Jolimont Street Ghost

by Jeremy Tyrrell

and how is Mister Butterfield?”

  “We're both of us well, thank you for asking, young Master,” she replied, “You'll be hunting about for spooks again tonight, yes?”

  “Spooks, yes,” I said, completing the ritual, “Although we would be lucky to spot but a mouse. Tell me, any news of Mister French? Has he sent any word from overseas?”

  “No, young Master. I've not seen nor heard anyone around that house for a while now. Well, there have been a couple of salesmen, and the man from the census was tapping without answer. I've got some more of his mail all tied up. Here,” she said, “There's one in there from the bank, so I put that on the top of the pile so he can see it first thing. I think he will appreciate that I prioritise his mail.”

  I smiled and took the bundle, “I am sure he will.”

  It has always astonished me how such people are able to justify their snooping, disguising it, perhaps even fooling themselves into believing that it is an act of goodwill.

  “Thank you, Missus Butterfield. I had better get these inside,” I said, holding up the cases, “The Professor, you know.”

  I hoped that I did not sound impolite, ending the conversation so abruptly, only Missus Butterfield was the kind of woman who could easily talk your ear off, then get busy on the other one.

  “I understand, young Master, I understand. Get along with you and don't you keep that Professor of yours waiting. Say, before you go, I've often wondered if there was any person that the he is interested in?”

  “Well, that usually depends on the location we are in investigating. The activity can sometime be traced back to a former tenant,” I offered.

  “Ah, no. What I mean to ask is if he is currently engaged.”

  I looked over at the Professor, wagging his head, hauling in the magnetoscope box that I was supposed to be carrying

  “He's currently engaged getting the boxes inside the house.”

  “You misunderstand. Has your employer a particular interest outside of his work, then?”

  I shrugged, “Astronomy. Biology. Most of the physical sciences.”

  “A romantic interest?”

  “I am sorry?”

  “Does he have a lady friend?”

  “Oh. Oh, um, no. He might, I guess, but not that I know of,” I said, “We don't really talk about such matters. I think that he has, in the past.”

  “You should know these things.”

  “It's not really my business. Anyway, I had better –”

  “You should make it your business! Only it's not good for any man to be without a woman, especially at his age. Why, who would take care of him? You?”

  “No, not me. I only assist in the investigations.”

  “Then who? That's what has me worried.”

  “I cannot say for certain, Missus –”

  “Ah, don't you see? That's the problem with the world today, it is. Men get all wrapped up in their careers and don't consider that what they really need is a good woman. Now, a few friends of mine...”

  I listened to her ramble and nodded patiently, waiting for her to take a breath before I took my leave, “Yes, Missus Butterfield. I must get to work. Good evening.”

  The Professor was still taking stock of his equipment as I brought the remaining cases in and set them down on the table. We had made a map of the place some time back, and I took this out and lay it on the table, ready for the Professor to show me where he wanted me to set up.

  “I want to try something a little different today,” he mused, looking over the map, “I am going to set up equipment in various rooms and go from room to room to observe their readings.”

  “Forgive me, Professor. Is it not prudent to remain as still as possible during an investigation?”

  “Normally, I would advocate that, yes, and I will require you to continue to observe as you have been trained. The way I figure it, if I wear these socks,” he began, taking his shoes off and putting on a pair of thick, woollen socks, “I'll not make any noise, so won't affect your readings.”

  “Woollen socks? Professor, that could affect your electroscopes.”

  “Hmm. Indeed they could. Thank you for bringing that up, I'll be sure to discharge myself regularly. Any further objections?”

  “My ears are very sensitive, Professor,” I said, “Plus, the floorboards will shift as you tread. That will interfere with my readings.”

  “Hmm. Again, you're right. In that case, you will need to observe as far away from my route as possible.”

  We both looked at the map. The Professor's route took him from the upstairs bedrooms, past the study and back to the kitchen.

  “Apart from the garden out the back, I cannot see anywhere that might...”

  “The cellar, I should think.”

  I had not even included that on the map.

