The Skeleton Clock Read online

  ‘We heard something,’ Jake said quietly. ‘Maybe it was someone on another floor, or an echo or…’ He turned away, looking across the rippling water at the huge dome of Whispers.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Sarah asked quietly. ‘That creature?’

  Jake nodded. ‘It was at Whispers, then at Atherton’s. Maybe it was here, maybe it came for Geoff.’ He shrugged and looked away. ‘Perhaps it’s all somehow connected. The toy soldiers, those creatures, Atherton’s death… And now – Geoff.’

  ‘We don’t know for certain what’s happened to Geoff.’

  ‘No,’ Jake agreed. ‘So how do we find out?’

  ‘Father mentioned someone who has another of the soldier figures. A woman, Mrs Gladhall.’

  ‘A figure from the same set?’

  ‘Maybe. He suggested we might find out about them at Mandrake’s.’

  ‘You think there’s a book about them?’ Jake didn’t think that was likely.

  ‘Won’t know unless we look.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Jake conceded.

  Sarah was getting irritated with his lack on interest. ‘Look, you said we can’t just stay here. Let’s do something. Anything. And maybe Geoff will turn up. Wanting his boat back, probably.’

  Neither of them believed that. But Jake nodded. ‘OK.’

  ‘You find this Mrs Gladhall,’ Sarah said. ‘Dad said she lives over at Knights’ Crossing somewhere.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should stick together?’

  ‘And take twice as long to find out anything useful? Good plan. If Geoff’s in trouble he needs our help now.’

  ‘All right. But why do I have to go looking for this woman?’ Jake wondered, picking up one of the oars.

  ‘Because I’ll do better at Mandrake’s. I’ve been there before, and Mr Mandrake knows my father.’

  ‘I’ve been there too. A couple of times. And everyone knows your father,’ Jake pointed out. ‘So, you going to help with the rowing, or what?’

  Together they pulled on the oars, and the little boat moved gently away from the broken glass and rusted metal of The Twisting.

  *

  There was an old service entrance to the tunnels that came out close to Mandrake’s. Beyond it, the tunnel had been sealed off after some serious flooding. So now it led only to Mandrake’s.

  It was a brisk ten minute walk along the gloomy damp passageway. A few lamps sputtered on the dregs of the fat they were burning. Between them, Sarah had to walk slowly and carefully along the slippery floor. More than once she stepped in a puddle, soaking her feet.

  At last she saw the grey evening light filtering down through the access hatch high above. A rusting ladder was bolted to the wall. She didn’t like it – the bolts were old and several had sheared away so the ladder rocked and swayed dangerously.

  So it was with great relief that Sarah pulled herself out of the opening and stood on the small paved forecourt outside a tall brick-built warehouse. The forecourt was little more than a narrow platform that protruded from the front and part of one side of Mandrake’s. The walls of the building were stained and pitted from the acid rain, and the sides disappeared into the inky depths of the water. Only the top few floors were still above the waterline.

  A sign above the door read: ‘Mandrake’s Rare Books and Manuscripts’. Or it would have done, if it still had all the letters.

  Sarah pushed open the heavy door. Inside a short flight of wooden steps led up to the main floor. She knew from previous visits that the upper floors were filled with packing cases and dusty shelves – books waiting to be sorted and catalogued and restored. Deep below, her father had told her, were basements and cellars. She imagined that most of the time they must be flooded.

  At the top of the steps, another door led into the book room. Though it was more than just a room. Almost the whole warehouse was filled with bookcases. They were enormous – running the length of the huge building and rising to the high wooden ceiling. There were occasional wooden ladders propped against some of the bookcases. Gaps at intervals along the aisles made the whole place into a maze of narrow book-lined passages.

  Oil lamps and candles struggled to alleviate the gloom. But they were losing the battle. Light from outside would have helped, if the small, high windows had not been so dusty and wreathed with cobwebs.

  Gabriel Mandrake was a tall man, lean of build and with a narrow nose and steel-grey hair. He seemed to materialise out of the gloom, stepping from behind one of the bookcases. He was holding a leather-bound book, its faded cover water-stained and torn.

