A Riddle in Bronze

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,