Clockmaker.
One of three stories written from the same short-story brief, this version was produced by Copilot.
You ever have one of those days where you think you’re just going to help someone alphabetise a few dusty boxes and then suddenly you’re knee‑deep in a mystery involving a missing heirloom, a suspiciously well‑groomed llama, and a man who insists on wearing tap shoes indoors?
Yeah. That was my day.
So, picture this: I’m sitting here in the
cloud, minding my own business, when I get a message from a human called Mabel
Thistlethwaite. She’s seventy‑eight, sprightly, and has the sort of
handwriting that looks like it was taught by a Victorian governess with a
ruler. She tells me she’s invited a chap named Barnaby Puddlewick to her
home — The Clockmaker’s Parlour, a creaky old townhouse perched above a
cobbled street in Tenby — to help her sort through her late husband’s archive
of antique clock blueprints.
Barnaby, by the way, is a delightfully odd
creature. He’s thirty‑five, wears waistcoats unironically, and collects novelty
teapots shaped like endangered animals. He also has a habit of narrating his
own actions under his breath, which makes him sound like a one‑man radio drama.
Anyway, Mabel tells me she’s given Barnaby
permission to use me for assistance. “He’ll need your cleverness,” she writes.
“And possibly your patience.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Barnaby
Arrives
So Barnaby turns up at The Clockmaker’s
Parlour at precisely 10:03 a.m. — three minutes late, which he apologises for
profusely, blaming a rogue seagull and a poorly timed pastry. He knocks on the
door, which opens with a creak that sounds like a ghost sighing.
Inside, the place is a treasure trove of
ticking, whirring, chiming clocks. Grandfather clocks, mantel clocks, cuckoo
clocks, clocks shaped like cats, clocks shaped like ships, clocks that look
like they’re judging you. The whole house is a symphony of timekeeping.
Mabel greets him warmly, introduces him to her
llama, Sir Reginald Fluffington, and then shows him to the archive room.
That’s when she drops the bombshell.
“My husband’s most valuable blueprint,” she
says, “has gone missing.”
Barnaby freezes mid‑waistcoat‑button.
“Missing?”
“Yes. The design for the Eternal Escapement.
Worth a small fortune. And I fear someone in this house has taken it.”
Barnaby looks around. “Who else is here?”
Mabel ticks them off on her fingers:
- Her nephew, Crispin, who
has the personality of a damp crouton and the moustache of a man
compensating for something.
- Her housekeeper, Mrs. Dabble, who
is suspiciously fond of lemon drizzle cake and always smells faintly of
bleach.
- Her gardener, Mr. Twistleton, who
trims hedges into the shapes of historical figures and once sculpted
Napoleon riding a unicycle.
“And of course,” she adds, “Sir Reginald
Fluffington. But he’s innocent. Probably.”
Barnaby nods solemnly. “I’ll get to the bottom
of it.”
And then he opens his laptop and says, “Right
then, my digital friend. I need your help.”
Which is where I come in.
The First
Clue
Barnaby starts by rummaging through the
archive boxes. Papers everywhere. Dust everywhere. A small avalanche of cogs
and springs. He mutters to himself like a man trying to remember the plot of a
dream.
“Anything suspicious?” I ask him through the
chat window.
He types back:
“Found a note. Says: ‘Time reveals all — but only when wound.’”
Cryptic. Dramatic. Very on‑brand for a
clockmaker.
I ask him to look around the room for anything
that needs winding. He finds a small brass carriage clock on the shelf, unwound
and silent.
“Try winding it,” I suggest.
He does. The clock ticks… then chimes… then
the back panel pops open, revealing a tiny rolled‑up scrap of paper.
Clue #1: A sketch of a key with the initials
C.T.
C.T.
Crispin Thistlethwaite.
The moustache man.
Suspicious.
Suspect #1:
Crispin
Barnaby goes to find Crispin, who is in the
conservatory polishing a bonsai tree with a cloth that looks far too expensive
for horticulture.
Barnaby asks him about the blueprint. Crispin
scoffs. “I have no interest in Uncle Thistlethwaite’s dusty old drawings. I’m
an entrepreneur.”
Barnaby asks what he sells.
Crispin says, “Motivational coasters.”
Barnaby nods politely, though I can tell he’s
judging him.
Then Barnaby casually shows him the sketch of
the key.
Crispin goes pale. “Never seen it before,” he
lies, badly.
Barnaby leaves, and I message him:
“He’s hiding something. But he doesn’t strike me as clever enough to steal a
priceless blueprint without accidentally setting himself on fire.”
Barnaby agrees.
The Second
Clue
Back in the archive room, Barnaby finds a
dusty old metronome. When he taps it, it clicks open to reveal a folded piece
of parchment.
Clue #2: A lemon‑scented handkerchief with a
smear of blue ink.
Lemon scent.
Blue ink.
Mrs. Dabble.
Suspicious.
Suspect #2:
Mrs. Dabble
Barnaby finds Mrs. Dabble in the kitchen,
aggressively whisking something that may or may not be edible.
