by A. M. Howell
“How can you let a family starve like this?” continued Florence. The words hurled from her mouth like bullets. “You must know something.”
Ralph was hopping on the spot. His voice rang out, clear and strong. “Please help us; my sisters are starving hungry. If my pa gets his clockmaker’s tools back, he can work again, provide for us all and pay off his debts.”
A couple walking a small brown dachshund paused and looked at them.
“Did you stop Mr Westcott’s clocks, Terence? Is it something to do with your father? You can tell us,” said Helena. “We just want to know what happened.”
“Me, stop the clocks?” Terence turned and looked at Helena, his cheeks sallow. “Why would I do that? I am sorry the Fox family lost their things. Very sorry indeed. But I can’t help you…or Miss Katherine Westcott…I just…can’t.” He threw another desperate look at his father’s office. The door had opened and Mr Marchington was looking at them, his stick tapping on the step.
Helena stared at him. “What do you mean, you can’t help Katherine Westcott?”
Terence’s face flushed a dark purple, but his lips were fused shut.
Florence wiped her hands on her trousers, took another step towards Terence. “I’m not going until you’ve told us where the Fox family’s things are,” she said, planting her feet firmly on the grass.
Terence began to open his mouth, then clamped it closed again. He turned on his heel and ran off towards his father’s office.
Florence stared after him, then sat down on the grass with a thump. “I’m sorry, Ralph. I really thought Terence might help.”
Ralph sat beside her, crossed his legs and rested his chin in his hands. “I don’t want to be split from my sisters.” He turned away, swiped at a tear trickling down his cheek.
Helena’s insides squeezed together. She turned to look at the hotel on the corner of Parker’s Piece, where Katherine was staying. What had Terence meant, when he’d said he could not help Katherine Westcott? He had seemed quite disturbed when he’d mentioned her, almost as disturbed as Orbit became whenever Florence’s aunt ventured near. Helena remembered the commanding nature of Katherine’s voice when she spoke to her brother about his health. But if she was so concerned for her family’s welfare, should she not have chosen to stay at the house with them? And what did she do all day? Helena picked at the grass, flattened the blades in her palm. It seemed there were yet more questions to be answered. But to find out exactly what Katherine Westcott was up to, she would need some help from her new friends.
Helena, Florence and Ralph gazed up at the ivy-fringed Georgian windows of the University Arms Hotel, which were keeping a watchful gaze over Parker’s Piece.
“I’m really not sure about this,” said Florence, chewing on a thumbnail. “What on earth do you think my aunt could be hiding?” Her earlier bravado with Terence had disappeared. That was only to be expected. Anyone about to break into their aunt’s hotel room would feel the same.
“Terence said he could not help Katherine Westcott. Which must mean she asked him for something,” said Helena, stroking Orbit’s crown as he swayed restlessly in his bag.
“Why don’t we just ask her about it?” said Florence, pulling out her pocket watch. “And look at the time, Helena! Shouldn’t we be getting back to the house to work on the watches before your father returns?”
Florence was getting almost as good at asking questions as Helena. And Helena was getting worse at answering them. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, thought again of Orbit’s odd behaviour whenever Katherine Westcott approached him; the way she had been creeping around in Mr Westcott’s stables at night and encouraging Florence to achieve her ambitions; the way she brought Florence books about architecture and flying machines. Were all of those things yet more examples of a particular strain of eccentricity which had taken a vice-like grip on the Westcott family? Or was it down to something else – something that might help explain the strange goings-on in the house of clocks? Helena did not think she could put any of those things into words that Florence would understand, so she decided it was best to say nothing at all.
“Just remember what we need to do,” said Helena firmly. “First we ask if Miss Westcott is in her hotel room. If she is, we’ll have to dash. But if she’s out…”
“…You tell the hotel manager you have a very important package for her, and it must be hand delivered to her room – and only by you,” piped up Ralph.
Florence scrunched her nose. “Are you sure? It doesn’t sound very believable. And anyway, we don’t have a package to give her.”
