So, I was forced to sit and fret while the inspector went to organise the sergeant and the professor went upstairs to warn Roberta. Within moments I heard a rumble of heavy boots, and then policeman after policeman tramped along the professor's hallway on their way to the rest of the house. One was sent into the dining room, and after directing a curious look in my direction, he busied himself inspecting every nook and cranny in the room. Halfway through this process the sergeant looked in, checking on the constable's progress before departing to oversee the search in other parts of the house. Then, worried though I was about the revolver, I realised the professor had bigger concerns than I. How would he explain the rows of metal cylinders in his study, and the mysterious cubes in the sitting room? What about the spirit traps, and the glasses with the mismatched lenses? The police inspector was not a fool, and would recognise them as tools and containers, not the decorative trinkets the professor claimed them to be.
But even were he armed with this knowledge, what could the inspector deduce from it? Why, he would think the professor some kind of madcap inventor with a machine shop in the cellar and bats in the belfry! The British Isles were packed with such people, each striving to invent newer and ever-more-elaborate marvels, from cheaper methods of picture photography to sturdier bicycles, from electric telegraphs to steam-powered vehicles which could travel on the roads themselves. To whit, a man or woman with a thirst for knowledge and the skills to make their mad inventions a reality!
I did not think the inspector would hit upon the truth, not in a million million years.
The constable finished his search of the room, and for a moment I thought he was going to search me. However, it did not occur to him, and he left to make a report to his superiors.
At that moment the professor arrived in the dining room with a somewhat dishevelled Roberta in tow. She gave me a brief smile, then sank into a seat, folded her arms on the table and rested her head. "Poor dear," murmured the professor. "I was forced to wake her from deep slumber."
"How goes the search?" I asked him.
The professor snorted. "These men should be out catching real criminals, not disturbing the lives of law-abiding citizens."
"Are they being particularly thorough, do you think?"
At that, he gave me a curious look. "Why? Do you have something you don't wish them to find? Salacious sketches, perhaps, or exuberant letters from a young woman?"
The truth was far worse, and so I refrained from answering.
"I should like to ask Mrs Fairacre for a pot of tea," mused the professor. "Do you think the police will permit it, or would they beat me back with their truncheons?"
"Father, do stop needling the police," said Roberta, her voice muffled. "In fact, please stop speaking altogether, for you are making my headache worse."
"Yes dear."
At that moment the sergeant looked in. "Who uses the study on the third floor?"
The professor turned to me, and even Roberta raised her head from her arms to give me a curious look. "Er, that's mine," I said. I was puzzled, for there was nothing unusual in that office. After all, I had searched it myself just the night before!
"Would you come with me, sir?" asked the sergeant.
"Now wait just a minute," said the professor. "What's this all about?"
"I'm askin' the young gentleman, sir." The sergeant turned to me. "Quickly, son. I got men waiting."
From his expression, it was not a request to be denied, so I got up and followed him from the room. Outside, he got me to lead the way, and as I climbed the stairs I heard his heavy tread behind me. Oddly, I was not feeling the slightest bit nervous for my only concern was the pistol, and that was in my bedroom.
When I reached the study I found two constables inside, one of them crouched behind the desk. He was jiggling the lower drawer, which rattled to his touch but refused to open. "Would you mind, sir?" said the sergeant, motioning me forward.
I complied, and the constable moved aside to give me room. It took but a moment to operate the trick handle, and then I opened the drawer to reveal the metal box within. "Do you want me to lift it out?" I asked the men.
The sergeant shook his head. "Step back, sir, if you don't mind."
I obeyed, and watched as they took the box from the drawer and placed it on the desk amidst the ledgers and paperwork. I had not troubled to lock it the night before, and so the sergeant had no trouble opening the lid. I hid a smile, for I imagined his disappointment at the empty interior. I would have bet a pound to a penny that he expected to find some clue that would link me to the murders.
So, imagine my surprise when the sergeant reached into the box and carefully took out a long, bloodstained dagger.
Chapter 28
I stared at the bloodied dagger in horror, for I recognised it immediately. It was the knife Sykes had used to stab the poor unfortunate in the tavern. But for it to appear right here in my desk… why, that meant Sykes or one of his cronies had been skulking around the professor's house in the dead of night!
At that moment I had other concerns than Sykes though, for two constables promptly took hold of me, twisting my arms painfully behind my back so that I could not move so much as a muscle. Then Sergeant Parkes addressed another of his men. "Find the inspector and get him here quick."
"Yessir!"
The constable departed, his boots rattling the floorboards. Meanwhile I was still eyeing the murder weapon clutched in the sergeant's meaty hand. How the devil had it arrived in my office?
