Julius and the Watchmaker Read online

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Julius, not really seeing.

  ‘Julius, life is a game, and games have rules. The rule in this game is power. If you have power over another you can bend him to your will. And how do you gain power over another?’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘Fear, boy. Fear,’ said Jack Springheel, leaping from his chair and looming over Julius like a cobra ready to strike. The fire flared, filling the room with an orange glow. Julius yelped and fell backwards, shielding his face with his arm. He cowered, waiting for the cane sword to slice through the air and run him through.

  Instead, Springheel offered his hand. ‘Pardon the melodramatics, Julius,’ he said, pulling him to his feet. ‘Only trying to illustrate my point.’

  Springheel sat back down and placed his fingertips together. Julius swallowed hard. The fire retreated, and the clocks ticked.

  ‘You see, Julius, I allow people to presume that I am completely without goodness, full to the brim with badness. People think that I will do anything to get what I want, without the least regard for harm or consequences.’

  ‘And, and would you, sir?’

  ‘Would I what?’

  ‘Do anything?’

  Springheel smiled wearily. ‘Of course.’

  The words stabbed at Julius’s innards like a blade of ice.

  Bloody hellfire.

  Julius found himself short of breath, as if the blazing fire were sucking the oxygen from the room. Does he want me to leave now? He still hasn’t paid. Time seemed to stretch and distort—or was he just becoming lightheaded? Julius swayed. Springheel’s fingers beat time like the ticking of a clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Julius wanted to run, but his legs were still rooted to the spot. Then, suddenly, there was silence.

  All the clocks had stopped.

  ‘Good night, Julius,’ said Springheel, his voice filling the room like the roar of a steam train in a tunnel.

  Julius bolted for the door. He wrestled with the handle. Jack Springheel’s laughter boxed his ears, following him out onto the landing. You knew this was a mistake, Higgins. Julius missed the second step and tumbled head first down the stairs and into the wall at the corner. He leapt to his feet and took the rest of the steps three at a time. At the bottom he wedged himself into the dark corner to catch his breath and tally his injuries.

  Nothing appeared broken, in fact Julius was not aware of any pain at all. He mesmerised you, Higgins, that’s what he did. I’ve read about that sort of thing. He’s some sort of parlour magician.

  After a minute Julius felt composed enough for his next move. The street urchins had dispersed or were hiding, waiting to ambush him. Leastways they were nowhere to be seen. Taking a resolute breath, he ran to Clements’ pawnshop and hammered on the door.

  ‘Go away, we’re closed,’ bellowed a voice from within.

  Julius banged on the door again, as loud and as fast as the pulse pounding in his ears. Angry footsteps approached and an indignant red face appeared at the window. It was the man he had passed on the stairs, he was sure of it.

  ‘Go away, I said. We’re closed.’

  Julius stepped back out of the doorway and looked up and down the street—no sign of the urchins regrouping yet. He frantically straightened out the crumpled bill and slammed it against the glass. Clements’ bloodshot eyes scanned the words and he realised what it was.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong door. Springheel lodges upstairs. Kindly trouble him for your money.’

  Julius leaned in closer to the glass and as loudly as he dared he said, ‘He sent me to get the money from you, sir.’

  ‘Oh…well…in that case, come back next week. Now run along, like a good boy.’

  Julius looked up and down the street again. Only the dread of his grandfather’s disappointment at breakfast stopped him from running home there and then.

  A rodent-like movement in a shop doorway caught his eye. Double blooming bloody cripes. The street urchins were waiting for him. They were probably staked out at intervals along the street and in the alleyway. His only hope was to get the money from Clements, slip out the back door and sprint for home like a derby winner with a tail wind.

  ‘Open this door or I’ll get Mr Springheel down here to make you,’ hissed Julius, holding his face close to the windowpane. Terror gave him courage.

  To his complete surprise, his words had the desired effect. Clements fidgeted. ‘Steady on, now. There’s no need for threats.’

