The Distant Dead by Lesley Thomson (most difficult books to read .txt) 📗

water, the wind, all the elements, they defy time. We could be here in the past. Or in the future.’ Stella felt as though she was channelling words not her own.

‘One two three, back in the room.’ Lucie’s face loomed close. ‘We already have Jack out with the tooth fairies.’ She took Stella’s arm and, holding her tight, attempted to totter on along the towpath.

The two cut a capering pair as they swayed and plunged along the river bank. The elderly clockmaker’s house was, as Clive Burgess had told Stella that afternoon, hard to miss.

The reflection of Fletcher’s old mill in the treacle-black river cast an air of menace. A lamp-post outside the middle villa was out. The vanishing moonlight robbed the pale line of the towpath of dimension, sometimes it led forward then it climbed to the teeming heavens. The Avon was now a lake, now a vast crater. The wind and the weir combined in an unmitigated roar.

Battered and disorientated by the remorseless elements, Stella fought off the vision of the high-hedged country lane, the van door slowly opening. She huddled to Lucie, more than grateful for her stolid presence, as they battled against easy drowning.

‘One false step and we’ll be in the river.’ Lucie’s shout was one of those rare times when she had read Stella’s mind. ‘It takes no time to shove someone into turbulent waters and whoosh, they’re gone.’

Not mind-reading, Lucie had once nearly drowned in a river. Jack would say she was re-enacting trauma.

‘Are you OK?’ Stella felt bad to have brought her.

‘Fine and dandy, Bubsy Bear.’ Head down, Lucie patted Stella’s arm as she ploughed forward. Two moments later she brought them up short and her mouth to Stella’s ear, ‘Wssst. What was that? Did you see it?’

‘No.’ Stella raked the rain-soaked darkness. Nothing. On the far bank a moored houseboat crouched in a wash of faint light.

‘I get the sense we’re being watched,’ Lucie said.

‘I don’t.’ Stella had forgotten Lucie’s tendency to crank up the suspense in life as well as in print.

‘Always assume you have a witness, take nothing for granted.’ Now Lucie was quoting Jack. If only he was here.

‘What if Roddy’s murderer knows we’re on their trail?’ Already on the qui vive, Stella was whisked into Lucie’s drama.

‘Trail? What trail?’ Lucie could also abandon her ship without notice. ‘If there was and she’s stalking us, we’ll get her.’

‘You think a woman murdered Roddy?’

‘Rodders sounds a bit of a bad boy with the ladies, doubtless there’s a queue with knives out.’ Suddenly, she shouted into the storm. ‘Who’s there?’

A shape detached itself from the darkness of the Avon. It resolved into a man, the hood of his fleece up, a scarf covering his mouth.

‘Evening, la-ladies. La-ate to be wandering alone.’ He swayed towards them. Tall, thin. Menacing.

‘Buzz off, Mr Man,’ Lucie barked.

‘Ooff. N-n-not ver-r-y nice.’ Stamping in a puddle, hands in his fleece pockets, he drew nearer. The escaping strand of dark hair precluded Clive, Stella decided.

‘Turn around, Dick Whittington. There’s a good reason why I’m only allowed out in daylight hours.’ Lucie braced herself.

‘Effing lezzies.’ The man stomped away towards the weir.

‘If he was spying on us, he’d have seen double,’ Lucie said when they were alone. ‘Old soak missed his way home from the pub. This is Stag Villas, time to see Old Father Time.’

Ahead a pallid shape proved to be a Georgian terrace of three houses. Standing outside, Stella made out three carved stags, one reclining on each porch, slender legs folded. Every window was dark. Dismissive of time, had Clive Burgess forgotten their appointment? She yelled over the wind, ‘He’s not there.’

‘Only one way to find out.’ Splashing through puddles, Lucie pulled an iron lever affixed beside the door. ‘It’s open.’ Before Stella could stop Lucie, she shouldered inside.

Peering back to the river, the man had made her uneasy. Stella saw someone crouched on the towpath. Staring hard, it became a yellow salt bin. She hurried after Lucie into the house.

‘What is that noise?’ Lucie looked nervous.

From all around came a chattering, insidious as cicadas.

Stella found the light switch. Light flooded a spacious hall.

‘Christ on a bike, Clive likes clocks.’ Lucie’s faux fur was like a damp animal draped over her.

Grandfather clocks lined the walls, pale wood, some oak, mahogany, all somehow forbidding. On a marble table stood an ornate clock of porcelain with silver filigree. Stella wasn’t up on antiques but through cleaning for clients, ormolu and Louis XIV came to mind. One she could identify, the brass fittings not hidden, was a skeleton clock. Was it, she wondered, the one Clive had said he mended for Professor Northcote?

‘Clive?’ Stella’s voice was hoarse after shouting. ‘It’s me. Stella. I hope it’s OK, I’ve brought a friend.’

‘Coo-ee,’ Lucie called.

They ventured into a room on the right and the chattering grew louder. On an oval dining table were more clocks. Stella froze. Each faced across the table, like dinner guests. More clocks were set on plinths around the room and, in each corner, as if waiting to serve food, stood grandfather clocks.

‘Useless, none of them tell the time,’ Lucie said. Her horror mounting, Stella saw that every face was blank. There were no numbers. No hands.

‘At the Death Café, Clive said some clocks keep the time to themselves.’ Stella cleared her throat. ‘They don’t tell the time.’

‘I hate concept art.’ Lucie was snappish, not a good sign. Stella needed her to be fearless.

In the living room more clocks crowded every surface, pendulums swinging. Some ticked rapidly like beaks chipping bark, others with a ponderous clunk. The awful chattering set Stella’s heart beating faster, faster, faster. She fought the impression that every clock had turned to face them.

‘Something is very off,’ Lucie said. ‘He’s not in the kitchen. There are two mugs out for tea so he was expecting you.’

‘Yes.’ Stella knew from experience that a trouble shared was a trouble doubled.

‘Where is Clive the Clock?’ Lucie stepped out to the hall. ‘Clive? If you’re hiding in one