I knew the man. His shop was in Islington, and he was really nothing more than a glorified opium peddler. I grew more concerned for my friend’s condition. He noted this in my expression, of course, and went on to clarify himself.
“It became apparent that I required something a bit stronger than your roots and herbs.”
I looked at Holmes with disapproval, but he brushed straight past it. “He prescribes a tincture of Turkish poppy and cannabis,” he continued. “However, when I requested a dram of this medicine, he explained that he’d been out of supply since before the New Year. I found this very curious indeed, as he has never failed to satisfy my need on any prior occasion, and I asked him how such a thing had transpired. He then related to me that a large shipment had been sent north, and that his usual suppliers had failed to refill his inventory ever since, due to exceedingly high demand and the accompanying inflation of price.”
“Sent to Inswich, I’ll wager.”
“Correct, Watson,” Holmes replied, rubbing his eyes. “Now pack your things. We have a train to catch.”
As I readied myself to depart with him for Inswich, I could sense his rising agitation, akin to those Thoroughbreds at Aston waiting with impatience at the starting line for the race to begin. “Do hurry along,” he said, picking up a few of his own things, including the revolver he sometimes carried.
“Are you expecting difficulties?” I asked.
“I expect nothing,” he replied.
At the Marylebone station, we purchased our tickets for Barrington, the stop nearest Inswich, an otherwise rather isolated hamlet. I picked up the London Mail from a smoke shop to occupy myself on the arduous seven-hour journey.
As he stood restless beside me, Holmes brought to my attention a fellow passenger some distance down the tracks.
“Isn’t that Dr. Mashbourne?” he said.
I looked up from where I had given the man at the shop a halfpence for the paper and saw our old acquaintance, Arthur Mashbourne, doctor of medicine at Charing Cross. We made our way through the morning crowd to greet him.
I recalled Mashbourne as a thin man of enormous appetites, ruddy of complexion, who now gave the appearance of having been squeezed into his trousers and jacket like ground meat stuffed into casings of sausage. Pleasant enough a gentleman when engaged in dinner or drink, he would, if deprived of either for too long, become so single-minded in their pursuit as to be most gently described as “off-putting.”
“Gentlemen! What a pleasure to see you,” he said, clasping our hands with vigor. “And where might you be traveling?”
“To Inswich, with you,” said Holmes.
“How did you know my destination?” asked the startled Mashbourne. “One of your clever deductions, I suspect. Let’s hear it.”
“Merely the ticket in your breast pocket,” Holmes replied, and without pausing asked, “What do you make of this rash of insomnia they’re having up there? That is the reason for your journey?”
“Yes. I go to see a patient, an old friend who has contracted this sleeplessness. A most unusual epidemic, from what little I’ve gathered. It’s the subject of your inquiry as well, then?”
“Indirectly, yes,” I said. “It seems they have cornered the market on a certain soporific which our friend Holmes means to acquire.”
“You’re having trouble sleeping as well, Holmes?” asked Mashbourne, concerned.
“I go to satisfy my curiosity,” he said, frowning at me, “not my craving for sleep.”
I decided it was better not to dispute this point of fact, and an awkward moment passed before our train pulled in and the conductor called for all to board.
It was unavoidable that we share a berth with Mashbourne. Closing our compartment, we made ourselves as comfortable as possible for the passage to Inswich. I looked to my paper as Holmes took out his pipe and began filling it. Mashbourne removed his coat and produced a silver flask, offering it around.
“Brandy?” he said.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“Holmes?”
Holmes was deep in thought and made no effort to respond.
“I find that when I have trouble sleeping, brandy can be of use,” the doctor said, taking a swig.
“Yes, for some,” I said, “though I prefer pestled valerian in a warm chamomile tea.”
“That could be equally effective,” said Mashbourne, taking another draft, “though not as pleasurable.”
We changed trains at King’s Cross for the remainder of the trip north. As we reboarded, I asked Mashbourne, “Do you have any theories as to what could cause such a curious epidemic?”
“I shall require more facts before making a diagnosis,” he replied.
“Facts we have,” said Holmes perfunctorily. “The town: Inswich. The time of year: spring. The weather: rainy. The duration of the epidemic: three months. That would put its inception sometime around mid-January.”
“Are you suggesting this is a seasonal disorder?” said Mashbourne, clearly engaged on the problem now. “Perhaps a respiratory condition, such as pleurisy?”
Holmes let out a “humph” and drew at his pipe, leaving Mashbourne and me to continue the discussion of various pulmonary distresses.
The train from King’s Cross picked up speed, belching black smoke into the blue morning sky. As the city gave way to the countryside, I buried my head in my newspaper, reading of the previous day’s events. Mashbourne made a pillow of his coat and was soon fast asleep, the brandy having served its purpose.
Holmes, meanwhile, continued to puff on his pipe and occasionally emitted another “humph.” At each grumble, I looked up from my reading, thinking he was about to expound on some facet of the case. But he never did, and I was left to ponder in silence what possibilities he might be eliminating.
As morning moved into afternoon, we adjourned to the dining car for supper, where Holmes turned the conversation once more to Inswich. As Mashbourne devoured his roast beef, bread pudding, and apple sausages, Holmes recounted all manner of facts and figures about the town, speaking of the place with such passion that one would scarcely realize he had never set foot there. But it was all digesting in that exceptional mind of his, just as surely as the tremendous quantities of food that now filled Mashbourne’s stomach.
The population of Inswich was small, recounted Holmes, barely three hundred people. The town had been founded by a Roman general as a way station on the road to and from London. The town square had been built on the site of an ancient druidic temple, third century A.D. Before the railway had come to Barrington, a town some ten miles or so to the east, Inswich had had a population of several thousand, with produce and livestock as the chief exports, shipped south to market via canal. But that day had passed, and the town had fallen into decline, until now the few residents remaining tended the various great estates that dotted the north of England, or farmed their own meager plots of land.
We arrived in Barrington at half-past four, with the sun hidden by drab gray clouds. Leaving the platform, we secured a small coach for the final leg of our journey to Inswich, which would last another three-quarters of an hour.
“If you gentlemen are of a mind,” said Mashbourne, “I may secure you lodging at Carthon, my friend’s estate, not far from here, where I shall be a guest.”
“No thank you, Doctor,” said Holmes before I could accept. “We shall take lodging in Inswich. I should like to find a central location which can afford us the greatest ease of access to the townspeople.”
“Very well,” said Mashbourne. “But you must dine with me this evening. I should very much like you both to meet the Lady Carthon, a most exquisite hostess.”
We parted company with the doctor in Inswich, agreeing to call at Carthon at eight bells, then set about securing ourselves lodging at the Black Hart, a small inn located at the center of the town—a prime spot, observed Holmes, from which we could conduct all necessary business.