A Riddle in Bronze Read online

  Table of Contents

  A Riddle in Bronze

  About this novel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Did you enjoy this novel?

  Next up…

  Get a free audiobook!

  About the Author

  The Hal Spacejock Series

  The Mysteries in Metal series

  The Secret War series

  The Harriet Walsh series

  The Robot vs Dragons trilogy

  The Hal Junior Series

  How to Write a Novel

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Publication Details

  A Riddle in Bronze

  Book 1 in the Mysteries in Metal series

  Copyright © Simon Haynes 2019

  Release v 1.03

  Bowman Press

  Written and published using yWriter by Spacejock Software

  Stock images © depositphotos.com

  3D models © cgtrader.com

  This novel, like the author, employs British spelling.

  London, England, 1871

  An elderly professor and his daughter need help fighting evil.

  So why hire me, a lowly bookkeeper?

  And what drove my predecessor to madness and death?

  Chapter 1

  A dozen people were crowded into the gloomy sitting room, some reclining in armchairs while others were perched elbow-to-elbow on a pair of upholstered rosewood couches. As my gaze flitted across their faces, careful not to settle on any one of them for an unseemly length of time, I wondered whether my rivals were as desperate for this job as I was. Some returned my gaze in a rather belligerent fashion, and I imagined the chaotic scenes should the applicants decide to forgo the wait and instead engage in a scuffle amongst the over-stuffed armchairs and the side tables crammed with knick-knacks.

  But no. We were all bookish types, not given to bare-knuckle fisticuffs. Sarcastic rejoinders were our weapon of choice, and we would no more call each other out than order red wine with fish.

  "Mr Arthur Staines."

  We all turned to look at the speaker, a severe-looking woman of advancing years who had appeared in the doorway with no sound nor warning of her impending arrival. Mrs Fairacre was her name, and she was housekeeper to Professor Twickham, the man we were all waiting to see. Dressed in black from head to toe, with iron-grey hair and an expression that brooked no nonsense, she was a formidable presence.

  A young man stood, his face reddening as all now turned their attention to him. He was clutching a leather document case under one arm, and with his polished round eyeglasses and the intelligent cast to his features, he looked the ideal candidate… damn him.

  The applicant strode to the door, and was promptly whisked away to the unseen interior of the house.

  "Curse that rotter," I heard someone growl. "He'll take the job before we're even seen."

  "Agreed," said another. "So why don't you leave now and save yourself a wait?"

  I heard a laugh, quickly stifled, and we resumed our patient vigil.

  To be fair to the others, I had no business being there. The advertisement in that morning's newspaper had sought an experienced bookkeeper, with membership of a professional accounting body and a minimum of three years experience at a respectable firm. I matched none of these qualifications, not one, and it had taken a certain amount of barefaced cheek for me to present for an interview in the first place.

  Cheek, or rather desperation.

  I'd arrived in the city two months earlier, twenty-four years old and eager to make a name for myself. Unfortunately, there were a thousand more of my age just as eager, if not more so, and they had qualifications to match their ambition.

  My parents, bless them, had warned me of the dangers. "You might have a head for numbers, son, but these big city companies want proof. Without qualifications to your name, I fear you will be spurned." My father had gone on to dispense vague advice about the dangers of the flesh, a subject we both found equally embarrassing.

  My mother, far more practical, gave me a pork pie for the journey, wrapped in a fresh square of muslin. I'd always been a gangly youth, tall and somewhat ungainly, and my mother tended to fuss over my nourishment. Once I was alone in the big city, she no doubt expected me to starve within the first week, and so I reassured her, convincing her I would eat like three horses. After bidding my family farewell, I'd taken my place in the pony trap for the long ride to the station.

  Eight weeks later, I had barely a farthing to my name. I was living out of a doss-house, sleeping in a grimy attic which hadn't seen a cleaning brush since the Emperor Napoleon himself threatened these shores, and this job interview was my last chance of remaining in the city. Fail today, and I would be begging my parents for the train fare home, my dreams and hopes dashed.

  Idly, my gaze turned to a side-table, just out of reach. A ray of sunshine pierced the tangled rosebushes just outside the narrow bay windows, shining upon the table's polished surface. There, I could see an eclectic assortment of items, including a pair of miniature picture frames, stylised wood carvings of unfamiliar animals, and a plain candlestick holder fashioned from brass. But the item that caught my eye was a metal cube, four inches to a side, its polished surface gleaming in the sunshine as though the box were illuminated from within. The surface was not uniform, covered as it was with fine traces and indents, and as I moved my head these patterns caused a hypnotic effect.

  Near-blinded, I turned away, and as my eyes adjusted I saw other similar cubes everywhere I looked. At first I thought they were after-images, burned into my vision by the glare, but these cubes were different sizes, and were embossed with different patterns. There were cubes on every side table, these sited beside the chairs and sofas the applicants were sitting in. There were three on a nearby bookcase, and two more above the fireplace, sitting on the mantelpiece as though they'd sprung from nowhere. When I looked towards the bay windows, which afforded a view of the front gardens between the matted, thorny stems, I saw another three cubes stacked in a pyramid arrangement.

