I was under no illusions. Heads did indeed turn and mouths whispered as I hustled back to the laboratory. Of this I am certain. My presence made the townsfolk uneasy. They would stop mid conversation as I passed, only to avert their eyes, lower their voices and continue in whispers when I was still within earshot.
Nevertheless, the urgency born from my discovery and my desire to be off the street and away from the eyes that burned through me drove me on, and I did not slow down until I reached the safety of the laboratory doors.
The sky was growing dark over the city, and there was that palpable, threatening heaviness in the air that comes before a big storm that only added to my trepidation. I opened the doors and scuttled up the stairs to the bosom of the laboratory.
Miss Fitzgerald was brewing tea in the kitchenette.
“Good afternoon, young master,” she snapped. “You appear quite flushed.”
“I was walking quickly...”
“Yes, I'll bet you were!”
“Ma'am?”
“I'm not one to mince words. What is this nonsense that you and the Professor have gotten yourselves caught up in, hmm?” she said, arms akimbo, “He won't say boo to me, only sits there cursing 'the state of affairs' and some cretin named Chester. I can't make heads nor tails of it. Tell me what is going on.”
I wiped the perspiration off my brow, “I would tell you, Ma'am, I would, but I was instructed not to say anything to anyone before I spoke to the Professor.”
“Oh, you too? I thought more highly of you! Well, go on! Go have your little secrets! Go waste money on whores and opium! Don't worry whose employment is threatened by your actions!”
“I'm sure it won't come to that, Miss Fitzgerald. We have, neither of us, committed any wrongdoing. You see, the whole situation is a lot more complicated than it seems –” I began, but a bark from behind prevented me from telling her any more.
“Not another word, lad! Didn't I tell you that Chester or his cronies could be lurking about, listening in to your words?” the Professor said, coming in from the anteroom. “Why, Miss Fitzgerald could be in the employ of those monsters!”
“I most certainly am not!”
“And I most certainly cannot afford to take you, or anyone, at their word!”
“The very insinuation!”
He was flushed. His beard was uncombed, as was his hair.
I said, “If we just tell the truth...”
“No! They have a way of twisting the truth. Anything said is moulded to best sell more papers, not repair our reputation, and that means we sink deeper. And I'll thank you, Miss Fitzgerald, to not probe any further,” he said. “If you have no dealings with them, then that is well, but still I must be cautious. The less you know, the less they can weasel out of you.”
She brought herself up to an impressive height and thrust out her equally impressive bosom. “I am a lady of honour, sir, not some gossiping, dull-eyed flibbertigibbet!”
The Professor nodded. “I apologise, Miss. That wasn't what I meant. It's just that I know those snakes better than anyone in this laboratory and, believe you me, as a farmer can use water and manure to grow a crop, journalists can use facts and rumour to grow a scandal.”
“I only wish to know if I need to be looking for new work next week...”
The Professor blew through his beard, “Don't – don't be daft.”
“I resent the insult. And you haven't answered my question.”
Miss Fitzgerald and I both looked at the Professor. His mouth flapped. His arms flopped. His eyebrows jigged.
“Professor?” I prompted. “Everything will be alright, won't it? Professor?”
“I – I don't know!” he gasped. “How could everything turn so sour?”
Miss Fitzgerald took the tea off the boil, poured some cups and shoved one under his nose.
“Well when you find out, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know, sir,” she said, packing up her things. “Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to head to the square to see if there's anything going for a simple, unemployed charwoman.”
The Professor let her go. I sat down next to him.
“Drink up, Professor,” I said. “Tea is good for the nerves.”
“Have you even seen the papers, boy?”
“Unfortunately I have, Professor, yes. I did not think they could say such stuff.”
“Stuff! That's putting it politely. I can think of more appropriate words – say? What are you doing here?”
“I went to the library.”
“You are supposed to be resting. If I were you I'd be hiding at home. Your name is mud, I tell you, as is mine.”
“Can't we plead our case? Surely the public would rather hear our side of the story,” I said.
“The public would rather not. The public loves a scandal. Offer a dog a juicy sausage or a dry bone, and guess which one he'll devour?”
“But when the truth comes out – ”
He looked up at me with red, swollen eyes, “One cannot un-eat a sausage, lad. No amount of facts can dispel the suspicion of the public. It's only a matter of time until news reaches the University. And that would be grounds enough to...”
“Professor! Don't say it! Look, we have an opportunity here!”
“An opportunity? Now you're delusional.”
“We can turn this around.”
“Have some tea. Tea is good for delusions.”
