Seventy-Seven Clocks Read Online Free

COMPASSION, WONDER, CURIOSITY, COMPROMISE, DEFIANCE, HUMOUR, LUCIDITY and FOLLY are engraved among them. Bill Wentworth was beginning to wonder if these qualities only existed in the flooring. He tugged down the peak of his cap, stepping back to allow a party of Japanese schoolchildren to pass. The excitement of the job lay in the paintings themselves, not in the inquiries of the general public. His fingertips brushed the maroon linen wall of the gallery as he walked. He had entered Room 3 (Germany and the Netherlands). Dark rains drifted against the angled skylights in the corridor beyond. 
    It was Wentworth’s first day as a gallery warden, and he had been looking forward to answering visitors’ questions. He’d seen the job as a chance to finally use his art-history training. 
    ‘You can forget that,’ his superior, Mr Stokes, had warned during their morning tea break together. ‘Times have changed. Few people ask about the Raphael or the Titian or the Rembrandt any more. They just want pointing to the toilet or the French Impressionists. They’re not interested in the older stuff because it takes more understanding.’ 
    Stokes was a fan of the old Italian schools. He preferred a Tintoretto to a Turner any day of the week, and was happy to tell you so. 
    Bill Wentworth walked slowly about the room, waiting for the last few members of the public to depart. The only sound was the squeak of his shoes on polished wood and the drumming of the torrent on the glass above. The new warden paused before an arrangement of Vermeers, marveling at the way in which the painter had captured these small, still moments in the lives of ordinary people, peaceful figures in light and shadow, opening letters, sweeping their houses, cool and calm and timeless. 
    ‘The public are no problem,’ Stokes had informed him. ‘Soon you won’t even notice them. But the paintings take on a life of their own.’ He had gestured at the walls surrounding them. ‘You start noticing things you never saw before. Little details in the pictures, always something new to catch the eye. They’ll bother and intrigue you, and the subjects will make you care for them. Just as well, because there’s bugger-all else to do around here.’ 
    ‘Surely it can’t be that dull,’ Wentworth had said, growing despondent. 
    Stokes had thoughtfully sucked his moustache. ‘I know how to say “Don’t touch that, Sonny” in seventeen languages. Do you find that exciting?’ 
    Wentworth was still considering their conversation when Stokes himself came puffing in from the main entrance to the gallery, flushed and flustered. 
    ‘Mr Wentworth, have you seen him?’ 
    ‘Who’s that, Mr Stokes?’ 
    ‘The old bloke!’ 
    ‘Nobody’s been through here, as you can see.’ Wentworth gestured about him. There was only one exit to the exhibition room, and that led back to the main stairwell. 
    ‘But he must have passed this way!’ 
    ‘What did he look like?’ 
    Stokes paused to regain his breath. ‘Tall, overweight, with mutton-chop whiskers. Heavy tweed cape and a funny hat—sort of stovepipe, like an Edwardian gentleman. Carrying a carpetbag.’ 
    For a moment Wentworth wondered if his boss was suffering a side effect of spending so much time surrounded by the past. ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’ he asked. 
    ‘I tried to search his bag and he shoved past me,’ explained Stokes. ‘He ran up the steps and disappeared before I could make after him. My war wound.’ 
    ‘I’ll help you look.’ 
    The guards marched from the room and headed for the circular stone stairs that led to the lower-floor galleries. They had just reached Room 14 (French Painting Before 1800) when a breathless young attendant slid to a stop beside them. 
    ‘We’ve just seen him on the far side of the Sunley Room,’ he shouted. 
    ‘Going in which direction?’ 
    ‘Away from us.’ 
    ‘Then he’s heading for the British Rooms,’ replied Stokes.