  “Really? Um. Really?”

  He looked up at me slowly. I knew what those eyes meant.

  “I mean, yes, Professor.”

  We had not visited the cellar before, primarily because there were plenty of other, more comfortable rooms in the house to investigate. Cellars are cramped, smelly places that no one wants to visit, let alone sit in to observe for hours.

  And there was always the possibility of rats, a concern that I vocalised.

  “Vermin are the very thing we should be looking for! Do they make noise? Do they move? Can they interact with their environment? Of course, laddie! Their actions are commonly mistaken for things unworldly and, this being a control, we can document the sounds and behaviours of these creatures, so rather than shunning them and lamenting your lot, you'll make observational notes of any creatures you come across, no matter how unsavoury!”

  “Yes, Professor.”

  “Now stop whining and start acting like a scientist!”

  That was all there was to the discussion.

  Anything further I might add or ask would only ignite his temper, “Yes, Professor.”

  The sun had disappeared, the night was still. Jolimont Street was noisy during the day, what with the printing works only a few streets away. Early in the morning, even as the Professor and I would be finishing up our investigation, the boys would stream in from all around to fetch their piles of papers to sell on the city corners.

  Throughout the rest of the day the constant stream of traffic, of horses and gigs and passers-by, sounded like the city was chatting to itself in some archaic, lost language.

  At night, however, the patrons went home, the journalists parked their notepads and packed their cameras, and a welcome quiet replaced the buzz. The occasional chatter of a hansom passing barely penetrated the walls of Mister French's house, and unless one was in the front room, one might consider the world outside to have disappeared.

  I have a hunch that the quietude was a result of the neighbours' proximity, that the threat of being the subject of Missus Butterfield's razor tongue meant windows were shuttered, conversations held at respectable levels.

  That was one of the Professor's primary reasons to investigate. The level of external contamination, for any investigation, is ideally zero. Being a young, well-maintained house, it did not groan and creak as much as others, there were no gaps in the plaster to let in the wind, the heavy curtains were not moth-ridden and were more than adequate for blocking the light from the street-lamps.

  “An ideal control,” the Professor had said, “Any successful experimental campaign, be it for equipment or for observation, will require a control for calibration. One cannot make a comparison without something against which to compare, hmm?”

  It was from one of his old lectures, for sure, and he never grew tired of relating it to me, and it was with this thought in my mind that I descended the stairs, arms full of equipment, into the cellar.

  The Cellar

  I had to make three trips, for without six arms, I could not possibly hold the hygrometer, the barometer, the thermometer, the lantern, my notepad, watch and pencil as well as the vibrometer and electroscope.

 
Thank Goodness the Professor did not require me to bring the magnetoscope and camera as well!

  Muttering under my breath, for fear the Professor might mistake my annoyance for ingratitude – I was, and am, very grateful for the employment – I made my last trip to the bottom of the steps, made sure my lantern was full of oil, checked that the watch was wound and looked about for a place to sit.

  I spied a large, rusted milk can, about the right size for a seat, wedged up in the back corner underneath a crate filled with empty bottles which, in turn, was covered by an old rag.

  On top of all of this was a smooth, heavy stone, holding everything down. The whole arrangement appeared almost as a shrine, precariously and deliberately placed.

  Now, I was not about to stand the whole time and while we did promise Mister French to leave his house in the same state in which we found it, I considered the removal of a stone, a crate of bottles, and an old rag to be of no great significance.

  I hooked my lantern on a nail in the roof, set my notepad to one side, and lifted the stone. It was astonishingly heavy given its size, much like lead, and I struggled to lower it onto the ground.

  The rag was much lighter. On closer inspection, the linen I was shifting was made of a curious cloth, very closely woven with small figures of stars, cursive shapes and symbols embroidered in intricate patterns. It was greatly aged and felt so delicate, as though it might tear under its own weight.

  I set the bundle down on the floor. For all I knew, it could have been a precious heirloom for the French family, even though being left out in the open like that was only asking for rats, mice and moths to