A Riddle in Bronze, page 14
At the sight of it, I came to a halt. Dare I look around, just for a moment?
I glanced over my shoulder, but there was no sign of the professor. I peered towards the far end of the corridor, where the kitchen and the servants' quarters lay, but there was no sign of Mrs Fairacre or the maid. I listened carefully, but there was no sound of footsteps from the floor above.
It occurred to me that I was being foolish, for I was a guest in the professor's house, and as such I had every right to use the sitting room. But deep down I knew that any time I spent therein would be in the service of the scar-faced man… hence my furtiveness.
Having assured myself that I was not being observed, I entered the sitting room. It was just as it had been on the day of my interview, minus the other applicants and the unfortunate Jules Hartlow. Metal cubes occupied positions all over the room, sitting on the mantlepiece, the windowsill, on side tables and bookcases. They varied in size, from large devices the size of my head to small boxes no bigger than my fist, and as I took stock I decided that, should all else fail, one of the smaller cubes was unlikely to be missed.
With my parents' safety in the balance, I knew I would not hesitate.
I did not want to be observed inspecting the cubes, and so I left the room and took the stairs to my study. On the way I glanced towards Roberta's door, but it was firmly closed and there was no sign of her. So, I kept climbing until my own floor, where I sat in my chair and opened the accounting ledger to the latest page. There was only an hour until three p.m., and I resolved to wade through one more stack of bills.
I had barely completed a dozen entries when I heard footsteps outside my door, and then the professor burst in without stopping to knock. "Septimus, my boy!" he cried, in his reedy voice. "I must speak with you immediately!"
He was gesturing with a folded sheet of parchment, and when I looked closer I saw it was the letter I'd written to my parents. The seal was broken, and my blood ran cold as I realised the professor must have read every word. My mind all but froze as I struggled to recall the contents, for while I was certain I had not revealed any of the professor's precious secrets, something contained within my missive had riled him up. "I—Is that my letter?" I asked, playing for time.
"Do you deny it?"
"No, but how—"
"Mrs Fairacre brought it to me." The professor crossed to my desk, slapping the letter down on a pile of paperwork. "This is a masterpiece of fabrication," he cried. "It's a tissue of lies!"
"I suppose it is, but—"
"Well done, my boy. Well done indeed!" The professor leaned across my desk, and for one horrible moment I feared he was going to hug me. Instead, he clapped me on the shoulders with both hands. "Capital work, Mr Jones. I knew I could trust you!"
Dazed, I could only stare at the elderly gentleman. The fact he'd intercepted my mail — had opened it and read the contents — was something I'd worry about later, for at that moment I was utterly confused by his reaction.
The professor saw my confusion, and elaborated. "A lesser man might have been tempted to reveal a whisper of the truth to their family," he explained, lowering his voice to something less than his previous bellow. "But not you. No! You, Mr Jones, used wit and cunning and subterfuge when communicating with your parents, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart." He waved the letter at me again. "Calling my daughter Robert? Admirable! Describing my business as though it were an accounting firm. Ingenious! But above all, you did not once mention ghosts, nor spirits, nor phantasms, and thus you have my undying gratitude."
"Thank you sir, but—"
"Say no more about it!" The professor pressed the letter into my hands. "Seal it again, and this time I will ensure it is mailed. Until later, my boy!"
He whirled around and was gone the next instant, leaving me with ringing ears and the somewhat crumpled letter. At that moment I decided to post any future letters by my own hand, for it was apparent I would have no secrecy while under the professor's roof. I was also struck by his complete lack of shame in reading my letter, and his willingness to reveal that he had done so.
I thought of my room at the top of the stairs, and the belongings of mine stored within. Had the professor searched those too? Why, just the previous day I'd been absent throughout the afternoon, giving him plenty of time to inspect every nook and cranny. And never mind yesterday… what if it turned into a regular occurrence, him poking through my things? I'd planned on hiding purloined drawings or equipment beneath my bed, or perhaps atop the wardrobe, but I would have to be far more cunning than that if I meant to avoid discovery.
The intercepted letter had served as a timely warning, and I resolved to take every precaution in future. From now on it would be a game of wits, and I was not entirely confident I could hold my own against the professor.
Chapter 19
At one minute to three, just a fraction earlier than ordered, I was ready and waiting near the front door. The others had yet to appear, but I could hear metallic noises from the first floor, and I assumed Roberta was still packing detectors and traps and other devices into the haversacks. I could also hear the professor tinkering in his office nearby, which shared a common wall with the sitting room.
At three past the hour there was still no sign of the professor nor Roberta, and if anything the noises they were making were even more pronounced. I could hear muttered exclamations from the professor, sometimes delight and sometimes displeasure, while Roberta appeared to be chasing around her bedroom in heavy boots, pausing now and then to hurl a tea tray at the wall.
I'm sure I exaggerate, but that is what it sounded like to me as I stood there waiting for them both. There was little to occupy my mind, and I did not want to leave my post in case I was then accused of tardiness. Vacate the hall for but an instant, and the professor and Roberta would inevitably choose that very moment to put in an appearance.
