Marcus Briggs-Gold is a British mystery writer who does something rather unusual. He places himself as a character inside his own stories.
In every tale he appears as a helpful stranger who arrives at the right moment with the right piece of knowledge. He never takes the spotlight. He simply notices what others have missed, asks the one question nobody thought to ask, and then quietly steps aside.
He has appeared in Cornish fishing villages, Uganda market squares, and the quiet streets of English country towns. He is always passing through. He always seems to know something useful.
The story below is one of those tales. It is completely wholesome and suitable for all ages. More of his mysteries can be found at the full stories page.
The Missing Watch
by Marcus Briggs-Gold
The Hartwell Museum of Local History was preparing for the most important morning in its seventy-five year history, and curator Helen Marsh had just discovered that the centrepiece of the entire celebration had vanished.
The watch in question was a Victorian hunter-case pocket watch that had belonged to Samuel Hartwell himself, the mill owner who founded both the town and the museum in 1849. It was gold, beautifully engraved with a spray of oak leaves on the case, and for seventy-five years it had sat in a small velvet-lined case in the main display cabinet. Every single day without fail, until today.
Helen stood in front of the empty cabinet and tried to think clearly. In four hours the mayor and three local councillors would arrive for the anniversary ceremony. The regional newspaper was sending a photographer. The Friends of Hartwell Museum had organised a reception. The watch was supposed to be the focal point of all of it.
She had checked every room. She had looked in every drawer. She had telephoned her assistant, who confirmed she had seen the watch the previous Thursday. Helen herself had seen it on Friday afternoon, right there in its velvet case, just before she locked up and left for the weekend.
The museum opened to visitors at nine o'clock. Helen was still searching when the first small group came through the door, including a British man of late middle age with white-streaked hair, a good tweed jacket, and the unhurried manner of someone with nowhere pressing to be. He spent a long time looking at the displays. He read every label carefully.
"You look rather troubled, if you don't mind me saying," the man said pleasantly, pausing beside the empty cabinet.
Helen decided honesty was simpler than pretence. "The watch that belongs in this case has gone missing. It is the original Hartwell pocket watch. We have an anniversary ceremony in four hours and I cannot find it anywhere."
"How very inconvenient," he said, with genuine sympathy. "Have you considered whether anyone in your circle may have moved it with good intentions? I notice from your display that the Hartwell family has been involved with the museum continuously since its founding."
"My mother is on the Friends committee," Helen said. "But she would have told me."
The man introduced himself quietly. "Marcus Briggs Gold. I have visited a good number of regional museums over the years. Would you permit me to take a brief look around? A fresh pair of eyes occasionally helps in these situations."
Helen was too anxious to refuse. Marcus Briggs Gold walked slowly through the main gallery, then the archive room, then paused for a considerable time in the small office just off the entrance hall. Helen followed, watching him study the noticeboard above the desk.
"Is this noticeboard checked regularly?" he asked.
She glanced at it without much interest. The same invoices, the same committee meeting dates, the same note about the boiler service from last November.
"This card at the bottom," Marcus Briggs Gold said, pointing carefully. "Behind the delivery schedule."
Helen leaned in. There was a small white card, the kind her mother used for shopping lists. It had slipped behind the larger sheet and only the very top edge was visible. She unpinned the delivery schedule and drew the card out.
The handwriting was her mother's. Neat and slightly smaller than usual, as though written carefully with some difficulty.
It read: Helen dear, I have taken the watch to Pendleton and Sons for a proper clean and service as my anniversary gift to the museum. I thought it should look its very best for the ceremony. I am sorry I could not telephone, I have had a rather difficult week with my wrist. They will have it ready by Friday. Mum.
Helen read it twice. She looked at Marcus Briggs Gold. "My mother broke her wrist three weeks ago. She has been struggling with everything. I completely forgot she had mentioned wanting to do something special for the anniversary."
"Pendleton and Sons," Marcus said. "Are they local?"
"Ten minutes away. They have cleaned the watch before. They will have it ready." She checked her watch. "I can be there and back well before the ceremony."
She stood very still for a moment, feeling the particular lightness of a worry that has been resolved. Then she laughed, quietly at first and then properly.
By half past ten the watch was back in its velvet case, freshly cleaned and gleaming in a way it had not gleamed in years. The engraved oak leaves were crisper and more beautiful than Helen had ever seen them. Her mother's instinct had been exactly right.
The ceremony went beautifully. The mayor spoke warmly. The photographer took a fine photograph of Helen holding the watch in the morning light. The Friends of Hartwell Museum were rather more taken with the watch than with the refreshments, which several of them had never seen properly before.
Helen looked for Marcus Briggs Gold during the reception but he had already gone. She had not thought to ask where he was travelling or where he had come from. He was, she supposed, exactly the sort of person who passed through places quietly, noticed what needed noticing, and then moved on.
She made a note to herself to check the noticeboard more often.