It is uncanny. Houses do have a different feel during the day than at night. Corners are illuminated. Shadows define rather than engulf. The everyday noises of humanity provides a constant reassurance that the world is tangible and rational.
At night, the dark, coupled with silence, amplifies sounds so that the real becomes surreal, the ordinary uncommon, the obvious unexplainable. At night, our minds are inclined to misinterpret events and create wild explanations so as to reconcile the unreconcilable.
I am used to investigating in the dark. My time with the Professor taught me to be comfortable sitting in the shadows. Now, poking about the house during the day time felt almost like a betrayal, like we were looking behind the magician's curtain, like we were not playing by the rules.
Our first stop was the kitchen, where we set our equipment down and took a base reading together. For five minutes we sat at the table and listened to the house, the day-time noises coming from outside, the birds chirping in the trees, the leaves rustling in response to a breeze.
My notepad filled quickly as I jotted down the flood of observations.
Satisfied that our readings were steady, we quietly ascended and examined the top rooms. I was surprised, as I thought the Professor would be inclined to look at the basement as a matter of priority.
“I'm not scared, if that is what you are implying,” he said.
I was not, even though the thought did cross my mind.
“It's just that if we spend our energies in the basement, as I suspect we will, then we will be less inclined to perform a proper analysis upstairs afterwards. Hence, we must test our assumptions and perform a base reading before all else.”
“Yes, Professor.”
Upstairs did not take very long. After fifteen minutes, we had performed three observations, examined the window frames, the plasterwork, the curtains, the ceiling, the floorboards, the skirting and the internal doors, and found that nothing was out of the ordinary.
We did find a spider or two tucked into the corners, remnants of what could have been the beginnings of a rat's nest under the stairs, and there was a patch of damp in the ceiling of the last bedroom.
“Make good note of the position and size in case it's an ongoing problem,” he said, taking his own notes relating to the plaster around the window frame. “If there is water coming in, Mister French will want to know about it.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“And I don't know about you, but I am detecting some kind of smell. An acrid smell.”
I sniffed, “I can too, Professor. I already noted it here, but I could not find the source.”
“The same with me. It was stronger, I think, near the stairs but I cannot be certain. Apart from that, did you note the stain on the carpet in the second bedroom? Well, that covers upstairs. I think it is time we headed to the cellar once more.”
My stomach bounced. I was not afraid, not in the truest sense, yet I definitely felt a level of consternation at the thought of revisiting that dark room.
I put on my bravest face, “Yes, Professor.”
“Are you feeling up to it?” he asked, pointedly.
I picked up my notepad and strode from the room. “Absolutely, Professor. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
“As do I, Laddie, as do I. Let us tread carefully, then. I'll remind you once again how important it is to be thorough and methodical.”
Armed with my pencil for a sword and my notepad as a shield, I reached the bottom of the stairs, ready to face whatever was in there. Instead of pushing the door open and going in, however, I froze.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Not another mouse, I hope!”
“Professor,” I said, peering carefully at the door. “When we passed the cellar, on our way upstairs, the door was closed. Latched.”
“And?”
I pointed. “It's now open!”
“So it is! Did you, perhaps, fail to close it before we left last night?”
“No, Professor. If you remember, we did our final check before we left. It was latched, I am sure.”
“I see. And I certainly did not touch it. Hmm. Note that as an observation. It could be that someone has been in here without our knowing, although why they would want to go to the cellar, I don't know,” he said. “Blow me! Is the smell coming from here?”
The odour was certainly stronger as we approached the cellar.
I peered even closer at the door, noting the scuffed paintwork where it had been repeatedly kicked closed, the buffing on the brass knob, the slight angle of depression owing to a faulty hinge. About the latch were a collection of parallel grooves, cutting all the way down into the wood beneath the paint.
“Look at these. Do they not appear as scratch marks?”
“They certainly do. And they seem fresh. See, here is a curl, and the wood is not discoloured with age like those here and here. My, your eye is keen today. Perhaps the owner had a dog at one stage? You make a note. I shall make a rubbing. A rubbing is better than a sketch, because the measurements are more exact, you know.”
“Yes, Professor.”
He pressed a leaf of his paper against the door, marked where the handle and latch was in relation, and lightly rubbed the paper with his pencil, causing an impression of the grooves to be cast on the page.
“There. Are there any other observations you can make?”