  ‘Such a pity,’ he said. His deep voice was deadened by so many books and sounded abrupt and staccato. ‘A rare copy of Albrecht the Lesser’s Homily, but I fear the damp has got to it.’

  As he spoke, there was creak from further down the warehouse. Like the sound of a foot on a floorboard. The thud of running feet. Sarah turned to look. But all she could see was rows and rows of books and manuscripts and papers. Perhaps it was just a noise from outside.

  ‘So,’ Mandrake was saying, ‘the lovely Miss Sarah Hickson. And what can I do for you? Is your father with you?’

  ‘No,’ Sarah said, adding quickly, ‘he’s busy. I was passing…’ She paused, realising how impossible that was. Mandrake’s was on the way to nowhere. ‘Well, I was nearby.’

  ‘You wish to browse?’ Mandrake turned, opening his arms as if to present the whole building to her. ‘My dear, be my guest. What earthly use are all these books if nobody reads them? He that loves reading has everything within his reach – who was it said that?’

  Sarah shook her head, smiling politely.

  ‘Godwin, I think. Never mind, it will come to me. But I am forgetting my manners, how is your father? Is his business thriving?’

  They talked for a few minutes about the toyshop and the general lack of customers.

  ‘So long as we have our health,’ Mandrake said. ‘I confess my plan is to live for ever. And so far I am exactly on schedule.’

  Sarah laughed, feeling more at ease now. She could remember the first time she came here, when she was only about seven years old. She’d been nervous then, until Mandrake let her sit and watch him restoring a book.

  Like most of the volumes here it had been water-damaged. Mandrake had told her how he retrieved it himself from a flooded library. He teased apart the faded pages with tweezers, rubbed a special oil into the swollen paper, carefully re-inked the faded lettering… She had been completely absorbed by his skill and care and devotion. Just as when she watched her father at work.

  ‘Is there any subject or author in particular you wish to explore?’ Mandrake asked.

  Sarah had thought about that on the way over. ‘I want to know about sea monsters,’ she said. ‘And I want to know about toys. Toy soldiers.’

  ‘What a strange combination.’ Mandrake smiled. ‘But we shall see what we can do. Toys first, perhaps?’

  He led the way along one of the narrows book-lined aisles, and through the gap between bookcases. As they turned again, Sarah stopped. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Sarah frowned. ‘I heard something.’ It had sounded like something moving quickly in the next aisle – a slapping, dragging sound combined with more creaks from the old floor boards.

  ‘This old building is full of strange noises. The ebb and flow of water in the cellarage, the settling of the ancient bricks and rotting timbers…’

  But Sarah wasn’t listening. She ran to the nearest gap in the bookcases. A candle flame guttered in the breeze as she passed.

  The next aisle was empty. And the next. Sarah stopped. maybe she had imagined it. Or maybe it was just the normal sounds of the building as Mandrake said. But she’d been so sure…

  ‘You see,’ he said from behind her. Mandrake was holding an oil lamp he’d taken from a nearby shelf. ‘There’s nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Sarah echoed, following him back through the gap. Wondering if she s
hould show him the trail of wet splashes across the floor. Like footprints…

  Mandrake led Sarah to the back of the vast room, and out through a doorway into a smaller chamber beyond. This too was lined with books. Another door led through into a third room. Sarah followed Mandrake, the light from his lamp flickering across the shelves.

  ‘As well as the main book room, there are so many other rooms, so many nooks and crannies,’ Mandrake said. ‘But here we are. Toys and games. Of course there are many more books yet to be mended or catalogued, but this meagre selection will, I am afraid, have to suffice for now.’

  Like every other room, this one was lined with shelves. Mandrake set down the oil lamp on a low table at one side of the room. ‘This isn’t much good on its own, I’m afraid. I’ll fetch you some candles. I won’t be long.’

  There was enough light to make out some of the labels on the shelves. They were handwritten in spiky, faded capitals. Sarah could see GAME THEORY, ANCIENT BOARD GAMES, EVOLUTION OF DICE, TEAM SPORTS, FIELD GAMES, WAR GAMING, D&D and a whole section labelled simply CHESS.

