“I hope that you are wearing your lucky underpants, Rupert,” muttered Urban-Smith through gritted teeth as we hurtled homewards through the London traffic, “or at the very least, your waterproof ones.”
*
Once safely back inside number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, Urban-Smith and I retired to the living room with a tray of tea and biscuits, waiting for our nervous systems to recover from the journey.
“Mrs Gorshkov is a splendid woman,” I mused.
“As you say, Rupert.”
“And she corroborates Dr Grove’s version of events.”
“Indeed she does.”
“So,” said I, reaching for the digestives, “you can reassure Dr Grove that his concerns are unfounded. The autopsy confirms that the Professor died from multiple strokes, we have independent testimony as to the circumstances surrounding the death, and I have furnished you with an explanation as to the bizarre presentation.”
“How do you account for Dr Grove’s premonition of impending doom?”
“Actually, I have given that some thought,” said I, “and I believe that I may have an answer.”
“Do tell, Rupert.”
“I once read in New Scientist magazine of dogs that are able to predict when their owners are to suffer a seizure, the dogs apparently displaying changes in behaviour minutes, or even hours, before the fit occurs. Perhaps Dr Grove is part toy poodle.”
“It would certainly explain his excitable temperament.”
“In your capacity as a paranormal researcher, have you much experience of sensitives?”
“I have devoted a little time to the subject, but that is not really my field of interest,” he replied. “My particular area of expertise is cryptocartography.”
“The study of secret maps?”
“The mapping of that which is hidden. I am particularly interested in the distribution of underground rivers and their concordance with areas of paranormal potency. I have published several monographs on the subject.”
Clearly we had struck upon an area of particular fascination to him, and he leaned forward eagerly, his eyes bright and his hands busy before him as he spoke.
“It is my opinion,” said he, “that turbulent underground water flow gives rise to charged particles within surrounding bedrock, creating an electromagnetic lattice, the intersections of which often correspond to sites of significant preternatural or psychic activity.”
“Goodness!” I exclaimed. “You’re talking about Ley Lines.” I threw back my head and crowed in derision. “Whatever next? Little green men and poltergeists, no doubt.”
Urban-Smith was unbowed by my scepticism.
“It is an undeniable fact,” said he, “that there are geographical areas whence originates an abundance of reported hauntings, ghost sightings and (yes, my dear Rupert) poltergeists. For some years, the theory of Ley Lines was touted as an explanation, but it is my contention that these areas are those where underground river currents, and therefore geopathic electromagnetic vibrations, are at their strongest. Furthermore, I believe that the moon exerts a powerful influence over subterranean water flow, producing a cyclical tidal fluctuation that reaches its peak when the moon displays its fullest countenance. As a result, these geopathic vibrations are enhanced, which is why the full moon appears to exert such a profound effect on the psyche of certain individuals, hence the term, ‘lunatic.’”
Understanding dawned upon me. “You are suggesting that lunacy is caused by an increase in these vibrations, rather than direct exposure to the moon itself.”
“I am.”
“Vibrations of the sort that may be detected by a sensitive soul such as Dr Grove, for example.”
“Precisely, Rupert. And it just so happens that this year’s St Onker’s Dinner and Dance took place on the night of the full moon.”
◆◆◆
5. THE HUMMINGBIRD’S WRISTWATCH
Wednesday 25th October
I rose bright and early on Wednesday morning and was delighted to find that Mrs Denford had prepared two full English. Urban-Smith was already at the kitchen table, browsing the internet on his laptop.
“Good morning, Fairfax. What are you doing?”
“Morning, Rupert,” he replied without looking up. “I am searching for poisons which could induce a stroke. I have found a few that might mimic the symptoms, but none likely to cause one, other than rat poison of course, and I should think that would be easily detectable.”
“Do you suspect that Professor Gorshkov has been poisoned?”
“Not really. I was merely indulging my curiosity.”
After demolishing breakfast, we parted company, and I showered and dressed before braving the London drizzle and walking the mile and a half to St Clifford’s.