  ‘Open up, open up,’ hissed Julius again, baring his teeth and clenching his eyebrows.

  Bolts rasped open and a key turned, and before Julius knew it he was inside. Clements made for the counter. Julius secured one of the many bolts across the door and followed Clements past the heaps of junk on tables and hanging from hooks like dried-out insects in a spider’s parlour.

  ‘How much, damn you?’ said Clements, fumbling to light a candle.

  ‘Five pounds.’

  ‘What? For a few tatty books?’

  ‘They’re rare first editions. Hard to find and…and highly sought after,’ said Julius, repeating the phrases his grandfather used in the shop.

  ‘Oh, very well, very well,’ said Clements.

  He grunted with exertion as he dipped down out of sight behind the counter. The sounds of a safe being unlocked and locked again followed before Clements emerged and tossed five sovereigns on the counter.

  ‘There you are. Now be off with you.’

  Julius pocketed the money, dropped the bill on the counter and was about to ask to be let out the back when Clements caught him by the lapel.

  ‘Was one of the books Harrison’s diary?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you’re looking for it, aren’t you? Making enquiries and all that?’ he said, shaking Julius roughly as though to rattle the answer out of him.

  ‘Yes. Let me go, I have to get home.’

  Clements relaxed his grip and Julius wrenched himself free, knocking over a stuffed weasel with his elbow in the process. He ran to the door and pulled the bolt.

  ‘I say, you will be able to find it, the diary, I mean?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. These things take time,’ said Julius, as he stuck his head out of the door to look up and down the street. The sky was still light grey, but the street was growing darker: twilight—the predators’ time.

  Julius took a deep breath and sprinted along the pavement. At the second shop doorway, a foot shot out and tripped him. He flew headlong into the flagstones.

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday 3rd July, 1837

  8:53 PM

  Julius tucked his head in. His shoulder hit the ground first, and pain sliced through his body. He banged his right knee as he rolled out onto the road, and he squirmed there in agony, wondering if he heard the five sovereigns jingling along the ground. When he had composed himself enough to look up he saw that he was surrounded by the street urchins.

  Double dead rats with scabies.

  There were a dozen of them, girls and boys ranging in age from three to ten or eleven. They had round faces and ragged clothes the colour of the bricks and cobblestones around them. It took Julius only a few seconds to weigh up the situation. First, the coins had not fallen out of his pocket because the urchins would not be standing there if money was rolling down the street. Second, they did not know that he had five pounds on him; if they did, he would have been torn limb from limb before he hit the ground. No, the urchins were only after amusement. Julius was fourteen, but he was thin and small for his age, so they probably took him for a twelve-year-old. He looked scared and puny and a long way from home: what better victim to practise their villainy on?

  The urchins stared at Julius, waiting for him to recover before they made their next move.

  ‘Now look here, I’ll call a rozzer if—’

  The urchins erupted into laughter. He was an entertaining victim.

  ‘Neddies up,’ said one of th
e girl-urchins, at which they all instantly stopped laughing and pulled small clubs, coshes and sticks from under their rags.

  Oh, bloody hell! ‘Now, wait a minute—

  ’ ‘Sure fing squire,’ said the girl. ‘We got all night, we ’ave. Tell you wot, gov, give us a duce and we won’t do ya down. Can’t say fairer ’n ’at, can we?’

  Julius was staring wide-eyed at the urchins, trying to imagine what Jack Springheel, Esquire, would do in this situation, when the ground began to tremble.

  The urchins looked at the girl-leader who glared at Julius. Julius shrugged, not wanting to be thought responsible for anything going awry on their street. Then a sound like a roar bubbled up from the cobblestones beneath them. The urchins looked around, their eyes growing wider and wider. The trembling increased making them unsteady on their feet.

  ‘Wot’s ’appening, Emily?’ said one of the boys.

  ‘Shaddup,’ said the girl, looking worried.

