The Clockmaker

by Jane A. Adams

  ‘Why did you want to see us?’ Mickey asked.

  ‘I’m not sure it matters now,’ Abraham said. ‘I spoke with my brother today. We just wondered if you knew anything more.’

  It was such an obvious lie, and Henry was about to push things further, but Mickey gently shook his head.

  Abraham pushed back his chair with a scrape on the wooden floor. ‘I must be going home,’ he said. He took up his coat, put it on, patted his pockets as if looking for something and then turned away. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘Now, what was that all about?’ Mickey wondered.

  Henry was vexed. ‘No doubt we could have found out if we’d kept him here.’

  ‘Later. Henry, we need to get some rest and so does he. Whatever is troubling him, it won’t be gone by morning. He has the look of a man haunted by more than just death. We can pursue this later.’

  Henry, bone-weary, decided to agree.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Clem Atkins had been mulling things over and decided that an example should be made of Abraham Levy. Then the man would either toe the line or be gone and no longer Atkins’ concern. The truth was Clem wasn’t too much bothered either way. He’d come to the conclusion that somehow the clockmaker must be treading on Diamond Annie’s toes – and that, he decided, was not going to be good for the health of anyone in the vicinity. He still wasn’t totally sure what to make of the envelope that the kid from the Elephant mob had been carrying. But he’d been interested to note that Abraham had taken it with him when he visited his brother. He knew this because when his men searched, it was not in Abraham’s house.

  He had made certain that the search left no trace. ‘Just look; don’t touch more than you have to,’ he had told them. ‘Disturb nothing.’ He’d also put it out that he knew someone had given Diamond Annie access to the pub and therefore to him, and that he would find out who; whoever was responsible would be punished and, at the very least, would not be walking anywhere again. He was unsurprised to wake up in the morning and discover that two of his men had gone.

  He knew damn well that Josiah Bailey would have beaten seven shades out of everybody until somebody confessed, but that seemed a waste of time when what was needed could be achieved at lesser cost. Atkins believed himself economical, wiser than his erstwhile employer. After all, look at the facts: Josiah Bailey was dead and gone, and Atkins was here, master of all he surveyed.

  After a good breakfast he assembled ten of his best men and set out for the clockmaker’s shop. Abraham was at work, of course; he looked shocked but not altogether surprised when Clem Atkins opened his door and turfed his customers out. He sent five of his men next door to Abraham’s house and kept five to work on the shop. He searched the clockmaker himself and then pushed him into a chair in the corner of the shop so that he could watch while everything he owned was smashed and pummelled and crushed to pieces on the floor.

  It was amazing, Atkins always thought, in just how short a time things could be destroyed, especially when you considered how long it took to make most of them. A life took nine months to arrive, and however many years to grow up, but it could be gone in an instant; those things made by men could cease to exist just as quickly.

  One of his men appeared in the doorway with the envelope in his hands and Atkins nodded to him to hold on to it. He didn’t fully understand the significance of this object, but knew it was evidence of something. He was pretty sure that it was something that he, Clem, could have profited from, but the clockmaker had not been prepared to play ball and this was the result.

  Two of his men had been sent up and down the street to fetch people out of their houses to bear witness. It wouldn’t be long before the police arrived, but they’d find themselves outnumbered and it was unlikely that the first on scene would hang around. It was more likely they would take themselves off to conjure up some reinforcements before they made it back. Clem Atkins figured he had plenty of time.

  His men had run out of things to smash, so Clem made his way over to the clockmaker who was sitting in his chair, white-faced and shaking, staring in disbelief at the devastation. His entire life was in pieces on the floor.

  Atkins leaned over him. ‘You could have had it easy,’ he told him. ‘I came to you, nice and quiet, but you just brushed me off like I’m dirt on your shoe. But know this: this is my turf, and whatever you’re doing, I want my cut.’

  ‘It isn’t like that,’ Abraham told him, but Clem had stepped away and no one else was listening.

