My finger was trembling as I pressed in the final button, but to my relief my efforts were rewarded with a solid chack! The lid popped open half an inch, and I set the mirror aside and eagerly opened the case the rest of the way, scarcely able to believe I had cracked the code. Inside was a polished wooden box, taking up almost all the available space, and I groaned at the sight. If this too was sealed with a mysterious lock, I swore I would hurl it at the wall until I succeeded in smashing it open!
But no, there was a simple latch which opened easily, and when I lifted the lid I discovered a shape wrapped in velvet, about two hand-spans in size. Beside it was a leather tobacco pouch, which rattled when I picked it up. It was heavy, and at first I believed it to contain coins, but when I opened it I discovered it was full of ammunition. Two dozen brass cartridges at least, with dull lead bullets peeping out of the ends.
Now I noticed the smell of machine oil, and I was not entirely surprised when I unwrapped the large shape to discover a revolver. It was a wicked-looking thing with a short barrel, the wooden grip worn smooth with use. I took it from the velvet cloth, holding it gingerly at first, for I was not in the least accustomed to firearms. But my confidence grew as I felt the weight of the weapon in my hand, and I had no trouble picturing the scar-faced man cringing before me as I threatened to shoot him.
Unfortunately, that was little more than a fantasy. I could threaten the man as much as I liked, but it was all to nothing unless I was prepared to carry out my threat. I could not shoot a man in cold blood, and even if I convinced myself it was for my own defence, the other members of the scar-faced man's organisation would immediately know who the culprit was. I would be powerless to stop any reprisals against my parents and myself.
I was about to replace the gun and close the lid when I decided instead to take the weapon with me. If the meeting turned sour I would point it at the scar-faced man to scare him away. Then I would travel home, to my family, using the first available method of transport. If rogues arrived to harm my parents, well, in that case I was certain I would be able to use the gun.
Satisfied, I tucked the heavy revolver into my pocket, and then I added the tobacco pouch with the cartridges, for there would be no time to return for them if I were forced to flee.
It was now five minutes to nine, and I closed the case and hurriedly threw the coverlet over it. Then I doused the gaslight and left my room, the heavy pistol swaying and bumping against my hip with every step.
Chapter 25
The night was clear with no trace of fog, which was to my advantage given the haste with which I had to navigate the poorly-lit streets. I had encountered the professor on my way out of the house, which had not only delayed me a minute or two, but had also made it impossible for me to snatch one of the metal cubes from the sitting room. Before that, I had also returned Roberta's drawings to her room, replacing them more-or-less as I had found them. Which is to say, crumpled and tangled amongst the many items on her workbench.
Now, not only would I be late, but I also had nothing to offer the scar-faced man aside from my hastily-drawn fake of a diagram. I realised it had been the height of foolishness to think my plan might work, and I now feared the ruthless villain would take one look at my amateur scribblings before knifing me on the spot.
The closer I drew to the Crown and Feather, the greater my desire to turn and run in the opposite direction. The revolver was a deadweight in my pocket, thumping painfully against my hip, and my intention to threaten a hardened criminal with the weapon now seemed like complete madness. Why, he could probably tell it was not loaded at a glance!
As I turned into the high street I heard a hubbub of noise from the alehouse, which was even busier than it had been during my last visit. Crowds spilled onto the street, and I could see two men engaging in a bare-knuckle fight, much to the delight of the drunken revellers. The punch-drunk adversaries were goaded by the crowd in turn, and I had no doubt wagers had been placed. Then I stopped, for two constables in distinctive blue uniforms were watching the fight from the opposite side of the street. They did nothing to intervene, and indeed, from the way they were driving at the air with their fists, mimicking the boxers' moves, I guessed they were as invested in the outcome as most of the crowd appeared to be.
I realised I may have acted suspiciously by stopping dead in the street, and I resumed progress towards the alehouse. Skirting the shouting, heaving crowd, I made the entrance and recoiled at the stench of sweat and stale beer that met me. There was a large crowd inside, filling the tables and lining the walls two deep, and my heart hammered as I stood there surveying the scene. Had the scar-faced man already seen me? Was he approaching me from behind at that very moment? I turned on the spot, but none of the people milling around had the man's terribly disfigured face. I felt out of place, and there was nowhere I could sit nor stand that would make me any less so.
Then, without warning, I felt a hand gripping my elbow. "Do not look round," hissed