  The roar was getting louder and closer. It seemed to be coming from just behind Julius. He looked around. Through a gap in the gang of urchins he saw the cobblestone rippling, like water on a pond when a stone has been thrown in. The roar was getting still louder. The urchins retreated behind the girl.

  A small circle of cobblestones flew into the air and something shot up from under the ground, rose a foot or two and landed back on the road with its feet spread apart. It crouched, like a demon in a pantomime, ready to spring. Julius and the urchins stared. It was a man. He looked like a Chinaman. He was small in stature with a shaved head and he wore orange robes, like a bed sheet, wrapped around him. He held his small, delicate hands out as if they were claws and roared like a demented lion.

  The urchins screamed and fled in all directions. Julius’s throbbing knee kept him from leaping up and running away too. He still had the five sovereigns on him though; he could offer those in exchange for his life, or his soul, if needed. He waited, helpless and beyond terror.

  The Chinaman straightened up, smiled shyly to Julius, then placed his palms together and bowed. Julius stared. The man chuckled to himself, stretched his back and looked around, as if he were a new arrival in a strange and exotic land. Then, noticing the hole he had made in the road, he tutted to himself and started to retrieve the cobblestones. He tried to repair the damage, and all the while he hummed tunelessly. Julius continued to stare and his knee went on throbbing.

  Once the repair was complete, the Chinaman patted the cobblestones with his bare foot and then seemed to remember something. He took a folded piece of paper from his robes and held it out to Julius.

  Don’t accept it, Higgins. It’s going to mean a ton of trouble. The man jiggled the paper close to Julius’s face and smiled shyly as if trying to coax a baby to accept a spoonful of treacle. Julius started to imagine what would happen if the strange, little man stopped smiling. He reached out and took the paper, half expecting it to burn his fingers. It felt normal to the touch. Phew.

  The Chinaman bowed again and walked away down the street humming to himself and fading away as he went—until he completely vanished. The sweat on Julius’s skin turned cold. Where’d he go, Higgins? His throbbing knee distracted him before he could work out the answer to that question. He rubbed it back to life—he would need it to get home quick before the urchins regrouped or any more strange characters showed up. The folded paper was thrust into his pocket and forgotten.

  Julius slid his key into the lock at Higgins’ bookshop, and the bell tinkled as he slipped inside. Light was escaping from under the curtain behind the counter—his grandfather was still up. Julius limped into the parlour and threw the five sovereigns on the table. Mr Higgins lifted his head from the book he was reading by the fire and looked his grandson up and down.

  ‘All in order?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘No.’

  Satisfied and a little surprised, the old man went back to his book, his stockinged feet toasting in front of the fire. Julius went to the chair at the other side of the fire, being careful not to limp. He slumped down into it and sighed. It was good to be home again. Success. You’ve survived another day, Higgins. He could feel his body relaxing and sleep sweeping over him. But just as he was about to nod off, Julius glanced across at the book his grandfather was reading. The title was hand-written in fine copperplate lettering: This Being the Diary of John Harrison in the Year of Our Lorde 1738 to 1757.

  ‘Harrison’s diary? You had the diary all the time?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Of course I did, young Caesar. I’ve had it for years.’

  ‘But you told Mr Springheel that you’d make enquiries.’

  ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I. For special orders I always like to keep the customer waiting. It helps to up the price if a book is difficult to find. I’m trying discover its value at present.’

  ‘And, have you?’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s incredibly tedious, to tell you the truth, my boy. You see, John Harrison was the inventor of the chronometer. All he did his whole life long was make clocks, nothing else. This diary seems to be about his third prototype and then it goes on about the making of a particularly complicated pocket-watch. That takes up most of the diary, in fact. I can’t understand a word of it. I’m really not sure how much I can charge for it.’

  ‘Well, Mr Springheel’s business partner is very interested in the diary too, but he didn’t strike me as being the watchmaking type.’

