4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight by Beverle Graves Myers Page B

“Unless you had a specific reason to use the pendulum,” he said.
    “What earthly reason could there be?”
    “Hmm… sending a message of sorts?”
    We both stepped back to view the timepiece with fresh eyes. I creaked the narrow door open as far as it would go and poked my head inside. With Gussie maneuvering his light at my shoulder, I swept the chain that supported the weights aside and squinted into the bowels of the mechanism. A miniature stirrup dangled right above me.
    I freed an arm and thrust it behind me. “Hand me that pendulum, will you?”
    A small steel block at the proximal end of the pendulum fit the stirrup exactly. I hooked and unhooked the pendulum several times.
    “This is fairly easy—doesn’t take as much strength as I would have thought,” I said.
    “What about swinging it?”
    I made several experimental swipes. The brass disk whooshed through the air. “Not so difficult.”
    “Could a woman heft it?”
    “I think so. Especially if rage or hatred fueled her strength.” I handed him the implement. “See what you think.”
    While Gussie wielded the pendulum like a mercenary’s battle-ax, I held the candle close to the clock’s face. The brass hands were pointing straight up, almost on top of each other. Above the face, a lunette was painted with a full moon rising over a woodland copse. The scrolling letters of a motto arched above the lovely scene, but I couldn’t read them.
    “Gussie, is this an English clock?” I pointed to the words.
    Huffing a bit, he deposited the pendulum where we’d found it and stretched on tiptoe. “Yes, it’s a quote. From Shakespeare, I think.”
    “What does it say?”
    Slowly and distinctly, he translated the words of the great English playwright so that I could understand. “The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time.”
    “Iron tongue? Is he speaking of a church bell?”
    Gussie nodded. “Tolling midnight.”
    “This is very curious. A clock that speaks of midnight pillaged for a weapon to commit a midnight murder. I wonder—”
    Gussie shook his head in warning and darted his eyes toward the door across from ours. Its stealthy click had also met my ears.
    “You’re right,” I said in a louder tone. “Perhaps it is time to seek our beds.”
    Bowing toward Romeo and Emilio’s room, I made a motion as if I were tipping a hat to our unseen observer, then followed my brother-in-law back into our chamber.
    ***
    The next morning I awoke to find Giovanni, one of the young footmen, depositing a pitcher by the wash basin. Steam curled off the warm water, forming a gauzy ribbon in a slanting bar of light. The washstand sat by the far window, not the one I had opened last night. Ernesto must have been in to open the shutter without waking me.
    “ Scusi , Signore. I’m to make sure everyone is out of bed.” Giovanni placed some folded towels by the pitcher.
    “What time is it?”
    “Just past eight, Signore. We’re all getting a late start this morning. Nita will lay out some breakfast in a few minutes.”
    Gussie’s blond haystack emerged from his covers. He gazed around with one eye shut and the other in a squint. “Did the constable come?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
    The footman shook his head. “Signora Forti told Manuel and Basilio that her husband has gone hunting—he won’t be back for many days. Until then, the master says we’re all to go on with our work as if nothing unusual happened.”
    Gussie emitted a gravelly groan and folded the pillow around his head, but I felt strangely exhilarated. I had a new opera to sing and an intriguing mystery to ponder, two things that always made my blood flow more swiftly. I sent Giovanni on his way and dressed in haste. Gussie gave me a grumpy send-off. It was always thus. Though the reverse would have better suited our professions, my brother-in-law was the night owl, I the lark.
    The rest of the household straggled down to the dining room in