered very unsuitable reading matter for a respectable woman, especially in a public place. The front cover of the girl’s magazine, Woman’s Way, featured a young flapper in a red cloche hat. To his eyes, it looked racy and he wondered if Rebecca ever read such things. Not if her father had anything to do with it, that was for certain, but Becky was proving to be surprisingly independently minded. And anyway, what Becky and her family – or his family – thought really didn’t matter now.
Solutions were lacking if they were to please their families and still grasp at a little happiness for themselves, and it had become obvious that Joseph must take action. Joseph had previously had no objection at all to marrying Becky. Far from it, in fact. He was content to be partnered with a young woman he’d known from childhood and who genuinely liked him as much as he liked her. But sometimes, he thought, life knocks you and your plans for six and makes no apology for it.
A few stops later, when the train pulled into Bardney station, the girl with red hair prepared to alight.
Joseph was puzzled, confused. He waited for her to be visible on the station platform, craned forward, resisting the temptation to open the window and lean out, saw the gay red hair beneath the dark-blue hat, his gaze hungry for the brightness of the flash of green dress beneath the coat.
Suddenly, Joseph was on his feet, grabbing his hat and then hurrying past the couple and out into the corridor without so much as a word.
The man looked up. ‘I say, he was in a frightful hurry. Do you think he forgot he was getting off here?’
His wife looked up and then out of the window. ‘Some kind of argument going on,�
�� she said. ‘That young woman who just got off and a young fellow in a flat cap.’
The train pulled out and they both returned to their reading matter. It was only much later, when they retrieved their luggage from the rack, that they took note of a case that wasn’t theirs. Small, a little battered, of thick, tan leather that had been inexpertly repaired at the corner and reinforced with a panel darker than the rest.
‘That young man,’ the husband said, ‘must have left his suitcase behind. Silly young fool.’
The woman frowned and fingered the label, tied to the handle with coarse string. ‘Joseph Levy,’ she said. ‘We should tell the guard. What can the boy have been playing at?’
Her husband shrugged, already dismissing the incident as no more than a curiosity. On leaving the train, they duly reported the bag to the guard and thought no more about it.
ONE
20 February 1929
The constable had come into the Central Office of Scotland Yard and told Henry that he had a visitor waiting downstairs in reception.
‘A gentleman, sir. His name is Abraham Levy and he says that you know him. He requests a few minutes of your time.’
It took Henry a moment or so to remember who Abraham Levy was and then a moment more to wonder why on earth he had come all the way to the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard, instead of taking his problems to the local division. Henry tidied the files on his desk and then went down to see what the clockmaker wanted.
Abraham Levy had cropped up in an earlier investigation, but only as the landlord of someone whose unfortunate death Henry had investigated. Detective Chief Inspector Henry Johnstone recalled that he had spoken to Abraham Levy only on a couple of occasions but that he had liked the man.
Abraham had seen him coming down the stairs and unfolded himself from the hard wooden bench set near the door, an uncomfortable seat and draughty spot that Henry always assumed was established to dissuade anyone from staying too long. Abraham held out his hand; Henry shook it and then sat down beside Abraham.
‘I can try to find some office space so that we can talk or we can chat here. The constable said this would only take a few moments.’
If Abraham was put out by this slightly dismissive attitude, he did not show it. Instead, he set his hat on his lap and folded his hands neatly behind it and looked at Henry carefully. ‘When we met, it struck me that you are a just and careful man,’ Abraham said. ‘Some policemen I have known, they go through the motions only. They look as though they are doing something and they collect their pay and they go home and nothing has been done, but I do not think you are that kind of man. I come to you because so far I have only met that kind of policeman and I need someone different. Someone who will not just pretend to be concerned and go away thinking, “Oh, this is just a Jew boy I’m dealing with, so what concern is this of mine?”’
Henry considered for a moment and then he said, ‘I think you might begin at the beginning.’ He stood. ‘There is a café just around the corner; perhaps this might be better discussed over a pot of tea.’
He glanced up, catching sight of a familiar figure coming down the stairs: his sergeant, Mickey Hitchens, who looked curiously in their direction and then clearly recognized Abraham.
‘Mr Levy,’ he said. ‘And what brings you here?’
‘A problem I cannot deal with on my own.’
Mickey frowned. The streets where Abraham Levy lived had been ruled by one Josiah Bailey and his family for quite some time, but had recently undergone a change of ownership – although the new ruler, Clem Atkins, had simply taken over both Bailey’s lieutenants and his criminal schemes. It was Mickey’s first thought that this was the source of the trouble.
‘No,’ Abraham reassured him. ‘Mr Atkins continues the work of Mr Bailey, you might say. Little has changed and the protection money we pay as businessmen has not gone up dramatically since the change of management. No, this is a personal matter. A missing person. I fear perhaps a dead missing person, and as no one else will help me, I have come to you.’
They walked to the Lyons’ Corner House that was set on the intersection of the Strand and Craven Street, and Henry ordered tea for them all. At two in the afternoon, they were between the crowds of lunchtime rush and the partakers of afternoon tea, and they found a table in a corner with a fair degree of privacy.
