A Riddle in Bronze, page 9
"Thank you, Mrs Fairacre."
"Will you be wanting supper?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
"I'll serve something directly."
Mrs Fairacre bustled off, and Roberta asked me to follow her with my haversack. We took the stairs to the first floor, where she opened a door leading to a large, untidy bedroom. The furnishings were similar to those in my room at the top of the house, apart from a large workbench situated along one wall. This was crammed with small hand-tools, odds and ends of metal and many items of half-built equipment. Roberta carried her bag inside, placing it against one leg of the workbench, while I hesitated in the doorway with my own. I watched as she took the trap from her bag and freed the cylinder inside, depositing it on a small metal tripod above a Bunsen burner. Then she glanced at me. "Come in, Mr Jones, and bring that bag with you. I have work to do and very little time to complete it."
I remembered the damaged netting and the tripods which had been bent almost double at Lady Snetton's. "Can I help in any way?" I asked, as I put the haversack beside hers.
"No, this will require a certain amount of skill." She took a seat at the workbench and cleared the space in front of her. Then she removed the ripped netting from the bag, laid it on the workbench and reached for a spool of wire. "Would you send the maid up when supper is served?"
"Yes, of course." I took the hint and left the room, closing the door behind myself. I decided to change my coat, for the one I was wearing had endured much ill-treatment throughout the day and was sorely in need of a good brushing. It was still my intention to visit the Crown and Feather that evening, and I did not wish to appear as a chimney sweep's assistant.
While changing my coat I discovered the pages I'd removed from the journal earlier. I looked around my room, but there was no fire in which to dispose of them, and I didn't want to leave them lying around for the servants to find. So, I tucked them into my pocket and resolved to dispose of them at the earliest opportunity.
– — Ω — –
When I came down for supper I discovered to my surprise that the professor was also present. He was seated at the table with a plate of cold ham, sliced boiled eggs and fresh buttered bread before him, and he looked little the worse for wear. Mrs Fairacre had laid on quite a spread, and Roberta was at the sideboard behind her father, transferring food to her own plate.
"Well, my boy?" said the professor, in his reedy voice. "How was your day?"
"Very interesting, sir. Miss Twickham and I paid a visit to Lady Snetton's residence, where we successfully captured a wayward spirit."
All too late, I saw Roberta gesturing at me wildly from behind her father, and as I caught sight of the professor's changing expression I realised I'd erred most grievously. His genial air of bonhomie vanished, and he pushed back his chair and leapt up, turning to confront his daughter. "You took our bookkeeper on a cleansing?" he roared. "Have you quite lost your mind?"
"You were hardly in a position to help," said Roberta mildly. She seemed unperturbed by her father's rage, and it dawned on me that these angry clashes of theirs must be frequent occurrences.
"Taking an untrained amateur along is the height of stupidity," shouted the professor. "You should have postponed until the morrow!"
"Everything proceeded to plan, father. And in addition, Lady Snetton agreed to pay us ten pounds."
"I don't care what…" The professor's voice tailed off, and I saw a gleam in his eye. "Wait. Did you say she agreed to ten pounds?"
"Indeed."
"I see." The professor glanced at me. "And what is your opinion? Did things go as smoothly as my daughter claims?"
I recalled the torn netting, the bent stands, and the clammy feel of the spirit as it fastened itself to my spine. Those, and the severe tremors which had shaken Lady Snetton's house to its very foundations. "Er, very smoothly indeed sir. No trouble at all."
"Ah-hmm."
The wind had completely gone out of the professor's sails, whether at the mention of money, or due to the lingering after-effects of the brandy. He gave his daughter a stern look, then retook his seat and transferred his attention to a thick slice of ham, carving a bite-sized piece before gazing upon me once more. "You seem remarkably sanguine under the circumstances. Many would have run for the hills at the very mention of wild phantasms and vengeful spirits, never mind witnessing them with their own eyes."