I thumped the desk, spilling the cups. I only wished to snap him out of his gloom. Instead, the searing hot water on his lap brought the fire back into his throat.
“The devil!”
“Oops! I'm sorry, Professor, I shall get a cloth,” I said, hurrying to the kitchenette.
“You clumsy oaf! Why would you do such a thing?”
“To get your attention!” I called, rinsing out a rag. “Listen, Professor, I am, like yourself, up to my neck in it and, no, please, let me explain. You can fire me in a few minutes if you like but please let me tell you what I have found.”
I gave him the rag and let him daub at his shirt and pants while I explained.
“The press wants a story,” I said. “So, let us give them one! Let us give them the most amazing story. One that will sell papers. One that will appease their money-lust and, at the same time, clear our names. We have an active entity, very active, and aggressive. We might even get Chester to come and have him recount his words. If we can show the people what we are really dealing with, then they will forget all about the speculation – ”
The Professor stopped dabbing, held out his hand for me to stop and sat back down in thought. He sipped some of the tea remaining in his cup and thought some more.
“It won't do. Ghosts have a notorious habit of, well, playing dead,” he said, “More likely than not, we'll show him the cellar, nothing will happen and he'll report that we concocted the whole story.”
“Or we could, you know,” I coughed, wondering why the words sounded so terrible in my throat, “summon what is in there.”
“Summon?” his eyebrows collapsed. “Summon? That's a very dangerous word. Laddie, what do you mean, exactly?”
“I mean that I think that what inhabits the basement of Jolimont is not our every-day ghost. Perhaps we could, you know, bring it forth and put on a show.”
He blinked. “What makes you think that? You haven't been dabbling in dark arts, have you?”
“No. Not I!”
“You – you didn't summon that thing, did you?”
“Professor, no! You see, I have been reading books.”
“Books? What kind of books?” he probed.
“Well, I had this dream, only I don't think it was really a dream, not like my normal ones. I mean, I could feel and smell and taste everything, only it wasn't real,” I tried to explain. “And there was this enormous palace, only it wasn't a palace, not like something you might expect to see, and there were these voices, and an etching of an altar in stone...”
I looked over at the Professor, who was looking back with knitted eyebrows.
“You don't believe me.”
“I believe you. That's why I am concerned. For Jolimont was stagnant, and now, all of a sudden an angry entity lurks within the cellar. Just how many of these books have you read?”
“Quite a few, not all on the same topic. I had to work my way through until I found what I think might help.”
“These books are causing you these nightmares.”
“I read them after I had my dream.”
“And how often have you had these dreams?”
“Just once. Last night.”
The Professor did not look convinced, “Answer me truthfully. Have you read aloud any of the words in these books? Performed any incantations? Intentionally or otherwise?”
“No, Professor.”
“You cannot fool around with these things!”
“No, Professor, believe me! Listen, please. I spent today at the library. I was supposed to be resting, yes, but please, listen. I approached this as scientifically as I could, and based upon what I have experienced, I think I found what it is that we are up against. Look.”
I took the book from my satchel and carefully placed the heavy book on the desk.
“This is dangerous reading,” he mumbled as he skimmed through. “You can forget about using this to any advantage.”
“No, don't close it just yet. Look, I have marked this page. See?”
Me pushed the book back at me. “No. We are scientists, not magicians. I'll not enter into this folly.”
We sat down, the book sitting between us, unsure of what to do. He looked at me from under his cantilever brows. I avoided his gaze. I felt strange. I could not sit still. My hands fidgeted constantly. Tenebrous thoughts crept into my mind.
I broke the silence, more as a way to stop those thoughts, “I am sorry that I mentioned summoning the entity before. That was a selfish thought that, really, I would not normally entertain. Honestly, my mind has been entertaining odd ideas, and I don't like it.”
“I see.”
“I think something is wrong with me. And it has something to do with Jolimont.”
“That seems to be true.”
I pointed to the book. “I think that the author of this book knows about it, too.”
He slowly leant forward, creaking in his chair, then opened the book to my mark. He placed his spectacles carefully on his nose.
His eyebrows rose and fell like they were riding the waves of an ocean, at some points so high I could see the vessels in the whites of his eyes, other times so low I lost sight of his orbs altogether.
Suddenly, he jumped out of his chair. He had forgotten to put his cup down. Tea spilled about, which I hastily cleaned, while he swore, muttered and rummaged about through his notes. Eventually he came back with a stack of paper.
