Killing Time

He was alive on the longest night of the year. Everyone says so.

It is December in Stellbridge, under the South Downs, and Otty Tolhurst, clockmaker, has a station clock on her bench, a one-legged jackdaw stealing her brass, and a ride on the Santa Special that she is trying very hard not to enjoy.

Royston Kemp is the railways chairman and its Father Christmas, with a real white beard, a loud laugh, a pocket watch he winds every morning with his first cup of tea, and a ticket for every day he has ever set foot on the platform.

Three days before Christmas, the elves come in to pack the sacks, and find Father Christmas in his chair in the freezing goods shed.

A man who liked his brandy, alone in the cold: a sad accident, says the town. He was seen on the Monday, the night of the lantern train. His ticket is in his pocket, dated that day. The lights were on in his Workshop. An old friend saw him at the window.

But the lights were on a timer, Otty set it herself, and a railway ticket has two numbers on it: the date, which can be set, and the other one, which only goes forward.

Killing Time is the second Stellbridge Clockmaker Mystery: a warm, witty, fairly clued British cosy with steam trains in the frosty dark, a stationmaster who keeps time for a living, a Christmas dinner for strays, a clock that will not strike at midnight, a very bad-tempered bird and absolutely no gore.

A traditional cosy mystery: no gore, no on-page violence, no explicit content.