A Riddle in Bronze

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