ONLY A MATTER OF TIME a gripping classic crime mystery full of twists by CLINTON-BADDELEY V.C

Author:CLINTON-BADDELEY, V.C.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Ostara Classics
Published: 2022-11-20T00:00:00+00:00

IV

Halfway between the police station and the King William stands the shop of Mr Coombes, clockmaker and jeweller. Davie had often observed that rotund and beaming figure standing at his open door, amiably engaged in doing nothing at all, and he had often wondered how Mr Coombes, or any other of his trade, existed. He could not sell many clocks; and surely his trade in jewellery was minimal — except for occasional engagement rings and the ultimate gold circle of surrender. But did anyone buy the napkin rings, toast racks, pickle forks, lucky silver charms, birth stones, tea knives, vases, and all the figures of doggies, guardsmen, beefeaters, and Queen Elizabeth, which filled the main part of the window?

Davie paused to examine Mr Coombes’s offerings, his attention particularly engaged by a picture of an old world cottage garden so close to the sea that it seemed highly improbable that any of its luxuriant flowers could survive the wild salt winds. It’s like one of those competition pictures, he was thinking. Spot the mistakes. Send in your entry with three tops of “Snow Queen” soap powder, Prize £1,000. And, he went on, warming to his project, five thousand consolation prizes of “Snow Queen” soap powder . . . If the tulips are right, then the hollyhocks are wrong; the sunflowers—

And there the fantasy faded. Davie’s attention was distracted. A man had appeared in the open doorway, saying, “Now mind, Mr Coombes—”

“You don’t trust me,” said the beaming Mr Coombes.

“Not an inch,” said the man. “Last time you said a week—”

“Ah — but, sir! That was the mainspring—”

“All right — but I’m lost without it. Which reminds me, what is the time, as of now?”

“Well . . .” said Mr Coombes, turning his head towards the shelf behind his glass counter, where several clocks stood, stopped or ticking, at a variety of times. “Well . . . I would say, sir—”

At the far end of High Street the great clock of St Stephen’s began to chime.

“I would say it was a quarter past ten, sir,” said Mr Coombes, “and it’s going to be another fine day, I do believe.”

“You’re an old fraud,” said the man.

“It will be ready by Saturday,” said Mr Coombes with an enormous smile. “I promise you that, Mr Major.”

“It better had,” said the man, getting into his car.

He drove off in the direction of Bexminster. And, yes, thought Davie, that was the chap who was talking to Rowan and Caske after lunch on Sunday. Clegg said it would be Mr Major.

Not that it mattered. But Davie liked having things straight in his mind. He returned to the King William.

In the hall Richard Serpent, Jack Pincock, and several Festival visitors were busy talking about Robert Coppleston. Davie walked past them into the lounge where, round the corner, out of sight of the door, Mildred Meade-Fuller, Mrs Mapleton-Morley, and Miss Bangle were heads together on the same subject. There was no retreat.

“Have you heard the terrible news?” said Mrs Mapleton-Morley.

“Yes,”

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