“Twinkle, twinkle little star…snicker…squawk…little star how I wonder…squawk!” chattered Orbit.
Helena fed Orbit a few seeds from her pocket and sighed. They had spent a good fifteen minutes trying to agree a plan for how to get into Katherine Westcott’s hotel room – which is where Helena hoped some of the answers to her questions lay.
Ralph’s idea was for him to distract the hotel manager by fainting, allowing Helena to creep around the back of the counter and take the room key. This plan was quickly squashed when they realized they didn’t know which room she was staying in.
Florence’s idea was for Helena to march in weeping, saying she was Katherine Westcott’s niece and she must leave a personal note for her in her room (because Florence pointed out that if she herself went in dressed as a boy, it might confuse the hotel manager and generate more questions than answers).
“Look,” said Florence pointing across the road.
The children cowered against the wall of a bookshop. Katherine Westcott had swept out through the hotel doors and the doorman was watching her with admiration. She seemed distracted, pulling out her pocket watch twice as the doorman hailed her a hansom cab. Stuffing her watch back into her coat pocket, she climbed into the cab and it pulled away, the horse depositing a huge pile of dung on the road. The hotel doorman gesticulated after the horse, shook his head and went to fetch a shovel that was leaning against the hotel wall.
“Now,” said Ralph, nudging Helena in the side. “While the doorman’s not looking.”
“Yes…go,” urged Florence.
“But…we haven’t worked out what I will say,” said Helena, her heart beginning to pound.
“You will,” said Ralph, nudging her again.
Helena dragged in a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back and straightened her skirts. She passed Orbit to Florence, an idea bubbling at the edges of her brain. She just hoped she could pull it off.
Ralph was right – the doorman was too distracted by the smelly horse dung to notice her slip past into the hotel entrance. The lobby was busy; there were families with trunks and carpet bags sitting on chairs beside potted palms in the small lounge. Two small girls played chase round a pillar, their pigtails flying. Helena strode to the desk where a man was looking at the children and biting his lip, wanting to give them a piece of his mind but not daring to.
“Yes?” he said imperiously to Helena.
“My aunt – Miss Katherine Westcott – has just left the hotel. I missed her by minutes.” Helena dabbed at her brow with a handkerchief as if she had been running. “I was supposed to hand over an item for her to take to her room.”
The man’s face had taken on an unusual sheen at the mention of Miss Westcott’s name. “Her niece! Yes, she mentioned she has been spending time with family while staying in Cambridge.”
Helena fumbled for the right words. “Oh yes. It has been…lovely having her stay so near to our…home.”
“Well now she’s taken the lease on that little cottage in Grantchester, she’ll be coming to visit you more often I imagine?”
Helena stared at the man dumbly. Cottage in Grantchester? Whatever was he talking about? “Um…the item I have to deliver. She gave me express instructions that I must hand it to her directly. Or put it in her room,” repeated Helena.
The man smiled and held out a hand. “You can leave the item with me, Miss. I will pu
t it in the hotel safe and give it to her as soon as she returns.”
“Oh…I think you misunderstand me,” said Helena. “She told me I must take it to her room personally. It is…of a sensitive nature.”
The man’s curious eyes roamed over Helena’s person as if searching the object out. “Well…” he said uncertainly.
“She really has been most complimentary about your…lovely hotel,” Helena said, raising her voice over the shrieks of the playing children. “She did mention perhaps taking rooms again at Christmas…while her cottage is being…um…decorated,” Helena said, her cheeks feeling warm.
The man tapped his fingers on the desk, then turned and took a key from the hooks behind the desk. It had a large brass engraved tag. The Granta Suite. He slid it across the desk. “The porter over there will escort you upstairs. Be sure this key is returned to me within five minutes.”
Helena heard a crash behind her. She turned, saw Ralph lying on the floor in a dead faint. She clapped a hand to her mouth and gasped. Then she remembered his plan and smothered a bubbling smile. “Oh, that poor boy over there,” said Helena picking up the key and slipping it into her coat pocket.