  The sound of police whistles in the street told him that the game was now over, but Clem waited calmly in the clockmaker’s shop, two of his men standing in the doorway. He watched through the window, the police arriving in numbers now, marching, truncheons at the ready, expecting a riot, but Atkins’ men had faded away and the only people on the street were the neighbours who had been called out to watch.

  Atkins took the envelope from the man who was still holding it and stepped outside. He beckoned to one of the constables. ‘You’ll be wanting this,’ he said. ‘I’ve no doubt your Inspector Johnstone will be wanting a look at it. And you better get that trash out of here.’ He pointed back at Abraham.

  They took him into his house and surveyed the damage. Abraham’s only concern was for the photograph that had been on his mantelpiece. Miracle of miracles, although the vandals had broken the glass in the leather folding frame, the photograph was relatively unscathed. He tipped the glass on to the floor, folded the frame and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He brushed the glass from his coat; the pocket was torn, but that could easily be mended. The constables waited while he found what clothing had not been shredded, folded it into a pillow case and then left his home without looking back.

  He was grateful that he kept little of importance there, certainly not anything that Atkins – or the police for that matter – could use against him.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. I am uninjured. I’d like to go to my brother’s house.’

  But the constables were having none of that, and because Clem Atkins had mentioned Henry Johnstone, they took him to Scotland Yard instead of the local police station and handed him over to a passing sergeant before going back to their own division to make their statements.

  He sat on the bench in the foyer, in the same place that he had waited when he had first come to see Henry about Joseph, and he thought about the circularity of things. Joseph would still have been dead, no matter what. But if he hadn’t meddled, then all of the events that had followed on from that would not have happened. Did that mean that he should have left things alone?

  He got up and went across to the desk and asked the officer on duty if it would be possible to make a phone call. ‘I would like to call my brother,’ he said. ‘Have him come and collect me.’

  The officer behind the desk was not sure what status Abraham had. He wasn’t under arrest and he didn’t appear to be waiting for anyone in particular, so what was he? And the telephone was for official business only.

  It occurred to Abraham that he could ask for Henry Johnstone as that was why he had been deposited here, but he didn’t think that he could face the inevitable questions – not yet – even though he knew those questions would come and there was no avoiding them.

  Instead, Abraham left the building, walked across the yard and out through the pedestrian entrance and hailed a taxi, hoping that when they got to their destination, his brother would pay the fare.

  The police constables had gone. No witness had come forward and no arrests had been made, Clem having assured the constables that no one had seen a thing. The constables, experienced enough to know that no one would speak out against Atkins, and having been given the convenience of Henry’s name, had decided that Scotland Yard could call the shots on this one.

  Now Clem Atkins had the street and, more significantly, the clockmaker’s shop and house to himself. He had given his men orders just to have fun, not to look for anything in particular. Apart from
that mysterious envelope. They had taken him at his word, and both house and shop were now wrecked. Abraham’s two lodgers had been absent. One arrived back now, demanding to know what was going on. Atkins stuck his head round the door, and the man quailed and fell silent. He took a step back as Clem came towards him, but Clem merely felt in his pockets for a wad of notes, offered what he thought was enough to keep the man’s mouth shut and told him to collect whatever was left of his possessions and get on his way. He watched, amused, as the young man simply took to his heels. Whatever had been left behind was now left behind.

  Then he went back to Abraham’s house and began his search anew. He was still uncertain what he was looking for, but the contents of the envelope gave him some idea. Travel documents and something that looked like an official letter, in a language that Clem could never recall seeing before but thought might be Russian. Coining and forging was something that Jews were known for, Clem thought. He cursed himself for not thinking of this sooner. Abraham had been too quiet for too long and that was unnatural. It was obvious that he been hiding something. Clem Atkins would happily have beaten it out of him, but some corner of his mind cautioned against drawing that much attention. Abraham Levy seemed to have become the special project of Inspector Johnstone, and what with the police and now Diamond Annie taking an interest, Clem felt that he was trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea, and it might be wiser to walk a fine, safe line for a while.