‘So, tell me,’ Henry said. ‘Who has gone missing, and why do you feel that no one has been of assistance to you?’
Abraham arranged his cup carefully on his saucer, positioning the spoon so that it protruded at the opposite side to the cup handle. He looked suddenly awkward. He had long, slender hands, Henry noted, with well-clipped nails. Hands that were used to being occupied now found themselves ill at ease.
‘On the third of this month my nephew caught a train,’ Abraham began. ‘His name is Joseph and he had been to visit his young lady – his intended. They are both young – Joseph is only nineteen years old and his fiancée is a year younger than that – and they are to be married in the autumn.’
‘It is very young to be married,’ Mickey observed.
‘In our community, not so young. We think it’s better that our children are safely married and have someone to care for and to care for them. Young ones often spend time living with their in-laws until they are ready to set up home for themselves. Anyway, Joseph and Rebecca are to be married – or were. Then Joseph caught the train to come home and he did not arrive.’
Mickey took out his notebook and set it on the table. ‘The train from where?’
‘He was travelling from Lincoln to London. He caught the train in Lincoln; Rebecca’s family saw him off there, so they know he got on the train. But he did not arrive.’
‘That’s a long journey,’ Henry observed. ‘He could have got off at any station in between. From what I remember, there are a great many going up towards Lincoln. Where would he have changed trains to come back to London?’
‘At Peterborough. Lincoln is on the loop from the main line that leaves Peterborough and, yes, there are a great many small stations on that line. Once in Peterborough, he could get the train back to King’s Cross – an easy journey, if a little long, but one he has made more than a dozen times.
‘His family contacted the police and were told that he was an adult and that adults go missing all the time and there should be no cause for concern; he would probably turn up. His family contacted the girl’s family, in Lincoln, and were told that he and Rebecca had argued before he left and had parted on bad terms. When the police heard this, they decided that the boy was not so keen on the marriage, after all, and had chosen to go off on his own somewhere.’
‘It’s certainly possible,’ Mickey said. ‘As I said before, they are both very young, and young minds can be changed – young people can be impulsive.’
‘All of that is true,’ Abraham agreed. ‘But that was on Sunday February the third and this is now Wednesday the twentieth. There has been no news since. He has not contacted his family or his fiancée or his friends. I know Joseph; he is not a boy who would put worry into the hearts of those he loves. If he had decided he did not want to marry, everyone would have understood. No one is being forced into this. But I do believe that he and Rebecca love one another.’
‘How long have they known each other?’ Henry asked.
‘Since childhood. Our families grew up within a few houses of one another. Then Rebecca’s family moved when she was twelve years old, but Joseph used to go up and stay there, and it was always understood that one day they would marry. But if either one of them had said no, we prefer to choose for ourselves, that would have been accepted, believe me.’
‘But it would have caused awkwardness, at the very least, I would suppose?’ Mickey suggested.
Abraham shrugged. ‘Awkwardness for a little time, perhaps, but it would have been accepted and people would have got over their upset. No one wishes our young people to marry and be unhappy. But we believed them
to be happy.’
‘What was the quarrel about?’
Abraham hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with discussing his family business. ‘The argument was loud,’ he said. ‘The family overheard, of course. It seems that Rebecca wished to wait until at least next spring before they married. She said it was because her sister and brother-in-law would be coming to visit then and she wanted them to be at the wedding. Joseph was content to wait, but he did not believe her reasons and he challenged them. He asked if she really wanted to marry him, and she became angry, saying of course she did, but that she wished to wait just a little longer. Rebecca’s mother tells me that Joseph tried to be understanding and calm, and he suggested to her that she just had the usual reservations and that this was understandable. He said that he would be willing to wait, but Rebecca just became even more angry until Joseph said that he didn’t believe this was her reason at all, and that maybe she had another man.’
‘And is that likely?’
‘Not that anyone knows about, but young girls …’ He shrugged again. ‘Young men, too – their heads can be turned by the attention of someone who seems more exciting. So I don’t know. It’s possible. But she’s a good girl and I don’t believe she would deliberately hurt either Joseph or her family.’
‘And no one at all has had word from him? Friends might have heard and not told anyone?’
‘None of Joseph’s friends are so heartless. They have seen how we’ve all suffered, how worried we’ve been. His friends are also people he has known since childhood, who have known his family since childhood. We are a close-knit community, Inspector.’
‘Which might make him even more fearful of your disapprobation,’ Henry suggested. ‘Did he have any money with him?’
‘Not enough to have lasted all this time. He had enough for his journey, and emergency money, should he have to stay overnight somewhere, but little enough else.’
‘And have the police investigated?’
‘Investigated! Is that what you call it? They confirmed that he got on the train at Lincoln – there are witnesses aplenty for that – but as no one knows where he got off, all they could do – all they said they could do – was send a message down the line to ask at the stations. Our family have printed pictures and have these positioned at any stations that we have been able to reach, and Rebecca’s family have done the same. Police refuse to believe this is anything more than a young man who has chosen to go off by himself for a time. They seem to have spoken to no one; they seem to have found no evidence of Joseph’s existence after he left Lincoln.’
The Clockmaker Page 1
