‘A colleague of mine told me this story a long time ago. The year is 1915. The place, the city of Berlin . . .
‘Of all the watchmakers in Berlin, none was more conscientious or more of a perfectionist than Hermann Blöcklin. In fact, his fixation with the precision of the mechanisms he created had led him to develop a theory regarding the relationship between time and the speed at which light travels through the universe. Blöcklin spent his life surrounded by watches in the small living quarters at the back of his shop on Oranienburger Strasse. He was a solitary man. He had no family. No friends. His only companion was an old cat, Salman, who spent hours sitting quietly beside him in his workshop while Blöcklin devoted his time to science. As the years went by, his interest turned into an obsession. It wasn’t unusual for him to close his shop for days on end. He would spend twenty-four hours without a break, working on his dream project: the perfect clock, a universal machine for measuring time, perhaps even for capturing it.
‘One of those days, in the middle of one of the snowstorms that had been pummelling Berlin for two weeks, the watchmaker received a visit from a distinguished-looking gentleman called Andreas Corelli. Corelli wore an expensive white suit and had long, silvery hair. His eyes were hidden behind two dark lenses. Blöcklin told him that the shop was closed, but Corelli insisted on coming in, saying that he’d travelled a long way with the sole purpose of paying him a visit. Corelli explained that he’d heard about the watchmaker’s technical achievements and even described them to him in detail. Blöcklin was intrigued, as he had believed, until that day, that the rest of the world was ignorant of his discoveries.
‘Corelli’s request intrigued him even more. He wanted Blöcklin to make him a watch, but a special one – its hands were to turn backwards. Corelli explained that the reason behind this commission was that he was suffering from a fatal illness that was going to end his life in a matter of months, so he wanted to possess a watch that would show him the hours, the minutes and the seconds he had left.
‘The strange request came with a more than generous financial reward. Corelli guaranteed to provide Blöcklin with enough funds so that he could work on his research for the rest of his life. In exchange, all he had to do was spend a few weeks creating this device.
‘Needless to say, Blöcklin agreed to the deal. He spent the next two weeks working intensively. Blöcklin was still busy in his workshop when Andreas Corelli knocked on his door once more. The watch was ready. Corelli smiled as he examined it, and after praising the watchmaker’s skill told him that he’d certainly earned his reward. Blöcklin, who was exhausted, confessed that he’d put his entire soul into the project. Corelli nodded in agreement. Then he wound the watch and the mechanism began to turn. He handed Blöcklin a sack of gold coins and bade him goodbye.
‘Beside himself with joy, the watchmaker was greedily counting his coins when he noticed his face in the mirror. He looked older, gaunt. He’d been working too hard. Having decided to take a few days off, he went to bed.
‘The following day, bright sunlight poured in through the window. Still feeling tired, Blöcklin walked over to the sink to wash his face. When he caught sight of his reflection once more, it sent a shiver down his spine. The night before, when he’d gone to bed, his face had been that of a forty-one-year-old: worn out, exhausted, but still young. Today he saw the image of a man closer to his sixtieth birthday. Terrified, he went out to the park to get some fresh air. When he returned to the shop he looked in the mirror again. An old man was staring back at him. He panicked. As he rushed out into the street he bumped into a neighbour who asked him whether he’d seen Blöcklin, the watchmaker. Hysterical, Hermann fled.
‘He spent that evening in the corner of a filthy tavern, surrounded by criminals and other shady characters. Anything rather than being alone. He could feel his skin shrinking by the minute. His bones felt brittle and he was finding it hard to breathe.
‘It was almost midnight when a stranger asked whether he could sit down next to him. Blöcklin stared at him. He was a good-looking young man of about twenty. His face did not seem familiar, but he recognised the lenses that covered the man’s eyes. Blöcklin’s heart missed a beat. Corelli . . .
‘Andreas Corelli sat down opposite him and pulled out the watch Blöcklin had created only a few days earlier. The watchmaker, in despair, asked what was happening to him. Why was he growing older with each passing second? Corelli showed him the watch, its hands turning slowly counter-clockwise. Corelli reminded Blöcklin of what he’d said, about putting his whole soul into the watch. That was why, with every minute that went by, his body and soul were progressively ageing.
