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“And could you describe this creature for me?” asked Holmes.

“Oh, he can do better than that,” said his mother. “Show him, son.”

The little boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, which he carefully unfolded and handed to Holmes. Holmes studied it closely before handing it to me to examine as well. It was an impressive drawing, very realistically done, with a charcoal stick I assumed, of a quite hideous, winged creature with a snarling dog’s face—certainly a most disturbing picture to have come from the mind of a child.

“He draws it all day long,” said his mother.

I felt rather skeptical that anyone so young could render such a monstrosity in considerable detail, especially based on his own alleged experience, and chose to believe instead that one of the superstitious townsfolk must have been telling this child fairy tales.

“Your son is quite the artist,” I said, politely patting the boy on the head.

“Yes, he is,” said Holmes, turning to the boy. “May we keep this, young man?”

The boy looked again to his mother, who nodded to Holmes. “By all means, sir.”

“Well, it is all most curious,” I said as we left the boy and his mother. “But we will have to continue our investigations tomorrow, I’m afraid, as it’s half-past six now and we must be at Carthon by eight.”

“Punctual as always, eh, Watson?” remarked Holmes.

“Etiquette demands the attempt.”

After returning to the Black Hart and changing into more suitable dinner attire, we returned to the town square to search for a means of transport. There we found that the central area now contained an enormous bonfire, nearly twenty feet high, which lit the night for a great distance all around. A dozen or so men huddled in small groups tended the monstrous blaze. Once again Dr. Breuer’s article on mass hysteria came to my mind, and I would have remarked on it to Holmes, but the conflagration seemed hardly unusual after all that we had seen and heard this day.

I asked the men where we might find transport, and one pointed out a small open transom parked nearby. Its driver was a middle-aged chap with a gap in his teeth and a single thick brow like a long black caterpillar extending across both his eyes. He seemed extremely reluctant to ferry us to Carthon at first, asking why we should want to take such a long ride, then offering excuses as to his horses being tired and it being awfully near to his own dinnertime. A guinea from my waistcoat quickly transformed his hesitation into compliance.

He opened the side door on his small vehicle and assisted us in boarding. “Who am I to tell such fine gentlemen where to go and when? Right this way, sirs.”

As we made the journey, our talkative driver continued nervously chatting—about the weather, the price of sheep and cattle, his mother-in-law in Barrington—but made no mention of insomnia. He likely would have gone right on expounding to us ad infinitum had not Holmes asked him, “Have you been sleeping well of late?”

“No one sleeps well in Inswich, sir,” the man solemnly replied.

“And what do you suppose might be the cause?” I asked casually, presuming a reluctance to reply on his part.

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” he answered. “I’m just a carriage man, y’know. ’Course, I do hear the odd bit, tales of beasts that prowl the night and the like.”

“We’ve heard the same stories,” I said.

“Old wives’ tales, don’t y’agree?” said the driver.

“Yes, of course, most assuredly,” I replied.

“Do you recall when these stories began?” Holmes asked.

“It was back in January, I believe, not long after the moon went clipped.”

“Went clipped?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. There’s the moon, then it’s clipped.”

“The lunar eclipse,” said Holmes, rather excited. “December twenty-seventh, was it not, Watson?”

“Yes. I believe so,” I said, trying to recall the precise date.

“That’s right,” said the driver. “It was all black for a long minute or two, and the old women went to church afterward, and fell down on their knees to pray for our souls. Wuhn’t long after I heard the missus tell me to leave a light on afore bed so’s to keep the devil hisself away.”

The discussion went no further, though I had no doubt Holmes’s mind was hard at work. Save for the clacking of the horses’ hooves and the turning of the transom wheels, we traveled on in silence. We arrived at Carthon House just before eight. A long stone driveway, with tall regal oaks lining both sides like sentries, led up to the magnificent estate, an enormous mansion ablaze with lights in nearly every window, of which the front prospect alone featured over a hundred—a welcoming beacon in the stark, moonless night.

“Extraordinary,” I remarked.

“Will you be wanting me to stay, sirs?” asked our driver as we disembarked.

“No, thank you,” said Holmes.

The man nodded, turned his transom around, and disappeared quickly back into the night.

“He seemed rather in a hurry to leave, did he not?” I remarked to Holmes.

“Did you notice the lump beneath the breast pocket of his long coat?” replied Holmes. “Unless I am mistaken, it was a revolver—quite at the ready by the way his right hand checked for its presence every minute or two.”

“Perhaps there really are beasts about?” I said, again in jest.

“That is one possibility,” said Holmes.

I simply shook my head in disbelief at him for not dismissing these tales of nocturnal fright out of hand.

As we climbed the stairs to the mansion’s entrance, the great door opened and Dr. Mashbourne appeared, accompanied by a footman.

“Splendid, splendid,” said Mashbourne as the footman took our coats and hats. “You’re right on time as always, Dr. Watson.”

Holmes grinned at me with that tight-lipped sour grin of his as we entered Carthon house.

The interior was every bit as magnificent as the exterior. A great chandelier hung over the ornate foyer, spilling light from dozens of candles.

“Must be the devil to keep that in good order,” I said, motioning as we walked through.

“That’s not even the largest of them,” said Mashbourne, “as you’ll see when we reach the dining hall.”

He led us into the drawing room and called for one of the servants to bring us some sherry. As we drank, I discussed with Mashbourne our various encounters in Inswich and the stories of the creature that haunted the townsfolk’s nights.

“A creature, you say? What sort of creature?”

Holmes took out the scrap of paper with the young boy’s drawing on it, and showed it to Mashbourne. He studied it closely, and I felt as I watched him that he was taking the whole thing rather too seriously.

“How long can a person continue without sleep?” asked Holmes.

“I’ve had single cases of some days,” I interjected, “even a week—you well know—though I daresay I’ve never encountered such a prolonged and widespread case as this, not even in the journals.”

“Nor I,” concurred Mashbourne, handing the drawing back to Holmes. “Have you formulated a hypothesis yet, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes,” replied Holmes, to my plain surprise.

“And what would that be?” said a gentle, soft voice behind us.

We turned, and there beheld a stunning woman of thirty years or so, with golden hair, shimmering blue eyes, and skin of translucent alabaster. She wore a pale dress the color of eggshells, with a high closed collar, and a delicate silver chain with a small black stone hanging ’round her neck. Like the myriad lights that filled her home, she gave off a veritable glow of warmth.

Even Holmes was silent, leaving it to Mashbourne to break the spell and make introductions.