erhaps it can not be withheld this guilt I carry. I have told you of the terrible fate of our dearly beloved barmaid Sheila who was so terribly mutilated. What I have not told you is that I am guilty of her murder. There, it is said. It is out into the world and can not be taken back. Ironically it did not take much to let the knowledge free, just a couple of simple words on paper, written down at my desk a typical dreary London afternoon. For days, even weeks I have not been able to decipher the events before. Life went on strangely enough. You did not see my name in the Strand or the Times, no arrest was posted. The store became my prison and the building itself my safe haven as well. This will soon change to be sure. Why then my confession? It was because of a mouse, a singular mouse. I will tell you the tale of how I met this mouse.

I was busy writing a different text in fact. At the time I was finally committing to paper what happened to that curious fellow who walked into the store to have the name of his beloved wife erased from his pocket watch. It must have been indeed December 15th 1886 if I remember correctly. But that story must wait for another day. Soon, perhaps. They say time works in a different way in prison. Not that I am at this moment in prison, but my small room upstairs from mr. Bartlett's clockworks and watch repair shop feels like that at the moment. It was dreadful outside when I wrote the piece. Rain was sleeting from the roof, sloshing around the gutters and giving Hubbard a terrible fright for the safety of his greenhouse. No, no thunderstorm, nothing so melodramatic. But we don't need such effects to feel the oppressing city around us, at least not in London. Quite honestly I do love this weather. I like the results London weather can have on its inhabitants. Whenever the heavens come down on the citizens of this grand metropolis, the response is always one of comfort making. In fact right this minute I can hear our maid Helen (better not call her maid in front of her, she is our lady in waiting) putter around her room. The sound of clattering indicates she is about to put more coal on the fire and that usually means knitting. Olivia is in there with her and the two of them keep at it for hours. That's not the comforting part; the magnificent part is the in-betweens. Knitting needs scones and fresh coffee and perhaps some marmalade on toast. Every hour or so, sometimes more often, Helen or Olivia will leave the room and go to the kitchen to pick up something. If I behave I can participate. Not sure what 'behave' means, but when I do I'm allowed part and parcel of the proceeds of an afternoon of knitting. A scone here, perhaps some coffee or hot chocolate there. Can't say that I have left my room much other than to feed and use the lavatory. When otherwise I loved leaving the sometimes oppressing watch maker's shop, recently I can't bring myself to go out and enjoy the city. Being guilty of murder does not have much to do with this, that is a matter that is currently beyond the approach of the police force. One would think this gives a person some peace of mind, but it rather has the opposite effect. The images and events are burned in my mind and as opposed to other memories that fade away these become stronger and stronger. Still I can not write it all down and have to resort to use a small mouse to divert my and more importantly, your attention.

It must have been around four according to my mantle clock, fixed and restored by yours truly, that I thought it be time to venture out myself and anticipate the next scone opportunity. Hubbard was nowhere to be seen or heard, and that suited me just fine. I could not be around the old man, not after what happened. But enough of that, I need to trust that to its own telling. The kitchen was deserted. A small fire smoldered in the stove ready to be awoken for scone or coffee duties. A tiny sound reached my ear but faded so fast I could not determine what it was or where it had come from. Like clockwork, Helen stepped into the kitchen and proceeded to work a proper fire. "Jeremy, you here, how do you know when I'm coming", Helen said in her heavy Russian accent. "You're too predictable", I answered. "No no, not good. Russian women are never predictable, that is only what we want you to believe", came the brisk retort. There it was again, the tiny sound. Helen heard it as well and we both swiveled our heads to find the source of the hiss or what almost sounded like a sneeze. Helen was quicker than I was, she knew the kitchen well and figured out where the sneeze came from. She darted towards the pantry and nearly strangled a bag of flower with her powerful clasp. A mouse darted out letting out a loud sneeze. The creature was covered in flower and caused puffy clouds to bellow behind it as it ran from the pantry over the cupboards and out of the kitchen. Were it not for the trail of flower we might never even have noticed where it went. As it was, the poor creature left a clear trail for us to follow. It must have known the house well, better than us even because the flower trail disappeared into the wall between the washing room and Helen's bedroom. A stream of curses left Helen's mouth and even if I understood Russian I would not dare to reproduce them here.

