“Lady Carthon, these are my good friends Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes. They are quite famous in London—”
“For solving many a notorious crime,” she said, completing his sentence. “I’m familiar with the reputation of the good Mr. Holmes. And what brings you two gentlemen to our humble Inswich?”
“A rumor that the place was overrun with beautiful women,” I said.
She laughed so easily as to make me blush. “You’re quite charming, Dr. Watson, really,” she replied.
“You flatter me, madam,” I replied, bowing my head, pleased that I had elicited such a pleasant response from so fair a lady.
The butler arrived, summoning us to dinner. We followed Lady Carthon like anxious suitors as she glided elegantly into the dining hall.
Once seated, we were indulged with the most excellent of meals, consisting of several courses, one following immediately upon the other. Mashbourne was in heaven. He said very little, merely nodding his understanding at what conversation there was, or grunting his approval of the variety of foods brought before us. As Holmes seemed lost in thought again, it was left to me to converse with Lady Carthon.
“Do you live here alone?” I asked, somewhat too forthrightly, I feared.
“Yes, alone,” she answered, betraying no embarrassment at my directness.
“And your husband?” I asked, noting the wedding band on her left hand. “Is he away traveling?”
“My husband was killed in Egypt, a year ago January,” she replied. “He was a captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Army. A most wonderful man.”
“My deepest sympathies, madam,” I said, chastened by her reply. “It must be difficult managing this large estate without him.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, “but I manage well enough.”
“Most assuredly,” I replied. “You must entertain often.”
“Oh, not often. I do have my dear friend Dr. Mashbourne call upon me occasionally, to deliver little tidbits of news from London, as well as personable guests such as yourself.”
Mashbourne nodded and smiled, his mouth too full to speak.
“Are you aware that the entire town of Inswich is suffering a sleep affliction?” interjected Holmes.
“Yes, of course I’m aware of it.”
“And tell me, madam,” continued Holmes, “do you sleep well yourself?”
She paused for a moment, then answered, “No, not well at all.”
Dr. Mashbourne cleared his throat. “Emily is the patient I mentioned to you on our journey north. Her husband and I served briefly together in Egypt.”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “You were not long in the service, if I remember correctly.”
“Eighteen months,” said Mashbourne.
“And how long has this sleepless condition persisted?” said Holmes to Lady Carthon.
“Quite some time,” she replied.
“Yet you only called upon Dr. Mashbourne quite recently?”
“It was of little concern before.”
“And now?” said Holmes.
“It’s become increasingly troublesome,” Lady Carthon replied.
“Do you remember the last time that you actually slept through the night?” said Holmes.
“It was January, I suppose.”
“Are you telling us, Emily, that you have not slept in three whole months?” said Mashbourne.
“How are you able to function?” I asked, incredulous. “Are you not perpetually exhausted?”
“Do you have any idea what it is that is keeping you awake?” Holmes continued, in a relentless manner I did not condone.
She seemed rather overwhelmed by this barrage of questions, for it seemed she was unsure how to reply.
“Have you heard the stories the townspeople tell, of a creature that haunts their sleep?” asked Holmes after a moment.
She hesitated again, then finally answered. “I have.”
“And what do you make of them?”
“I find them to be most disturbing.”
“You believe them?” I asked.
“That is why she has a light burning in every room, is it not, madam?” said Holmes.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure this must all sound quite silly to gentlemen from London, but I assure you it has been most frightening for me.”
“Please do explain,” said Holmes.
“It all began one night in late December,” she said, recomposing herself. “There was a total lunar eclipse. Many among the townspeople were unnerved by it, especially when the local priest, a sadly superstitious old man, I’m afraid, packed up his belongings and left us the very next day. I myself did not share their fears, having studied the stars somewhat, and stayed awake well into the night to witness the event. Afterward, I went to the drawing room for a glass of brandy, and as I made my way down the dark hallway, I suddenly felt a presence—very close by. It was a black shadow of a thing, and I felt it brush my neck. It frightened me very badly, of course, and I’m afraid I screamed quite loudly. My maidservant, Estella, came running out of her room with a lantern to see what all the ruckus was about, and as she approached, the thing simply disappeared.
“I was quite shaken, as you might expect, and allowed myself even a second glass of brandy, after which I returned to bed, believing by then that I had hallucinated the entire incident. But when I doused the lamp in my bedroom, I felt the presence return. I immediately relit the lamp, and once again the thing vanished, so I kept a light burning all through the night. I slept quite poorly, as you might guess, waking often to check that the lamp remained lit.
“The next evening, before retiring, I had my servants check the entire mansion for any open windows, unlocked doors, making sure they were all bolted shut. Once I was assured that all was secure, I doused my light and climbed into bed. It was only a moment later when I once again sensed the presence, and immediately lit the lamp.
“I then woke all the servants and instructed them to search the house. They found a single open door, with strange scrapings around the outside latch, like claw marks.
“This same ritual went on for the better part of a week, and each night a different door or window was found open. Finally, I instructed my servants to light a lamp in every room of the house and keep them lit all night, believing this to be the only way to scare off the invader.”
As she told her tale, Lady Carthon’s hand went several times to the stone on her necklace, and I saw it clearly for the first time then. It was an oddly shaped amulet, like a long teardrop, with flattened edges and a strange black color that oddly reflected no light.
“Your husband,” said Holmes, pressing on, “he gave you that necklace?”
She nodded, looking transfixed at the stone that hung from it. “It was an anniversary gift. Sent to me from Egypt. It arrived only a week or two after he died.”
“Were you told any of the circumstances of his death?” asked Holmes.
“Really, Holmes!” I said, quite forcefully.
“It’s all right, Doctor,” she said gently. “I was told he was murdered by grave robbers while on patrol somewhere near the Great Pyramids. But Arthur could tell you more. He was there.”
“I’m sure we can discuss this later,” I said, hoping to spare the poor woman any further discomfort.
“Yes, of course,” said Mashbourne, “after dinner.”
“You miss him terribly, don’t you?” said Holmes.
“I would give anything to have him back with me,” she answered, tears welling up in her eyes, the song now gone from her voice.
She suddenly looked tired, quite pallid and gaunt. As if the light that was the life in her pale blue eyes had been momentarily snuffed out, leaving only a glassy, vacant stare that reflected the black teardrop’s empty darkness. I was quite taken aback by this change, as was Mashbourne. Only Holmes maintained his cool detachment.
“Have you tried any medicines to induce sleep?” I asked.