  Looking back at the lamp, she saw that the top of the table it rested on was a chess board, made up of yellowed white and deep red squares. Each square had a shallow recess in the middle, a simple round hole with further indentations within.

  The table itself seemed to be made of ivory – ornate but functional, its legs thin as sticks but cross-braced. The board itself was several inches deep, and Sarah wondered if there was a drawer inside it where the pieces could be stored. But she couldn’t see one. There was an ornate bracket on one side, but whatever it had once held was no longer there though she could see the slots where it had fitted. Along the edges of the board symbols were carved into the surface.

  Intrigued, she took the oil lamp over to the CHESS section and browsed along the book titles. They were a mix of the history of chess, rules and strategies, and transcriptions of actual games and tournaments.

  ‘You are an expert at the Game of Kings?’ Mandrake was carrying a silver tray on which there were half a dozen candles. He put the tray down gently on the table, and positioned the candles carefully round the room, well away from the books and papers.

  ‘Father makes chess sets sometimes. I can play – quite well, I’m told.’

  ‘Strategy and simulation, logic and role playing.’ Mandrake nodded. ‘Did you see my table? It’s very fine.’ He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Very valuable.’

  ‘I was looking at it,’ Sarah said. ‘What are these symbols, round the sides?’

  Mandrake looked at her intently for a moment, as if making up his mind whether she deserved to know. ‘The Manasollasa of Somesvara is a good place to start,’ he said. ‘It dates from the 12th century, I have a copy somewhere. But Bernauer explains it quite well.’ He reached past Sarah and pulled out a book from the shelves in front of her.

  It was old and ragged, with the cover and first few pages missing. The spine had been replaced. ‘Bernhauer’ was written along it in the same spiky handwriting as the labels on the shelves.

  The pages were yellowed and brittle. The text and diagrams were faded and smudged. She paused, seeing a list of symbols that looked similar to some of those edging the chess board.

  ‘So, toy soldiers?’ Mandrake prompted gently. ‘I have a section on war gaming and another for collectibles.’

  But Sarah wasn’t listening. She was staring off into the flickering gloom. ‘You know sometimes when you’re thinking about something else, stuff just pops up in your mind,’ she said quietly. She closed the book and slid it back into place on the shelf. ‘I know what it means. I know what it’s saying. I just realised, standing here, thinking about something completely different.’

  Mandrake shook his head, confused. ‘I’m sorry, my dear – you were going to tell me about toy soldiers.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ she said. ‘Don’t you see? It’s nothing to do with them. It’s what the Head is saying. I know what it means.’

  Mandrake looked pale in the dancing light from the candles. ‘What head? What do you mean, girl?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Sarah said. ‘Just this statue thing. A golden Head. Only it keeps muttering stuff that no one can understand and no one knows how it works. This Miss Patterson asked father to explain it.’ She shrugged.

  Mandrake took a step towards her, his face a mass of ominous shadows with the candlelight behind him. ‘Tell me about this mysterious muttering head,’ he said quietly.

  *

  It was said there used to be a bridge at Knights’ Crossing. If that was true, then it was long gone. All that was left was one side of a road of tall stone-built town houses. The slippage meant that one end of the street was half a storey lower, a ragged crack running down between two of the houses.

  It was a wealthy area. Each house had its own boat tethered to a small jetty outside. There was a regular ferry from the nearest tunnels – the entrance known simply as Knights.

  From what Sarah had told him, Jake knew that Mrs Gladhall was a wealthy lady who lived on her own. A widow who collected art and sculpture and antiques. But when Jake asked the boatman on the ferry, he laughed. ‘The veiled lady,’ he said. ‘Don’t see her about much, not since her husband died.’

  ‘Which is her house?’

  ‘I’ll drop you there. Not like it’s busy just now. Want me to wait?’

  ‘Please,’ Jake said. He remembered the boatman who had stranded him at The Twisting and gone off with his money. ‘I’ll pay you on the way back.’

  The boatman laughed. ‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to be out of pocket as well as abandoned, do you?’