‘Blind with terror, Blöcklin begged Corelli for help. He told him he would do anything he asked if it meant he would recover his youth and his soul. Corelli grinned and asked him whether he was sure of that. The watchmaker reiterated what he’d said: he’d do anything.
‘Corelli then said that he was prepared to give Blöcklin back the watch, and his soul along with it, in exchange for something which, in fact, was no use to the watchmaker: his shadow. Disconcerted, Blöcklin asked him whether this was the only price he had to pay, his shadow. Yes, said Corelli. So, again, Blöcklin accepted Corelli’s deal.
‘Corelli then pulled out a glass flask, removed the top and placed it on the table. In a split second, Blöcklin saw his shadow enter the flask like a whirlwind of vapour. Corelli closed the bottle and, taking his leave of Blöcklin, walked out into the night. As soon as he’d disappeared through the door of the tavern, the hands on the watch Blöcklin was holding began to turn clockwise.
‘When Blöcklin arrived home in the small hours, his face was once again that of a young man. The watchmaker heaved a sigh of relief. But another surprise awaited him. His cat, Salman, was nowhere to be seen. Blöcklin looked all over the house and when at last he found it, he was filled with horror. The animal was hanging by its neck from a cable attached to one of the workshop lights. The watchmaker’s table had been knocked over and his tools were scattered around the room. It looked as if a tornado had hit the place. But there was something else. Someone had scrawled an incomprehensible word on the wall: “Nilkcolb”.
‘The watchmaker studied the crude writing. It took him a moment to understand what the word meant. It was his own name, written backwards. Nilkcolb. Blöcklin. A voice whispered behind his back, and when Blöcklin turned around, he found he was standing face to face with a dark reflection of himself, a diabolical mirage bearing his own features.
‘Then the watchmaker understood. It was his shadow watching him. His own defiant shadow. He tried
to catch it, but the shadow laughed and spread itself across the walls. Blöcklin, terrified, watched as his shadow seized a long knife and ran out through the door, vanishing into the darkness.
‘The first crime on Oranienburger Strasse took place that same night. There were witnesses who declared they’d seen Blöcklin cold-bloodedly stab a soldier who was strolling along the road just before daybreak. The police arrested the watchmaker and interrogated him for hours. The following night, while Blöcklin was still locked up in his prison cell, two new deaths took place. People began to talk about a mysterious murderer who moved through the shadows of the Berlin night. Blöcklin tried to explain to the authorities what was happening, but no one would listen to him. Newspapers speculated about the mysterious assassin who, night after night, managed to escape from his high-security cell and perpetrate the most horrific crimes Berlin had ever witnessed.
‘The shadow’s reign of terror lasted exactly twenty-five days. The end of the story was as unexpected and inexplicable as its beginning. In the early hours of 12 January 1916, the shadow of Hermann Blöcklin entered the dismal prison where the watchmaker was being held. A prison guard who was keeping watch swore he’d seen Blöcklin struggling with a shadow and stabbing it during the fight. At dawn, the guard who took over from the night watch found Blöcklin dead in his cell, with a wound to his heart.
‘A few days later, a stranger called Andreas Corelli offered to cover the cost of Blöcklin’s burial in an unmarked grave in Berlin Cemetery. Nobody, except the gravedigger and a strange individual wearing glasses with black lenses, was present at the ceremony.
‘The case of the Oranienburger Strasse murders is still classed as unsolved in the archives of the Berlin Police . . .’
‘Wow,’ murmured Dorian as Lazarus ended his story. ‘And did this really happen?’
The toymaker smiled. ‘No. But I knew you’d love the story.’
Dorian looked down into his cup. He realised that Lazarus had made up the tale to make him forget the fright he’d received on seeing the mechanical angel. A clever trick, but a trick all the same. Lazarus patted his shoulder.
‘I think it’s getting rather late to be playing detectives,’ he remarked. ‘Come on, I’ll walk you home.’
‘Promise me you won’t say anything to my mother,’ Dorian pleaded.
‘Only if you promise not to wander around the forest on your own again at night; not until we know what happened to Hannah . . .’
They looked at each other.
‘It’s a deal.’