A Riddle in Bronze, page 18
I decided to take my chances. If I left my study door open as I searched, I ought to hear the disturbance from the hallway below once this Charles fellow arrived. Forewarned, I could then return to my own room to observe their departure.
As I descended the stairs I formed a mental picture of Charles. I saw him as a pasty-faced individual with a receding chin and protruding teeth. He would have wispy sideburns and a loud, unpleasant voice, and were it not for his money Roberta would have nothing to do with him.
It took me but a moment to reach my office, where I quickly took stock of the furnishings. Aside from my desk there was the bookcase containing ledgers and paperwork, some of which did not appear to have been disturbed for years. There was also a corner stand with a number of well-thumbed books, and two paintings on the wall. One depicted two ships of the line at the Battle of Trafalgar, their guns recoiling as mighty broadsides belched fire and smoke. Most of the portholes were closed, no doubt a result of the pitched battle, and through those which remained open I could just see the fierce expressions of the sailors 'tween decks. The other painting could not have been more different, for it captured a peaceful country scene with a girl in flowing skirts watching a number of dairy cows in a field. I looked closely at both pieces of artwork, especially the frames, but there were no markings. I even lifted the paintings from the wall, turning them to inspect the rear, but they were completely unremarkable.
I picked up each book on the shelves, bending them gently against my thumb in order to flick rapidly through the pages, but observed nothing of significance. I moved several ledgers, but only succeeded in raising a cloud of dust. Slowly, I was coming to believe that the search was hopeless, and that the locked boxed was destined to remain so. If I wasn't so afraid of harming the contents, I swear I would have pitched it out of my fourth-floor window to burst it open on the ground far below.
I spent a few minutes inspecting the desk, particularly where the sides met the top, but there were no clues scratched into the woodwork. Finally, I went through the drawers, even lifting them out to check the sides, the back and the underneath.
Nothing.
Defeated, I decided my hopes of finding the code had been wildly optimistic. Perhaps the owner of the box had memorised it after all, for the combination would be no easy thing to conceal. Any representation would require three rows with two dozen markings in each, which was a substantial thing to hide from prying eyes.
At that moment I heard a commotion from the corridor below, including laughter and greetings and a hearty male voice. I was tempted to take the stairs to the landing, so that I might obtain a glimpse of this Charles character… until I imagined the embarrassment should someone spot me hiding there.
Instead, I left my study and took the stairs to the top of the house. I hurried to the window in my bedroom and peered out, and to my dismay I saw a magnificent coach-and-four in the road below, attended by a driver and a liveried footman. The horses had matching black plumes upon their heads, and the lacquered carriage shone like a mirror under the nearby streetlamp. Several passersby stared at the overt display of wealth as they hurried by, for such a coach was not a common sight outside the wealthiest parts of the city. Little wonder the professor had encouraged the outing, for the patronage of such a wealthy family might swell his coffers considerably.
I saw a young boy clothed in rags approaching the carriage, presumably to beg a copper or two, but before he could say anything the driver casually flicked his long whip in the lad's direction. The loud crack was audible even from my lofty perch, and the startled boy, who could not have been more than ten years of age, ducked his head and scurried away like a frightened rat. The footman called something after the unfortunate lad, and the driver laughed.
What a pleasant pair, I thought sourly, even though the encounter was a common occurrence all over the city. Then I saw the footman stand to attention, the driver sitting ramrod-straight, and seconds later I spied Roberta and Charles strolling along the path to the iron gates at the road. From my angle I was looking almost directly down on them, but even so, I decided Charles was a most unsuitable sort. From his foppish hair to his broad-shouldered blue coat, there was much to dislike about him. Had I been able to make out any other details, I am certain I would have disliked those also.
Roberta, on the other hand, was a picture of loveliness in her flowing skirts. I pressed my nose to the cold pane of window glass as I tried to take in every detail, and once again I wished I was the one escorting her to the theatre. She walked arm-in-arm with her companion, who suddenly threw his head back and laughed long and hard at some quip. As for myself, I had never felt less like laughing in my entire life.
They reached the carriage, where Charles waved the footman away so that he might assist Roberta up the step himself. She gave him a grateful smile, and that was my last glimpse of her before she disappeared within the spacious carriage. Charles followed, and the footman closed the door and folded the step away before taking his seat beside the driver.
Then, with a crack of the whip and a whinny from the horses, the carriage pulled away from the house and disappeared into the night.
Dispirited, discouraged and dismayed, I turned from the window. My nine o'clock meeting with the scar-faced man was a mere ninety minutes away, further adding to my gloom. I remembered his gleaming knife, and the body of Jules Hartlow found floating in the river, and I shivered. There was no time for self-pity, for I knew I would be renewing my acquaintance with the late Mr Hartlow if I did not stir myself.
Chapter 24
I took the stairs down to Roberta's floor, where I crossed the corridor and opened her door. I slipped inside and closed the door behind me, short of breath and with my heart thudding in my chest. I had dreamt up an excuse in case anyone should find me there, a fabrication involving a missing invoice, but I hoped I would not have to put it to use. For one thing, Roberta would contradict my story once she returned home.