  Had they been there before, or had I been so concerned at the course of my interview that my gaze had passed over them, unseeing?

  My eyes turned to the first cube, the one nearest me. I wanted to hold it, to examine it, but to do so I'd have to stand up, walk to the table and pick the thing up. This was someone else's house, my prospective employer's no less, and such a liberty was unthinkable. I could no more touch another's belongings without permission than pick the housekeeper's pocket.

  Even so, I felt an overwhelming compunction, and before I knew what was happening I was on my feet, reaching for the gleaming object. I heard a murmur behind me, either disapproval or condemnation, but I ignored it.

/>   The shiny metal cube was warm to the touch, and it filled my hand as I took my seat once more. Turning it over, I noticed the pattern was different on every side. There was an obvious sequence to the spacing of the lines and indents, one which I instinctively recognised, but which stubbornly refused to reveal itself. Figures floated across my mind, accompanied by diagrams from books, and snatches of voices from my years of schooling.

  "Mr Jules Hartlow," said the housekeeper, who'd appeared as before without warning.

  Quickly, I hid the cube behind my back, and I stared out of the bay windows with a look of intense concentration which couldn't have been any more pronounced had the tangled, matted rose bushes started speaking to me in tongues.

  I heard the next applicant crossing to the doorway, and when I judged it was safe I risked a glance, to see whether the housekeeper had noticed the cube. She was just turning away, albeit looking directly at me, and I saw a flicker of … something … in her gaze. Was it disapproval? Was it suspicion? Or was it… relief?

  "Oh, this could take hours." I heard the creak of a chair, and looked round to see another applicant picking up the cube nearest to herself. She studied it casually, dismissively, then put it back again. "I've a mind to find myself some lunch before I wilt."

  "Please do," said another. "We'll be sure to fetch you if your name is called."

  I ignored the banter. The housekeeper having departed, I was examining the cube once more. The small indentations I dismissed, since they formed no discernible pattern, but the lines were intriguing. There was a set of three, then a gap, then one more, and then — here I paused to count — another four, so tightly packed it was hard to distinguish one from another. "Pi!" I exclaimed.

  "Pie or sandwiches, I would gladly take either," said the woman seated nearby. "And with any luck, a pot of tea to accompany them."

  I paid her no mind, because I'd found an indentation in the surface of the cube which had a certain amount of give, as though it were a button or a catch. With a nervous, shaking finger, I pressed it in until it stopped, at which point there was a faint click from within. The button was still recessed within the device, leaving a hole in the surface, and with a feeling of alarm I realised it was going to stay there.

  I stared at the cube in horror, fearing I'd broken the device. Then I glanced at the nearby table, wondering whether I ought to replace the cube quickly, with the newly-created hole face down against the wooden surface. Unfortunately, such an action would be observed by the other applicants, and if questions arose as to the vandal responsible for the mishandling of the artifact, I had no doubt they would point their accusing fingers at me.

  Quickly, I turned the cube in my hands, and that's when I noticed a slight protrusion on the opposite face to the button. It was standing proud by an eighth of an inch, no more, and I had missed it in my state of alarm. I pressed it gently, fearing I might damage this side of the cube also, making my crime all but impossible to conceal, but to my relief the surface smoothed with a clack, and when I turned the cube over I saw the button had emerged from its hole once more.

  The cube now in its original configuration, with neither holes nor protrusions, a wise soul would have replaced it on the table and sat back to await the housekeeper's calling of their name.

  Well, I may be proficient with numbers, but nobody ever accused me of being wise.

  Click, clack! Click, clack!

  "Oh, do stop playing with that thing," called one of the other applicants. "If the housekeeper spies you toying with the professor's belongings, we'll all be out on our ears."

  I was engrossed in the cube, and his words were as rain to the ocean. For, after three cycles with the button and the protrusion, I'd found a corner which differed from the rest. With the deep engraved line traced across three faces, the corner resembled a pyramid, and I discovered it could be rotated upon its axis. One face of the pyramid had a tiny round marker, and I saw engravings on the larger faces of the cube to match, in a sequence of I, II and III. The marker was currently pointing to III, and so I turned it until it matched the I.

  Ting!

  I almost dropped the cube as the clear note rang out, and, looking around the sitting room, I saw the others eyeing me with a mix of exasperation and annoyance.

  "To take such liberties," muttered the young woman who'd yearned for lunch. "Can you credit such behaviour?"

  "Leave him be," said another. "He's only fashioning a noose for his own neck."

  The others brightened at that, and I turned away to resume my inspection of the clever little device. After my most recent action, I'd found a newly-loose cover on a fresh side of the cube. The little plate slid open on well-oiled tracks, and underneath there was a toggle switch, much like a Morse key in miniature. Holding my breath, I placed my finger on the raised end and pressed it four times.