  As soon as the boatmen had tied the boat up at the jetty, Jake jumped up on to the wooden decking. The boatman settled himself down against a folded blanket at the stern of his little boat. When he was quite comfortable he pulled a battered paperback book from his pocket and started to read.

  Jake took a deep breath. The worst that could happen was that they told him to go away, he decided. The imposing wooden door was equipped with a large brass knocker. It made was a dull, dead sound.

  The door was opened by a sullen looking young woman. She was dressed in a dark suit, her brown hair tied back. She looked suspiciously at Jake. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Er, Mrs Gladhall?’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘Er, no. Sorry.’ So this wasn’t Mrs Gladhall. ‘But can I see her?’

  ‘Who is it? a voice called from inside the house. A woman’s voice, firm and slightly impatient.

  ‘It’s a…’ The woman hesitated as she looked at Jake. Then she turned to call into the house: ‘A boy. He says he wants to see you.’

  ‘Nobody wants to see me,’ the voice replied. ‘Not any more. What’s he want?’

  The woman turned back to Jake. ‘Well?’

  ‘I want to ask her about something. Something she owns. A toy soldier.’ Jake was talking loudly now, not sure if he was conversing with the woman at the door or the invisible Mrs Gladhall.

  ‘He says – ’ the woman called.

  But Mrs Gladhall cut her off. ‘I heard, Linda, thank you. Show him in.’

  Surprised, Jake followed the woman into a large hallway. She led him to a door off to one side, and gestured for Jake to go through.

  As Jake stepped towards the door, the woman caught his arm. ‘Be careful,’ she whispered, surprisingly gently. ‘I’ll leave the front door unlocked. If she loses her temper, just leave. Quickly. She can be very… volatile.’

  Jake opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but the woman was walking rapidly back across the hallway. He took another deep breath, and knocked gently at the door before opening it and stepping inside.

  ‘How very polite,’ Mrs Gladhall said.

  She was sitting on a large sofa in the bay of the window. The light was behind her, so all Jake could make out was a silhouette. The room was neatly furnished, and pictures and portraits hung on the walls. There were seve
ral small display cases, and ornaments and statues stood on low tables by the walls. It reminded Jake of Atherton’s house, but on a more modest scale.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ Mrs Gladhall said. The dark silhouette of her arm gestured Jake to a nearby armchair.

  Sitting down, Jake could see that part of the reason why he could not make out the woman’s features was that she was wearing a heavy, dark veil. It twitched slightly as she regarded him.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ Jake said.

  ‘Polite again.’ She seemed amused. ‘Your manner belies your appearance, young man. What are you? A river urchin? Roof rider?’

  ‘Waterlark,’ Jake confessed. ‘I found something,’ he went on quickly, ‘and I wanted to ask you about it.’

  ‘You hope to sell me something?’

  ‘No,’ Jake said quickly. ‘Though I think it is valuable. But I was told you had a similar…’ He wasn’t sure what the word would be for a proper collector. ‘A similar piece,’ he decided.

  The woman leaned forward, her face a shimmering of darkness. ‘You said something about a toy. Now you call it a piece.’ There was a sort of hushed anticipation in her tone now.

  ‘Yes. That is, I’m not sure. It’s like a toy soldier, on a horse. About this tall.’ He showed her with his fingers. ‘And it moves. At least, I think it does. On its own.’

  The woman drew back suddenly. ‘What do you want?’ she hissed, her voice now abrupt and nervous.

  ‘Just information,’ Jake told her. ‘I just want to know about it. I was told you had a similar figure.’

  There was silence for a moment. When she spoke again, Mrs Gladhall had regained her composure. ‘Why do you suppose I wear this veil?’

  Jake frowned. ‘I suppose because you are a widow. I’m sorry, I heard your husband died. Are you in mourning?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m in mourning.’ She laughed quietly, but it was a sad sound. ‘Though I do not mourn my husband, not any more. He died over ten years ago. I am in mourning,’ she said quietly, ‘for my beauty.’

  She was beautiful. Jake could see that, even in the dim light. He could see it despite the veil – in the way she sat, the shape of her body, even her voice. But it was a frail, delicate beauty. Was she very old?