Nonetheless, he explained his suspicions to Miss Morrissey, who looked on the verge of donning her hat and coat to come charging the Gatlings’ fortress with him. Edwin only managed to persuade her to stay by convincing her that he’d be much better trying to retrieve the second ring by stealth, given he had the excuse of having handled the clock before. Besides, Reginald Gatling’s well-spoken Indian typist from the Home Office would be a memorable visitor. Edwin was already in this up to his neck. Nobody had thought Miss Morrissey worth investigating yet; there was no need to drag her into the spotlight now.
Miss Morrissey glared her disdain for Edwin’s attempts to shield her from danger, but he repeated the words curse and murder until she agreed to let him go alone, albeit making him swear up and down that as soon as he had the second ring in hand he’d come back to the office and show her.
It was midafternoon by then, the shadows long and the world clammier than ever. Edwin burrowed into his muffler as he stood on the Gatlings’ doorstep. He asked if Miss Anne was at home and was given a disapproving “The family is in mourning, sir.”
Edwin hadn’t even thought of that. If he knew Anne and Dora Gatling at all, they’d be chafing under the restrictions. The traditions around mourning dress and behaviour had been easing off, in Edwin’s lifetime, but there were still plenty of people who would whisper if the family of a recently deceased man continued to pay morning calls in bright colours. Plenty of people who would have been aghast to hear that Maud Blyth had taken herself off to a house party wearing her crepe, too, even if they knew about the Blyth children and their need to kick back against their parents’ obsession with reputation.
“Of course,” Edwin said. “Would you let Miss Anne know that Mr. Edwin Courcey is here to offer his condolences?” How on Earth had he managed to exist without calling cards before now?
By not bothering to have any social acquaintances, he reminded himself.
The butler carried the message and Edwin stood in the entrance hall wondering if any of the clocks in this house—oak-hearted or otherwise—had stopped at the moment of Reggie’s death. He suspected not; this was a modern townhouse, lacking in history, and Reggie had met his end elsewhere. Or so one assumed.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said when he sat down with Anne Gatling.
Anne nodded. She looked tired and stiff. She looked like a doll enchanted to do those exact things in response to those exact words: to sit, to nod, to say thank you.
“Have you heard anything about the circumstances surrounding his death?”
Anne looked at her hands. Edwin wished for half of Robin’s compassion and ease. Surely he could have made that sound less intrusive.
“Pulled out of the river,” she said. “The Coopers visited with Mama again yesterday, but all they know is that it was probably magic that killed him.”
“I’m sorry,” said Edwin again.
She gave herself a small shake. “Dashed inconvenient; we’ve had to put the wedding back, of course. Saul’s been a brick. Such a help to Mama.”
“I meant to ask about Saul and that clock of yours. Did he get it working again?”
“The—oh, yes, he did,” said Anne. “He followed the instructions that you left, to pour magic into the mechanism, and for a few days it worked as well as it ever did.” She made a small face. “And then it went odd again. Saul said it couldn’t have been the power, in that case.”
Edwin folded his fingers under themselves as they tried to twitch. He was so close. He didn’t know whether the second ring was draining the clock’s heart, somehow, or simply throwing it all out of balance, but with any luck he’d be able to study it and find out.
“Is it wrapped in blankets in the linen cupboard, then?”
“No, we sent it to the thaumhorologist. We won’t see it for weeks, and it’ll cost a pretty penny, but it’s the last step before Dora loses patience and guts it to use as a jewellery-box.”
Edwin thought quickly. “I’ve had another thought about what could be wrong,” he said, which was absolutely true. “I’d be happy to try and fix it. If not, of course I’d leave it in the specialist’s hands.”
Anne shrugged. “If you like.”
“Do you have a receipt of exchange from the shop . . .?”
The receipt, when found, was folded around a flat piece of white stone that was charmed to have the same function as the token one received when handing over one’s hat and umbrella at a theatre cloakroom. At least the receipt was normal ink on paper, printed with the shop’s address and with the Gatlings’ name filled in beneath. Edwin slipped it into his pocket.