"I did what I had to, sir."
"Stout fellow," he said, with a nod.
Roberta gave me a grateful smile as she took her seat at the table. I left the pair of them to fill my own plate with eggs and ham, for I had not eaten for some hours and was feeling the lack of food. In addition, I still had an errand to run that night, and I did not know how late I would be back. "An acquaintance of mine mentioned a tavern in the area," I said casually. "Would either of you know of the Crown and Feather?"
Roberta shook her head, but the professor glanced up. "A low establishment indeed," he said, eyeing me in concern. "I would avoid the place if you know what's good for you, since it's plagued with cut-purses and burglars and women of ill repute. In fact, I'm surprised you admit to the acquaintance of any who might be likely to frequent such an establishment."
"It was mentioned to me in passing," I said hurriedly, fearing he might believe I was seeking female companionship of that kind… and that I was crass enough to ask my hosts at their own dinner table where I might find such an establishment. "I was merely curious as to the location."
"Curiosity is a noble virtue," said the professor loftily, "but one must be careful to channel the pursuit of knowledge into worthwhile areas."
Roberta snorted at this. "Father, you speak as though you've never once visited a tavern. Mr Jones is not a child of ten, and we have no call on his time of an evening. Why, for all you know he is betrothed to an innkeeper's daughter!"
"I assure you I am not betrothed to anyone," I said quickly. Rather too quickly, I fear, for both father and daughter looked at me in some amusement. I ignored their questioning looks and concentrated on my plate, and thankfully they were too polite to press me further. It was true that I was not betrothed, but my parents had hoped to make a match for me with the daughter of a local textile merchant. This merchant was moderately wealthy, as I well knew, having worked part-time keeping his books, and his daughter was a pleasant, kindly girl. Unfortunately, she was also as dull as ditchwater, and only by fleeing to London had I avoided my parents' non-stop entreaties to 'settle down'. Instead, my mother wrote me weekly letters asking whether I'd met anyone suitable.
Roberta finished her meal, and stood. "I must go to my room, for there is lots to accomplish before the morning. Goodnight father, and I trust you sleep well. Goodnight, Mr Jones."
We both stood as she left the room, then resumed our seats. There was silence as we finished our own repasts, and then the professor laid down his knife and fork before clearing his throat. "Would you like a little port?" he asked me.
I was conscious of the time, but it would have been rude to refuse. Also, I could hardly leave the house while the professor was seated within earshot of the front door, and I did not know the layout well enough to seek the rear entrance. "Thank you, sir. That would be most welcome."
The professor fetched a decanter and a pair of glasses, and poured us each a generous measure. "You must have questions aplenty," he said quietly. "In your position, I know I would."
"Roberta explained a little," I said, "but she was reluctant to give away your secrets."
He nodded his approval and took a sip of port. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to know?"
A dozen questions sprang to mind, all clamouring to be asked. The professor's background, the odd machinery he and Roberta had designed, the very existence of spirits and phantasms… those and many more. But there was one question which I'd been asking myself for some time, and this was my opportunity to seek an answer. "Sir, given that these spirits really do exist… why is there no mention of them in the newspapers? Why aren't ordinary people demanding the government do something to protect them?"
"Or, in other words," said the professor, taking another sip of port, "why is there no hue and cry? No clamour?"
"Precisely!"
"To understand that, you must first understand the very nature of humanity. Only a decade ago, in a farming village in Essex, an elderly man was accused of witchcraft, beaten by the locals and thrown into a river. It takes very little to rile up a mob, even in these enlightened times, and once they're baying for blood there's no stopping them. You can understand, therefore, a certain reluctance to admitting the ghost of an ancestor is inhabiting your parlour."
I took his point.
"The nobility do not want to be forsaken by their peers, if you'll excuse the pun, and as for the poor… well, they're too busy trying to eke out a meagre existence." The professor gestured with his glass. "The newspapers have enough to report on, what with murders and wars and the like, and stories of ghosts and hauntings are barely mentioned in passing, if at all. No, believe you me, the subject is usually confined to stories and serials and the like, where it serves to amuse those of dull wits and feeble minds."
