SIX

Beatrix heard her Uncle’s reply and she leaps back into her coat. “We have to go, Joaquin! If we’re lucky, there’s still time to save the last ring holder, Robert Clarke. Come on!”

They take a taxi to his clock shop and burst in, Joaquin holding his pistol in front of him. Robert sits hunched in his creaking chair, the shelves and shelves of clocks ticking rhythmically all around him. He slowly looks up to see the man and woman.

“Oh, it’s you Joaquin. Have a seat, I have tea if you want it.” He murmured in his flat, melancholy tone of speech. Beatrix’s eyes sweep the room anxiously, “Something's here, we’re not alone with him.” She whispers to the Inspector. They tentatively seat themselves on either side of the man. He possesses the dark eyes of one haunted by fears and pain of the past; his failings, the pain and terror that is engraved in the mind after witnessing violence.

Joaquin remembered the day that Robert resigned from the fleet, writing in the “Reason for his willing departure” section, that he had been suffering from severe post-traumatic stress disorder of late. At the time Joaquin knew nothing of the certain case that draped the bright investigator in doubt and fear. Robert Clarke’s hands now bound themselves religiously to the winding, mending and building of the clocks that adorn the room around the three people.

The young lady and inspector are slightly surprised at Robert’s silence in the presence of two guests, he seems to be calming down as his loneliness ebbs away for the time being. That serenity fades at the hearing of Joaquin’s urgent tone of voice, “Clarke,” Theodore begins, “You remember Ambrose Maximilian?”

Robert nods listlessly, “Been trying to forget about him. Why else do you think I left the fleet?”

Joaquin puts a hand on his knee. “You’re in danger, Clarke, Ambrose is back. He’s infiltrated the Fleet, gotten the old Chief deposed and himself put up in his place. He’s taking his revenge on each man a part of the case for his daughters. You’re the last alive. I assume you have the ‘Anne’ ring?”

Robert opened a small wooden box on his shop counter and held out a sapphire ring. Sure enough “Anne” was inscribed on the band. “Let him take his revenge out upon me. At least he will have avenged his girls.”

All is silent save for the ticking of the dozens of clocks that surrounded them.

Beatrix keeps her eyes on Joaquin, soundlessly waiting for his direction or command.

He senses her fear and comes to notice his own.

Robert sighs heavily and lifts the teacup to his lips.

“NO!” Yells Beatrix as she slaps it from his hand, saving his life from the poison and shattering the china on the wood floor.

The clocks all strike midnight simultaneously, their din completely drowning out the first gunshot. Beatrix was unaware of it till she saw the crimson spray across Joaquin’s white shirt. She covered her mouth with her hands, her breath leaving her.

Joaquin tentatively pulls his arm away from his chest and stares in relief at his bicep. It is the one time Joaquin can remember that he was nearly happy to see a bullet hole in his arm.

Beatrix wishes with all her heart that she could tackle him in a hug but she now knows full-well the danger they are in.

She takes Joaquin’s pistol from him and grabs the cashier counter beside them, pulling it over to give them protection from the attacker’s bullets. Inspector Theodore pulls Robert down to safety as Beatrix returns fire as quickly as her pistol will allow.

Robert pulls off his jacket and wraps a sleeve tightly around Joaquin’s wound as the Inspector calls out, “Ambrose! We know it’s you! Why spill more blood in revenge?! What would your daughters say?”

Clocks shatter and clang against each other as the bullets from both Beatrix and the attacker’s gun tear through the wood and glass.

Beatrix sees a form stand at the far end of the shop, a dark silhouette, sparks flying from his gun and reflecting in the two eyes.

Beatrix backs up to Joaquin’s chest as the form stumbles over broken clocks but continues to move slowly toward them.

Joaquin steadies her arms, “He’s close now! Surely you can hit him!”

“I can get a handle on your pistol!”

“The bullets arch upwards, aim farther down at your target…”

Joaquin sets his chin over her right shoulder. He verbally directs her hands for aim. A bullet from the attacker nicks Beatrix’s ear, just missing Joaquin’s head but he barely flinches.

The figure then speaks in a wild, emotional tone, “I came to the Fleet for the aid I knew could be found nowhere else in England, and they failed me! They failed Lucy and Alvena and Kitty and Anne. They don’t deserve to continue to live dandy lives.”

Robert picks up one of his destroyed clocks and throws it at the figure; it hits him and just barely gives him a moment to grab another while Ambrose regains his balance.

Robert continues to throw what he can but Ambrose then points his gun at Robert. Isherwood, with Inspector Theodore’s aid, shoots Ambrose in the hand but his gun fires twice before it drops. The first catches Robert only in the leg, but the second ricochets off a broken clock face beside him. None of them can tell where exactly it made its mark, but they hear Ambrose’s gasp in pain and shock. He falls to the ground, but Robert catches him just before impact. He holds him gently, “You think we lived dandy lives? Not a day has gone by when I haven’t thought of your girls. I would have given my own life for them, as would any on the chosen team. But…” as Robert watches a small tear trail down Ambrose’s face, he bites his lip hard and looks away, “I am sorry, Ambrose.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out the final ring. Joaquin does the same with the others. They place each of them in Ambrose’s palm and close his hand over them.

He looks up to Robert and with his final breath whispers, “Take care of my wife.”