My morning was spent examining the body of a young lady who had succumbed to asphyxiation when her asthma inhaler became lodged in her windpipe, and I only barely resisted the temptation to record the cause of death as ‘irony.’
In the afternoon, I acted as expert witness at Crown Court, arguing with the defendant’s solicitor that the deceased’s eczema had not contributed to her death as strongly as had her strangulation by the defendant.
Arriving back at number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews a little before five, I found Urban-Smith at the kitchen table, fiddling with his laptop computer and a black plastic speaker-unit bearing the words, ‘SubGrumble 50 Subwoofer System.’ He startled as I pulled out a chair to sit down.
“Rupert! I did not hear you approach. You are like an urban ninja homunculus.”
“Thank you... I think. What are you playing with?”
“This?” He motioned with his hand. “This is a modified subwoofer, capable of producing vibrations down to five hertz, similar to that removed from Professor Gorshkov’s laboratory. It is used to determine a person’s psychic sensitivity. Would you care for a demonstration?”
“Yes, please.”
At this moment, Mrs Denford entered the kitchen to start preparing supper.
“Yuck!” she said, indicating Urban-Smith’s SubGrumble 50. “I do hope you’re not going to use that horrible contraption.”
“Indeed we are, Mrs Denford. You may wish to retreat to your room for a few minutes. I recall that you were rather sensitive to the vibrations.”
“You want to be careful near that thing, Doctor,” she cautioned. “It made my unmentionables jitter like a hummingbird’s wristwatch.”
And with a surprising turn of speed for a lady of her vintage, she was away up the stairs faster than a whippet with a sausage.
Urban-Smith cleared his throat to recapture my attention. “Shall we proceed?”
“What does this demonstration involve, Fairfax?”
“I’m about to play a three-minute sequence of infrasonic signals, and I would be grateful if you would relay your impressions. We will start at sixteen and a half hertz and increase in increments up to nineteen and a half.”
I crossed my legs. “You’re going to subject me to three minutes of jittering unmentionables?”
“With the amount of time you spend at your club, I should think you are well accustomed to jittering unmentionables. Let us embark.”
Urban-Smith clicked an icon upon his computer desktop labelled, ‘Wavebreaker,’ and a digital simulation of an oscilloscope appeared onscreen.
The readout stated 16.5 hertz, and a timer began counting down from fifteen seconds, at the end of which time the readout changed from 16.5 to 16.75 hertz and the countdown resumed.
Urban-Smith watched me with keen interest, and as the frequency rose to 17 hertz, I was aware of a slight discomfort behind my eyes, my heart quickened and my mouth became dry. At 17.25 hertz, the feeling intensified, and I was seized with the extraordinary conviction that some awful misfortune was about to befall me.
“Good God!” I exclaimed, gripping the table tightly.
“Keep with it, Rupert,” hissed Urban-Smith through gritted teeth. “It will soon pass.”
; The next thirty seconds seemed to last an hour, but as the wavelength reached 17.75, the nausea and dread abated slightly, and by 18.25 hertz I felt calm again. However, once the frequency reached 19.0, something extraordinary happened.
Behind Urban-Smith, there rose a hazy, black figure, swaying back and forth like a drunkard. I blinked to clear my vision, which had become unfocused, but the apparition remained, its shape ebbing and flowing.
What devilry was this? Run, my mind insisted, flee from this place, but my limbs were frozen in fear, and all I could do was sit and gaze upon the spectral apparition that had reared up to menace me.
“There’s something behind you, Fairfax,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.
“And behind you too, Rupert.”
His words shocked me from my paralysis. I whisked around, but there was nothing there, and when I turned back again, the shadowy figure was nowhere to be seen. The frequency had, by this time, risen to 19.25, and as the readout changed to 19.5, I breathed a sigh of relief.
“So,” asked Urban-Smith, terminating the program, “what do you say?”
“I say that I have just seen a ghost.”
“Ha!” He clapped his hands. “Isn’t it extraordinary?”
“That would be one word for it. What exactly happened?”