We heard a giggle. Olivia was now laughing out loud in Helen's bedroom and it was Helen who stormed past me towards the laughter. "A puffy mouse ran past", shouted Olivia, "he sneezed, did you hear that too, he sneezed!" she yelled as if it was the funniest thing she had ever seen. Helen did not agree. "But why did you not catch the mouse?" she said, "He is ruining my pantry". "Make him come back, he's funny", said Olivia. "Come back? We need to get him out of the house", Helen now nearly shouted at the little girl. It took some calming to get the maid, nee lady in waiting, to pick up her knitting needles again. I told the two that I would fix the coffee this time, not mentioning scones knowing that there were completely outside my set of cooking skills. I returned not half an hour later with coffee. The two of them were contently knitting now with Helen spying the floor boards and any other place a tiny mouse could re-surface. Sensing the mouse emergency to be over I made my way to my own room and attempted to continue the horrible telling of Sheila's death and my involvement. I left the door pried open in case Helen decided to attack whatever she thought she could see creeping around the room. We've had incidents of some of Hubbard's more exotic animals making their way out of the vivarium and into our living quarters. I had for that purpose permanently in my room: one butterfly net, one large empty jar, one snake stick (Indian made) and patent leather gloves. Nothing happened however. The afternoon lingered on with no improvement in the weather or the coffee. I could not put one word on paper. How does one write in poetic phrases how one committed a horrible crime? There was that sneeze again. This time much closer than during the daring prison break from the kitchen. At first I investigated my desk. The mouse was surely not hiding behind my bottle of ink. That would be too clever, even for a mouse. Hiding in plain sight? Surely not. The sound seemed to come from much lower to the ground. I leaned slightly left and titled my head to see just around the corner of the door the tiny eyes of the mouse glaring at me. He wasn't even afraid and just sat there looking at me as if I was his only possible savior. He must not have been very familiar with my room and the animal trapping gear in it. What an utterly strange creature.

The little thing moved a little bit more into the room, all the while looking at me to see what I would do. I did nothing. Animals don't necessarily like me but they are never afraid of me. That goes for the two scorpions in the attic as well. The mouse was now completely inside my room and what is more it had its left hind paw entangled in a bit of yarn that was trailing behind it. In fact when I moved to look I could see the string of yarn reach all the way across the landing into Helen's room. She must have noticed the same thing at the same time because a yelp froze both myself and the mouse. The mouse came around before I did and it made an interesting and quick decision. It had decided that the safest place in the entire house would be upon my person, inside my left breast pocket to be exact. Not such bad reasoning for a tiny creature. It bolted, yarn in two, up my trouser leg, onto my arm and darted directly into my pocket. I don't know why but it suddenly occurred to me why there was a hole in the vest pocket. It must have been created by the same trespasser who was now occupying it. Helen did not see the mouse, all she noticed was her string of yarn going into my room and into my vest somehow. She very nearly hit me over the head with the fire poker and I could only barely get out of her way knocking over an old vase holding my umbrella and the snake stick. I tried pushing her away from me and managed to sit her down on the bed after being bombarded by a raw stream of Russian curses. "I will kill it!" she yelled. Olivia had also made it over to my room and was standing in the doorway. "He's fast and he's clever", Olivia giggled. "He likes you", she added. My first concern was to get Helen into a reasonable state and for that I needed her to understand that the mouse was no longer a concern. "Look", I told her, "I've caught the mouse; he is no longer a threat to you. I will keep him here and as long as he is here you know he is not in your kitchen or anywhere else for that matter". Truth be told I am a coward when it comes to killing animals and I could not imagine drowning the poor sod. Not to mention that Olivia would hate me for it for the rest of my life. "Here I will put him in this box and he will not bother you anymore", I said as I took the little mouse and transferred him into one of the empty butterfly boxes we sometimes get when we get pupae from South America. Helen calmed down somewhat. "If I see him in the kitchen he's dead", she added. "Holes, you need holes in the box Jeremy, or he can't breathe", Olivia said pointing at the closed butterfly box. Helen stood up, she cut the string of yarn with some scissors she had taken to deal with the mouse and stormed out of the room. I opened the box and took out the mouse, which was still tied up in some yarn. It let me carefully untangle its paw and when I was done it just sat there on my hand. "What are you going to call him Jeremy?" Olivia asked. It had not occurred to me that I had acquired a pet but with Olivia now hovering over the mouse it started to sink in fast. Without thought I blurted out: "Max, I'll call him Max". No idea where that came from. It was one of those instantaneous thoughts that one can never quite explain.

And there you have it, the arrival of Max the pocket mouse. In fact from then on he preferred to stay in and around my vest pocket whenever possible. I had to take some precautions however. From some coffee filter paper I fashioned a number of small cup-like constructions I could fold into my pocket to keep the mouse from soiling my garment. Not that that much happened. Most of the time he was asleep in there, sometimes poking his little head out for some air or entertainment. Even the customers didn't mind. Some even greeted both me and the mouse when they arrived with their clocks and watches. When he is not residing in my pocket he lives in his own house made from an old clock box, those are the ones we store old travel clocks in. I made him a little door he can push open when he wants to leave or enter. Gives him a bit more privacy, although God knows what a mouse needs privacy for. Helen has not made peace with Max an he usually ducks away when she walks past scowling at him. I've thought of training him to inspect clocks from the inside when I can't really open them or when they are too fragile. Some customers would not mind but most come in with raised heads and upturned noses who would not tolerate even a cat looking at their precious heirlooms. With Max in my pocket I could finally write down the terrible events that had past. Not that this little mouse will scare away the hangman. He's quite clever with yarn, but rope is a bit too much for him I'm afraid.