The Clockmaker's Secret (The Slim Hardy Mysteries #2)
What's The Clockmaker's Secret about?
John "Slim" Hardy, heavy drinker and disgraced soldier turned bumbling private detective, is hired to investigate Ted Douglas, an investment banker who slips out of work every Friday to visit a desolate cove on the Lancashire coast. There, he walks to the shore, opens an old book, and begins to read aloud.
His wife thinks he's having an affair.
Slim thinks he's insane.
The truth is more incredible than either could imagine.
The Man by the Sea is the sensational debut novel by Jack Benton, a classic story of love, betrayal, murder, and intrigue.
His wife thinks he's having an affair.
Slim thinks he's insane.
The truth is more incredible than either could imagine.
The Man by the Sea is the sensational debut novel by Jack Benton, a classic story of love, betrayal, murder, and intrigue.
Would you like to read a sample of The Clockmaker's Secret?
Chapter One
The hike wasn’t going to plan.
The looming granite stacks of Rough Tor were a poor compass marker, shifting along the skyline as Slim Hardy attempted to realign himself with the trace of path which had led him up the hill from the car park.
To his right a small herd of wild moorland ponies blocked the direct route to the ridgeline and the tallest stacks. Their defiant eyes watched every step as Slim skirted around, moving slowly over the boggy, uneven terrain, wary of the granite scree poking through the tufts of moorland grass.
Slim sighed. He was way off course now, Rough Tor’s long ridge rising almost straight on, and the flat peak of Brown Willy with its sprinkling of rocks appearing straight ahead across a wide, gentle valley. He reached by habit for the hip flask that was no longer there, shook his hand as though to punish himself for his forgetfulness, then sat on a rock to take a breather.
Up on the ridge, the two hikers he had followed from the car park jumped down from among the rocks and headed on towards Brown Willy. As they disappeared from sight, Slim felt a sudden pang of loneliness. At the very bottom of the slope, there were three cars in the car park alongside the blur of red that his pushbike, but of the other walkers there was no sign. Besides the ponies, he was alone.
After a bite of a leftover sandwich and a swig from a water bottle, Slim looked up at the peak, torn by indecision. He had a long cycle ride ahead of him down winding, potholed country lanes, and the battery in his light was flat. As he turned, though, the sun briefly broke through the clouds, and far to the south the English Channel glittered between two hills. To the northwest Slim looked for the Atlantic, but a bank of clouds hung low over the fields, obscuring all but the tiniest triangle of grey that might have been water.
With a persevering grunt he shouldered his rucksack and got back to the hike, but had taken no more than a few steps when a loose rock rolled under his boot, plunging him knee-deep into a pit of grimy water. Grimacing, Slim pulled his foot free of the bog and staggered forward onto drier ground.
As he removed and emptied his left boot, he gave a wistful grin, remembering that a spare pair of socks lay on the bed in his room, left out of his bag to make space for an old paperback from the guesthouse’s borrowing shelf.
Again the sun briefly emerged from the clouds, the granite stacks sparkling in the sudden brightness. The herd of ponies had moved across the hill, leaving Slim with a straight route to the ridgeline.
‘Come on,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not a quitter, are you?’
His boot squelched as he pulled it back on, but with a grimace rarely leaving his face, he finally made it to the ridgeline fifteen minutes later, clambering up the granite stacks to the highest viewpoint. Fog had rolled in, obscuring everything but the slopes of the hill. The old China clay quarries to the southwest were ghosts in the fog, but beyond a murky grey sheet hung over the world.
With the water’s grit like sandpaper between his toes, Slim paused only long enough to take a quick drink before beginning his downward journey. A warm early spring day was quickly reverting to a late winter evening, and only an hour of light remained before complete darkness. Even though the fog hadn’t yet absorbed the little gravel car park into its amorphous grey palette—a speck of red near the lower wall identified his bike—it looked a lot further than the peak had seemed when he was starting out.
He was staring off into the distance, counting the sheep huddled into a natural bowl further down the slope as a way of putting the chill gusts of wind out of his mind, when something shifted under his foot.
He fell hard, catching himself with his hands. He had fallen on the same foot, but this time he turned his ankle, and a blistering pain raced up his leg. He rolled on to his back, eased off his boot and sat rubbing his ankle for a few minutes. Removing his sodden sock revealed the beginnings of an angry bruise, and the exposure to the air sent February chills through his body. The ground here was at least dry, and he sat up and stared upslope, feeling both angry and stupid. Fool me once, fool me twice, he remembered the beginning of a saying his ex-wife had been fond of, although he had forgotten the rest.
He looked around, wondering which rock had tripped him, and frowned. Something poked up between two tufts of grass, fluttering in the breeze.