  I wasn't sure what I was expecting, but what I got was… nothing.

  I turned the cube, inspecting it once more, but there were no fresh changes. I was certain the cube was a puzzle, and the answer was Pi. So far I'd conveyed the numbers three, one and four using the cube's intricate mechanisms, but there were more to Pi than three digits. Far, far more.

  Then, struck by a sudden thought, I turned the pyramid all the way round, past II and III and back to I again. The cube tinged twice in rapid succession, and, confident now, I enacted another five presses on the tiny lever.

  Two things happened in quick succession. First, the cube squirmed in my hands, as though suddenly alive. Shocked, this time I really did drop the thing, and as it landed on the thick carpet I saw the buttons, panels and protrusions all return to their original positions.

  The second occurrence was less troubling, for there was a protracted ringing noise in the distance, coming from somewhere deep inside the house. At first I thought the two events were connected, impossible though that was, but then I heard one of the applicants nearby complaining.

  "It seems we must wait even longer," he said, settling back on the sofa with an air of resignation. "I believe that was the Professor ringing for his lunch,"

  "Some have all the luck," muttered the young woman.

  "Mr Septimus Jones. Would you come with me please?"

  We all started, shocked by the housekeeper's sudden presence. Once again she'd appeared without warning, catching us unawares. I started more than most, since it was my name she'd called. Quickly, I pushed the cube under the side table with the side of my shoe, trying to make the gesture look like I was stretching my long legs. Then I got up and hastened across the room.

  The housekeeper waited for me, her face emotionless, but before leading me away she turned to the rest of those waiting. "Thank you for your time, but you can all leave now. The position has been filled."

  Chapter 2

  "I d—don't understand," I stammered, as I followed Mrs Fairacre down a corridor lined with solemn-looking portraits. "If the position is filled, where are you taking me?"

  "The professor wishes to speak with you."

  I remembered the metal cube, and the way Mrs Fairacre had caught me tinkering with the device, and my heart sank. Jules Hartlow, the most recent applicant to be interviewed, must have been such a favourable candidate that he'd secured the job on the spot. And, having found the employee he was looking for, it seemed Professor Twickham now wanted a little word with me about the cube I'd mishandled.

  I'd yet to meet the professor, but as we trod the creaking wooden boards in the long hallway I formed a detailed mental image. He'd be well over six foot tall, slightly stooped, with a bald head and a fringe of white hair. Spectacles, naturally, and a great beak of a nose. His eyes would be piercing and intelligent, for this would not be the absent-minded buffoon of popular fiction, and his sweeping gaze would miss nothing. I imagined him being softly spoken, for large men rarely needed to raise their voices, and his imposing figure would command the respect of all around him. He would also be a stickler for accuracy, a trait of his profession, and he would not
suffer fools. I also imagined him using an ivory-handled cane for support, thanks to an old injury, and that cane would conceal a gleaming rapier with which to stick footpads and villains and job applicants who fiddled with his belongings.

  My wild imaginings having completely run away with themselves, I almost walked into Mrs Fairacre, for that good lady had come to a halt directly ahead of me. We'd stopped at a solid oak door, the timber dark with age, and the housekeeper raised her hand and knocked twice.

  There was no reply.

  The housekeeper knocked again, harder this time. "Professor?"

  "Yes? What is it?" demanded a reedy voice, barely audible thanks to the wooden door.

  "I bring the applicant. The one who toyed with your puzzle cube."

  I swallowed, for there was no longer any doubt. My hopes of employment were dashed, and I was to be roundly admonished by this professor before the housekeeper ejected me into the street.

  "Send them away, Mrs Fairacre," came the muffled reply. "I cannot deal with them now. There is much to do!"

  Relieved, I turned away from the door. Punishment was postponed, and as I never intended to set foot in that house again, it could remain so indefinitely.

  But the housekeeper had other ideas. She took my elbow with a grip that would have put a dent in a cast iron lamppost, ignored the professor's protestations and opened the door wide. "Professor, this is Septimus Jones."

  Standing directly behind her, my first impression was that she was addressing an empty room. Under the light of a wall-mounted gaslight I spied a large desk, bookcases stuffed with all manner of tomes and documents, and, to one side, a bench covered with intricate equipment. There was, however, no sign of any professor.

  "I said I do not wish to be disturbed!"

  The voice was high-pitched, as already noted, and it appeared to come from thin air.

  Then Mrs Fairacre stood aside, all but dragging me into the room, and I realised the professor had been there all along. My mental image of an imposing giant with a deep voice was swept away like a candle flame in a gale, for the man who stood before me barely topped five feet. His grey hair was cropped short, and as he turned to glare at us I saw his piercing blue eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. "Why does nobody pay me attention these days?" he demanded, in a petulant, reedy voice.