Over the past few weeks I'd led my parents to believe that I was working at a small accounting firm, earning a modest wage and living out of decent lodgings. I was careful not to share too many details, lest I be caught in a lie, but even so I found it prudent to keep a diary containing these invented facts and figures. To date I'd fabricated my employment, the quantity and quality of food I was eating, several close friends, details of my daily life and snippets of news and gossip gleaned from the papers.
Now that I did have a job, and lodgings, and new acquaintances — if not yet friends — I realised I would not be able to share any of this with my parents. I would have to continue fabricating details of my life as before, spinning my web of lies in the weekly letters. To simplify things, I decided I would draw up a table, mapping each truth with a matching lie. For example, Roberta would become Robert, a fellow accountant. The professor would become my employer, the head of the firm. Any odd happenings would be explained away as visits from clients, with their pets or wayward children representing the spirits. The traps and other equipment could be referred to in bookkeeping terms. In this fashion I would be able to write to my parents without tripping over myself.
With the tricky matter of keeping my parents abreast of my news now resolved, I felt a lessening of the tension within me. I would not be telling them anything of import, and they in turn would not worry needlessly on my behalf. In addition, I looked forward to fabricating my weekly letters, and I resolved to write to my parents that very evening.
"Why do you smile?"
I opened my eyes, and in the dim, smoky carriage I saw Roberta looking at me. There was a smudge of soot on her cheek, and as I studied her face, and the genuine concern it carried for my well-being, I felt a glow at the very core of my being. "I must write to my parents this evening, and I was imagining their reaction should I reveal the things I've witnessed recently."
She looked thoughtful. "I trust you will not share the truth?"
"You may soothe your concerns in that regard," I declared. "Why, they would take the next train to London, and I would be dragged home by my necktie."
"You must not speak to anyone about our business," said Roberta, with a frown. "The merest whisper might cause ridicule to be heaped on my father, and I would never forgive you for that. Never!"
She kept her voice low, but her tone was fierce. "Roberta, I wouldn't dream of such a thing," I declared, hoping to persuade her with my earnest tone. At that moment I was tempted to tell her about the note tucked into my pocket, but decided against it. There was no harm in meeting this mysterious person at the Crown and Feather that evening, and if they attempted to question me about the professor's business, I would keep my promise to Roberta and say nothing.
Chapter 12
When we emerged from the underground station it was already evening. The occasional streetlight barely lit an area five feet across, leaving sixty feet of near-total darkness in between the lampposts. There was no sign of damage from the tremor, and I wondered whether it had been localised to an area immediately surrounding the Snetton house. This gave me pause, for I did not want to believe that the earthquake and subsequent scenes of chaos had been caused by the spirit Roberta and I had captured.
We managed to find a cab, the riding lights barely enough to illuminate the weary horse in its traces, never mind the pedestrians who darted across the road in front of us. To make things worse, a thick fog had rolled in from the river, and aside from a lack of visibility this also served to muffle the regular noises of the city. Sitting in the open cab, chilled by the cold, it was like being transported through some ghostly tunnel cut through the dirty yellow smog.
As our driver picked his way along the ill-lit roads I saw many pedestrians on either side, some carrying lanterns while others carted goods and belongings. Most were exhausted from a full day's work, but I knew it would be near midnight before the streets were finally still.
We arrived at the Mews without incident, and after paying the driver we carried the haversacks through the wrought iron gates and up the path to the professor's front door. Mrs Fairacre opened it before we got there, somehow forewarned to our presence, and I saw her giving Roberta an enquiring look as we passed into the house.
"I'm happy to report smooth sailing this time," said Roberta, which seemed to satisfy the housekeeper. "Tell me, how is my father?"
Mrs Fairacre sniffed. "Much as you'd expect him to be, after quaffing half a bottle of brandy."
"Surely it was no more than a quarter?"
"It was, until he recovered enough to venture forth from his room. At that point he located the rest, and now he's sleeping off the effects."
"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
