The Clockmaker's Secret Read online

  The Clockmaker’s Secret

  The Slim Hardy Mysteries #2

  Jack Benton

  The Clockmaker’s Secret

  On holiday to escape the nightmares of his last case, disgraced soldier turned private detective John “Slim” Hardy comes upon something buried in the peat on Bodmin Moor.

  * * *

  Unfinished and water-damaged but still ticking, the old clock provides a vital clue to a decades-old mystery.

  * * *

  As Slim begins to ask questions of the tiny Cornish village of Penleven, he is drawn into a world of lies, rumours, and secrets, some of which the residents would prefer to stay buried.

  * * *

  Twenty-three years ago, a reclusive clockmaker left his workshop and walked out onto Bodmin Moor, taking his last, unfinished clock with him.

  * * *

  He disappeared.

  * * *

  Slim is determined to find out why.

  * * *

  The Clockmaker’s Secret is the stunning sequel to Jack Benton’s acclaimed debut, The Man by the Sea.

  “The Clockmaker’s Secret”

  Copyright © Jack Benton / Chris Ward 2018

  * * *

  The right of Jack Benton / Chris Ward to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the Author.

  * * *

  This story is a work of fiction and is a product of the Author’s imagination. All resemblances to actual locations or to persons living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  For Brandon Hale

  * * *

  an inspiration

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  About the Author

  Also by the same author

  Contact

  Acknowledgments

  1

  The hike wasn’t going to plan.

  The looming granite stacks of Rough Tor were a poor compass marker, shifting along the skyline as Slim Hardy attempted to realign himself with the trace of path which had led him up the hill from the car park.

  To his right a small herd of wild moorland ponies blocked the direct route to the ridgeline and the tallest stacks. Their defiant eyes watched every step as Slim skirted around, moving slowly over the boggy, uneven terrain, wary of the granite scree poking through the tuffs of moorland grass.

  Slim sighed. He was way off course now, Rough Tor’s long ridge rising almost straight on, and the flat peak of Brown Willy with its sprinkling of rocks appearing straight ahead across a wide, gentle valley. He reached by habit for the hip flask that was no longer there, shook his hand as though to punish himself for his forgetfulness, then sat on a rock to take a breather.

  Up on the ridge, the two hikers he had followed from the car park jumped down from among the rocks and headed on toward Brown Willy. As they disappeared from sight, Slim felt a sudden pang of loneliness. At the very bottom of the slope, there were three cars in the car park alongside the blur of red that was his pushbike, but of the other walkers there was no sign. Besides the ponies, he was alone.

  After a bite of a leftover sandwich and a swig from a water bottle, Slim looked up at the peak, torn by indecision. He had a long cycle ride ahead of him down winding, potholed country lanes, and the battery in his light was flat. As he turned, though, the sun briefly broke through the clouds, and far to the south the English Channel glittered between two hills. To the northwest Slim looked for the Atlantic, but a bank of clouds hung low over the fields, obscuring all but the tiniest triangle of grey that might have been water.

  With a persevering grunt he shouldered his rucksack and got back to the hike, but had taken no more than a few steps when a loose rock rolled under his boot, plunging him knee-deep into a pit of grimy water. Grimacing, Slim pulled his foot free of the bog and staggered forward onto drier ground.

  As he removed and emptied his left boot, he gave a wistful grin, remembering that a spare pair of socks lay on the bed in his room, left out of his bag to make space for an old paperback from the guesthouse’s borrowing shelf.

  Again the sun briefly emerged from the clouds, the granite stacks sparkling in the sudden brightness. The herd of ponies had moved across the hill, leaving Slim with a straight route to the ridgeline.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not giving up, are you?’

  His boot squelched as he pulled it back on, but with a grimace rarely leaving his face, he finally made it to the ridgeline fifteen minutes later, clambering up the granite stacks to the highest viewpoint. Fog had rolled in, obscuring everything but the slopes of the hill. The old China clay quarries to the southwest were ghosts in the fog, but beyond a murky grey sheet hung over the world.

  With the water’s grit like sandpaper between his toes, Slim paused only long enough to take a quick drink before beginning his downward journey. A warm early spring day was quickly reverting to a late winter evening, and only an hour of light remained before complete darkness. Even though the fog hadn’t yet absorbed the little gravel car park into its amorphous grey palette—a speck of red near the lower wall identified his bike—it looked a lot farther than the peak had seemed when he was starting out.

