The Skeleton in the Clock

Martin Drake as a black-and-white artist of something more than national reputation — respectfully held open one door. 'Morning, sir!'

'Good morning.' The image of Jenny, held in abeyance, started up again like a toothache we think vanished overnight 'Er-have they started yet?'

The porter eyed him reproachfully.

'Not till eleven, sir. As usual, Got your catalogue?’

'No. I'm just looking on today. What’s up this morning?'

'Furniture and carpets, sir. Mainly seventeenth and eighteenth century.'

To judge by the subdued murmur of voices from upstairs, there must be a fair-sized crowd. A number of persons were mounting the broad, dingy staircase. At the top it opened into a large, square room, walls panelled in some material which resembled faded brown burlap, where they displayed specimens of future auctions. Beyond it lay another large room, with towering bookshelves. Both of these rooms opened, at right-angles, into the main auction-room.

'Hel-lo, Drake!'

A face, half-remembered, drifted past and was lost Martin returned the greeting vaguely. He heard a fashionably dressed woman talking, with greed and not for antiquarian reasons, about the display of carpets. An old man with a. white moustache, obviously a dealer, stood hunched over his catalogue.

The main auction-room was long and high. Sunlight sparkled against its grimy glass roof. At the rear, blue- smocked attendants lounged or stood with arms folded in front of a line of ticketed exhibits. The auctioneer's desk, like a high-set rostrum, faced out over a very long horseshoe-shaped table, covered with green felt round which would gather the chairs of the eagerest bidders. Martin had loathed crowds — no matter how soft-voiced or shuffling — ever since that night on the train. The whole room seemed to hiss at him.

'Get it dirt-cheap if the dealers don't…'

'Jump in at the beginning! That's when people are cautious, and…'

No!

Just off the main hall, at the right, opened another showroom smaller and narrower than the others. Here were displayed the items for the next sale, which would be on Monday. Arms and armour, of course! That was why he was here!

On two tables along the narrow sides of the room, and a long one down the centre, they had thrown rapiers, daggers, hand-and-a-half swords, even two-handed swords. Many were tied in bundles, most of them. unpolished. Round the walls there hung, very highly polished, the more obvious of the choice items. The only other person in the room was a girl, at the other end of the centre table, her back towards him, searching through a handbag.

Martin looked round.

The walls glittered with steel in low, dim-burning electric light. Halberds and guisarmes with long light shafts and undulled points. A wicked-looking main-gauche. What seemed to be — he took a step forward — a Thomas cup-hilt This was Martin's hobby; he wished he had a Monday's catalogue.

Then the girt at the other end of the table turned round. And he saw that it was Jenny.

Silence.

Martin Drake was faintly conscious of a murmur of voices from the other room, and the ticking of his wrist- watch. But he felt alone, and amid the stuffiness of the arms-room, with Jenny. At first his chest seemed light, light and hollow; then he felt a sensation almost like physical sickness.

Jenny, blonde and slender. Jenny, with the wide-spaced blue eyes, the eagerness and the — not, not naivete! some other expression! With intolerable vividness he remembered her, in the corner of the railway compartment her arms round his neck, and moonlight draining colour from her face, the rattlety-clack of the train dimming speech. Even now she was wearing a dark-blue tailored suit with a white blouse. Martin tried to speak. All he could force out was the inanity of, 'Hello.'

'Hello,' said Jenny in a voice hardly above a whisper.

He started to walk towards her. Though they were separated only by the length of the green-felt-covered table with its weapons, it seemed an enormous distance. Then he noticed something else.

You are not permitted to smoke at Willaby's. Fumbling in her handbag, Jenny found a tortoise-shell cigarette case, the kind that contained only very small cigarettes. Jenny took, out a cigarette; and automatically he reached in his pocket for a lighter. But her hand was shaking so badly, as she lifted it, that she hastily put back the cigarette in the case.

Emotion caught these two like a net; it made them flounder; it kept them half deaf and partially blind. 'Where were you on that train? I couldn't find you!' The blue eyes flashed up.

'I–I stayed behind on the platform. I thought you would too, so we shouldn't miss each other. — But it's too late!' she added. 'It's too late!'

'How do you mean, it's too late?'

Jenny turned away from him, but he swung her back again. The softness of her shoulder under the blue coat, the brushing of the yellow hair in a long bob against his hand: he had to remember where he was. Then he lifted her left hand. Though there was no wedding-ring on the third finger, it held an engagement ring both costly and in good taste.

(Well, you've been expecting this, haven't you? You've been prepared for it? Steady!)

'Do you love him?'

Jenny looked away.

'No. But I'm afraid he's very much in love with me. And then grandmother — and, of course, Aunt Cicely—' 'Do you love him?'

Still without looking round, Jenny shook her head violently. 'Who is he?'

'He's awfully nice. He was one of the original Battle-of-Britain pilots. And his record since then…' The soft, sweet voice, perhaps over-cultured in accent, trailed away. 'Did you ever try to find me?' Jenny asked accusingly.

'Jenny, I've done nothing else ever since that night! But all I knew was your nickname!'

'Jenny is short for Jennifer. Surely you could have guessed that?'

'Yes, of course. Only I thought..'

'You thought — you thought I gave that name on some kind of casual adventure.' She clenched her fists.

'No, so help me! But it was the only clue I had. Did you ever try to find me?'

'Yes, of course. And I did: easily.'

'Oh?'

'You’re Martin Drake. You're a famous artist You live at the Albany, and you're not married. Only grandmother said— and, of course, Aunt Cicely—'

'Look here,' said Drake with restraint. 'Who the devil are these two powerful jujus, grandmother and Aunt Cicely? Can't they be tipped over like any other savage idols?' He glanced round. 'And, by the way, can't we get out of here?'

'No! Please. Sh-h!'

'Why Sh-h?’

'Grandmother's here. She wants to get something at the auction. How on earth did you know I was here?'

'As a matter of fact, I didn't I came here for a preview, to recommend one or two rapiers for Sir Henry Merrivale.'

'Sir Henry Merrivale!' exclaimed the girl.

Jenny raised one hand as though to shade her eyes. On her flushed face, with the short nose and the rather broad mouth, was an expression be could not read. Martin noticed, absently, that beyond her was a stand of armour — a Cavalier half-suit, much blackened, with lobster-tail helmet — and behind it on the wall, a picture depicting one of the loves of Aphrodite.

'Sir Henry Merrivale!' Jenny exclaimed. 'You know him?'

'Slightly, yes. I went to him last week about tracing you. He said he'd help, but just for the moment he was too much engrossed in studying the subject of reincarnation.'

'The subject of… what?'

'Reincarnation,' explained Martin. 'He thinks he may be the reincarnation of— Hold on! Wait! I've got it!'