My blood ran cold at the menace contained in that voice, and I reached into my coat and withdrew the folded plans I'd drawn earlier. Taking them out, I held them over my shoulder, where I felt the parchment snatched from my fingers.
"What do you call this?" hissed the voice.
"I—it's all I could secure in the time available to me!" I stammered. Even there, amongst the heaving crowds, I feared the savage thrust of a knife in my back. "I swear, I could not lay hands on any more!"
"Gimme your pocketbook, or…"
I waited for the rest of the threat, but instead I felt the grip on my elbow relax. Someone leaned against me, hard, and it was all I could do to maintain my feet. Then the deadweight shifted, and I turned cautiously to see what was happening. Directly behind me was the scar-faced man, one arm around the waist of a man I'd never seen before, supporting him. This second man, with dirty, straw-coloured hair and a rather coarse appearance, was slumped as though asleep, and had it not been for the scar-faced man I was certain he would have fallen to the ground in a dead faint.
The scar-faced man half-carried, half-dragged his companion to a nearby wooden pillar, where he set him down, none too gently. The unconscious man's head slumped, and he almost toppled sideways before coming to rest in a most uncomfortable-looking position. As the scar-faced man bent to arrange the drunk properly, I saw his coat hang open, revealing his clenched right hand. It was gripping a long, bloodied dagger, and with a sick feeling I turned to look at the 'drunk'. He wasn't unconscious… the scar-faced man had just murdered him in the middle of a busy alehouse!
The scar-faced man casually drew his coat together, then twitched my folded parchment from the victim's fingers. He straightened, fixed me with a meaningful look and nodded towards the door.
I stared at him, aghast, and the scar-faced man frowned at me before opening his coat a fraction of an inch to display the handle of his knife. Then he nodded at the exit once more, and this time I obeyed with unseemly haste. If my adversary was capable of killing a man right here, in the midst of a crowded alehouse, there was nowhere I would be safe.
Once outside, I turned to my left and made for the alley. I was physically shaking, for while I had witnessed death before, it had been the peaceful conclusion to a life, either from ill health or old age. Never had I witnessed cold-blooded murder, and the sight of the freshly-killed victim slumped against the pillar would haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.
I felt sick, too, for I suspected I was about to meet a similar fate. At that moment I would gladly have stolen a dozen of the professor's metal cubes, along with every bronze cylinder from his study and the spectacles from his very nose.
Until that moment I'd harboured a faint suspicion that the scar-faced man might be a plant of the professor's. The man could have been part of some elaborate ploy to test my loyalty, to see whether I would give up the secrets I'd promised to keep. Indeed, this suspicion had been on my mind when I copied Roberta's drawings, rather than simply stealing the originals. But now, with murder committed, I realised this was no ploy.
I was still alone in the alley, the scar-faced man not yet having appeared, and as I stood there quivering with fear my fingers closed on the revolver in my pocket. The cartridges and pouch were in the opposite pocket, and in my desperation I was willing to attempt loading the weapon right there in the darkness. But it was too late, for a shadow fell across the alleyway, and I swallowed nervously as the scar-faced man advanced on me.
"Lucky for you I was present," said the man conversationally. "But a moment more, and that thief would have had your wallet."
"D—did you have to k—kill him?"
In return, there was a shrug. "Quieter and more efficient than a brawl. And, unlike Mr Jules Hartlow, there was no need to tip his body into the Thames."
"So you claim that murder also? What sort of devil are you?"
"Not the devil, although some have me a close relative." The scar-faced man bent at the waist, giving me an ironic bow. "William Sykes is the name."
"And no doubt Nancy is tending to your supper at this very moment," I said sarcastically, since Bill Sikes was a famed villain from one of Mr Dickens' novels. Then I remembered to whom I was speaking. "Oh! I—I did not mean—"
Sykes gestured. "A nom-de-plume, obviously, but it will suffice."
"And who am I in your sorry tale?"
"You, Mr Jones? Why, you are my obedient terrier. Now, I have much to do this evening, and I would appreciate a conclusion to our business. What marvels do you bring me from the professor's workshop?"
"You already have them," I said, in a steady voice. "That parchment contains plans for a tremendous device, the likes of which has never been seen before." This was no lie, for I had only just drawn the machine with my own hands.
Sykes unfolded the parchment and tried to discern the contents, but to no avail. In the near-total darkness he might as well have been looking for a black pearl in a coal cellar. "You bring no mechanical devices? No other information?" he demanded, folding the plans once more.
"I am watched all hours of the day, particularly by the housekeeper."
"Is that so?" mused Sykes. "Perhaps I should dispose of the formidable Mrs Fairacre."
I was surprised he knew the housekeeper's name, and thus more details of the professor's life than I realised, but I was shocked far more by his threat of harm. "I will get more!" I said quickly. "I promise you, I'll bring
