in an instant.
“Great. You put it in the paper that an address is unoccupied and this is what you get,” he muttered, taking out his notebook, “May as well send out invitations to the local ferrets and pop the bloody key under the mat. Constable, take a statement from Missus Butterfield, and any other witnesses.”
“Aye, Guv. Right, you lot. Clear a space! Clear a space! Let's start with you, Ma'am.”
“Only those who actually heard or saw something, mind,” he called after, adding, “Otherwise we'll be here all day. Well, Professor, what have you got to say for yourself?”
The Professor had lost interest in the excitement out the front and was inspecting the door. It had been fairly torn off its hinges, hanging sadly on the porch.
“There was no break-in. Observe. This has been pushed from the inside, out,” the Professor said, “See? This was a break-out.”
“I'll be the policeman, if you don't mind, sir.”
The Professor ignored him, “See the hinges? Notice the jam? They would have to be pushed outward to be torn away so. Such enormous strength - and look! Look at these marks!”
There were distinct gouges scraped along the inside, similar to those I found on the cellar door only much deeper. Ribbons and splinters of wood were scattered upon the floor.
“Sergeant, this is the work of a very dark force, a force that, as you can see, has grown strong. Very strong indeed!”
The policeman whistled as he stared at the door, “What am I to tell my Captain, eh? That some brutish imp summoned up from the depths of Hades is at large?”
“Precisely.”
“Aw, come on, Professor. What are we really talking about here? Did a lion escape from the zoo? You don't expect me to believe all of this.”
“I expect nothing. Instead I will let the evidence speak.”
“And what's to say you didn't do this yourselves?”
“Not what,” he said, gesturing at the loquacious onlookers, “Who. Interview your witnesses as thoroughly as you may. I was at my laboratory. Miss Fitzgerald, my maid, can attest. As can Mister Cumberland, and Madame Gosling.”
“Alright, alright,” the Sergeant said, wheeling on me, “And where were you?”
I was aghast, “You – you don't think I could possibly...”
“Just answer the question!”
“I was in the library, sir. Mister Blake will tell you.”
He scribbled the name down, “Blake, eh? Well, we'll see.”
The Professor, agitated, made to move inside. The Sergeant shook his truncheon at him and pushed past.
“Wait, let me,” he said, “If there's a wild animal or burglar in there, I'll sort it.”
An eager hush fell upon the crowd as the Sergeant bravely nudged the door pieces out of his way and stepped inside. Even Missus Butterfield slowed her yammering to watch his progress.
“See anything, Guv?” Constable Waverley called.
“No! Just a ruddy mess is all. Here! Mind no one follows in after me until I call it clear.”
We could hear him rummaging about inside, stepping over the wreckage strewn about.
He said, coming out, “It's bedlam in there, alright. Things are smashed up. Strange, there are valuables left lying around, so it wasn't a burglar. Or if it was, it's a bloody stupid one.”
The Professor poked his nose in from the door, “And see how the trail leads from the cellar to the door?”
“Yes, yes. I'll get one of the boys to look after this, now that it's a crime scene, and we'll need to get statements from you both. Now, you said there would be a cloth of some sort. You've got five minutes to find it, then we're going down to the station to sort this whole matter out. I'm going to get to the bottom of this, come Hell or high water!”
“I strongly recommend the latter over the former,” I heard the Professor mumble.
Following the Professor, my first thought when I entered the door was of how Mister French would react when he came back to find his house in such a state. Vases were smashed. Paintings were bent and torn. The carpet was ripped up and bunched to one side.
The cellar door was a pile of splinters.
We searched through the carnage, both within the cellar and without, even making a quick dash upstairs – which was pristine, mind – but we could not find that cloth anywhere!
Resigned, the Professor yielded to the Sergeant's call and we went with the police to the station, a long house with holding cells along the side, offices on the other and a smattering of desks, chairs and bookshelves. We were locked into one of the cells while the Sergeant went over the notes.
Aside from the ticking of a mantel clock, the only other sound was a drunkard snoring loudly from a cell further down and the rattling of the windows as rain and wind foretold the approaching storm.
The Sergeant sat at his desk, writing on his pad, checking statements. Constable Peters offered us some tea while we were waiting.
