Devil Take The Hindmost

Chapter Sixteen

I sat awkwardly on the low bench in front of the fire pit, glowing embers warming my torso, and the contented shape of Fungus, my foundling gun dog, warming my feet across which she was soundly arranged.

I was contorted into a somewhat unnatural position in an effort to lessen the stabbing pain I experienced in the half-dozen locations where a masked boot had met my flesh at speed. However, the sound of fat sizzling over an open fire and the smell of the small beef joint roasting on a spit went a long way toward comforting me.

Every five minutes or so I removed the meat from its perch above the embers and carved some slices away from the hunk. Medium rare, obviously. Fungus would sense my movements and lift her off-white and chestnut head expectantly, the thumping of her tail drumming against my shins in a rat-a-tat-tat of unrestrained joy. I would share the bovine wealth, and we licked the resultant glistening sheen of fat from our fingers and paws respectively.

I drifted, lost in thought, facilitated by the slow pace of a late lunch.

I was, I felt quite sure, missing Sophie.

What bothered me was my lack of ability to pinpoint precisely why. I felt she should be here, consoling me after the attack, or nursing me back to health. That felt like the girl-friendly thing to do, but given we had plainly been drifting apart for the past month or more, I should probably not have felt so surprised at her departure, or bereft at her absence.

"Onwards and upwards, eh girl?" I tousled the curls between Fungus' ears and pressed on without waiting for her response.

The clock. I had secured the clock. Case closed.

Except, of course, that is very far from being accurate. There were more loose ends in that thing than my nan's crocheted bobble hat gift after her traditional skinful of Christmas sherry.

I thought it might be prudent to put the matter on the back burner while I focused on the more pressing issue of a potential serial killer of the city's homeless being on the loose. I was also mindful that there remained a significant open question as to whom the rightful owner of the clock actually was. I had been contracted by Sylvia Distain on the understanding she was the sole heir of Gloriana Wyntham, yet that seemed not to be the case.

If I were to hand over the antique to the wrong person, I could well find myself at even further odds with officers of the law.

So, on balance, the clock could wait, stored safely at the top of Ty's tree house, an edifice that now sported walls, a roof and even something that might pass for a bed if one squinted at it in poor light. There it would reside, like a portentous chronological cuckoo's egg in a misanthropic Baba Yaga-esque nest.

At least, until I determined what to do with the bloody thing.

I possessed the bare minimum of self-awareness required to recognize I was moping about the departure of Sophie, but not quite enough to determine what and how I might have contributed to the demise of our relationship.

She became more focused on the non-me areas of her life, particularly her passion for music. Slowly at first, but then with increasing frequency and fervour she practised the cello, which I always thought she played with a grace and beauty akin to an angel brushing its hair.

It transpired she had landed the audition with the Birmingham Philharmonic that I knew to be her life's ambition, and I was delighted for her. I couldn't fathom why she would think otherwise, or why she felt she needed to leave. I would have supported her in any way I could.

Not financially, of course. That's something of a weak spot in my offering as a life partner, and the reason why I accepted the clock-hunting gig in the first place.