“Let me see... Let me see,” he mumbled, rifling through the leaves. “I have seen these before, yes, only it was for a sacrificial offering. Or was the sacrifice actually a binding? Pah! No matter, no matter. The context is the same. And this isn't orthodox, no, it's an offshoot, more akin to wizardry, or even Druidism or sorcery! Sorcery!”
His eyebrows popped. His mouth hung loose.
He put his notes down, “Oh, dear.”
He rummaged through his drawers, muttering and cursing in a frenzied manner.
“Darn it!” he cried, throwing his finger in the air.
“Professor? Are you feeling well?”
“Oh, dear! Where could it be.”
“Where could what be, Professor?”
He waved his arms about. “My darning kit! I always keep it handy for my socks.”
It was at this point that I thought his mind had broken. Stress manifests in different ways and, looking at him empty the contents of the drawers on the floor, I supposed it was simply a matter of everything coming to a head.
“Um. You have holes in your socks?”
“Had. I had holes in my socks,” he said, looking up with annoyance. “Past tense. That's why I keep a kit close by. Keep up, will you? Better yet, start looking!”
I half-heartedly searched the kitchenette while he scrounged through the cupboards. I heard a whoop as he found what he was looking for.
“Come on, laddie! Bring your gear!”
“What is it?” I asked, getting my satchel.
He glared at me incredulously. “A bloody needle and thread! What does it look like?”
“No, I meant, what...”
The bell rang downstairs.
“Oh, not now, Miss Fitzgerald!” the Professor huffed as we thumped down the stairs, “Too much is at stake! Did you forget – oh!”
Rather than finding Miss Fitzgerald standing at the door, Sergeant Hart and Constable Waverley were there with grave countenances.
“Hello, Sergeant,” the Professor said as lightly as possible.
“Hello, Professor. May we have a word?”
“We're, ah, just popping out. Can it wait?”
“I am afraid not, Professor, no,” he replied, “and I'm sure you know why. If you'd like to discuss this inside?”
“No. Not really.”
“It wasn't really a question, if you catch my meaning.”
“I'm a bit busy.”
“Really?” the Sergeant said. “There have been some serious allegations brought against you. I would have thought a man of your position would prefer such matters to remain out of view of the public eye.”
“We're already well within the public eye!” the Professor snapped. “That's not the issue. The issue is that we could have a very serious problem on our hands if we don't act quickly.”
“I'd say you already have a serious problem...”
“Not like that. Look, Sergeant, you've known me quite a while and –”
“I'm not about to perform any favours.”
“I'm not after a favour. I need you to accompany me back to Jolimont Street, if you will, after which I will be happy to follow you and answer any questions you might have,” the Professor said. “Willingly and openly.”
The Sergeant looked at his colleague who, in turn looked at the pair of us and shrugged. “Couldn't hurt, Guv. These two aren't the trouble makin' type.”
The Professor prompted, “Time is of the essence.”
“We were going to investigate the house after we locked you up. Guess we'll just do it in reverse. Alright, but no funny business. And you can explain on the way.”
The Professor did his best to explain the situation in terms that the police might understand. The Constable sat with a dumbfounded expression. Sergeant Hart only strummed his chin, the only region of his jaw without hair, between scribbling notes onto his pad.
“Right, so let's say this phantom of yours did mess up the cellar, and there ain't nothin' fishy goin' on,” the Constable interjected at one point. “What's with the whole life-and-death thing.”
“Firstly, my young Constable, it is more likely a demon that we have come in contact with, an evil beast that has never roamed the Earth in human form. This, by itself, is cause for urgency,” the Professor said.
I noted the colour of the Constable's face drain.
“Secondly, the beast has most likely been summoned at some stage, through the use of an esoteric ritual, bound to this realm by sorcery.”
“Well, if 'e's bound, he can't do no 'arm.”
“Not any longer! If I am correct, and the good Lord knows I wish I wasn't, the cloth used within the ritual to bind and control the entity was compromised by my assistant, rendering the beast free to roam in this world!”
The Sergeant and the Constable both looked at me. I held up my palms.
“It was an accident! I needed somewhere to sit!”
The Professor clicked his tongue. “You couldn't have known, laddie, and we must play the hand we're dealt. Sirs, the cloth is what binds the beast. If you will help me secure it...”
“No fear!” Constable Waverley said, “You can do your hocus-pocus by yourself!”
“Constable! The Professor may believe this tosh, but that doesn't mean that you must as well. Act like the man the city needs you to be,” the Sergeant reprimanded. “Hello? What's all this, then?”
As we pulled up at Jolimont, an ensemble was milling out the front.