The corner of a plastic bag, shredded and frayed, its old colour long faded to a grey-white. Slim hesitated before making to pick it up, remembering his tour of Iraq with the Armed Forces, when such a thing might have indicated a landmine, a marker for local militants still using the area. Every bit of rubbish could have meant death, and in the suburbs of some dirty, dusty towns, Slim had barely dared take a forward step.
To his surprise, it resisted his sharp tug. He pushed his hands into the turf and eased his fingers around the hard, angular shape the bag contained. It spread out beneath the turf, a couple of hand spans across, and his heart began to race. Lost military ordinance? Dartmoor, to the northeast, was used for army drills, but Bodmin Moor was supposedly safe.
He pressed a finger into the hard surface, and it gave a little. Wood, not plastic or metal. No bomb he had ever known had been made from wood.
He pulled back turf that yielded easily and twisted the wrapped object out of the grass. Square corners and carved grooves aroused his curiosity. He untied the knot on the bag and withdrew the object inside.
‘Huh…?’
The bag contained a beautiful, ornate cuckoo clock. Delicate wooden carvings surrounded a pretty central clock face. To his surprise it was still functioning, as a little cuckoo suddenly blasted out of a door above the 12-numeral, its cry a tired puff into Slim’s stunned ears.
The hike wasn’t going to plan.
The looming granite stacks of Rough Tor were a poor compass marker, shifting along the skyline as Slim Hardy attempted to realign himself with the trace of path which had led him up the hill from the car park.
To his right a small herd of wild moorland ponies blocked the direct route to the ridgeline and the tallest stacks. Their defiant eyes watched every step as Slim skirted around, moving slowly over the boggy, uneven terrain, wary of the granite scree poking through the tufts of moorland grass.
Slim sighed. He was way off course now, Rough Tor’s long ridge rising almost straight on, and the flat peak of Brown Willy with its sprinkling of rocks appearing straight ahead across a wide, gentle valley. He reached by habit for the hip flask that was no longer there, shook his hand as though to punish himself for his forgetfulness, then sat on a rock to take a breather.
Up on the ridge, the two hikers he had followed from the car park jumped down from among the rocks and headed on towards Brown Willy. As they disappeared from sight, Slim felt a sudden pang of loneliness. At the very bottom of the slope, there were three cars in the car park alongside the blur of red that his pushbike, but of the other walkers there was no sign. Besides the ponies, he was alone.
After a bite of a leftover sandwich and a swig from a water bottle, Slim looked up at the peak, torn by indecision. He had a long cycle ride ahead of him down winding, potholed country lanes, and the battery in his light was flat. As he turned, though, the sun briefly broke through the clouds, and far to the south the English Channel glittered between two hills. To the northwest Slim looked for the Atlantic, but a bank of clouds hung low over the fields, obscuring all but the tiniest triangle of grey that might have been water.
With a persevering grunt he shouldered his rucksack and got back to the hike, but had taken no more than a few steps when a loose rock rolled under his boot, plunging him knee-deep into a pit of grimy water. Grimacing, Slim pulled his foot free of the bog and staggered forward onto drier ground.
As he removed and emptied his left boot, he gave a wistful grin, remembering that a spare pair of socks lay on the bed in his room, left out of his bag to make space for an old paperback from the guesthouse’s borrowing shelf.
Again the sun briefly emerged from the clouds, the granite stacks sparkling in the sudden brightness. The herd of ponies had moved across the hill, leaving Slim with a straight route to the ridgeline.
‘Come on,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not a quitter, are you?’
His boot squelched as he pulled it back on, but with a grimace rarely leaving his face, he finally made it to the ridgeline fifteen minutes later, clambering up the granite stacks to the highest viewpoint. Fog had rolled in, obscuring everything but the slopes of the hill. The old China clay quarries to the southwest were ghosts in the fog, but beyond a murky grey sheet hung over the world.
With the water’s grit like sandpaper between his toes, Slim paused only long enough to take a quick drink before beginning his downward journey. A warm early spring day was quickly reverting to a late winter evening, and only an hour of light remained before complete darkness. Even though the fog hadn’t yet absorbed the little gravel car park into its amorphous grey palette—a speck of red near the lower wall identified his bike—it looked a lot further than the peak had seemed when he was starting out.
He was staring off into the distance, counting the sheep huddled into a natural bowl further down the slope as a way of putting the chill gusts of wind out of his mind, when something shifted under his foot.
He fell hard, catching himself with his hands. He had fallen on the same foot, but this time he turned his ankle, and a blistering pain raced up his leg. He rolled on to his back, eased off his boot and sat rubbing his ankle for a few minutes. Removing his sodden sock revealed the beginnings of an angry bruise, and the exposure to the air sent February chills through his body. The ground here was at least dry, and he sat up and stared upslope, feeling both angry and stupid. Fool me once, fool me twice, he remembered the beginning of a saying his ex-wife had been fond of, although he had forgotten the rest.
