Shadows over Baker Street

A Case of Insomnia (1899) JOHN P. VOURLIS

Holmes couldn’t sleep. Not that this was unusual—he required no more than three to four hours on any given night. While London slumbered, he would prowl the gaslit neighborhoods of the city, past the breadmakers at the foot of Baker Street already at work, observing the late-night revelers staggering home from Soho in their drunken stupor as he continued down Regent Street, through Mayfair, past the ladies of the evening in Shepherd’s Market still hoping to squeeze the last few pounds out of the night before lying down in their own beds as the sun rose. Through Piccadilly, Edgware, Marylebone, and finally home again to the flat we shared. This was the route Holmes’s sleeplessness followed—which he often detailed for me over a morning pipe.

As a man of medicine, I pondered the root of his affliction. Holmes’s mind was an engine of perpetual thought, constantly at work on some problem that required wakefulness. Sleep seemed a nuisance to him, a luxury he had little use for. So it was no real surprise to me that Thursday in March when he came striding into my chambers at half-past seven in the morning, the Daily Press in hand, and said, “Watson, I simply cannot sleep!”

“What about the Valeriana officinalis I prescribed for you?” I said.

“Useless. It’s been three days now, and I haven’t so much as closed my eyes. And I am not alone in my suffering,” he continued, shoving the newspaper into my hands. “Read there, page three, column seven, near the bottom.”

I scanned the paper, searching for the item.

“There.” He pointed, jabbing his finger like a dagger at the headline.

“ ‘Plague of Insomnia,’ ” I read aloud. “ ‘Citizens of northern town of Inswich suffer third month of sleeplessness. Town rife with wild rumors of cause. What began as a few isolated cases has become a full-blown epidemic . . .’ Holmes, you’re not suggesting a connection between your restlessness and theirs?”

“Of course not,” Holmes replied. “But when I couldn’t sleep this third night, I went to an apothecary on Hadry Street.”

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.

Entering a low-ceilinged anteroom meagerly lit by several sputtering oil lamps, we found no one at hand to attend us. I clapped the bell, and a haggard figure stirred from the shadows. Rising from a rocking chair, an elderly woman of perhaps seventy appeared: hair gray as slate, one eye brown, the other clouded milky white with cataract.

“Two rooms?” she asked in a tired, creaky voice.

“Yes, madam, thank you,” I replied.

“And how many nights?” she asked.

“I will be quite surprised if we are unable to conclude our business this very evening,” said Holmes.

“You’ll find no reason to stay here longer, sir,” agreed the woman. “We have little to boast of.”

“We understand that the entire town has suffered from sleeplessness these last three months,” said Holmes.

“It’s in all the London papers,” I hastened to add, fearing that my friend’s peremptory manner might distress our hostess.

“Yes, well, there is that,” she said softly.

“Are you so afflicted yourself?” inquired Holmes.

“I am indeed,” she replied, but before she could continue, one of the lamps flickered out, and she hurriedly moved to it, her hands shaking as she struck a match and rekindled the wick.

“Are you all right, madam?” I asked, concerned that we might have inadvertently frightened the poor woman.

“You’ll pardon me, sir,” she replied nervously, “but the night has become a thing to dread ’round here.”

“Indeed?” I said. “And why might that be?”

“ ‘The devil is driven from light into darkness and is banished from the world,’ ” she replied, as if that somehow answered my question.

“Job, chapter eighteen, verse eighteen,” said Holmes.

She nodded, offering nothing further, but handed over two keys. “Seven and eight, up the stairs to the right,” she continued. “And would you be wanting tea this evening?”

“No, madam, we are expected at Carthon,” I said.

“Best get there before dark,” she replied.

“Thank you, we shall do our best,” I replied.

She nodded, then turned back to her chair, bidding us good evening.

I found her brief biblical quotation to be quite nonsensical, wondering how a roomful of lamps would suffice to keep away the devil, should he actually decide to come to Inswich, and said as much to Holmes as we made our way up the stairs.

“No doubt we’ve just witnessed the result of sleeplessness mixed with religious fervor,” he said sardonically.

I thought no more of it for the moment. After all, we were merely here to track down Holmes’s sleeping medicine, and in the morning we would be on our way back to London. We deposited our belongings in our quarters, both of which, like the lobby, were lit with sputtering lamps, as were several other open rooms we passed.

