Had some servant shoved every clock in the house in here, as a prank? If so, how had Walpole not noticed? That new under butler, young Martin—Walpole had already sensed something off about that one. By God, tomorrow morning, he’d give the boy such a kicking to the door, he’d…

But what was the point? Weren’t these snapping, singing, accusing, and taunting clocks proof enough? If they’d been set properly, they’d chime and click as one, perfectly synchronized. Wouldn’t they? Instead, they crowded the seconds and minutes with their tick-tock Gatling-gun medley.

Somewhere far below, the serving staff hooted and cheered at the fate closing in on him. Didn’t the fools see? It was their doom, too! Martin must have figured it out, let them all in on it. What foul deals had they struck?

Walpole slung away his cocoon of blankets. The sweat that soaked him went icy. He shambled out of bed, flailing for his dressing gown. He clutched at the bedpost for balance. His feet shuffled for his slippers while his eyes darted through the gloom. His vision adjusted. Only one clock hung on the far wall, yet the sound of the others kept crashing into the room, like typewriter stamps on his brain.

He flung open the door and stepped out into the hallway. Down by the stairwell stood the grand old cuckoo clock. With a click and snap, out marched its two little knights from either side. They clacked their spears together then twisted away from each other and scurried back into their cubbyholes before the bird in the overhead window could pop out and devour him.

Tap, went the spears. The little twin doors flipped open. Another hour had closed between Walpole and his doom. Out sprang that ugly little bird to taunt him with its squawking. With a cry, he flung out his arms, clasping the top of the clock as though boxing some unruly child’s ears. The sharp wooden edges bit at his palms. The little bird popped in and out as the great frame teetered and tumbled. Walpole lurched aside as it crashed and splintered.

His heels danced down the top three steps. He barely caught the railing, sparing himself a tumble. The crash’s echo faded, along with the rattle of ruptured gears and cogs. Laughter sounded from downstairs, unperturbed. Surely, that crash should draw someone to investigate. How deep into his wine and spirits were they?

Walpole spotted light through the kitchen doorway. Music, too, if you please—someone fiddling out Pop Goes the Weasel. The bow sang across the strings in a drunken slur. In all his years in this ancestral home, Walpole could count the times he’d actually set foot in the kitchen. So the sight within was that much stranger. They were all clad in their household uniforms, though dishevelled and untidy. Young Martin grinned and swayed stupidly in the corner with his fiddle. His red corkscrew mop bobbed about his face like some shaggy, jolly dog. Polly, youngest of the maids, went skipping around the table, filling everyone’s glass with gin before taking a long drink for herself, straight from the bottle. That limp of hers didn’t seem to slow her down so much anymore. Clearly, she’d playacted the sweet, timid little cripple to lull him into some slowly cooling trap. Here sat old Mister and Mrs. Gregson, and those other two servant girls.

Polly cried out in delight as a man caught her waist and pulled her onto his lap. She kept shrieking and laughing, ‘til his mouth covered hers…right before the whole staff! Of all the indecency. Hold on. Who was that servant-molesting young rascal? His attire and manner blended so well amongst the others, he’d not stood out as unfamiliar at first. Walpole blinked, not sure at first if the fellow was real, as if Polly wasn’t writhing convincingly enough.

Finally, she shoved back but stayed on his lap. ‘Mister Hawthorne, really! Can’t you at least behave yourself ‘til Martin’s finished playing?’

‘Well, dear, there’s a problem.’ He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘See, ‘twas the music in the air and your spritely dancing what set me all aflame, and I ain’t sure how soon I’ll be called off to other business.’ He watched her cheeks redden. ‘Can’t even blame this fine gin, for so little I’ve sipped.’

‘So drink more, silly!’ She roughed his crown and shoved the bottle in his face.

‘What the devil’s the meaning of all this?’

Everyone looked up at Walpole. There it is, in their eyes. They all know! They set this trap for me. Martin’s song died on his fiddle with a dissonant, crestfallen coo.

The fellow holding Polly growled cheerfully. ‘Ah, Benjamin, so good of you to join us.’

It was uncanny how a man could look so much like a wolf—and not the drooling, feral canine demons painted in children’s books. Walpole had seen the real creatures, both in zoos and free in the wild during hunting trips. Most were longer, gaunter, and scragglier than you’d expect, yet full of such supple, limber, deadly grace. They played and frolicked with a thirsty joy of life, innocent as any friendly sheepdog until you saw them stalk, chase, murder, and devour something.

Frederick Hawthorne kept smiling, but his eyes brightened unpleasantly. ‘I’ve been looking for just the excuse to pay some of the lovely staff here a visit, see. Tonight, you graced my wee pub yourself, did you not? Happened to leave behind something valuable-looking, you did.’

‘At the pub!’ Mrs. Gregson gasped like a fawning nanny. ‘Oh, Mister Walpole. You know the doctor said the drink ain’t good for you no more, sir.’

‘Now, now, Madam.’ Hawthorne’s voice sharpened. ‘Just for tonight, I’d say a spot more gin might do his nerves good.’ He raised his glass. ‘Don’t fret, Benjamin. It’s a far purer stock than you was served earlier.’

Polly’s smile faded, as though the handsome rogue at whom she’d been throwing herself had transformed into a goblin before her very eyes. She pulled free and edged away. Martin lowered his fiddle and stepped between her and Hawthorne. Polly caught Martin’s hand and drew close to him. Unsettled confusion bled across the rest of their faces. Hawthorne rose and circled the table.

