I ate my sandwiches in silence, but after the heated conversation the fresh bread, ham and mustard tasted like ashes in my mouth. The beer was refreshing enough, but Roberta's disappointment in me weighed heavily on my mind. "Sir," I began, "to make amends, would you allow me to accompany both you and your daughter to the Snetton residence? Perhaps if I demonstrate my eagerness to help you both…" I left the question hanging.
Slowly, the professor lowered his paper. His eyes met mine, and I could see from his expression that he was not dismissing the idea out of hand. Then, abruptly, he nodded. "Very well. I shall permit it."
The professor returned to his newspaper, and it dawned on me that he'd accepted my suggestion with remarkable speed. As a consequence, rather than my being dragged to the Snetton house by Roberta, protesting all the way about the folly of her investigation, I had willingly offered my services. In effect, I had just volunteered for a rather dangerous task, and on top of that I had promised to do my utmost to aid the professor and his daughter in the capture of a murderous spirit.
All of which gave me pause for thought, for I suspected the pair of them had just manipulated me once more.
I finished my glass of ale, pushing my chair back as I prepared to stand, and the professor cleared his throat. "Three p.m. at the front door, and not a minute later."
"Yes, sir."
"Good man."
– — Ω — –
I left the dining room and strode along the corridor towards the stairs, intending to continue working in my study. I reached the door to the sitting room, which stood open, and on my way past I happened to glance inside. One of the metal cubes was sitting on the side table near the bay window, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight just as it had been on my first day with the professor.
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
