Happy with her praise, I smiled.
"Oh, do not look so pleased with yourself," she said, her expression once more forbidding. "If you had not aided my father in the first place, none of this would have happened. In future, I ask that you consult with me before suggesting changes to the professor's machinery."
"Yes, of course."
"I know you meant well, but witness the result."
I did not point out that she'd helped to connect the generator to the lathe, and had not objected to the idea at that time. I also wondered whether her anger was partially due to the fact that I had solved the professor's energy problem where she had not.
But Roberta had finished chiding me, and we turned our attention to the chaos and disorder which had befallen the cellar. It took us an hour or more to sweep up the debris, straighten the shelves, reassemble parts of the lathe and return every tool and item to its rightful place.
Once we'd finished, Roberta indicated the stairs. "You should attend to your bookkeeping duties while I have words with my father. And if I were you, I'd ensure the door to your study was firmly closed, else you may hear an argument so heated it would put a thunderstorm to shame."
– — Ω — –
I did not even reach my office, for I had no sooner left the cellar than I met Elsie, the maid, on her way back from the front door. Roberta strode by, leaving the two of us alone, and then Elsie offered me a folded slip of paper. "He said to give this to you immediately," she told me.
My head thudded as I took the note. Was it from Sykes? Or was Inspector Cox summoning me to the police station for more questioning? "W—who was it? Who left it?" I asked, staring at the note in my hand. I had not yet opened it, and I was debating whether to throw the thing onto the nearest fire. Perhaps then I could pretend I had never received it.
"Just a boy, sir. He was paid a penny to deliver it, real urgent like."
"Thank you, Elsie."
The maid left for the kitchen, and I stood there alone in the darkened hallway. Then, knowing I was only delaying the inevitable, I unfolded the note and read the contents.
Meet at the Crown and Feather, 3.30 p.m. I have questions.
Below was a symbol with two triangles entwined. Sykes! And what sort of questions did he mean? Did he know I'd spoken with the police?
I guessed it was already mid-afternoon, and when I pulled out my pocket watch I received a nasty surprise. It was a quarter past three, and I knew for certain I could not reach the police station before the allotted time, let alone speak with Cox and inform him of the meeting with Sykes. Not only that, but the meeting would take place in broad daylight, which meant that even if the police could organise themselves in a matter of seconds, which was clearly impossible, there would be no darkness to hide their presence.
By setting the meeting so soon, Sykes had inadvertently avoided Cox's trap. I only hoped he did not know of Cox's plans, or else I would meet a swift and brutal end. Likewise, I would be killed if Sykes knew I'd spoken with the police. Presumably the outcome would be equally fatal if I did not answer Sykes' questions to his satisfaction.
In fact, I was beginning to suspect there was no scenario in which I might survive the meeting.
So, why not go to the police station instead, and trust Cox to send police to search the area around the Crown? Because Sykes would see them coming, that's why, and would almost certainly elude them. And the next time he crept around the professor's house in the dead of night it would be to murder me in my own bed. If he happened to wake Roberta or the servants, he might just kill them also.
I glanced towards the nearby stairs. Should I take the revolver? In all the excitement I had not yet returned to my room, and the weapon would still be concealed in my spare coat. I could attempt to load the thing, and then shoot Sykes if he came at me. I decided to do so, for without a weapon in my pocket I was not sure I'd be able to summon enough courage to attend the meeting in the first place.
I dashed upstairs to my room, crossed to the wardrobe and reached into my coat. My fingers closed on thin air, and I frantically searched the other pockets lest I'd chosen the wrong one. Then, in desperation, I grabbed the coat from the wardrobe and shook it upside-down, even though I was not certain what this would achieve. After all, the heavy revolver and the pouch full of cartridges could hardly have been caught in the lining.
"Have you lost something, Mr Jones?"
I leapt into the air and spun around, the very picture of a guilty man. Standing in the doorway was Mrs Fairacre, her face as expressionless as usual. "Why yes indeed," I declared. "It was just some change from my pockets, but I am certain it will turn up."
Mrs Fairacre stood with her hands behind her back, but now she withdrew them. The pistol lay on one palm, the bulging leather pouch of shells on the other. "I had Elsie remove these from your room when the police arrived."
Questions fired at me from all directions. How had Elsie known about the weapon? Why was Mrs Fairacre returning it? And why hadn't anyone gone to the professor… or the police? Then I saw a hint of a smile playing on Mrs Fairacre's lips. "Come now, Mr Jones. I have work to do, and I cannot tarry all day while you
