CHAPTER TWENTY

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON by the time Catherine and Guy made it through the rain to the watchmaker’s shop. In the back room, Guy sat at the worktable, carefully piecing a pocket watch together after having cleaned it. Catherine sat on the sofa behind him, wishing she could piece together what she’d learned at the morgue with what she was still missing as easily as Guy could reassemble watches.

Henry Nolan was upstairs in the flat, but at times he came down to the shop. He polished the clocks or looked in on them, considering Guy’s work. Catherine understood little of the conversation when the two discussed watch repair, but she liked listening all the same. It was always pleasing, she thought, to see someone doing what they did best, how it steadied them, the light in their eyes. She knew Guy enjoyed his trade, enjoyed it as she did hers. It was evident in the carefulness of his hands, the earnestness in his voice.

Henry didn’t seem to mind her being there, either. He brought her tea, smiled at her, and Catherine was reminded of her own father making her tea in the mornings.

Owen had yet to return. When Catherine noted his absence, Guy said, “He’s likely going about shops all over the city. Someone will take him on eventually, I’m sure.”

“Certainly so,” replied Catherine.

Guy adjusted the magnifying loupe he wore over his spectacles. The watch was secured in a movement holder beneath the glow of his lamp, light shining through its emerald glass shade. “I wonder if he might be interested in watchmaking.” He glanced back at her. “Or do you think he might like print work?”

“I suppose if he’s not printing obituaries. It’s too morbid for his liking. He doesn’t wish to work as a coffin maker again.” Without meaning to, Catherine thought of the dream Owen had described to them, and a shiver crept up her spine. “Why would someone murder him, Guy?”

Guy paused in his work. “I’ve wondered the same,” he said, voice low. “But it was years ago. We might never know.”

Catherine couldn’t bear it, the not knowing. She leaned forward on the sofa. “Do you think his murder has something to do with the timepiece?”

Putting aside his tweezers, Guy rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t see how it could be—unless the timepiece belonged to him. He could’ve been murdered for plenty of other reasons. I’m not sure how we’ll solve it when we’ve so little information to go on.” He ran his fingers along the desk’s edge. The dark wood was scratched in numerous places, marks from watchmaking tools and years of use. “I do think it strange that the timepiece didn’t bring him back any sooner. Why now?”

Catherine swallowed. “And why hasn’t it worked on anyone else?”

Guy took off his spectacles, turning around to face her. The lamp behind him hissed softly, the clocks in the next room all ticking at once. Catherine wanted quite badly to ask what Henry Nolan’s nightmares were about, why he’d allowed himself to lose so many memories selling time to people. Instead, she said, “If the timepiece is in that cemetery, it must be in the church. It would’ve likely been picked up by now if it were elsewhere on the grounds.”