  He was staring off into the distance, counting the sheep huddled into a natural bowl farther down the slope as a way of putting the chill gusts of wind out of his mind, when something shifted under his foot.

  He fell hard, catching himself with his hands. He had fallen on the same foot, but this time he turned his ankle, and a blistering pain raced up his leg. He rolled on to his back, eased off his boot and sat rubbing his ankle for a few minutes. Removing his sodden sock revealed the beginnings of an angry bruise, and the exposure to the air sent February chills through his body. The ground here was at least dry, and he sat up and stared upslope, feeling both angry and stupid. Fool me once, fool me twice, he remembered the beginning of a saying his ex-wife had been fond of, although he had forgotten the rest.

  He looked around, wondering which rock had tripped him, and frowned. Something poked up between two tufts of grass, fluttering in the breeze.


  The corner of a plastic bag, shredded and frayed, its old colour long faded to a grey-white. Slim hesitated before making to pick it up, remembering his tour of Iraq with the military, when such a thing might have indicated a landmine, a marker for local militants still using the area. Every bit of rubbish could have meant death, and in the suburbs of some dirty, dusty towns, Slim had barely dared take a forward step.

  To his surprise, it resisted his sharp tug. He pushed his hands into the turf and eased his fingers around the hard, angular shape the bag contained. It spread out beneath the turf, a couple of hand spans across, and his heart began to race. Lost military ordnance? Dartmoor, to the northeast, was used for military drills, but Bodmin Moor was supposedly safe.

  He pressed a finger into the hard surface, and it gave a little. Wood, not plastic or metal. No bomb he had ever known had been made from wood.

  He pulled back turf that yielded easily and twisted the wrapped object out of the grass. Square corners and carved grooves aroused his curiosity. He untied the knot on the bag and withdrew the object inside.

  ‘Huh…?’

  The bag contained a beautiful, ornate cuckoo clock. Delicate wooden carvings surrounded a pretty central clock face. To his surprise it was still functioning, as a little cuckoo suddenly blasted out of a door above the ‘12’ numeral, its cry a tired puff into Slim’s stunned ears.

  2

  ‘Will you be staying on another week, Mr. Hardy?

  Mrs. Greyson, the stern-faced elderly landlady of Lakeview Bed & Breakfast, an establishment which lived up to only two of its three labels, was waiting in the gloomy hall when Slim entered through the front door. Cold and aching from the long ride, and still spooked from how close a swerving Escort with a blown-out engine had come to reducing him to mincemeat, he had hoped to avoid a confrontation until he had at least taken a shower.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ he said. ‘Can I let you know tomorrow?’

  ‘It’s only that I need to know whether to advertise your room.’

  Slim had seen no other customers in the four-room B&B. He forced a smile for Mrs. Greyson, but as he started past her for the stairs, he paused.

  ‘Say, you don’t know of anywhere locally that does valuations, do you?’

  ‘Valuations? Of what?’

  Slim lifted his wrist and waved the generic watch he had picked up in a sale a year ago. ‘Thought I might pawn this,’ he said. ‘I was thinking it might be time for an upgrade.’

  Mrs Greyson wrinkled her nose. ‘I can tell you how much that’s worth. Nothing.’

  Slim smiled. ‘I’m serious. It belonged to my father. It’s a family heirloom.’

  Mrs Greyson shrugged as though aware he was spinning a lie. ‘I’m sure you’d be wasting your time, but if you’re really serious, you’ll find somewhere in Tavistock. They have a market every Saturday. It sells all kinds of junk, and no doubt you’d find someone willing to take that off your hands for a very small fee.’

  ‘Tavistock? Where’s that?’

  ‘On the Plymouth road from Launceston. In Devon.’ This last was said with a wrinkled nose, as though to exist beyond the Cornish border was the most heinous of crimes.

  ‘Is there a bus?’

  Mrs Greyson sighed. ‘Why don’t you just rent a car? What kind of person comes to Cornwall without a car?’

  The kind who no longer has a driver’s license, Slim wanted to say, but didn’t. Her prejudices ran deep enough already without knowledge of his drink-driving ban.

  ‘I told you, I’m trying to be environmentally sensitive.’

  ‘How nice for you.’ Another sigh. ‘Well, there’s a timetable pinned to the door of your room, as I’ve told you before.’

  Slim didn’t remember whether she had told him or not. True, there was something, but it was faded to near illegibility and most likely years out of date.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, giving her a smile.