I stood for a moment, regaining my poise, and then I approached the workbench. It was strewn with odds and ends of materials, and mysterious tools, and tangled wire, and I wondered why she did not maintain a working space in the basement. But then my gaze fell on the prize, which was a pile of crumpled diagrams in double foolscap. I leafed through them quickly, selecting two of the simpler ones as being the most suitable for copying. I folded them small and crammed them into my coat pocket, before hurrying to the door.
I peered out through the tiniest crack, ensuring the corridor was clear, and then hurried to the stairs and ascended to the next floor. Here, I collected writing materials and a blank sheet of parchment from my study, before heading further up the stairs to my own room with my loot secreted about my person.
I did not relax until I'd closed the bedroom door behind me. Then I placed the items I'd gathered on the small table near the window, drew up a chair and set to work on crafting a new set of diagrams from those I'd borrowed.
Both of the purloined drawings were of the same device, which appeared to have several moving parts arranged in a circular pattern. There was no explanation as to its purpose, but that did not trouble me. One drawing was more elaborate than the other, as though it were a refinement of the original idea. Regardless, I took elements of both drawings as I crafted my own version on the blank piece of paper. It was a good twenty minutes before I had something that approximated Roberta's original design, without copying it precisely. Next, I turned my attention to the measurements. On Roberta's plan they were expressed in fractions of an inch, and the entire machine would have sat on the palm of one hand. I wanted to show something far more impressive to the scar-faced man, so I changed all the measurements to feet and yards. This made my version of the machine around a hundred times the size of Roberta's, and in total it would be twice the height of an adult. Let Mr Scarface chew on that, I thought to myself. Why, if he were foolish enough to build the enormous contraption, it would cost him a small fortune for the materials alone!
Roberta's device was meant to be fashioned from bronze, but I changed mine to good strong oak. Had I not done so, the machine in my diagram would have weighed as much as the great bell of the Clock Tower, and required even more metal.
I spent some time adding meaningless tables of figures to the margins of the drawing, along with notes and comments on the construction. So distracted was I that I barely noticed the passage of time, and I was shocked to discover it was almost thirty past eight. I set the plans aside to dry, for it was too soon to fold them away, and decided to spend a few minutes on the combination to the locked box. I took another sheet of parchment and drew a pair of parallel lines across the page, then crossed them with twenty-three short vertical lines. This formed a rough representation of the lock mechanism, and all I needed — all I needed! — was the correct pattern. A dot or a cross in one of the three vertical spaces would indicate whether a button were pushed in, as well as its vertical position - up, down or centered. To experiment, I drew several circles with my quill, and as I inked them in, it created a pattern eerily similar to notes on sheet music. Could that be the answer? But then, none of the books in my office had anything to do with music.
As I studied the drawing, with its intermittent dots and blank squares, I felt the first stirrings of recognition. Not music, but a similar pattern which I had seen only recently. I tried to grasp the memory but it slipped away, and the harder I tried, the more it hid away in the shadows. Black dots inside squares, displayed in three rows! Where oh where had I seen such a thing? And why was I picturing tiny figures with fierce faces?
All of a sudden it came to me, and I leapt to my feet with a cry of triumph. I crossed the bedroom at a run, hauled the door open and ran downstairs at top speed. On the next floor I burst into my study, where I almost ran into the desk in my haste. Off-balance, I skirted the desk and fetched up at the rear wall, where the paintings were hanging. I had no interest in the country scene, and instead turned to the one depicting the Battle of Trafalgar. I leaned closer to study the ships, paying particular attention to the three rows of guns. My excitement grew as I saw the round black muzzles protruding from the square gunports like… dots! And many of the gunports were closed, which would never happen in a true sea battle.
Certain I had it now, I lifted the painting off the wall, tucked it under my arm and ran for my bedroom.
– — Ω — –
I laid the painting on my bed and fetched the locked box, sitting down and placing the heavy metal case in my lap. My fingers shook as I copied the pattern of open gun ports, sliding this button up, that button down, and pressing them in to match the arrangement in the painting. Once finished, I held my breath and waited for the lock to activate. Nothing happened, so I turned the case on its side and tried to pry the lid open, without success.
I glanced at my watch and swallowed. It was a quarter to nine, and I had to leave immediately if I was to make my appointment with the scar-faced man. On the other hand, I suspected the drawing in my pocket might not be enough to satisfy him. If I could only persuade the obstinate case to yield its secrets!
I felt a rising panic as I realised the painting might be a red herring, for I had wasted what little time remained trying to open the case. But I was reluctant to let it go, for I was convinced I'd hit upon the solution. Had I made an error copying the pattern? No, I double-checked the buttons, and their positions were a perfect match for the open gun ports in the painting.
I placed the locked case on the bed, set the painting beside it and stood up. For now, I would cover both with the counterpane, and would return them to my study after my meeting with the scar-faced man. Assuming I survived the meeting, that was. To improve my chances I decided I would steal one of the smaller cubes from the sitting room as I left the house. Someone might see me taking it, and even if they did not the cube would likely be missed, but I had no other option.