  ‘Maybe there’s something else in here, in that case. I love a good mystery, don’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘There was one odd thing though, come to think of it. Where was it now?’ said Mr Higgins, leafing back through the diary. ‘Ah yes, here it is.’ He read:

  ‘I met withe a strange fellow this very morn. The gentleman called himself Professor Fox of the Guild of Watchmakers (a guild of which I am inexplicably unaware). He saide he did have a manner of a proposition he would be pleesed to put before me upon the making of a pocketwatch which would contain all manner of prodigious properties. The gentleman swore me to the uttermost secrecy before he would speeke of what he was want to speeke there of.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Julius. ‘Anything after that?’

  ‘Not specifically about this Fox fellow. Just endless meanderings about the pocketwatch he decided to make. He’s no Daniel Defoe, more of a—’

  Their conversation was interrupted by a tapping on the windowpane. Julius and his grandfather both jumped and turned towards the small window overlooking the backyard. There, framed like a portrait, was the face of an elderly gentleman. He lifted his grey top hat and bowed lightly.

  ‘We’re closed,’ called out Mr Higgins nervously. The backyard was securely locked. Whoever this stranger was, he had no business being there.

  The man appeared not to hear and tapped again on the glass with the silver tip of his walking cane. Mr Higgins shuffled to the window, closely followed by Julius, and called out, ‘Off with you now, before I call a peeler.’

  The gentleman on the other side of the glass raised his hat once more and said, ‘I’m most terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr Higgins, only it is of the utmost importance that I speak with you. My name is Professor Fox.’

  ‘Did he say…?’ whispered Mr Higgins out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ whispered Julius.

  Julius and his grandfather stared at each other for only a moment before Mr Higgins came to a decision. ‘Let him in. But don’t say a word. I’ll do the talking,’ he said.

  Julius turned the key in the lock, slid the bolts top and bottom and turned the handle. The professor swept in through the door like a gust of expensively scented wind.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Higgins,’ said the gentleman cheerfully as Julius looked out through the gloom at the securely locked door at the other end of the small backyard. Whichever way the stranger had come in, it was not through the door. When he returned to the parlour Julius looked around for Ha
rrison’s diary. It was nowhere to be seen. The professor stood before the fire, rubbing his backside and surveying the room appreciatively. Julius guessed him to be in his sixties, though he was still sprightly. He wore a grey frockcoat and trousers of the finest material, and his blue-grey eyes sparkled like jewels.

  ‘Yes, as I was saying, my apologies for the inconvenience, but I wish to purchase a particular book,’ said the professor, pulling a white silk handkerchief out from his shirt cuff and wiping his finely trimmed, white moustache from end to end.

  ‘I have been traipsing from bookshop to bookshop, alas to no avail. You, Mr Higgins, are the last on my somewhat extensive list, and I simply could not wait until the morrow.’

  ‘Yes, of course, sir. Always glad to be of service to avid collectors. Which particular volume were you looking for?’

  Julius marvelled at his grandfather’s calm exterior. He was a professional book dealer through and through.

  ‘It’s not a published volume as such, Mr Higgins. No, it’s rather a queer fish, don’t you know. It’s the handwritten diary of the famous watchmaker and inventor of the chronometer, Mr John Harrison. He kept a secret dairy while toiling in his workshop for nineteen years to build his third prototype. It is that very diary I am in search of.’

  Mr Higgins tapped his chin. ‘Hmm…now let me think. I do recall having heard something once upon a time about such a diary. May I be so bold as to ask what your interest is in this book, sir?’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing really. It’s all about watchmaking. All very dreary to the uninitiated. No, it’s simply that it would complete my collection, fill a gap on my bookshelf, as it were.’

  ‘But you intimated, sir, some urgency in the matter.’

  ‘Did I?’ said the professor, flicking his handkerchief into shape and pushing it into his suit pocket. ‘Oh, it’s simply that when I get an idea into my head I cannot rest until I have achieved my objective.’

  ‘I see, well, if you will leave me your card, sir, I’ll be happy to make some enquiries.’