  ‘Honestly, you don’t know how lucky you are now that First Bus has started operating in North Cornwall. Used to be, there was only one bus to Camelford all week. It left at two p.m. on Tuesday and you had to wait a week to get home again. Imagine getting stuck in Camelford for a week? I mean, I know you could walk it if you had a couple of hours spare, but most of the folk needing the bus aren’t all that into walking, are they?’

  ‘That bad, is it?’

  Mrs. Greyson missed Slim’s gentle sarcasm. ‘They’ve been after a bypass for years. At least now the buses go twice a day. That was Blair, that was, sorted it out. Things have gone downhill since the Tories got back in. They were after the sea pool at Bude, then the public toilets in—’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. Greyson,’ Slim said.

  Mrs. Greyson turned back toward the kitchen, mouth still moving silently as though words continued to fall out like drips from a leaking tap, her hands clumsily shuffling a clutch of bills and bank statement envelopes. Slim had just begun to hope the conversation was over when she stopped and turned back. ‘Will you be going out for dinner again tonight?’

  Penleven had a single shop that shut at six p.m., and a single pub that stopped serving food at eight-thirty. He had half an hour to make it to his lonely table in the family room or it was a Cup Noodle and a tuna sandwich for the third night in a row. While Slim had his reasons for his extended stay in Cornwall, living up to his nickname wasn’t one of them.

  He nodded. ‘I think I will,’ he said.

  ‘Well, don’t forget your key,’ she said, something she had said to him every night of his three-week stay. ‘I’m not getting up to let you back in.’

  3

  Up in his neat, surprisingly large room for a house that was outwardly rather small, Slim took the bundled clock out of his rucksack and unwrapped it from the plastic bag.

  He knew nothing about clocks. His last flat had contained a single cheap plastic one the previous occupant had left behind, and to tell the time he invariably used his old Nokia or a succession of bargain bin wristwatches until they were scratched beyond readability.

  The clock was a wooden rectangle designed like a winter lodge, with a pointed, overhanging roof and a hole in the bottom for an absent pendulum. The clock face, with its metal Roman numerals that were slightly tarnished, was surrounded by swirls and carvings: animal and tree designs, symbols that perhaps represented the sun and moon or seasons. In a semi-circle beneath the clock face was a thin strip resembling a moon tilted upward, or perhaps an unfinished horseshoe. A few illegible scratches had been made in its surface. The whole clock had been coated with a thick varnish primer coat, one to be sanded and smoothed away as the design was finalized and refined.

  Slim gave a bemused shake of his head. He had never encountered a handmade clock before. If someone had taken the time to create something so complex, why wrap it up in a bag and bury it on the moor?

  Interestingly, despite the lack of a pendulum it was still ticking, even though the hands were a couple of hours off correct time—it was now showing nearly eleven—and the bottom was badly water-damaged where the bag had ripped open. Slim tried to take the back off to look inside, but it was screwed tight, and with no tools of his own he didn’t want to bother Mrs. Greyson again before morning. The wood, though, had the burned dirt smell of peat, as well as an aged mustiness. Slim could easily believe the clock was older than his own forty-six years.

  Slim fetched a damp cloth from the corner washbasin and gave the clock a wipe down. The varnish quickly reached a lustrous shine as grit and dust came away. Details in the carvings became more apparent: mice, foxes, badgers and other staples of British wildlife hiding among the filed curves and arcs of trees. With the firm click of the clock mechanism suggesting a mechanical knowhow equal to the artistic, whoever had built this clock had done it with great pride and an exceptional level of skill.

  Slim set the clock up on the dresser beside his bed then fetched his coat. It was time for his nightly trek out to the local pub, hopefully in time to catch the last food o
rders. He didn’t feel like a Chicken & Mushroom Pot Noodle for the third night in a row. It wasn’t that he hated Pot Noodles, it was that the village’s little shop only stocked the one flavour. On the one night he had leveled up and bought a tin of beans and sausages, he had found it to be three months out of date.

  As he headed out into the light drizzle that was a mainstay of Bodmin Moor and its surroundings after nightfall, he couldn’t stop thinking about the clock.

  Had he found a bag of gold, it couldn’t have been more mysterious.

  4

  ‘So, who are you, really, Mr. Hardy?’ Mrs. Greyson said, holding back his breakfast plate as though its delivery were reliant on his answer. ‘I mean, you stay here at my guesthouse in the middle of nowhere for weeks on end, and all you do every day is walk on the moors or wander about the village. Are you here for any particular reason?’