I had no rejoinder to the professor's observations, and I watched idly as he drained his glass. Then he stood, and declared his intention to retire for the night. "Sleep well, Mr Jones, for I'm certain we will have need of your services tomorrow!"
"I'll be ready, sir."
The professor hesitated, then dug in his pocket and withdrew a key. "This is for the front door," he said, with a roguish wink. "We don't want you waking the entire household when you return from your dalliances, do we?"
"Er… no sir. But I have no intention of…"
"Oh no, of course you don't." He approached, placed the key in my hand, and clasped my shoulder. "We all have needs, my boy. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"Sir, I assure you—"
"You'll find the Crown and Feather a few hundred yards down the high street, on the left. Just be sure not to bring company back to my house, eh? Keep such things where they belong."
"Professor, I was merely asking as to the whereabouts of the tavern. I have no intention of—"
"Of course you don't. Of course. And if I were a younger man I'd come with you." The professor gave me another knowing wink and left the dining room, swaying slightly as he negotiated the doorway.
Then I was alone, writhing with embarrassment after the excruciating conversation. My embarrassment grew further still as I imagined the professor telling Roberta I was going to the tavern to sow my wild oats, and I prayed he would keep his erroneous conclusions to himself.
I pushed the key into my pocket, and my fingers encountered the note I'd been carrying around for most of the day. For a brief moment I wondered whether to ignore it, since the others could not think me capable of immoral behaviour if I did not visit the tavern in the first place. In addition, the professor and Roberta had welcomed me into their home, answering my questions and dealing with me fairly. What possible benefit could arise from meeting this mysterious stranger? What could he tell me that would alter my view of the Twickhams?
I took the note out and inspected the handwriting. It was neatly lettered, the work of an educated man, but it was the curious symbol beneath that drew my attention. Those interlocking triangles were drawn where the signature might be, and they intrigued me enough to make up my mind.
I would find the tavern, speak with this stranger, and discover what he had to say. After all, I had nothing to lose.
Chapter 13
After locking the front door behind myself I took the short path to the street, narrowly avoiding the low-hanging branch in the front garden. It was truly dark now, and the fog was thicker than ever. I realised I should have brought a lantern with me, but fortunately the occasional streetlight cast a dull gleam through the fog, and it was enough to find my way.
Soon after, I was wishing for not only a lantern but also a pistol. I'd noticed three shapeless figures dogging my footsteps, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen, and generally acting like a group of thieves about to set upon my person. It didn't help that I carried little in the way of valuables or money, because they would likely be so upset at the lack of loot as to cut my throat without a second thought. A florin or two in my pocketbook wouldn't save me, and I shuddered as I pictured my lifeless body tumbling into the Thames, to be found the next day by a scavenger or a boatman. If anything, I was more scared in that moment than I had been at Lady Snetton's house, when I'd been standing still and waiting for the spirit to attack me.
I was tempted to stop, to see whether the men continued past me, but if they were bent on mischief that would only bring matters to a head even sooner. Instead, I increased my pace, despite the darkness, and so it was that I happened to slip on a patch of mud and end up flat on my back in the road. Winded, I drew in lungfuls of breath and stared helplessly at the yellow fog swirling overhead. Then three faces appeared, looking down at me. They were rough sorts with whiskers and soot-streaked cheeks, and I braced myself for the attack.
"'Ere, mister. Give us your 'and."
Dazed, it took me a moment to process the request, and then, cautiously, I extended one hand towards the newcomers. One of them took my wrist in a firm grip and hauled me to my feet, while the others brushed me down vigorously with their bare hands, removing the worst of the mud.
"You want ter be careful out 'ere, mate. Pitch dark an' 'orse shit everywhere."
