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.
“I 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 broken 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 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 a 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 alrig
ht? 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 you’re 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