‘What in the blazes are you talking about?’ Walpole barked.

Hawthorne stalked closer. ‘And here I thought I was just stopping by to return your misplaced timepiece.’ He drew the watch from his pocket and pressed it into Walpole’s hand.

The clicking and ticking vibrated against Walpole’s palm like a heartbeat. He gasped and flung it away. ‘What mad devil are you?’

‘Call me Frederick.’ Frederick splayed a hand sideways. ‘No, no, Mrs. Gregson. No need to get up. Ain’t me what brought the devils here.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Walpole repeated.

‘If you asked less often, more folks might get in an answer or two.’ Frederick knelt and retrieved the timepiece. ‘Ah, good, not a scratch! Splendid craftsmanship, don’t you agree? How old would you say it is?’ He shrugged and slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Quite right. Let’s chat more private like, shall we?’
 


Once they stood alone, out in the black corridor, Walpole hissed, ‘What have you done to me, you madman?’

‘Now, now. You’re the one whose doctor advised against more spirits, and it’s my pub you favour when you slip away for your East End whoring. Of course, whoring ain’t all you been up to in Whitechapel these days, is it? See, I likes looking out for my customers’ health whenever possible. I’ve a sister what’s something of an apothecary. She whipped up a tincture to my specifications, to ease the drink’s effect on your poor liver. Infused a special stock, I did, that one my barkeep was instructed to serve only to you. Of course, that’s more to do with all the far queerer rumours I’ve looked into of late.’

‘You’ve drugged me, you—’

‘You ain’t the only regular customer of mine what lives under this roof. Someone muttered some interesting names, some recent dinner guests of yours.’

Walpole’s eyes shot back to the kitchen doorway. ‘Which one of them told you?’

Frederick shook his head. ‘Don’t matter. Have you any bloody idea what you’ve been carrying around on you?’

Walpole shivered violently. ‘They… they told me… keeping it on me would… would…’

‘Protect you?’ Frederick sneered. ‘Whenever you swells get hold of curious old fabled trinkets like this, it always draws out the loveliest mayhem.’

‘Bless my poor soul,’ Walpole shuddered. ‘That’s exactly what… well, what another fellow said…’

‘Who?’

Walpole turned away and hung his head. ‘Who do you think? The one who sold us the pocket watch. Whatever you mean to do to me, get on with it. Even their talisman of protection is repulsed by me.’

‘Of course it is. Once you’d swallowed a bit of that ol’ Hawthorne family recipe, such an essence would trouble you so fierce, you simply couldn’t abide keeping it near—but only if such essence was malignant.’

Walpole looked up sharply.

‘Oh, you didn’t know! Poor fellow. Stay right there.’ Frederick lifted a finger and darted back into the kitchen. He returned with a chair in one hand, the gin bottle and an empty glass in the other. ‘That’s it. Sit yourself down. There’s a good chap. Careful, don’t spill… Aye, that’s it…’

After a few grimacing sips, Walpole squeezed his eyes shut. ‘What’s that bastard Charleston told you?’

‘No need to speak ill of the dead. It’s your side of it I’m here to listen to. What have you and this timepiece to do with the queer way the moon’s been shining on ol’ Big Ben tonight?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Walpole’s voice grew distant. ‘The stars… they align to the clock of change. When you have that clock on your side… well, I suppose that’s what they’ll clash over. At noon. The Wanderer of the Road of Stolen Teeth, and his maddened, captive tyrant-love… the Lady of the Falcon. When that happens, you’ll be just as dead as me or worse. All it took to signal them was someone winding up that little contraption and set it ticking.’

‘So who saw to that?’

‘He said… we might be dealt a fairer hand, if we waited contritely, to hand it over to the victor… but he either lied or was mad, damn him! We were deceived. I see that now. Nothing but that watch could make a difference and only if returned where it came from. Best of luck, reaching that place in one piece.’

‘Someone brought it out. So there’s a way back in. I’ll wager he could tell me.’

Walpole chuckled bitterly. ‘Oh, I could point you his way quickly enough, but you wouldn’t reach him in time. I might as well point you straight to the Chapel of the Falcon itself.’

Something rocky and sharp struck Frederick in the back. For a wild moment, he’d swear someone had hurled a heavy chair or small table through the doorway behind him. He stumbled aside and realized young Martin had heaved a sharp shoulder against him. The kitchen’s spilling light caught the glint of a carving knife. Frederick evaded a swipe at his ribs and drew up sharply through the throbbing pain.

Martin collared Walpole and pressed the blade to his throat. ‘I’m so sorry, Master Walpole, but you was warned not to speak it!’

‘Martin, my boy. Please, what is—?’

The lad’s wrist jerked, and the hallway’s murk sprayed blacker across the wall and carpet. Frederick leapt back and felt it patter his trousers. The narrow space filled like a fishbowl with the pungent, salty-iron smell.

‘Easy there, lad.’ Frederick’s nostrils flared, his mouth watered, and his eyes sharpened. Instead of drawing his own weapon, he lifted his hands slowly. His eyes stayed on Martin’s. ‘I’m sure you had fine cause, doing the old bugger in. Settle down and let’s hear of this Chapel of—’

Martin smiled and pressed the dripping edge against his own neck. He yanked sideways.
 
CONTINUES NEXT MONTH