  The next two hours brought him no success. There was no trace in the Jew’s house of anything untoward. No trace in the shop of anything apart from tools for making clocks, stuff for mending clocks and orders for bits of engraving to be done. The customers would be disappointed about those, Clem thought.

  He left, frustrated and angry. For the rest of the day his lieutenants kept a discreet distance and the barman only approached close enough to top up his glass.

  Abraham arrived at Benjamin’s home. His brother was not home, but thankfully one of his nieces was, and one look at Abraham’s face told her there was trouble. She paid off the taxi and escorted her uncle inside, settled him in a chair and went straightaway to telephone her father at one of the shops.

  Then she brought a footstool and a stiff drink, lifted Abraham’s feet and handed him the glass. ‘You look frozen. What on earth do you have there?’

  Abraham still clutched the pillowcase that contained all he had managed to salvage from the house.

  Gently, she eased the death grip his fingers had on the linen and set it down beside the chair, brought a blanket and covered her uncle gently. He was clearly in a bad way. She persuaded some of the brandy into him and then took the glass away as he closed his eyes and fell asleep. She was relieved when her father arrived a few minutes later.

  ‘Should we leave him to sleep? I think he’s in shock. Is it a good or a bad thing to let him sleep if he’s in shock?’

  Benjamin patted his daughter on the shoulder. ‘Go and make us all some sweet coffee,’ he said. ‘Make it strong. I’ll take care of your uncle.’

  He waited until she had gone and then gently but urgently shook Abraham awake.

  ‘What happened? Are you all right?’

  ‘Atkins. I told you he came to see me, demanding a cut of whatever I was doing, refusing to believe me when I said that I was doing nothing. He came this morning with about a dozen of his thugs. Smashed all I own, Ben. Destroyed my shop, my house, everything.’

  ‘What? Abraham, are you hurt?’

  ‘He never laid a hand on me and I don’t know why. I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘Well, let us be thankful for small mercies.’ Ben slumped down in a chair next to his brother. His daughter arrived with coffee on a tray and set it on a table beside the window. She hovered, not sure of her welcome, made anxious by the tension, uncertain what to ask or what to say.

  ‘Look after your uncle,’ her father told her. ‘Get something hot inside him, see if he will eat. I must telephone …’

  He’s going to call the Goldmanns, Abraham thought. Tell them what he revealed about Joseph as well as what happened today. Somehow that made it worse: that this other family would now know what their beloved Joseph had done and the distress, shame and guilt would spread.

  Abraham could bear no more. To his niece’s great distress, Abraham began to cry – deep, heart-gouging sobs he could not control and she could do nothing to assuage.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Henry had arrived back to find an envelope on his desk and a note that seemed to be just a constable’s collar number. Enquiries took him back downstairs to reception, and he spoke to the officer on duty who told him that the envelope had been dropped in by a constable who had also brought a very distressed-looking man. The man had stayed for a while, then requested to use the telephone – a request that had been denied.

  ‘Next time I looked, he’d gone.’

  A little irritated, Henry asked for a description and realized that the man must be Abraham Levy.

  ‘Whom did he want you to telephone?’

  ‘His brother, so he said – wanted to be collected.’

  ‘And you saw he was distressed and still said no?’

  Not bothering to wait for a reply, Henry went back upstairs and examined the envelope again. When Mickey arrived a few moments later, he told him not to take off his coat; they were going out again to visit Benjamin Levy.

  ‘And what’s all this?’ Mickey pointed to the scatter of objects on the desk.

  Henry explained. ‘The address appears to have been crossed out and another one written,’ he said. ‘And the second address is that of one Charlie Butcher and his family. Things begin to come together, Mickey.’

