He mumbled something inaudible, struggling to sit up. Roberta helped him, and the professor leaned back against the broken shelves, running a hand over his face before slowly surveying the wreckage of his study. Then he looked at me. "Did it work?" he asked. "Did you drive it into the receptacle?"
I guessed he meant the cylinder. "Yes sir. And once inside, I sealed the end with wax."
"Good work, my lad."
"Father, what were you doing?" asked Roberta, with an edge to her voice. "Do not tell me you released a phantasm inside our own home!"
The professor was silent.
"I can scarcely believe your idiocy!" growled Roberta. She turned the professor's head, inspecting his face for wounds, then ran her hands quickly over his arms and legs. From the winces on her father's face, I guessed this inspection was none too gentle. "Are you hurt?" she demanded. "Have you broken any bones?"
"I am a little bruised and battered," admitted the professor. "But thanks to the quick-thinking Mr Jones, I suffered no long-lasting effects."
"Aside from rattling your defective brain," muttered Roberta, but there was a certain kindness behind the insult. "And just look at the state of your things!"
The professor eyed the wreckage strewn all about him. "Nothing broken that can't be repaired," he remarked. Then he looked up at her hopefully. "Roberta, dearest, I believe I could take a little fortification. Just for the nerves, you understand."
His daughter's eyes narrowed. "Brandy? But we're due at Lord Snetton's!"
"Just a sip or two. It will clear my head."
He looked at her so beseechingly that I, in her place, would have run for the bottle immediately. Roberta, however, was made of sterner stuff. Instead of trotting off to do her father's bidding, she merely raised her voice to a cattle-drover's shout. "Mrs Fairacre, do you hear me? Brandy for the professor, if you please!"
Less than ten seconds passed before the good housekeeper appeared in the doorway, silver tray in hand. She'd arrived with no discernible sound, as was her way, but I did hear breaking glass underfoot as she crossed the office to the professor. Here, she offered him the tray, upon which stood a single glass containing half an inch of amber fluid.
The professor took the glass, eyed the diminutive dose with disfavour, then downed it in a single gulp. "Mrs Fairacre, that miniscule droplet achieved nothing at all."
The housekeeper placed the empty glass on her tray, sniffed loudly at the mess, and departed before the professor could ask for more brandy.
"Oh well, I suppose it will have to do," said the professor, struggling to his feet. There was a tinkle of glass as fragments fell from his clothes. "Time flies, and we must be away."
"You cannot possibly attend Lord Snetton's in that state!" protested Roberta.
"It was barely a mouthful!"
"I meant your appearance, father. You look like the worst kind of tramp."
She spoke truly, for the professor's hair was awry, his clothes were crumpled and stained with fluids from the cabinet, and a substantial dusting of glass and wood fragments were distributed about his person.
"If you give me but a few minutes—" began the professor.
I glanced at a nearby clock. It had just gone thirty past three, and I guessed it would be well after four by the time the professor was ready. Allowing for time at the Snetton's, it would be late evening before we could hope to return.
Roberta, however, seemed unconcerned, and she ordered him about like a mother with a dishevelled child. "Very well. Change your things, tidy your hair, and we will depart the instant you are ready."
The professor left, still shedding stray fragments, and then Roberta turned to me. "While he prepares himself, you and I will put his study in order."
I surveyed the wreckage, and it occurred to me that a carpenter and a glazier would be more suited to the job. Still, Roberta and I did our best, and within ten minutes we'd righted the shelves, replaced most of the contents and swept up the broken glass. I collected the scattered bronze cylinders, and as I did so I noted the writing on the labels, much of it faded and hard to read. There were names and dates, and I realised the professor's capturing days had spanned a decade or more. Indeed, one of the oldest cylinders, labelled 'C. Dickens', was dated December 1841, some thirty years earlier.
"Ah yes," said Roberta, as she saw me inspecting the faint handwriting. "Father calls that one the spirit of Christmas past."
I was still staring at the name. "Is this—"
"Indeed. Father claims to have caught that particular phantasm in the great man's study, but he's been known to embellish a tale."
I handled the cylinder with reverence, placing it on a varnished wooden rack with a dozen others. Was it possible the spirit trapped within had been the inspiration for the author's famous tale? A shiver ran up my spine at the thought. Imagine if that phantasm were now freed after so many years. Imagine the fury, the chaos, the destruction wreaked upon man, beast and property alike!
"Do not fret, Septimus," said Roberta. "The spirits within these capsules are secure, and cannot escape."
"Unless your father decides to release them, so that he might practice his swordplay."
She glanced towards the weapon, which now lay on the professor's desk. "He can be impetuous at times," she admitted, "but you must admit, it was wise of him to test the new device on a weaker spirit. After all, it is likely we shall face a more powerful adversary at the Snetton residence, and if the weapon did not work here, in the safety of his study, then what use would it be against a deadlier foe?"
I shuddered as I recalled the distorted, terrifying visage of the phantom I'd barely succeeded in