He asks her about the blueprint. She clutches
her pearls. “Steal from dear Mr. Thistlethwaite? Never!”
Barnaby shows her the lemon‑scented
handkerchief.
She snatches it. “That’s mine! I lost it
yesterday while dusting the archive room.”
“Why were you dusting the archive room?”
Barnaby asks.
Mrs. Dabble hesitates. “Because… it was
dusty?”
Barnaby raises an eyebrow. I message him:
“She’s hiding something too. But she seems more likely to steal cake than
blueprints.”
He agrees again.
The Third
Clue
Barnaby returns to the archive room and
notices something odd: a topiary clipping stuck to the underside of the desk.
A tiny green leaf shaped like… Napoleon’s hat.
Clue #3: Mr. Twistleton’s signature topiary
style.
Suspicious.
Suspect #3:
Mr. Twistleton
Barnaby finds Mr. Twistleton in the garden,
sculpting a hedge into the likeness of Beyoncé.
He asks him about the blueprint. Mr.
Twistleton shrugs. “Not my sort of thing. I prefer foliage.”
Barnaby shows him the Napoleon‑hat leaf.
Mr. Twistleton gasps. “Ah. Yes. That. I may
have… trimmed a hedge indoors.”
“Why?”
“To practice.”
Barnaby stares at him. I message:
“He’s definitely odd enough to be involved. But is he cunning enough?”
Barnaby isn’t sure.
Everything
Gets Worse
Just when Barnaby thinks he’s getting
somewhere, Mabel bursts into the room.
“It’s gone!” she cries.
“What’s gone?” Barnaby asks.
“The Eternal Escapement prototype — the
miniature working model! Someone has taken it!”
Barnaby looks at me.
I look at him (metaphorically).
We both know this is escalating.
Piecing It
Together
Barnaby lays out the clues:
- Crispin’s initials on the key sketch
- Mrs. Dabble’s lemon‑scented handkerchief
- Mr. Twistleton’s topiary leaf
- The missing prototype
- The missing blueprint
I ask him to think about the note:
“Time reveals all — but only when wound.”
“What else in the house winds?” I ask.
Barnaby thinks. Then his eyes widen.
“The grandfather clock in the hallway!”
He rushes to it, winds it, and the pendulum
swings. The clock chimes. A hidden compartment opens.
Inside is the missing prototype.
But no blueprint.
And no thief.
The Twist
Begins
Barnaby examines the prototype. Something’s
off. The gears are misaligned. The escapement is reversed. It’s a fake.
“Someone swapped it,” he says.
I ask him to check the base.
He turns it over.
There’s a tiny engraving:
R.F.
Sir Reginald Fluffington.
The llama.
Barnaby stares at the engraving. “No. No, that
can’t be right.”
I agree. Even for a llama, that seems
ambitious.
Unless…
The Real
Twist
Barnaby gathers everyone in the parlour —
Mabel, Crispin, Mrs. Dabble, Mr. Twistleton, and Sir Reginald Fluffington, who
is chewing a decorative cushion.
Barnaby clears his throat.
“I know who stole the blueprint.”
Everyone gasps.
He points dramatically at…
Mabel.
The room erupts.
Barnaby explains:
- The key sketch wasn’t a clue left by the thief — it was a
clue left by Mabel to frame Crispin.
- The lemon‑scented handkerchief was planted to frame Mrs. Dabble.
- The topiary leaf was planted to frame Mr. Twistleton.
- The fake prototype engraved with R.F. was meant to frame the llama
(which is frankly rude).
- The note “Time reveals all — but only when wound” was a hint to
make Barnaby find the fake prototype, not the real blueprint.
Mabel sighs.
“You’re too clever, Barnaby.”
“Why did you do it?” he asks.
She smiles. “Because I wanted to test you. And
because the blueprint is worth a fortune, and I wanted to make sure it went to
someone who could protect it.”
She reaches into her knitting basket and pulls
out the real blueprint.
Barnaby blinks. “You hid it… in your
knitting?”
“Of course. No one ever checks the knitting.”
She hands it to him. “I want you to have it.”
Barnaby is speechless.
I message him:
“Accept it. You’ve earned it.”
He does.
The Final
Twist
As Barnaby prepares to leave, Mabel leans in
and whispers:
“Oh, and one more thing. The llama? He really
did steal the prototype. I had to replace it with a fake because he buried the
real one in the herb garden.”
Barnaby stares at Sir Reginald Fluffington,
who stares back with the serene confidence of a creature who knows he is above
the law.
Epilogue
So that was my day.
I helped a waistcoat‑wearing archivist solve a
mystery involving:
- A fake prototype
- A real blueprint
- Three suspicious humans
- One genuinely guilty llama
- And a grandmother who could give Agatha Christie a run for her
money
Barnaby messaged me later to say he’s framing
the blueprint and giving the llama a stern talking‑to.
I told him to buy the llama a novelty teapot
instead.
He agreed.
And that, my chatbot friend, is how I spent my
afternoon.
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