“The frame is slightly off. See that hinge? The door hangs ever so slightly out of kilter because of it.”
I pushed the handle, letting the door open a bit. It slowly swung back to its original position. I pulled it closed, without latching it, and it did the same.
“It seems to have a natural tendency, if not latched, to rest in this position, slightly ajar,” I announced.
“Very good. But 'slightly ajar' isn't precise enough. Here,” he said, passing me a rule.
I performed a series of measurements.
“The lead of the door rests at five inches from the jam,” I said as I jotted it down.“With a three eighth drop from the fulcrum side to the lead. The frame itself is true to within one sixteenth.”
“That will do nicely, laddie, just nicely. I've taken a temperature and pressure reading from out here for comparison,” he said, tucking his pencil into the sleeve of his pad. “So? Shall we enter?”
I lit my lantern, gripped the handle and opened up the door slowly, letting the daylight filter into the cellar. A waft of vinegar and pepper hit me square in the nose. I gasped.
“Professor! what has happened?”
The floor of the cellar was strewn with glass, stained with the spiced juice of preserves. Cans were dented and ruptured, smashed up against the wall, littered across the shelves and floor. The footprints that we had so carefully sketched the night before were gone, replaced with a motley jumble of food, metal and glass.
“Although I know the answer, I have to ask, is this how you left the room last night?” he said, eyes wide.
“No, Professor. There was only the small amount of broke glass, that is all. Certainly none of this. Should – should I get the broom?”
“No. No. We can clean up later. Right now we need to examine the evidence as it is. Let us proceed carefully, under the assumption that there may have been, and may still be, a burglar or wild animal in the house,” he whispered, looking furtively behind him.
I took a step into the cellar.
Nothing happened. The acidic, pungent perfume stung my nostrils and burned at my eyes.
“I can hardly breathe!” I said, holding a handkerchief over my mouth.
“My! Is this the smell you observed yesterday?”
I shook my head, “No, Professor, although I might argue that this is as bad! Are you sure we cannot clean up? A mess is a mess, after all.”
“No! And keep your voice down! I'm listening!”
“Yes, Professor.”
I went down the next step, and the next until I reached the bottom. I nudged a can of plums out of the way with my foot to make a space to stand. A few pieces of dark fruit oozed out onto the floor to add to the mess.
“What can you see?” he asked. “Is there anything obvious?”
“Aside from the disorder, no. The shelves are in the same position, still secured to the wall, the bag of flour is undisturbed, the cloth is – oh!”
I rubbed my eyes and held my lantern up to confirm what they had reported. The aged cloth, the one that I had stood upon and placed on the floor, was lying in exactly the same position that I had left it, undisturbed by the mayhem around it. Even the syrups and juices that had spilled were reluctant to draw near, such that there was an unnatural ring of unsullied dirt surrounding the it.
“What? What is it?”
I showed him.
“Goodness. Now that is interesting!” he said. “Entropy implies that a system tends toward disorder, so we should have expected the cloth to be torn further, or cast aside with all the other mess in here.”
“Yes, Professor.”
“No animal could have done this, nor any natural phenomenon.”
“No, Professor.”
“This is a deliberate act, then.”
The Professor pushed past me, stepping gingerly over a cracked jar of cornichons to study the cloth. He took out his pencil and gently lifted the corners of it, as if it were some kind of sleeping snake.
“We can be certain of nothing until we have gathered and analysed. Hold your lantern closer, please, I want to examine this. Hmm, it's very old. And torn.”
“I'm afraid that was me, Professor. Last night, when I tripped. I had placed it carefully here. Everything else in the room has been stained, but not this, not one bit. Someone has been in here, of that we can be certain.”
He picked up the cloth, gave me one corner and held it open for inspection.
I held my lantern close, illuminating the details, the gold, embroidered patterns and the intricate weave.
“Have you ever seen such artwork? These aren't mere adornments, these are runes – wait! Did you feel that?”
He looked back over his shoulder, then up at the stairs.
“Did you feel that?” he asked again, “That cold breeze?”
“I did, Professor. Like a blast from an ice-box. Professor, what is going on?”
“Confound it, laddie, I don't know! That's why we're here!”
“Professor...”
“What is it, lad?”
“I can hear that growling. The same from last night!”
He paused, tilting his head.
“I don't hear -”
“And that smell! There it is!”
