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
