The Clockmaker's Secret

Chapter 5

5

The Crown & Lion, the lonely pub that sat on the very edge of Penleven, a screen of trees separating it from the nearest estate of houses like a shunned neighbour, had never looked more inviting. From the village’s only bus stop Slim had no choice but to walk past it to reach the guesthouse, and while he had frequently dined in its tatty family room with little craving for the booze that would erase the last three months of recovery in the blink of a local’s squinting eye, tonight he felt too much of the old tension, the nervous restlessness that had always pushed him over the edge. People said once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic, and while Slim had hopes of one day enjoying the occasional quiet beer, those demon-free days of control and contentment were a long way off. He gave the lights in the pub window a single longing glance, then quickened his step and hurried past.

The guesthouse was quiet when he returned, but through a closed door came the muffled sound of a television with its volume turned down low. Slim cracked the door and saw Mrs. Greyson asleep in her chair in front of an electric fire. The television remote rested on the chair’s arm beside her, as though she’d had the forethought to turn down the sound before nodding off.

Slim went upstairs. He put the clock on his bed then went back out. Half a mile down the road, outside the village’s only shop, Slim found a payphone.

He called a friend back in Lancashire. Kay Skelton was a linguistics and translation expert whom Slim knew from his Armed Forces days, and with whom he had worked before. Slim explained about the old letter found in the back of the clock.

‘I need to know what’s written on it, if anything,’ Slim said.

‘Mail it to me special delivery,’ Kay said. ‘It’s not something I can do, but I have a friend who can help.’

After ending the call, Slim was surprised to find the shop still open, even at nearly six fifteen.

‘I’m just closing,’ came the stern greeting from the shopkeeper, an elderly woman with a face so sour Slim doubted she could smile if she tried.

‘I’ll only be a minute,’ Slim said.

‘Ah, they all say that, don’t they?’ she said with a grin and a sarcastic laugh which left Slim unsure whether she were making a joke or being rude.

After buying an envelope Slim learned that, yes, the shop also functioned as a local post office, but while yes, it could arrange special delivery mail, a surcharge was required for out-of-hours mailing.

‘Is it far from here to Trelee?’ he asked, as the shopkeeper not so subtly herded him toward the door.

‘Why’d you want to go up there? Not much up there for tourists.’

‘I heard there’s something of a mystery to the place.’

The shopkeeper rolled her eyes. ‘Ah, you mean Amos Birch, the clockmaker. I thought that was old news by now. What do you care about an old man going missing?’

‘I’m a private investigator. The story caught my interest.’

‘Why? There’s very little to tell. Did someone hire you?’

So much disdain was placed on the word ‘hire’ that Slim wondered if the shopkeeper had had a bad experience with PIs in the past.

‘I’m on holiday,’ he said. ‘But you know what they say—once a cop, always a cop.’

‘Do they say that, do they?’

‘So … left or right out of the village?’

The shopkeeper rolled her eyes again. ‘North on the old Camelford road. You might see a sign—there used to be one, but the council doesn’t cut the weeds back like it used to. About ten minutes by car.’

‘On foot?’

‘An hour. A bit more, perhaps. If you know the way you can cut across the edge of Bodmin Moor and save some time, but be careful. It used to be mining country.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And take something to eat. This here’s the only shop from here until you reach the Shell garage on the A39 just outside Camelford.’

Slim nodded. ‘Thanks for the information.’

The shopkeeper shrugged. ‘If you want my advice, I’d save myself the effort. Not much to see but an old farmhouse, and not much to know. When Amos Birch disappeared, he made sure he’d never be found.’