"But—"
Impatiently, she strode into my room, almost slapping the pistol and pouch into my open hands. "I've seen far worse in this house," she said conversationally.
"But—"
"Do you intend to shoot the professor or Miss Twickham?"
"N—no, of course not!"
"The servants, perhaps? Or me?"
I shook my head emphatically.
"Then it's none of my business, is it?" Mrs Fairacre was about to leave, but something in the way I was staring at the revolver stopped her. "Do you know how to use it?" she demanded.
"Er—"
Impatiently, she took the pistol from my hand, then expertly flipped out the chamber. Next, she bid me open the pouch, and, taking a small handful of cartridges, she slotted them home one by one. Finally, she spun the chamber and snapped it home with a flick of her wrist, before holding the pistol towards me, butt-first.
Open-mouthed, I could only stare.
Mrs Fairacre smiled. "I was a nurse in the Crimea, Mr Jones. I learned a thing or two at the British Hotel, let me tell you." Then her smile faded, and she shook her head slowly. "So many young men lost," she murmured. "So many."
There was a sad tale there, I was sure of it, but I was far too polite to enquire.
Mrs Fairacre shook herself, dispelling her memories of the war. "Perhaps next time you will seek a better hiding place," she remarked, and so saying, she spun on one heel and marched from my room.
I was left staring after her with a slightly dazed expression. Then I realised I had only minutes to reach the Crown and Feather. I took the loaded revolver gingerly, depositing it in my pocket, and then placed the pouch full of shells into my spare coat and tossed it across the bed. The better hiding place could wait until later… if I survived this latest meeting with Sykes.
There was no sign of Mrs Fairacre as I descended the staircase, but I did hear a terrific shouting match from the professor's study as I approached the front door. The words were indistinct, but Roberta and her father appeared to be sorting out their differences in typical fiery fashion. I was only glad I held the pistol, because I dreaded the outcome if either of them were in possession of a deadly weapon at that moment.
Once outside, I bent my head against the rain and hurried towards the road, seeking a suitable gap in the busy traffic so that I might cross. Heavy goods wagons rumbled by, along with the occasional omnibus, nimble hansom cabs, drenched-looking barrow boys and the usual flood of labourers, merchants and tradesmen heading to and from their places of work.
As I stood there, I felt a hand grip my elbow. At the same moment, something pricked me in the side. "Turn left and start walking. Make a fuss and you'll die where you stand."
The voice was low and menacing, but I recognised it for all of that. It was Sykes, and he had a knife pressed to my ribs.
We walked together for some time, the point of the knife pricking my skin with every step. The revolver was heavy in my pocket, but I knew that if I tried to draw it, and then turn and shoot, I would be dead before the manoeuvre was half completed.
We continued through the rain, until eventually we turned north, taking a narrow lane towards Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. I saw the trees and shrubbery ahead, and wondered whether Sykes was leading me to a quiet spot where he could finish me unobserved. But his note mentioned questions! If we stopped to converse, then maybe I could back away a pace or two in order to use my gun. The shots would be loud, attracting instant attention, but I was confident I could lose myself in the crowds.
Then I thought of the bullets striking Mr Sykes, tearing into his flesh one after the next, driving him backwards until he fell to the ground, lifeless. I felt sick at the very idea, and I knew that I could not fire the weapon unless I was absolutely certain I was about to die.
We reached a park bench under a tree, where Sykes bid me sit. Rain pattered on the ground, and larger drops fell from the leaves, falling all around. Sykes took the seat alongside me, the knife aimed at my ribs, and I glanced at him and tried to determine his intent. His hair was slicked down around his face like that of a bedraggled rat, and my heart sank as I met his eyes, for his gaze was hard, flint-like and unwavering. If I did not answer his questions promptly and accurately, I had no doubt he would drive the knife into my chest.
"Are you going to behave?" he asked me.
I nodded.
He withdrew the knife and tucked it inside his coat, putting it away but keeping it within easy reach. He then took out a folded sheet of parchment. It was crumpled and much-used, and as he opened it up I recognised it as my own work. But now the diagrams I had drawn were extended, with countless notes scribbled in the margins, and new measurements, and additions that I could not quite make out. I realised that he had taken my drawing most seriously, and I wondered how far he'd progressed with building the thing. And also, what might happen when he discovered it could never work. "Here," he said, pointing to the centre of the diagram. "What is this, and of what material is it made?"
I knew what he wanted, having seen the professor's much smaller version of the actual machine working before my very own eyes. Sykes was pointing at the crystal in the centre, which the professor had assured me was merely a piece of glass. I debated lying, telling the man it was some hard-to-obtain gemstone, but quickly decided against it. If he thought it was difficult to lay hands on, he would probably charge me
