"Simpkins," said Parkes, addressing a fourth constable. "Go and close the dining room door. The inspector won't want the professor or his daughter giving us lip when we take this one away."
The constable nodded, and he too ran off on his errand. Then I caught the import of the sergeant's words. "I'm sorry… did you say you were taking me away?"
The sergeant graced me with an unpleasant smile. "Ho yes, my lad. The Inspector will be glad to get you off the streets. Very glad indeed."
"But I haven't done anything!" I protested.
The sergeant snorted. "Hear that, lads? He ain't done nothing!"
The constables gripping my arms laughed, and I felt my world tumbling around me. "But—"
"You'll hang for these murders," said the sergeant conversationally. "Pretty daft, killin' all those applicants so's you'd get the job. Who'd 'ave thought?"
"But they were killed after I was employed!"
"Tell that to the judge, my son. Now button yer lip, or I'll shut your mouth for you."
I would have protested further, but there was a commotion as Inspector Cox arrived with the two other constables. I felt a glimmer of hope, for surely things would now be straightened out? I started to protest my innocence immediately, but Cox motioned me to silence, and the two men holding me increased the pressure on my arms. The inspector walked straight past me to take the dagger from the sergeant, inspecting it closely.
"It's the murder weapon, sir," said the sergeant.
"I can see that, Parkes." Cox handed it back and indicated the metal box. "In there, was it?"
"Yessir."
Unhurriedly, Cox lifted the lid and peered inside. He ran his hand over the lining and inspected his fingertips, then picked the box up and took it to the nearby gaslight to see into the interior more clearly. Then, with a glance at the sergeant, he reached inside and withdrew a folded slip of paper. He shook it one-handed to open it up, the box being under his other arm, and then glanced at both sides. "You read this, I take it?"
"Er—"
Wordlessly, the inspector held the note out to Parkes. "Do so now."
The sergeant took the note and held it at arms length, squinting slightly as he made out the words. "You're next," he intoned. He turned the paper over, then looked at Cox. "You're next? What does it mean, sir?"
"It means you can release Mr Jones, sergeant."
"But we only just caught 'im!"
"You certainly did. Unfortunately for you, this man is not the killer."
Reluctantly, Parkes nodded to his men. "All right, you heard the Inspector. Let go of 'im. And don't stand there gawking, search the rest of the 'ouse!"
The constables released me and left, and after Cox set the box down on my desk, he finally turned his attention to me. "Mr Jones, I believe you have a story to tell. Would you prefer to reveal everything here in your study, or back at the station?"
I realised I had no choice, and my shoulders slumped in defeat. "Very well," I said quietly. "Let us speak."
"Excellent." The inspector gestured at Parkes. "Send someone to fetch me a chair, and afterwards you can take the constables back to the station."
"What about the search, sir?"
"I have what I need."
"And the professor?"
"Ensure you have a man at the dining room door. I want the rest of the family safely where they are for the time being."
"Yes sir."
Moments later a constable returned with a chair, and then the inspector and I were left alone. Cox moved my own chair out from behind the desk, and then indicated I should sit. He faced me, taking out a notebook and a short lead pencil, and after a brief pause gave me an encouraging look. "Mr Jones, I'd like you to tell me everything. Take your time, and please don't leave anything out."
After a moment's hesitation, I began to recount my story.
– — Ω — –
"He gave his name as William Sykes," I began, "although he admitted to me that it was a nom-de-plume. He bears a terrible scar down one side of his face."
"From a blade?" asked the inspector, who was busy taking notes. "Or was it an injury from machinery, perhaps?"
"How would one tell the difference?"
"A blade leaves a clean cut with defined edges. Wounds from machines can be jagged, as the skin is frequently torn from the face."
I winced as I recalled the spinning lathe Roberta had used in the cellar, for I had just pictured her comely features disfigured in the same manner as Sykes' scar. "A machine, I should say."
"Still, it doesn't entirely rule out a military man," murmured Cox, as he wrote down the details. He glanced at me, then explained further. "Explosions can also cause jagged scars. Mortar fire and the like."
Cox was being so genial towards me that I felt completely at ease sharing information with him. A part of me knew his friendly manner was a ploy to make me talk, but after holding so many secrets it was a relief to unburden myself. Because of this, I had already decided to reveal everything. Everything, that was, except for the precise nature of the professor's business. Let the professor explain that, if he cared to, for I would not break my promise.
"How do you know this Sykes is the murderer?" Cox asked me.
I hesitated. If I told the inspector I had witnessed the death, would I get myself into trouble for not reporting it?
"If you were not involved, you have nothing to fear," said Cox, guessing at the reason for my silence.
Quickly, I told him of the events inside the Crown and Feather. When I revealed the manner in which Sykes had left the dead man sitting propped against a wooden column, the inspector betrayed his surprise by whistling quietly. "A ruthless killer, and a bold one," he remarked. "But tell me this. How did you first come to know of Sykes, and why were you meeting?"
I explained about the note I'd received, and when I explained