“I have exposed you to infrasound at an intensity of a hundred and twenty decibels. At around seventeen and a half hertz, one will experience feelings of nausea and trepidation. Nineteen hertz is the resonant frequency of the human eyeball, and at this wavelength, visual disturbance is often reported, usually described as a ghostly apparition. For the majority, the threshold for detecting these frequencies is around seventy decibels, but some people experience effects at levels as low as twenty.”
“People such as Dr Grove,” I clarified.
“Exactly, Rupert. I published a monograph on the subject last year. Perhaps you saw it in the medical press?”
“Did you submit it to Soapy Spankers?”
“Not on this occasion.”
“Then I may have missed it.”
“Allow me to expound. I placed an advert in several paranormal journals, asking for subjects who claimed to possess psychic abilities. Those who responded to the advert were enrolled into a double-blind, placebo-controlled trial.
“Each subject was asked to listen to a piece of music and identify any musical passages or phrases that seemed to affect them emotionally. Half of the subjects were played music interspersed with low-amplitude, oscillating frequencies in the seventeen to nineteen hertz range, and the other half were played the untainted music. The proportion of those who were consistently able to identify the hidden signals was forty-four percent in the allegedly psychic group but only eight percent in the control group.”
I was very impressed though a little sceptical. “Your results are obviously significant, but what conclusions can you draw from that?”
Urban-Smith scratched his nose thoughtfully. “I have been cautious about how to interpret these findings. Clearly there exists a minority of the population with an enhanced sensitivity to these vibrations, and this is self-interpreted as psychic abilities such as clairvoyance, mediumship and aura reading. As to whether these vibrations are a manifestation of paranormal phenomena, or merely mistaken for such, remains a contentious issue.”
Before I could probe further, there came a knock upon the front door. Mrs Denford had withdrawn her unmentionables to a safe distance, and so it fell to me to trickle through to the hall to admit our visitor.
Opening the door, I was rather surprised to find Dr Grove standing upon the doorstep, yet relieved to see him looking decidedly less haggard than at our previous meeting.
“Good evening, Dr Harker. Is Mr Urban-Smith at home?”
I had barely opened my mouth to answer when Urban-Smith’s voice thundered forth from behind me. “Come in, dear fellow, come in.” He directed Dr Grove into the kitchen and invited him to be seated. “How are you, my friend?”
“Very well, thank you,” the doctor replied, eyeing the SubGrumble 50 with curiosity.
In Mrs Denford’s absence, Urban-Smith volunteered me to make tea while he introduced our guest to his infrasonic apparatus. Dr Grove was exposed to the delights of crescendo 30, which was the same as crescendo 120 but at a level of only thirty decibels. I was unable to detect anything as the wavelength crept from 16.5 up to 19.5, but Dr Grove grimaced and shuddered like a bulldog chewing a lemon, and Urban-Smith and I were both convinced of his sensitive disposition.
As expected, Dr Grove found the experience gruelling and had to be resuscitated with tea and biscuits. Once recombobulated, he listened intently as I explained the late Professor’s autopsy findings along with an explanation of coning and fou rire prodromique.
He looked to Urban-Smith for confirmation. “Do you agree with Dr Harker that Trofim’s death was due to natural causes, and that there was no malign intention behind it?”
“Unless new evidence comes to light, it seems the obvious conclusion.”
“Thank the Gods.” Dr Grove sagged visibly with relief. “I am so grateful that this agony of uncertainty is at an end at last. How can I ever repay you?”
“As to that, have no fear,” said Urban-Smith. “You shall have my invoice by the close of business tomorrow.”
*
And so, dear reader, it seemed that the matter was resolved. Sadly, dis aliter visam: fate had chosen otherwise.
◆◆◆
6. DEAD AS A DOLFIN
Tuesday 31st October
I awoke on Monday morning in good spirits, having had a peaceful weekend without Urban-Smith, who was the keynote speaker at a scepticism conference at Utrecht University and would not be darkening the doorstep again until the following evening.
