This had all begun in Devonshire, as far as Miss Featherstone was concerned. Sybil had just arrived, without warning, saying she was tired and needed a rest. No explanations given. It was only the end of the first week then, but the startled incredulous look was already in her eyes, and it stayed and grew.
Miss Featherstone watched in helpless bewilderment. Four days and nights of incessant wakefulness, then Sybil hurried back to London like a hunted creature, and Miss Featherstone panted after. Doctors, specialists. But Sybil wouldn’t touch the drugs they prescribed. She began going to night clubs again, back to her old haunts.
Miss Featherstone had followed, herself sick for lack of sleep, and watched her niece slowly dying on her feet. It was in a night club at three in the morning that the words first flitted into Miss Featherstone’s mind:
Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep!”
Two days later Sybil was dead. The inquest followed. Miss Featherstone told them all she knew and held her tongue about what she thought. But the conviction was growing in her that something was wrong.
Once she had made up her mind she was like a bloodhound on the trail. Sybil’s past life began to come into view. Men, men, and more men! Miss Featherstone was shocked at the number of them and the way Sybil had treated them. A heartless little sensualist, and a golddigger, too! If one of these men had shot her or stuck a knife in her, Miss Featherstone would have been prepared to drop it. But it hadn’t been done cleanly like that; and Miss Featherstone went on.
It was from one of these men — a young fellow who had really loved Sybil and wanted to marry her — that Miss Featherstone first heard of Dr. Hussman. She learned the doctor had spent a weekend with Sybil just before it all happened. So she went to Harley Street.
Miss Featherstone had changed her character for this interview. She was no longer her brisk self, but a frail vague old lady who leaned on a heavy ebony walking stick. Dr. Hussman was a dark delicate man of about 35, with small feet and hands and immense nervous energy. He received her with professional apathy.
After a nervous glance at all the couches and chairs, the bulbs, coils, and projectors in the room, she sat down on the chair he indicated. Dr. Hussman wanted to know her age, if she was married, her operations, where she lived, her occupation.
Finally he asked, “And now what is the exact trouble, Miss Featherstone?”
Miss Featherstone told him, in rather garrulous fashion, what she had rehearsed before her looking glass. “I just can’t keep awake, Doctor. It’s been like that for months now. When I pick up a book or my sewing or anything, I suddenly doze off. It even happens when I’m talking to people. And it’s very embarrassing. I know I’m getting old, Doctor, but even so, it isn’t natural to be like that, is it?”
“No, it isn’t natural,” he agreed. “If you’ll just take off your hat I’ll examine you before we go any further.”
Miss Featherstone took off her hat; he got up and came around behind her. She had to brace herself for the ordeal. Apart from her suspicions she found him physically repulsive; there was something evil about his greedy eyes. And now his hands were exploring the back of her neck. Very gently. But she could feel the tensile strength in them. She thought of those hands on Sybil’s body, wondered if he already knew she was Sybil’s aunt, and she shuddered.
“Is that a sensitive place?” he asked.
“No, no,” Miss Featherstone answered.
“But you jumped then, didn’t you?”
“It was nothing. I’m afraid I’ve always been high-strung.”
“Oh, indeed! Well, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The hands continued their exploration. A few more questions. Any pain here? Any stiffness there? Then they stopped. Dr. Hussman sat down at his desk.
“What made you come to me, Miss Featherstone?”
There was a suspicious look in his eyes now, and Miss Featherstone answered warily.
“Well, Dr. Uttley — he’s our family doctor — he sent me up to see Sir Gilbert Chamberlain. And Sir Gilbert sent me to you.”
“Oh! I don’t remember that Sir Gilbert has sent me any of his patients before.”
“Well, he said you’d had some very successful results. I do hope you can do me some good, Doctor.”
She looked at him earnestly and was relieved to see that the suspicious look had vanished from his eyes.
“I’m going to be quite frank with you, Miss Featherstone,” he told her. “I don’t know definitely that I can cure you; but if I can, then I can do it easily.”
“Is the treatment very expensive?” she asked nervously.
“The treatment is five guineas a time, but you won’t require more than three. If I have not been successful after three treatments I shall know you are not susceptible to my methods.”
“What is the treatment, Doctor?” she inquired.
“Just a ray,” he replied. “A form of stimulation. Quite harmless. The first treatment will only take three minutes, so I might as well give it to you now.”
Miss Featherstone felt herself go pale. She had to swallow twice before she could answer. “I’d like it now,” she said at last.
She watched him get up. She was wondering which of these nightmarish instruments he was intending to use. Would it be the same one he had used on Sybil? But it wasn’t any of the apparatus built into the room. Instead, he picked up a case which might have contained a portable phonograph. But the instrument inside was more like a machine gun on a stand, with a thin stumpy barrel. He arranged it behind a chair with a low back. Now he was plugging an electric cord into the wall.
Miss Featherstone clenched her teeth. It had always puzzled her how anyone could have done the damage without Sybil’s knowing. But this portable thingamajig could be used anywhere. It could be plugged into a socket in a hotel bedroom. She could picture it all in her mind now: Sybil lying in bed asleep; the man beside her rising stealthily, working skillfully in the dark; and then the instrument killing her sleep — killing it while sleep was on her.
“All ready now.” Dr. Hussman spoke softly. “Just step over here and sit in this chair.”
Miss Featherstone walked over with the help of the ebony stick. He was bending down now, switching the current on; but no light seemed to come out of the barrel.
“Is it working?” she asked, “I don’t see any light.”
“This ray isn’t visible to the naked eye,” he explained. “Just sit down, please. You won’t know anything is happening.”
She sat down and tried to look behind her.
“Now, bend your neck forward a little.”
She didn’t move. But the nimble fingers were adjusting her head exactly where he wanted it. There was a padded chin-rest to keep the head in place. And now something cool touched the back of her head in the exact spot where Sir Gilbert had told her the hypothalamus was located.
It was too much. Her nerve failed. She slipped out of the chair in a realistic faint.
Of course, she hadn’t really fainted at all. She wanted time to think before she risked anything more. Most apologetic she was, murmuring about a touch of the sun the day before; and Dr. Hussman had agreed she had better not start the treatment until she was quite well again. And so, still apologizing, she had escaped.
After that she spent a whole day in her hotel bedroom wondering what to do next. She was certain Dr. Hussman was the man. But how was she ever to persuade anybody else she was right? Go back to Sir Gilbert? He’d probably just pop her into a mental home. Go to Scotland Yard? A fine chance of being listened to there!
No, she would have to go on by herself. There was no other way. Risky? Yes, but she was an old woman now, and there was no reason to suppose anything very grand was still ahead of her. And she could write it all down in her diary. Then, if anything did happen, her diary would tell them everything.