I moved to the foot of the bed and bent to take hold of the counterpane, and as I straightened I glanced at the painting and the case lying beside it. From my position the painting was now upside-down, and the pattern on the case was a mirror image in the horizontal plane. Quickly, I glanced over my shoulder, towards the small shaving mirror affixed to the wall. Could that be the answer? Requiring that the pattern be reversed… now that would put almost anyone off the scent!
By this time I knew I would have to run all the way to the Crown and Feather, but I simply had to try that case again. So, I detached the mirror from the wall and carried it to the bed, where I held it in such a way it reflected the hulls of the two ships. Then I copied the new pattern to the buttons on the case.
My finger was trembling as I pressed in the final button, but to my relief my efforts were rewarded with a solid chack! The lid popped open half an inch, and I set the mirror aside and eagerly opened the case the rest of the way, scarcely able to believe I had cracked the code. Inside was a polished wooden box, taking up almost all the available space, and I groaned at the sight. If this too was sealed with a mysterious lock, I swore I would hurl it at the wall until I succeeded in smashing it open!
But no, there was a simple latch which opened easily, and when I lifted the lid I discovered a shape wrapped in velvet, about two hand-spans in size. Beside it was a leather tobacco pouch, which rattled when I picked it up. It was heavy, and at first I believed it to contain coins, but when I opened it I discovered it was full of ammunition. Two dozen brass cartridges at least, with dull lead bullets peeping out of the ends.
Now I noticed the smell of machine oil, and I was not entirely surprised when I unwrapped the large shape to discover a revolver. It was a wicked-looking thing with a short barrel, the wooden grip worn smooth with use. I took it from the velvet cloth, holding it gingerly at first, for I was not in the least accustomed to firearms. But my confidence grew as I felt the weight of the weapon in my hand, and I had no trouble picturing the scar-faced man cringing before me as I threatened to shoot him.
Unfortunately, that was little more than a fantasy. I could threaten the man as much as I liked, but it was all to nothing unless I was prepared to carry out my threat. I could not shoot a man in cold blood, and even if I convinced myself it was for my own defence, the other members of the scar-faced man's organisation would immediately know who the culprit was. I would be powerless to stop any reprisals against my parents and myself.
I was about to replace the gun and close the lid when I decided instead to take the weapon with me. If the meeting turned sour I would point it at the scar-faced man to scare him away. Then I would travel home, to my family, using the first available method of transport. If rogues arrived to harm my parents, well, in that case I was certain I would be able to use the gun.
Satisfied, I tucked the heavy revolver into my pocket, and then I added the tobacco pouch with the cartridges, for there would be no time to return for them if I were forced to flee.
It was now five minutes to nine, and I closed the case and hurriedly threw the coverlet over it. Then I doused the gaslight and left my room, the heavy pistol swaying and bumping against my hip with every step.
Chapter 25
The night was clear with no trace of fog, which was to my advantage given the haste with which I had to navigate the poorly-lit streets. I had encountered the professor on my way out of the house, which had not only delayed me a minute or two, but had also made it impossible for me to snatch one of the metal cubes from the sitting room. Before that, I had also returned Roberta's drawings to her room, replacing them more-or-less as I had found them. Which is to say, crumpled and tangled amongst the many items on her workbench.
Now, not only would I be late, but I also had nothing to offer the scar-faced man aside from my hastily-drawn fake of a diagram. I realised it had been the height of foolishness to think my plan might work, and I now feared the ruthless villain would take one look at my amateur scribblings before knifing me on the spot.
The closer I drew to the Crown and Feather, the greater my desire to turn and run in the opposite direction. The revolver was a deadweight in my pocket, thumping painfully against my hip, and my intention to threaten a hardened criminal with the weapon now seemed like complete madness. Why, he could probably tell it was not loaded at a glance!
As I turned into the high street I heard a hubbub of noise from the alehouse, which was even busier than it had been during my last visit. Crowds spilled onto the street, and I could see two men engaging in a bare-knuckle fight, much to the delight of the drunken revellers. The punch-drunk adversaries were goaded by the crowd in turn, and I had no doubt wagers had been placed. Then I stopped, for two constables in distinctive blue uniforms were watching the fight from the opposite side of the street. They did nothing to intervene, and indeed, from the way they were driving at the air with their fists, mimicking the boxers' moves, I guessed they were as invested in the outcome as most of the crowd appeared to be.
I realised I may have acted suspiciously by stopping dead in the street, and I resumed progress towards the alehouse. Skirting the shouting, heaving crowd, I made the entrance and recoiled at the stench of sweat and stale beer that met me. There was a large crowd inside, filling the tables and lining the walls two deep, and my heart hammered as I stood there surveying the scene. Had the scar-faced man already seen me? Was he approaching me from behind at that very moment? I turned on the spot, but none of the people milling around had the man's terribly disfigured face. I felt out of place, and there was nowhere I could sit nor stand that would make me any less so.
Then, without warning, I felt a hand gripping my elbow. "Do not look round," hissed a low voice. "Pass me what you have, and quickly now."