  Mickey took another look at the objects that had come out of the envelope. A star-shaped brooch that looked impressive on first sight, but Mickey had seen enough of these to know that it was paste and not particularly good paste at that. ‘It’s the clasp that gives things away,’ he said. ‘They might look good on the front, but when you turn them over, there’s no marks and there is a weak clasp.’

  The ring looked better, but Mickey also stated his opinion that it was probably rolled gold rather than the genuine article. The passport, however, was a different matter. ‘Oesterreich,’ he said. ‘An Austrian passport?’

  ‘Apparently so. I can make no sense of the letter. The lettering is Cyrillic so I’m guessing it’s Russian. It’s a strange assortment of objects, Mickey. So we will go and see if Abraham can shed any light on it. I think on this occasion we will take a car and driver and make a detour past Abraham Levy’s shop. I have reason to believe that he is at his brother’s house and not at home.’

  As they waited for their car, Henry explained what little he knew. Phone calls to the Whitechapel and Leman Street divisions had filled in some gaps for him. Constables had been called to an emergency right in the middle of Clem Atkins’ patch; it seemed the clockmaker’s shop and house had been smashed and vandalized, and the constables had taken Abraham away, bringing him to Scotland Yard as Henry’s name had been mentioned.

  ‘But Abraham did not ask for you?’

  ‘He only asked to make a telephone call to his brother, but this was denied. It seems our telephones are for official use only and not for those in distress.’

  ‘And this envelope came from Levy?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the constable whose collar number was on the note, and apparently it came from Atkins. No doubt he’s stirring up trouble, but it would be useful to know what kind of trouble he’s stirring.’

  Half an hour later the car stopped outside what had been Abraham’s shop. A police constable stood on guard and so did one of Atkins’ men, a strange juxtaposition, although both stood aside to let Henry through. He surveyed the devastation with disgust, his feet crunching broken glass. A small tool roll lay under the counter and Henry bent and picked it up, surprised to find something intact in all this mayhem. Almost without thinking, he put it in his pocket. He turned as other boots scrunched
on glass and Clem Atkins stood in the doorway.

  ‘And your excuse for this?’

  Atkins grinned broadly. ‘My turf, my rules.’

  ‘And which of your rules did this poor man break?’

  ‘You pay your dues,’ Atkins said. ‘I take it you got my envelope, then.’

  ‘It wasn’t addressed to you, so how can it be yours?’

  ‘It came into my possession. You know what they say about possession – nine-tenths of the law, isn’t it?’ Atkins smiled suddenly. ‘Anyway, you and I both know this has nothing to do with me. You’ll find no one on my turf to say anything different, will you?’

  Henry ignored him and went back to the car. They drove on to the home of Benjamin Levy and found the place in uproar. Benjamin’s wife was not pleased that he had brought trouble to her home – again. Benjamin’s daughter Ruth told them that her mother had been put to bed with brandy and sedatives and would calm down. Eventually. In the meantime, everyone was running to do her bidding. Apart from Ruth, who was looking after her uncle and glad to be out of her mother’s way. She took the two police officers through to where Benjamin and Abraham both sat and then departed, muttering something about making more coffee.

  ‘We went by your shop,’ Mickey said. ‘What a bloody mess. Are you hurt at all?’

  Abraham shook his head.

  ‘Take off your coats, gentlemen; I imagine you’ll be here for some time.’ Benjamin sounded resigned, but not happy. Henry shed his coat, dropped it on the back of the chair and then took two items from its pockets. The little tool roll he presented to Abraham. ‘It’s disturbing evidence,’ he said, ‘but as I don’t imagine you’ll be pressing charges, I thought it justified. They seem to have missed this; it had dropped down beneath the counter.’

  Hands shaking, Abraham unrolled the dark-blue canvas. The watchmaker’s tools were still inside. Only a fraction of what he had possessed, but somehow it cheered him. ‘I will not be going back,’ he said.