“Children don’t belong in hotels,” the man muttered, rushing from behind the counter.
Sending a silent thanks to her friend, Helena walked swiftly to the stairs, passing the porter rushing over to help the hotel manager deal with Ralph, who was now sitting up and groaning and rubbing his head. Ralph caught Helena’s eye and gave her quick wink, before emitting another large groan and asking if someone could pass him the potted palm as he was afraid he might be sick.
Helena swallowed another smile and bolted up the stairs.
Helena’s fingers shook as she slid the key into the lock of Katherine’s hotel room. A man in a three-piece suit, puffing on a pipe, nodded to her as he walked past. She nodded in return, smothering a cough in the smoky air. He glanced back over his shoulder, gave her a piercing look as if he knew she was doing something she shouldn’t. Helena gave him her brightest and most confident smile. As he turned away, she pushed open the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her.
She blinked in the hazy late-afternoon light streaming through the large windows. The room was furnished well – pretty flowered wallpaper, electric wall lights, and even a small bathroom. On a coffee table lay a variety of ladies’ clothing and hat catalogues. Nothing seemed out of order – certainly no files or paperwork in sight that might offer clues as to why Katherine had been asking for Terence’s help. Katherine’s coats hung on a stand in the corner of the room. Helena ran a hand over the blue coat; she had admired Katherine wearing it one evening to the clock inspection. It was still stained with mud around the hem. She cautiously slipped a hand into the left pocket of the coat. It was empty, aside from a cotton handkerchief with a clutch of embroidered bluebells in one corner. Helena held it to her nose and sniffed. It smelled…not of Katherine’s perfume. This was gentler and more familiar, like lavender – her own mother’s favourite scent. Helena pushed it back into the coat pocket and checked the other pockets, which were all empty.
A fresh wave of determination washed over Helena as she strode across to a half-open door on the far wall, which led to a bedroom. Hatboxes (five of them) were stacked beneath the window. Behind the hatboxes and next to the bed was a small chest of drawers. On it lay a book. Helena walked over and picked it up. The Principles of Business. She wrinkled her nose. That sounded very dull reading. Why would Katherine Westcott have chosen such a title? Helena flicked through it and a piece of paper Katherine had been using as a bookmark fell from the pages to the rug. Helena bent to pick it up, her breath catching in her throat as she read it.
1st June was just over two weeks ago. So that meant Florence’s mother was back in England. Helena was certain Florence did not know about this message. But why was Katherine Westcott using it as a bookmark? She must show it to Florence and Ralph at once. Slipping the telegram into her coat pocket, Helena headed for the door, but in her rush to leave, her knee knocked the lid off one of the hatboxes. Bending to straighten it, she saw what was nestling inside the box and clapped a hand to her lips. A dead robin had been fixed to a hat with thin wire, its red breast puffed up, its once soulful black eyes lifeless and staring. Helena’s heart hammered against her chest and she felt she might be sick. She was about to replace the lid, when something poking out beneath the hat caught her eye. She gingerly pushed the hat to one side and pulled out an envelope. It was addressed to Miss Westcott at the University Arms Hotel. She pulled out a letter and read:
Helena slipped the letter back into the envelope and pushed it into the hatbox. Katherine Westcott had made plans to have Florence’s father sent to an asylum in Norfolk. What would happen to Florence if he left? Nausea bubbled in her stomach. Was Florence’s father as ill as Dr Barrington thought him to be? Helena’s mother had once told her of a lady on a nearby street who, having loudly voiced her opinions on the suffragette movement, had been sent away by her husband to an asylum and never been heard of again.
“I say,” said the hotel manager, bursting into the room. “This is really ever so irregular…my…what a magnificent hat,” he said, pausing to peer over Helena’s shoulder into the hatbox. “That bird is so well preserved, it could almost…be alive.”