We found no doctor to speak with, Inswich being no doubt too small to attract a resident physician, but we did locate the local dentist, who offered certain information regarding Holmes’s much-sought-after apothecary’s tincture.

The dentist, it seems, had been approached by an ever-increasing number of townspeople over the last three months in a high state of anxiety over their inability to get any meaningful rest, “On account of a night creature.” Some sort of wild animal that he said was terrorizing the local populace.

Not putting much stock in the stories he heard—“A load of superstitious rubbish,” he said—yet with no other clear course of action available, he had ordered a large quantity of sleep medicine from his brother-in-law, an apothecary in London, and prescribed it to nearly every man, woman, and child in the town.

“Once I determined that neither rotting teeth nor indigestion was the cause of their sleeplessness,” he told us, “I decided that putting them all to sleep was the only way to keep them from overrunning my premises.”

But though the tincture had provided some relief for the first night or two, the symptoms had quickly returned. This of course led to even greater anxiety, and the demand for larger doses, which quickly resulted in the depletion of his brother-in-law’s entire supply.

“Treating the symptom, not the cause,” said Holmes in my ear.

When Holmes inquired of the man whether he had any of the medicine left, even a single dram, that he might purchase, he was told the last of it had gone to Carthon House some weeks ago.

“Perhaps we should investigate this night creature,” I said half in jest as we left the dentist, noting that we had several hours before we were expected for dinner.

Despite his disappointment regarding the tincture, Holmes required no more prodding than this, though his fatigue was now punctuated regularly by enormous yawns and a frequent rubbing of his tired eyes, for his natural curiosity was now aroused. So he and I took a stroll through the little town, making stops at the smoke shop, the general store, a small pub, and the town hall—in which was located the magistrate’s office, but no magistrate. The tired woman on duty informed us that “his lordship” was away on holiday.

We interviewed a dozen or so citizens about their experiences of sleeplessness, and as we talked with them, it became clear that it wasn’t only the old innkeeper who feared the night. A rather homely woman of fifty reported that something had been trying to enter her bedroom window, scraping at the glass, rattling the latch, awakening her consistently whenever she neared slumber. Upon rising from her bed and opening the shutters, however, she would invariably find nothing there, only a “bad odor” floating about.

A young mail clerk reported seeing “a giant shadow, like a bat, only enormous,” swoop down on him as he made his way home late one evening. He avoided the fell creature, he said, by rushing into a well-lit pub.

Another swarthy fellow, a butcher, looking haggard and worn down, said that he was awakened several times each night for the last month by the feeling that someone or something was sitting on his chest, intent on strangling him. Upon awakening and turning up his lantern, he could find nothing about. I dismissed his story as mania brought on by a continual lack of sleep, such deprivation no doubt resulting in hallucinations.

“I recently read an article by a Dr. Breuer,” I remarked to Holmes as we moved on in our search, “in a journal of the medical college in Vienna, regarding a type of hysterical condition of the mind which can, under some circumstances, manifest itself throughout an entire community.”

“I have read the very same article, Watson,” said Holmes. “But that is the symptom, and we search for a cause. Once we have that, a cure should be forthcoming.”

None of those we interviewed had stated that they had actually seen the creature—that is, until we happened upon one young mother, dark circles around her eyes, who attested that her child had seen the thing enter his bedroom, and had ever since insisted that he sleep in his mother’s bed. I must say that I was forced to suppress a smile at this last accounting, though Holmes appeared to find it not the least bit amusing.

He asked to speak with the boy.

“Can you tell me what you saw, sir?” said Holmes, conversing with him as if he were quite the grown man, and not the eight-year-old child he was.

The young boy looked at his mother, uncertain whether to speak, until she nodded her approval. “I went to bed like I always do,” he said, “and Mummy left a candle burnin’.”

“To keep the night creatures away,” said the young woman, rather embarrassed, and by way of explaining herself, “Me mother is a superstitious woman, and she’s lately insisted I not leave the boy to sleep in the dark on account of this animal that’s been prowlin’ about.”

“But I wanted to see it,” the boy said. “To see if it were real, so I put out the light. I waited up a long time, and I think I fell asleep maybe, but then I heard the door open, and saw it. It sniffed ’round a sec, but our dog Jeffery took to barkin’ like mad, and scared it right off.”