“Hmm. It's a lot like science, it would seem,” the Professor said.
“Sorry? What is, Professor?”
“Police work. It's a lot like science. See how they observed first, took notes without any assumptions. They asked questions and wrote down statements. Now, back at the station here, as we would in our laboratory, he has a chance to go over the observations and piece everything together,” he almost chuckled, “And here we are, exhibits for examination.”
The mind is a resilient wonderful thing. Even in such a gloomy state, he was still able to draw parallels.
“Professor, I am concerned. What happens if we cannot find the cloth?”
“I don't know, laddie.”
“And what happens if we do find the cloth?”
“I don't know! I'm a scientist, not a sorcerer. My suspicion is that the cloth is what binds the beast, and that if it is destroyed then the beast has been unbound,” he said, “Say, do you remember in the cellar, how the room was in chaos yet the cloth was untouched? Hmm. Can you hand me that book of yours?”
I produced it from my satchel and let him read. His eyebrows danced again, wiggling excitedly as he found what he sought.
“The Binding is strong, and will continue to be so, if the Utility is maintained. The summoned Beast cannot directly break the Binding, nor the Utility. Be mindful, you, that the Being will seek other means to destroy his Yoke.”
“It cannot harm the cloth, so must do so through an agent.”
I started, “Like the lantern! It was pushed toward the cloth, to, what, set it on fire?”
“Yes. If we look at the pattern of behaviour, it appears to be growing in strength – first confined to the cellar, now breaking out of doors.”
“How strong can it get?”
“Hmm. I'm not an expert in ritualistic devices, since I mainly focus on the practical world over the esoteric, although I have a colleague,” he began, but was cut short by a thumping at the door.
“Peters! Peters!” the Sergeant yelled, his mutton-chops bristling, “Confound it! What is it now? Peters!”
“He certainly sounds like a scientist,” I said.
Constable Peters did not show. The thumping continued. He dropped his paper in a huff and marched over, throwing the door open.
“State your name and business!”
We peered through the bars to see an excited man, sweating heavily. He gibbered something unintelligible and sank to his knees.
“Another bloody drunkard. Must be a full Moon tonight. Constable! Put this one in with the other. Where in the blazes are you?”
“That's not drink talking. That's fear!” the Professor said, “Look, he's as white as a sheet.”
The Sergeant took out his truncheon and held it underneath the man's chin, “So you say. Well, if he's not drunk then he can jolly well talk, or he's going straight into the cell. Hear me? Calm yourself down and talk properly!”
The man stammered, “Th-th-there's a g-ghost! I seen a ghost!”
“Professor, if this is one of your tricks...”
> “He got hurt. Please, Guv!” he howled, clutching at the Policeman's pants.
“Pull yourself together, man! Who hurt who?”
“The ghost!”
“Enough! If there's a crime, then tell me what and where.”
The man calmed down enough to explain, “Chester. He's at the office. There was this ghost, big as a - a horse, only bigger! Black. It had red eyes and claws and teeth!”
“Did you say Chester?” the Professor asked, “From the paper?”
“Aye! He's bleedin'!”
“I think I know where the cloth went. Sergeant, we should go at once!”
Sergeant Hart growled, “We aren't going anywhere.”
“A man's soul is in peril!”
“I'll go myself.”
“We have cooperated in full, Sergeant.”
“Good. Continue to do so until I get back!”
“You don't know what you're going up against!” the Professor tried one last time, “Your cudgel may work well against a thief's skull, but, I ask you, how will it work against a minion of Hell?”
The man squealed, “Hurry, Guv! He's getting bashed 'bout ev'rywhere.”
The Sergeant swore, stomped on the floor, took his keys out and unlocked the cell door.
“Bah! Out with you! Come on. Any monkey business and I'll crown you myself! Constable! Oi, Waverley, where the devil is Peters?”
“Er, on the John, guv –”
“Bah! You'll do! You're coming too. Double time, all of you!”
The storm was rumbling along steadily now. The Sergeant and the Constable put on their heavy jackets, so they were alright, but the rest of us had to trail along, squinting against the heavy drops of rain that soaked through our clothes.
We followed after the whimpering fellow as he led us to the Herald Press,