Bile rose in Helena’s throat. “Yes, it could,” she murmured, swaying a little as she thrust the room key into the hotel manager’s hand and bolted for the door.
The three children walked swiftly back to Trumpington Street in the soft early evening light, heads lowered to the pavement.
“I don’t believe it,” said Florence, her face taut as a drum. “Why would Aunt Katherine keep that telegram from me? All this time I thought Mother had forgotten us. But if she is back in the country – where is she?”
“There’s something else,” said Helena, telling her about the letter she had found from Dr Barrington.
“But my father isn’t mad,” Florence exclaimed. “Aunt Katherine can’t send him away – she just can’t! Why hasn’t Mother come home? She would put a stop to this right away.” Florence pressed her lips together.
Helena adjusted Orbit’s bag on her shoulder, a thudding pain in her temples making her wince. Katherine Westcott appeared sweet on the outside, but Helena had sensed that on the inside she was quite complicated, like the inner workings of a clock. But she was kind to Florence, appointing her a tutor to nurture her aspirations and bringing her books. And they were still no closer to finding out why she had wanted Terence Marchington’s help. It was all rather confusing and made Helena’s head spin and thrum and ache.
Florence’s feet ground to a sudden halt. “Look,” she said in a breathy voice.
Helena looked up, frowned. Florence’s house was on the opposite side of the street. The house was lit up like a Christmas tree, lights illuminating every single window. A few passers-by had stopped to stare at the spectacle. “Imagine being wealthy enough to have electric lights in every room and have them on in the daytime,” she heard a woman say to her friend.
Helena gulped. Why were the lights on? Her father would be back by now. Had he and Mr Westcott discovered that she had not mended the watches or wound the clocks?
Florence began to run, her feet pounding on the pavement.
Helena grabbed Ralph’s hand and chased after her.
“Pop goes the weasel, pop goes the weasel,” yelled Orbit in alarm, the cloth bag bumping against Helena’s side as she ran.
“Father?” Helena called, as she and Ralph ran through the front door after Florence, letting it slam shut behind them. “Father…I’m sorry…” Helena paused, blinking in the glare of the lights.
Florence was standing at the foot of the stairs, breathing hard. Someone was sitting on the bottom step, hidden from view. Helena pushed past Florence, her pulse leaping in the base of her neck. Stanley. His head was in his hands. He glanced up, a little moan coming from his lips.
Helena dropped
to her knees, a worm of cold slithering up her back. “Whatever is the matter?” she said.
“What’s happened?” asked Florence. “Why are all the lights on?”
Sounds from outside filled the silence. A horse and cart rumbled along. The ring of bicycle bells. Muffled conversations and laughter from people going about their everyday business.
Helena placed a hand to her neck, tried to soften her breathing. Something was different in the house, aside from the lights and the clearly distraught Stanley. Something was…missing. Passing Orbit to Stanley, she stood up and looked down the hall. At the clocks. The exotic three-tiered pagoda clock with the ferociously fast tick, the one that made her feel agitated and unable to keep still. It was silent. The silence spread along the hallway like creaking ice, as Helena ran to the clock and placed her hands on its cool brass exterior, felt for the movement of cogs and wheels and springs.
The.
Clock.
Had.
Stopped.
Stars swam at the edges of Helena’s vision. What had she done? The contract. We will lose our possessions. I will lose Orbit. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes and sank to the floor, every last puff of air expelling from her lungs.
“No,” Helena whispered, her stomach churning like a rough sea. “The clocks can’t have stopped…it is impossible.”
Florence laid a hand on Helena’s shoulder. “Your father wound the gold pagoda clock yesterday. I watched him. Stanley, is this the only one that is not ticking?”
Helena opened her eyes, blinked at the black dots dancing in front of them.
Stanley was shaking his head. “Many of the clocks have stopped. I came back from the university to show Florence a letter from…well…I think it’s from the Wright brothers. When the five o’clock strikes started, I noticed they were quieter than usual. Then I saw some of the clocks had…stopped. I’ve been running from room to room to check them all.”