“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.

“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.

“Any number of them, Doctor. Valeriana, passionflower, warm milk, chamomile tea, a short walk before dark, a hot bath before bed. Lately I have even ordered special elixirs from an apothecary in London. Nothing has helped.”

I looked at Holmes, whose expression revealed nothing.

“You must try some of my brandy,” said Mashbourne, pulling the silver flask from his waistcoat. “It puts me to sleep even at the noon hour.”

She smiled at him with such a sad affection that it put a lump in my own throat. “I have tried it, Arthur,” she said.

“Yes, you’re right. You have,” he said softly. Then he turned to us and spoke forcefully, “We must uncover the mystery behind this.”

“I should think one night’s sleep in this house and I will have the answer,” said Holmes.

Lady Carthon rose from her chair, and we rose with her. With a warm, sad smile, she said, “My sweet champions. I feel most fortunate to have you as my guests this evening.”

“It has been our pleasure, I assure you, madam,” I said.

She bid us good evening, leaving instructions with a servant to turn down two more beds, and departed from us for the night.

We watched her leave in silence. When she was gone, Holmes turned to Mashbourne. “The circumstances of the lady’s husband’s death, if you please.”

Mashbourne cleared his throat with a swallow of wine, then began. “As Emily has said, Captain Carthon was on patrol with his men in the desert near the Great Pyramids. I was assigned to his regiment as physician. Carthon’s men reportedly came upon a group of grave robbers one evening making off with a large quantity of antiquities from a recently uncovered burial sight. There was a brief but bloody skirmish, and the robbers were apprehended.

“Now, as Captain Carthon related to me in secret after he had secured the pilfered treasures with the royal governor, he’d come across something amongst the many items that he fancied would make an excellent gift for his wife. He showed me the necklace we all saw her wearing this evening. What followed, oddly, were several nights of unrest among the soldiers of the regiment.”

“Sleeplessness, you mean?” asked Holmes.

“Yes,” Mashbourne said, “but not to this degree. It lasted no more than a week. Then one night while out on patrol again, Carthon was murdered. Some said it was the grave robbers come back for their loot, but I was certain it had to have been a wild animal of some sort, for I examined the body, and it had been very badly mutilated.

“It was my unfortunate task, since I was returning to England, to deliver the unpleasant news, along with some of her husband’s effects, to Lady Carthon.”

“And the necklace was among those items?” asked Holmes.

“No,” said Mashbourne. “I believe he sent that to her earlier, before he was killed.”

I could see Holmes’s mind working again. “You said earlier that you were on to something,” I said to him. “Care to share it yet?”

“I have a theory, which I plan to put to the test tonight,” was all that Holmes offered.

“Come now,” said Mashbourne, clearly annoyed. “Is there no small crumb you might leave for us as a trail to follow your reasoning?”

“A crumb would leave you most unsatisfied,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Now, I’m afraid I must leave you, gentlemen. Sleep well.” As he reached the doorway, he turned again to us. “And keep a light on. If you encounter anything unusual this evening, any unnatural sounds or the like, come find me at once. I’m certain I shall be awake.” Then he was gone.

“He is a singularly peculiar fellow, is he not, Watson?” said Mashbourne.

“That he is,” I replied.

After cigars and a bit of Mashbourne’s brandy, we, too, retired for the night, a servant leading us upstairs and delivering us to our rooms.

“Good evening, Dr. Mashbourne,” I said as I left him.

“Good evening, Dr. Watson. I’m sure that I, for one, shall sleep soundly tonight. This day has truly exhausted me.”

He closed himself inside his room.

I shut my own door and found that a robe and pajamas had been laid out for me on what looked to be a most comfortable bed. A pitcher of water sat on a nightstand nearby, and I helped myself to a glass before dousing the light and climbing beneath the covers.

As I lay there, my eyes growing accustomed to the dark, I ruminated over Holmes’s last words, wondering as to what sort of unnatural sounds he referred. I listened carefully, surveying the night around me, and as my ears grew accustomed to the silence, I heard the sounds of the wind blowing through the trees outside, of an unlatched shutter banging softly in some distant part of the house.