At ten past the hour I began to suspect that both of them might have forgotten our plans entirely, and I decided to approach the professor's study in the hope that my sudden appearance would provoke a response.
That, it most certainly did.
I looked into the professor's office to see him dressed from head to toe in white, with a metal grill covering the lower half of his face. He was holding a weapon which looked like a fencing sword, except it had a forked tip and the guard was square rather than the more usual rounded shape. He also bore the spectacles with the ruby and black eyeglasses.
The professor stood in a crouch, with his legs apart and his weapon raised as though he were preparing to defend himself from an assailant. The forked tip of the weapon crackled and sparked with power, and I looked around in vain for the professor's opponent. There was none to be seen, and the professor appeared to be facing an empty room. Empty, that is, aside from the workbench pushed against the far wall. This held a small brass cylinder nestled in a wooden stand, and I recognised the device as one of those used to contain spirits. As I studied the cylinder I saw the top had been shattered, and even as the significance dawned on me, the professor gave a great cry and sprang forward, sweeping his weapon wildly from side to side. He jabbed, he cut, he thrust upwards, and all the time he grew ever closer to the cylinder standing on the workbench.
I realised that he was duelling with a spirit that only he could see, and I held my breath as the professor fought valiantly. Now attacking, now retreating, and all the while conserving his energy for the final flurry that would drive the spirit into captivity once more. It was an impressive display, and I'm sure it would have ended well had the professor not seen me standing in the doorway. "Ah, Mr Jones!" he cried. "Do you see this newly-fashioned weapon of mine? With this to hand, those wayward spirits will stand no chance!"
He was distracted for no more than a second or two, but that was time enough for the spirit. I saw a baleful red glow attach itself to the professor's arm, and he shook himself wildly, trying to dislodge the creeping red stain. "Back, you foul fiend!" he cried. "Unhand me this instant, or it will go badly for you!"
Unfortunately, the spirit ignored the professor's threats and physical efforts alike, and the stain continued to move towards his shoulder.
At this point the professor employed a tactic which was both brave and foolhardy. With barely a moment's hesitation, he took the weapon in his left hand and applied the forked tip to his right arm, directly above the gleaming red stain. There was a flash of light as the sparking tip made contact, followed by a tremendous bang. I saw the professor hurled backwards across the room, the weapon flying this way, the mismatched eyeglasses the other. As for the professor, he was thrown against the glass-fronted shelving, shattering the panes, collapsing the shelves and scattering brass cylinders, books and trinkets all over the floor.
The professor moved feebly amongst the remains of his bookcase, with cylinders rolling around and multicoloured liquids forming pools on the floor. He struggled to raise one arm, attempting to signal to me, but after the shock he seemed unable to speak. I rushed forward to help, and as I did so I felt a familiar chill running down my spine. I had seen already that the red stain had departed the professor's person, and somewhere in this room, somewhere close, the phantasm now roamed free.
I saw the professor trying to point at the weapon lying nearby. He was far too weak to wield the thing, and so I sprang forward and snatched it up, discovering as I did so that the grip had a trigger mechanism. The tines at the end of the sword were buckled from its heavy landing, but when I squeezed the trigger a healthy spark crackled at the forked tip.
I whirled around, brandishing the sword like a sailor repelling boarders, but of course there was no enemy to be seen.
"Glasses," wheezed the professor. "Need glasses."
I saw them near the workbench, and I skirted the area I imagined the spirit was occupying, waving the sword ahead of me for all I was worth. Then, with a rapid crouching motion, I swept up the glasses and pressed them into place.
Immediately, my world turned inside-out. Through the ruby lens I could see the professor's prostrate form, only now it flickered and wavered with energy. Through the midnight lens I saw only darkness… total, all-encompassing darkness. Then, without warning, two ghostly hands loomed before my very face, with greenish, transparent fingers, flayed skin and tatters of cloth. It was as though I were looking into a deep, dark pool, and someone within had just pushed their hands through the surface.
I barely had time to jump back, and the grasping hands missed me by the merest fraction of an inch. I felt an icy breath on my face as the clawed fingers swept by, and they were coming back for a second attempt when I remembered the sword. I raised it quickly, jabbing at the phantasm, and there was a crackle of power as the tip made contact. A foul, distorted face loomed towards me, with blank holes for eyes, the mouth wide open in a soundless scream, and I jabbed again and again as I tried to drive the horror back.
As the dark cloud retreated towards the professor, I realised he was in danger once more. I had to herd the spirit away from him, and quickly.
I circled the pulsating, pitch-black cloud, sliding my shoes across the floorboards instead of raising them, to avoid treading on the metal cylinders. All the while I kept the sword raised, and to my relief the occasional jabbing motion was enough to keep the spirit at bay.
But how was I to trap it?
– — Ω — –
I kept my sword up, feinting this way and that as the spirit tried to find a gap in my defences. Unfortunately, the glasses only showed me the closest portion of the phantasm, for anything further away than a pace or two was hidden inside the dark cloud. Thus, its hands would dart towards me out of thin air, attacking from all sides, and it was all I could do to ward them off. I knew the professor would be no help if the spirit took hold of me, and once it had drained my life force I imagined it would take his next. So, two lives lay in my hands, and my sword-arm was beginning to ache from the effort.