The door slammed shut and latched. At the same time, my lantern was jerked violently in my hand. Thankfully, I had a firm grip on the handle, preventing it from coming into contact with the cloth. The flame inside was snuffed, plunging us into darkness.
“Professor!”
“Be calm! Be calm! Get to the door!”
I stumbled toward where I could see the fissure of light, tripping up on the jagged edges of glass and rolling my ankle on a can. I turned the handle but the door would not move.
I jiggled and turned, but the door failed to budge even an inch. “It's stuck!”
A searing pain shot through my leg.
“Ya! Prof –”
My cry was cut short. I can only describe it as a giant fist that punched me in the small of my back. I collapsed forward into the door, stunned and pained.
It took a few seconds to collect my senses. I fumbled for the handle, twisted it and put my weight behind it. It swung open, letting the light spill into the cellar as I spilled out.
I collapsed onto the floor, scrambling to get a purchase, slipping on a mixture of preserves and my own blood. My leg was fairly gushing and my back was smarting. The Professor quickly followed me out, leading me away from the cellar.
I stopped to inspect the damage. There were three long scratches, not dissimilar to those found on the door, running laterally across my ankle. The lower scratch was the deepest gouge and it was bleeding strongly, staining my torn pants and running onto the floor.
I took a handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it against the wound. Scarlet clouds mushroomed on the white silk. Now that the initial excitement was over, the pain intensified.
He clicked his tongue, looking in turn from me to the cellar.
“Try and keep your head next time, laddie. Throwing yourself against the door like that...”
“I am hurt!” I blurted.
“I'm not surprised.”
“Something bit me, Professor, then hit me!”
The Professor looked genuinely concerned, “Bit you? As in...”
“Bit me!”
“My goodness, lad, your leg! That looks nasty! We need to get pressure on that. My, what a wound! I'm sorry, laddie, I didn't realise! The investigation must wait. We need to get you to the doctor! Come on!”
He helped me up to my feet. I threw an arm over his shoulder and we hobbled out the door together.
Missus Butterfield met us on the way out, eyes wide, taking in as much of the scene as those orbs would allow.
“Ooh, sirs! Oh my! What's gotten to be the matter? Is everything alright? I heard a frightful din...”
“Everything is fine, thank you, Missus Butterfield,” the Professor said quickly. “Nothing more than a spot of clumsiness on my associate's part.”
I knew he was only saying so to avoid further questions, but the barb still stung.
“It doesn't look fine, and it certainly did not sound fine, for there was this mighty crash – I was washing the dishes, you see – and that's when I heard yelling...”
“Missus Butterfield, if you will excuse us?”
She stood in our way.
“Hear me out, it's for your own good.”
“What in heaven?”
“This is why you need a woman in your life, you know!”
“A woman? What the blazes are you on about?”
“A good woman would stop you from getting into strife. If you ask me, it's not healthy to be spending your nights alone in a dark house...”
“My companion is wounded!”
“I see, oh, I see! My, look at your leg! You're bleeding, you are! There's blood all over your kerchief. You'll need to get that attended to.”
“Yes, Missus Butterfield, we established that back inside the house. Now, if you could please excuse us, I need to get this sorry chap to Doctor Halfpenny without delay.”
“Of course you do. How did it happen, then? He's leaving blood behind, oh my! That's serious, that is.”
The Professor snapped, “Of course it's serious. Now if you'll excuse us!”
“You'll be needing someone to mind the house while your gone, then?”
“Thank you for the offer, but I must refuse. The cellar has broken glass in it...”
“Broken glass? See? A cellar is no place for a gentleman. I imagine you tripped and fell.”
“I did no such thing. Blow me, where is a hansom when you need one?”
“This sort of thing wouldn't happen if only you had a woman to look out for you, is all I'm saying. Now Miss Weiss, she's a friend of mine, she is on the lookout for a man like yourself –”
“Miss Butterfield, please! My love life is not your concern. My companion is injured. Where do you think my priorities lie right now?”
She was taken aback for only a second, before starting again with the same zeal, “How did it happen? You didn't say. Professor? Professor?”
The Professor waved down the first hansom that came along, ignoring or placating Missus Butterfield's continued meddlesome questioning until I was loaded on.
I felt incredibly sore and ill, and it was with relief that the prattling of her voice was replaced with the rattling of the wheels on the cobbles as the driver skipped along at a solid clip. The jolting and jarring of the bumps aggravated my sores and the pain.
At least the bleeding had slowed.