Arriving at the mortuary a little after eight the following morning, I had barely switched on my computer when my mobile telephone rang. The call was from a PC Hubble requesting my presence at the home of one Dr Fedya Dolfin, who had been discovered dead in his bed.
Seizing my Gladstone bag, I hurried to the main entrance of the hospital to hail a taxi. I motioned to the nearest vehicle, and the passenger door was pushed open by a swarthy, eastern European gentleman with a shaved head and broad grin.
“Jest to prawdziwy groch-souper, Szef (it’s a real pea-souper, Chief),” he said, jutting his chin towards the clear cobalt London sky.
We arrived a mere fifty minutes later at number forty-five, Frampton Street, Putney, the house easily identified due to the presence of two police cars in the street outside and several concerned neighbours lurking at the kerb. I ambled to the front door, where a sullen constable ushered me across the threshold.
The hall and stairwell were narrow and sparsely decorated, but the carpets were plush and of good quality. I could see that the doctor was in the habit of removing his shoes at the door, and I observed his overcoat and hat hanging upon hooks just within the vestibule. From the front room, there emanated the sound of muffled conversation.
I paused to slip on overshoes and disposable gloves before ascending the stairs to be greeted by PC Hubble, a tall, muscular officer, who introduced himself and indicated the doctor’s room at the front of the house, overlooking the street. As soon as I entered, the aroma left me in no doubt that the occupant had been dead for at least two days.
The bedroom walls were painted pale green, and the carpet was a subtle hue of light beige. Framed photographs of children sat upon the dressing table, and a painting of yellow flowers hung over the bed. A flat-screen television was attached to the opposite wall alongside a door leading to an en-suite bathroom.
Dr Dolfin lay supine upon a double bed, clothed only in a pair of blue boxer shorts. He was a Caucasian gentleman whom I estimated to be in his mid-fifties, sporting a blunt nose, full lips and wavy, brown hair, thinning on the top and shot through with grey. He was of average build but flabby around the edges, and I gained the impression of one who was rather more inclined to the G&T
than the clean and jerk. I searched the dressing table, the bedside drawers and beneath the bed but found no medication.
My first job was to verify death, which I was able to do at a glance and a sniff, though I went through the motions of feeling for a pulse. Dr Dolfin was cold and flaccid, indicating that he had been dead for more than thirty-six hours. Marbling of the skin extended from his abdomen to his chest and neck, and his bloated, blue tongue protruded as if he were blowing a raspberry.
PC Hubble hovered at the doorway. “When did he die, Doc?”
I checked my watch. “I would estimate forty-eight to ninety-six hours ago, so somewhere between Friday morning and Sunday morning. Judging by the stage of decomposition, probably nearer Friday than Sunday.”
The PC opened his notebook.
“According to his colleagues,” he said, “Dr Dolfin left work at around six o’clock on Friday evening. None of the neighbours saw him arrive home, and nobody has seen him since. His wife was staying with their son over the weekend. She found him when she arrived back this morning.”
I turned my attention to the doctor once more. I rotated his head looking for injuries, but found none. There was no vomit or discolouration around his mouth to indicate poisoning, and there were no obvious injuries on either arm or leg, nor on his chest or abdomen.
PC Hubble assisted me in turning Dr Dolfin onto his side. I saw no evidence of trauma, and the marked lividity down his back indicated that he had died in the recumbent position.
“Any ideas, Doc?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I need to open him up and have a good rummage around.”
At this juncture, there came to our ears the sound of a car screeching to a halt nearby, and within moments, the air was blue with angry profanity signalling the arrival of the duty officer, Detective Inspector Gadget.
DI Gadget (pronounced Gad-jay) was a shade under six feet and broad in both chest and belly. His shiny pate was circled by a perimeter of light brown hair, and a pencil moustache lurked beneath his flared nostrils. His lack of social skills and his refusal to concede to any contradictory opinion had ensured that he rose no higher in the ranks. It was his habit to bark at all and sundry like an enraged seal, and the concept of personal space was as alien to him as are oven gloves to a mackerel.
Laugh Out Dead Page 4
