instruments,” he explained with more than a little enthusiasm, “Although this really only gives a qualitative analysis. It cannot, for example, demonstrate the sign of the charge, or the amount, so I use it as an indicator. Should you see motion of the filaments inside, please note it in your journal.”
My stomach sank, “Journal?”
“Yes. I did ask you to bring one.”
I bit my lip, “I'm afraid I must not have heard.”
“Humph. Well, clean your ears out next time. Here, use this one. Mark the date and time of any occurrence, in this border here, then as much detail as you care next to it,” he said, handing me a leather journal, “If it is too dark to see by, then use these bumps at the edge of the page to begin your pencil. Messy notes are better than no notes.”
“What do I record?”
“Anything and everything. Nothing is insignificant during an investigation! It may be deemed as such during the analysis, but a measurement is a measurement, a reading is a reading, and an observation is an observation. Note it down, note it well,” he lectured, letting his voice rise above his whisper.
He stopped and settled himself down.
He pointed to the other instruments on the table, saying, “This is a thermometer. I've had it constructed to show fine degrees of separation from a base reading. Note that I have turned this dial to squeeze the mercury to zero. Note also that the increments go both positively and negatively. This is so that we can detect fluctuations in temperature from a base reading, for I have found that ambient temperature itself is not so much of an indicator as the change in the temperature.”
He held his hand on the bulb, letting it warm the contents. The mercury within rose noticeable. He released it and it slowly came back down again.
“I see.”
“Please record this temperature change, and the time of course, whenever you pass by. Here is another one for your personal use. Hold it by the handle there, that's right, and try not to interfere with it too much by breathing on it or holding it close to your own body.”
“I will,” I said, taking a thermometer, “What is that?”
“That is a vibrometer. This stretched diaphragm is attached to that levered stylus you see in there. See? Notice that it is moving ever so slightly as I speak. If I tap the table,” he demonstrated, “Like so, the vibrations in the air move the diaphragm which, in turn, moves the stylus which, in turn pushes upon this indicator here. So the indicator will stop at the loudest vibration, allowing you to take a reading. To reset it, wait until the noise has diminished and press this little catch. But you'll note that the ambient noise from the rain tonight is preventing it from reaching stability?”
“Yes, Professor. I see.”
“Yes, you do. Mark my words well, this is a very sensitive device and must be used with utmost care. It took me that long to design it, and even longer to have it built to a satisfactory level. The stylus is as light as a feather and will not suffer undue force,” he warned, replacing it gently on the table and resetting the marker.
“Is that all?” I asked.
“Yes. Between the thermometer, the vibrometer, the electroscope, plus, of course, your own highly sophisticated senses, you should end this night with a journal filled to the brim with measurements. Remember to note anything you see or hear, or even smell!”
“Jolly good,” I muttered, resigning myself to the long night ahead.
“And I will enforce, once more, my policy of silence. I do not want to have spent my night recording your grumblings!”
I held up my hand. I knew this may provoke the ire of the Professor, considering he had just reiterated how essential silence was, but I had to ask.
“Yes,” he sighed, “What is it?”
“It is just us in this house, Professor?”
“Of course, lad! Otherwise I'd be clamping their mouths as well as yours! Now tread carefully. We shall begin by taking base readings, then return here to the kitchen. You take the larder, just over there, for half an hour, I shall be at the front.”
“What about upstairs?”
“We shall look upstairs later, laddy,” he said impatiently, “Now shh! Go!”
He waved me off.
The Larder
The larder was smelly. It was cold and it was dark and it was, as one might imagine, exactly what the larder of a disused, neglected house might be. My lantern lit the room quite nicely, it being only a small room, showing up the empty shelves littered with black scraps and mouse droppings.
I set my equipment down, the thermometer and the electroscope, and sat on an old tin. It was not the most comfortable position, but it was preferable to standing for half an hour, and much better than sitting on the floor.
