"I had business with his lordship," said the professor loftily. "At its conclusion, my staff and I immediately left the premises." Here, he tapped the newspaper. "Had I known your men neglected to find a pair of victims lying quite dead in the cellar, I would have chosen to meet Lord Snetton at his club instead."
I felt the professor was taking things a little far, for he was goading the policeman mercilessly. On the other hand, his were not the words of a guilty party, and I was certain the professor knew that. But would Cox think the professor already knew that, and therefore conclude that the professor might be guilty just because he appeared not to be? And would the professor, knowing this… But by now I'd tied my mind in knots with negative and double-negative, knowing and not knowing, and I decided there was no simple answer to the question. I only hoped that the professor was not going to give the police reason to look into his affairs, for I certainly did not want them looking into mine.
It was at that moment that I remembered the revolver. The night before, I had been so distracted by Roberta's plight at the hands of that rotter, Charles, that I had quite forgotten to return the pistol and cartridges to their proper place. What if the police insisted on searching my room, and found the gun sitting in my coat pocket? My stomach sank at the thought. It was not illegal to own such a weapon, but I, as a bookkeeper, was not the sort of person who would do so. The weapon might lead to suspicion and awkward questions, and perhaps a journey to the police station for an unpleasant interview at the hands of the sergeant.
I noticed Parkes regarding me from his position across the room. I looked away quickly, but out of the corner of my eye I saw him writing something into his notebook.
Meanwhile, Inspector Cox was addressing the professor. "Sir, those bodies were not present when my men searched the house," he said quietly, and without emotion. Nothing seemed to trouble the inspector, who invariably spoke softly and patiently.
"You cannot think I carried the poor wretches there myself?" protested the professor, who lacked patience at the best of times, and needed only the hint of an excuse to raise his voice. "Why, I took the omnibus! D'you think I had a body under each arm? Eh? Is that it?"
"Of course not, sir. But a carriage was observed at your door last night."
"You spy on me?" demanded the professor, half-raising from his chair.
"We have men in the area."
"I'll have you know that carriage belonged to my daughter's young man! Not that it's any of your business, but Charles is the son of a wealthy family, and he was taking her to the theatre." Not content with that, he proceeded to name the family, and I saw a flicker of surprise in Cox's expression. "Yes, that family," crowed the professor. "D'you think they used a coach and four to distribute murder victims around the city?" He stabbed his finger on the newspaper. "Why, perhaps they used it to make off with these stolen building materials! I'm certain they could attach a half-dozen oaken beams to the roof of their fancy carriage, given enough rope."
Cox sat unmoved throughout the professor's onslaught, and when the older man ran out of wild claims he resumed his questioning as though nothing had been said. "A local washerwoman has been interviewed, and she revealed that a young man seemed uncommonly interested in the Snetton household. From the description, that young man appeared to be your Mr Jones." Here, Inspector Cox turned his attention on me for the first time, fastening me with a level gaze that I found distinctly unnerving. "Do you have any comment, sir?"
"I wanted to know if Lord Snetton was home," I replied.
"And this meagre fact was worth a handful of coins?"
"The woman had several children with her. Two of them had no shoes, and I felt sympathy towards their plight."
"Oho!" said the professor. "Do not admit to caring for others, Mr Jones, for the policemen here will find reason to arrest you for such aberrant behaviour! If, that is, they're not out botching murder investigations."
I wished heartily that the professor would cease his interjections, for I felt they would not end well for either of us.
Meanwhile, Cox switched tack without warning. "Are you familiar with the Crown and Feather, sir?"
The professor glanced at me, but I avoided meeting his eye. "I have taken ale there on occasion."
"Last night being one of them?"
"I may have happened by." I made a show of dredging my memory. "Yes, I did visit last night. There was a large crowd spilling into the street."
"Around what time was this, sir?"
"Some time between eight and ten," I said, deliberately widening the hour to avoid pinpointing the precise time of my visit.
"Did you observe a fight in the street?"
"You could ask your policemen about that, for I saw two of them stationed across the road."
Cox and the sergeant exchanged a glance, and I wondered whether the police in question had revealed their presence to their superiors. Or perhaps the Inspector already knew the precise time his policemen had been there, in which case I had been too clever by half.
"What's this all about?" demanded the professor suddenly. "Is there a law against drinking in alehouses now?"
"Last night, at the Crown and Feather, a patron was stabbed and left to die before several dozen witnesses."
"My goodness," said the professor, in mock surprise. "A murder in London? How is such a thing possible when the police are here to protect us?"
"Mr Jones," said Cox, ignoring the professor. "Did you witness anything unusual?"
"Inspector, there were a hundred people or more crammed into that alehouse last night," I protested. "One could barely move in the crush, and I would not have noticed if Queen Victoria herself put in an