He looked around, wondering which rock had tripped him, and frowned. Something poked up between two tufts of grass, fluttering in the breeze.
The corner of a plastic bag, shredded and frayed, its old colour long faded to a grey-white. Slim hesitated before making to pick it up, remembering his tour of Iraq with the Armed Forces, when such a thing might have indicated a landmine, a marker for local militants still using the area. Every bit of rubbish could have meant death, and in the suburbs of some dirty, dusty towns, Slim had barely dared take a forward step.
To his surprise, it resisted his sharp tug. He pushed his hands into the turf and eased his fingers around the hard, angular shape the bag contained. It spread out beneath the turf, a couple of hand spans across, and his heart began to race. Lost military ordinance? Dartmoor, to the northeast, was used for army drills, but Bodmin Moor was supposedly safe.
He pressed a finger into the hard surface, and it gave a little. Wood, not plastic or metal. No bomb he had ever known had been made from wood.
He pulled back turf that yielded easily and twisted the wrapped object out of the grass. Square corners and carved grooves aroused his curiosity. He untied the knot on the bag and withdrew the object inside.
‘Huh…?’
The bag contained a beautiful, ornate cuckoo clock. Delicate wooden carvings surrounded a pretty central clock face. To his surprise it was still functioning, as a little cuckoo suddenly blasted out of a door above the 12-numeral, its cry a tired puff into Slim’s stunned ears.
What are people saying about The Clockmaker's Secret?
From bestthrillers.com:
Bottom Line: An absolute feast for noir and paranormal thriller fans alike. Highly recommended.
Slim Hardy is a functioning alcoholic who has paid his dues to the military. More recently, he has embarked on a career as a private eye, where he is tasked with figuring out exactly what Ted Douglas is doing in a remote cove every week. What seems like a straightforward marital affair gets turned on its ear when Hardy witnesses what appears to be an exorcism, spirits and other strange phenomenon. Being a man of reason, Hardy digs deeper to find out exactly what's going on. Could Ted really be having an affair with a ghost?
Jack Benton is the pen name for this exciting new series, authored by none other than prolific horror and sci-fi author Chris Ward. Amidst scores of predictable detective novels, The Man by the Sea is anything but formulaic. And yet, Benton has served up a perfectly satisfying tale for pulp fans with a dash of the supernatural.
With its rolling fog to keep secrets away from prying eyes (like strange rituals and performances of Romeo & Juliet), Benton’s setting, Cramer Cove, is mesmerizing. Finally, Benton has packed the novel with a tight cast of characters that aren't quite who they seem at first glance. With the stage set for even more adventures with Hardy and Co., readers should relish this new must-read series.
See this review on Bestthrillers.com
Bottom Line: An absolute feast for noir and paranormal thriller fans alike. Highly recommended.
Slim Hardy is a functioning alcoholic who has paid his dues to the military. More recently, he has embarked on a career as a private eye, where he is tasked with figuring out exactly what Ted Douglas is doing in a remote cove every week. What seems like a straightforward marital affair gets turned on its ear when Hardy witnesses what appears to be an exorcism, spirits and other strange phenomenon. Being a man of reason, Hardy digs deeper to find out exactly what's going on. Could Ted really be having an affair with a ghost?
Jack Benton is the pen name for this exciting new series, authored by none other than prolific horror and sci-fi author Chris Ward. Amidst scores of predictable detective novels, The Man by the Sea is anything but formulaic. And yet, Benton has served up a perfectly satisfying tale for pulp fans with a dash of the supernatural.
With its rolling fog to keep secrets away from prying eyes (like strange rituals and performances of Romeo & Juliet), Benton’s setting, Cramer Cove, is mesmerizing. Finally, Benton has packed the novel with a tight cast of characters that aren't quite who they seem at first glance. With the stage set for even more adventures with Hardy and Co., readers should relish this new must-read series.
See this review on Bestthrillers.com
What else is there to know about The Clockmaker's Secret?
I grew up not far from Bodmin Moor, where the story is set.
Where can I buy The Clockmaker's Secret?
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FAQ about The Clockmaker's Secret.
- Is this the first book in a series and can it be read as a standalone?
- Why is John Hardy called "Slim"?
- What are Slim's quirks?
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- Does Slim have a girlfriend?
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- ASIN : B07GSM1LKK
- ISBN-10 : 1720144338
- ISBN-13 : 978-1720144335
- ISBN-13 : 979-8831782479
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Narrated by: Kevin E. Green
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