The vibrometer was with the Professor. He said that he wanted to see how it would perform in taking readings of the noises reaching in from the street. Personally I think that he did not want to leave such a delicate instrument in the hands of one so inexperienced as myself.
As I sat on my tin, it dawned on me why he wanted the night to be raining as it was: the constant background noise, the hiss, the hush, was a regular pattern against which to compare notes. A normal, 'silent' night would easily be broken by the clopping of horses, or the rolling of wheels, or the care-free yawping of drunkards stumbling home from the tavern.
Such a silent night was, then, anything but silent. On a fierce and raining night such as this, however, the only folk who would be outside would be those hurrying to get indoors. The birds would not be calling their good-nights, the drunkards would spend a little longer in the warm environs of the tavern, or even give the night a miss and stay at home.
Any noises, then, that were manifest, would be more likely to come from within than from without. I patted myself on the back for being so clever. Perhaps, I remember thinking, perhaps being a scientist was not all that hard. It was just a matter of putting details into some sort of context.
I sat and listened, having very little to look at. There was the odd pop or groan as the house settled itself down for the night. Every now and then I could hear the rattle of the windows as the wind tried to open them, or the rough scraping of overgrown branches against the outside wall.
This was what the Professor was on about, I realised, this was the noise of a house with no life left inside it. Whether my eyes were closed or open, it made little difference. The same as if I was there or not. The house would have made those noises regardless; I was not a factor.
So the pops and groans continued along and on top of it all was the humming, thrumming rain and the faint gurgle of water running down the drain-pipes.
It was soothing, in a way, being surrounded by nothing but the sound of falling water. I took the journal to hand and noted the time from my watch, and the readings of the thermometer. The electroscope's filaments were pointing down. There was nothing left but to record my findings:
10:38 Entered Larder. Smelly. Rain Falling. A little cold.
10:40 E-Scope = flat. Thermo = +0.2
After five minutes, looking at the walls and thinking about how I should keep myself occupied, I noted the readings once more. At the rate I was going, I would fill a page of the journal within an hour:
10:45 Still in larder. E-Scope = flat. Thermo = +0.2. Still raining. Still smelly. Can hear branch outside.
It was slightly warmer in the larder than in the kitchen, I mused, perhaps because the decaying rodent faeces let off slightly more warmth, or, I pondered, because the larder was more enclosed than the kitchen, with fewer recesses through which the ambient air might leech its warmth. As an experiment, I touched a marble shelf with my splayed hand.
It was as cold as could be expected, being a smooth, polished shelf. There was nothing unusual about it, I thought. It was, however, quite dusty.
My fingers and palm left a deep, dark print in the fluffy coating. I wiped my hand on my pants, and rubbed my fingers together, watching the dust sparkle to the floor in the glow of my lamp. I smiled to myself, re
membering the Professor's lecture about dust and photography.
10:50 Larder. E-Scope = flat. Thermo = +0.02.
Then, unwittingly, I let out a yawn. It just popped out. It was not a very loud yawn, and on any other day of the week it would not have bothered me, but I knew the Professor was only a few rooms away. There was a chance he would have heard it, even above the rain, and would be noting the event, right now, in his journal.
I bit my lip and rolled my eyes, thinking about the lecture that I would have to endure when we next met. I wanted to call out, to apologise, to let him know that it was only me. Wisely, I went against my feelings and stifled the rest of my yawn. Inspiration took me, and I noted it down in my journal.
10:51 Yawn. My sincerest apologies. It won't happen again.
And that would be the end of the matter. Afterwards, when we compared notes, I would point out my transgression and he would consider any note he may have taken at that time void.
Just as I closed the journal, however, I heard, quite distinctly, a yawn carry through from the kitchen. It sounded like a youngster, I declare, and the suddenness of the out-of-place noise gave me a jolt. Unless the Professor could project his voice like that of a child, then there was someone else skulking about in the kitchen.
Aha! So that was the Professor's game. He was to make me think that we were alone, alone in this smelly house, when, in reality, he had hired another body to poke about. Perhaps he was there to test me, or to cause