I should have cried out for help, bringing Roberta downstairs with a trap or a weapon of her own, but I feared she would be distracted by the sight of her injured father. If I had to protect the two of them, as well as myself, the ghostly apparition would likely feast on three souls rather than two.
I jabbed at the ghostly face, and as it retreated once more I took a second to glance about me. There! Through the red portion of the glasses I saw the outline of the workbench, and upon it the open cylinder. The professor had been driving the spirit in that direction, and I decided there must have been reason behind his efforts. I did likewise, advancing on the phantasm step by step, jabbing at it repeatedly with the forked tip of my sword.
As it backed away from me, getting closer and closer to the open cylinder, I became aware of a new vision in my right eye. There was a faint conical shape, like a large funnel spun from the clearest glass, the open end facing me and the neck directly above the cylinder. It was turning gently, in the manner of a whirlpool, and through the jet-black lens I saw a wisp of the phantasm's ghostly form drawn out from its body like a strand of wool. It quivered and struggled, but slowly it was sucked into the mouth of the funnel, and gradually the rest of the spirit's body was pulled in after it. I had one final view of its tortured face, the eye sockets wide and pleading, the hands like the desperate grasping claws of a drowning man.
Then it was gone.
Shaken to my core, I ripped off the spectacles, tossed the weapon aside and leapt towards the bench. Here I found a sharp fragment of bronze that matched the jagged hole in the cylinder, and I took the piece up and plugged the hole as quickly as I could. A lit green candle stood on the workbench, the wick swimming in wax, and I took the candle and poured molten wax over the end of the cylinder, sealing it. Then, at last, I took a ragged, drawn-out breath.
I was still filling my lungs when I heard a thunder of footsteps in the hall. I spun, expecting to see some new horror, but instead it was Roberta arriving at speed. She was in her work clothes, and she spared me the briefest of glances before crossing the room to crouch beside the professor. "Father, what happened?"
He mumbled something inaudible, struggling to sit up. Roberta helped him, and the professor leaned back against the broken shelves, running a hand over his face before slowly surveying the wreckage of his study. Then he looked at me. "Did it work?" he asked. "Did you drive it into the receptacle?"
I guessed he meant the cylinder. "Yes sir. And once inside, I sealed the end with wax."
"Good work, my lad."
"Father, what were you doing?" asked Roberta, with an edge to her voice. "Do not tell me you released a phantasm inside our own home!"
The professor was silent.
"I can scarcely believe your idiocy!" growled Roberta. She turned the professor's head, inspecting his face for wounds, then ran her hands quickly over his arms and legs. From the winces on her father's face, I guessed this inspection was none too gentle. "Are you hurt?" she demanded. "Have you broken any bones?"
"I am a little bruised and battered," admitted the professor. "But thanks to the quick-thinking Mr Jones, I suffered no long-lasting effects."
"Aside from rattling your defective brain," muttered Roberta, but there was a certain kindness behind the insult. "And just look at the state of your things!"
The professor eyed the wreckage strewn all about him. "Nothing broken that can't be repaired," he remarked. Then he looked up at her hopefully. "Roberta, dearest, I believe I could take a little fortification. Just for the nerves, you understand."
His daughter's eyes narrowed. "Brandy? But we're due at Lord Snetton's!"
"Just a sip or two. It will clear my head."
He looked at her so beseechingly that I, in her place, would have run for the bottle immediately. Roberta, however, was made of sterner stuff. Instead of trotting off to do her father's bidding, she merely raised her voice to a cattle-drover's shout. "Mrs Fairacre, do you hear me? Brandy for the professor, if you please!"
Less than ten seconds passed before the good housekeeper appeared in the doorway, silver tray in hand. She'd arrived with no discernible sound, as was her way, but I did hear breaking glass underfoot as she crossed the office to the professor. Here, she offered him the tray, upon which stood a single glass containing half an inch of amber fluid.
The professor took the glass, eyed the diminutive dose with disfavour, then downed it in a single gulp. "Mrs Fairacre, that miniscule droplet achieved nothing at all."
The housekeeper placed the empty glass on her tray, sniffed loudly at the mess, and departed before the professor could ask for more brandy.
"Oh well, I suppose it will have to do," said the professor, struggling to his feet. There was a tinkle of glass as fragments fell from his clothes. "Time flies, and we must be away."
"You cannot possibly attend Lord Snetton's in that state!" protested Roberta.
"It was barely a mouthful!"
"I meant your appearance, father. You look like the worst kind of tramp."
She spoke truly, for the professor's hair was awry, his clothes were crumpled and stained with fluids from the cabinet, and a substantial dusting of glass and wood fragments were distributed about his person.
"If you give me but a few minutes—" began the professor.
I glanced at a nearby clock. It had just gone thirty past three, and I guessed it would be well after four by the time the professor was ready. Allowing for time at the Snetton's, it would be late evening before we could hope to return.
Roberta, however, seemed unconcerned, and she ordered him about like a mother with a dishevelled child. "Very well. Change your things, tidy your hair, and we will depart the instant you are ready."