The others nodded in agreement, and I gazed at them in surprise. Far from attacking me, they seemed eager to help. Even so, a small part of me still feared a confrontation, and I decided to be as generous as I could. "Thank you all, kind sirs," I said, reaching for my pocketbook. "Would you please accept a small token of my gratitude?"
"Nah, that's orl right, mister. You walk more carefully, you 'ear?"
The men melted away before my fingers located my wallet, and as I fished inside my empty coat I realised why. During the vigorous brushing-down, they'd relieved me of it with expert precision. I examined the area where I'd fallen, just in case, but was not surprised to find sign of neither wallet nor money.
I checked my other pockets and discovered the pages from the journal and the note inviting me to the tavern had disappeared also. In the darkness the men probably mistook them for five pound notes, and on that troubling thought I left the area in some haste. For, when the footpads discovered they held worthless paper instead of a fortune in currency, they might return with a lot less of their good-natured cheer.
As I approached the high street I passed an alleyway, and here I saw a sheet of paper flapping gently in the wind. It had been discarded, and was now half-glued to the damp, muddy road. I took it up, and in the dull gleam from a nearby streetlamp I discovered it was a single page from the journal. I cast around further, and soon located the somewhat crumpled note from the mysterious stranger.
Of the other pages, and the robbers, there was no sign at all.
Having folded the tattered pages, I tucked them away and crossed the high street, avoiding a lumbering horse and cart. There were many more pedestrians here, and I relaxed a little as I sought the tavern. It was not hard to find, despite the fog, as the rowdy patrons were singing a bawdy song which carried the length of the main road. As I got closer I saw light spilling from the crowded interior, with a dozen or more drunkards lying in the street outside. There were urchins with filthy faces amongst them, one of whom ran up as I approached.
"Spare a few coppers for a tot, sir? It's a cold night, it is."
"I'm sorry, but I've just been robbed," I said gently.
"Stingy bleedin' toff," muttered the boy, and he ran back to join the others. He made a comment, gesturing in my direction, and the rest jeered at me with their high-pitched voices.
I entered the tavern, where I was met by a blast of warm air and noise from the crowd. The place was packed, and there was barely room to move. Somehow, serving girls managed to push their way through the patrons with trays full of tankards, and when one of them passed me on her way to the bar at the rear of the establishment, I followed in her wake.
On the way I kept an eye out for the stranger I was supposed to meet. Most in the tavern were clearly workers of one sort or another, and I must have stood out like a gold buckle on a cart horse in my relatively fancy attire. I attracted some attention, along with the occasional comment, but luckily most were deep in conversation and ignored me. I was hoping to find someone dressed in a similar fashion, so that I might introduce myself, but when I reached the bar and turned back to the entrance, I found I was looking across a sea of muddy brown. That's when it occurred to me that my contact might have been smart enough to wear something similar to these labourers, and I cursed my stupidity. Had I been similarly dressed, I probably wouldn't have lost my pocketbook to the thieves.
I needn't have worried about identifying the man I'd come to meet, for at that moment a strong hand gripped my elbow.
"Septimus Jones, I'm guessing," said a low voice in my ear, easily heard despite the rowdy tavern. "Why don't you come along where it's nice and quiet?"
– — Ω — –
I turned to look at the man standing beside me, and recoiled in shock. He was about my height, which was unusual, and he wore a rough working-man's outfit with a battered old cap, the peak pulled down to his eyebrows. It was his face that gave me pause, though, for it was heavily scarred, with a faded red line running from temple to chin, the lower portion barely covered by a growth of whiskers. The man's nose was misshapen, as though it had been broken and reset on several occasions, but all of this was trumped by his eyes. These were as stark grey as fresh-hewn flint, and they gleamed with an intensity that had me wishing I'd never left the professor's house. "What is your name, sir?" I asked, and I hoped he hadn't noticed the slight quaver in my voice. "What do you want with me?"
