A Riddle in Bronze

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
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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