I awoke to a crash. Attempting to rise, I found myself paralyzed, save for my eyes, which were wide open but useless in the utter darkness. I tried to maintain calm, convincing myself that the paralysis must be gone momentarily, that I most certainly must be dreaming. But then I heard a key twisting in the lock—had I bolted my door?—and sensed someone enter the inky blackness of my room.

I cursed myself at that moment for having ignored Holmes’s advice and dousing my light. Dark foreboding, a sense of malevolent evil, gripped me then. My heart began to race. I struggled vainly to get up—my arms and legs tingling, sweat forming on my brow, my breath sorely entering and leaving my chest—but still I was unable to rise.

I heard footsteps, coming nearer to my bedside. I told myself it was just a servant, looking in on me, or perhaps someone sleepwalking, but the panic in my heart rose to a crescendo, and something leaped up onto my chest! Cold hands grasped at my throat, strangling me. I gasped for air, trying to cry out for help as the breath left my lungs beneath the weight of my assailant.

Just as the darkness was about to swallow me, the door to my room crashed open with such force that it fell from its hinges, and blessed light poured in from the hallway.

A creature—for I know not what else to name it—was revealed by the light, crouched menacingly over me! No child’s fairy story was this, but a roughly bipedal, forward-slumping beast, with a vaguely canine cast, a doglike face with pointed ears. The texture of its flesh was a kind of unpleasant rubberiness. This nameless blasphemy stared at me with glaring red eyes, its scaly claws around my throat, its flat nose and drooling lips expelling the thing’s acrid, fetid breath upon me. Fanged teeth set all askew in its gaping maw were poised to rend me, when it howled its hatred at the sudden brightness, stretched out hideous black wings, and releasing me, flew directly toward the blazing doorway where Holmes stood, a lantern in one hand and his revolver in the other.

Holmes fired off a shot, striking the beast in the chest. The force merely knocked the creature backward a step, before it leaped again at him, wailing with fury. I saw Holmes empty his revolver point-blank into the beast, sending it toppling over dead at his feet.

“Watson! Are you all right?” he said.

I had managed to prop myself up on one elbow, the paralysis waning. “I don’t know,” I replied, still badly shaken, and examined myself for wounds. I’d been bruised about the shoulders and neck, but otherwise remained mercifully unscathed.

“Can you stand, old man?”

“Yes, I believe so,” I said, making a poor show of it, my legs trembling.

Movement on the floor caught my eye then, and I watched with Holmes in wonder as the dead thing slowly melted into a sulfurous oozing tallow, seeping through the floorboards until it was gone.

“What in God’s name was that?” I asked Holmes.

“Nothing of this world,” he said. “Now come, this way.”

I followed him to Mashbourne’s room, where, from the glow of Holmes’s lantern, I could see the poor man lying sprawled on the floor, his sleeping gown covered in blood. I moved quickly to his side, checking his wrist for a pulse. Finding none there, I moved to his neck, withdrawing in horror when I saw that his throat had been torn open.

“He is beyond help,” I said to Holmes, then leaped to my feet. “Lady Carthon!”

We raced down the long dark central corridor, all the while my heart dreading what we might find once we reached her room.

“Why are all the candles out?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“I put them out,” said Holmes. “To test my theory.”

I looked to him with confusion, but he offered nothing further.

When we reached the door to Lady Carthon’s chamber, we found it partially open, and the room swathed in darkness. As we entered, I feared that she, too, had fallen prey to this night creature. But when Holmes swept his lantern across the room, the beam fell upon Lady Carthon, lying motionless upon her bed, her hand dangling over the edge, and several glass vials lying on the floor close by.

“Dear God,” I said as I raced to her side, taking up her hand and feeling for her pulse.

Holmes picked up one of the vials and examined it closely, running a finger along the open edge and putting it to his lips.

“The apothecary’s tincture,” he said. “From the number of empty vials here, I’d say she’s swallowed quite a bit of it.”

“A suicide?” I asked.

“It would appear so,” he replied.

I could feel no pulse on her wrist, and moved my hand to her neck. And there, thankfully, I felt the faint beating of her heart.

“She lives!” I said with a mixture of relief and apprehension that she still might succumb, and tried to rouse her, shaking her shoulders quite vigorously.

“Lady Carthon! Lady Carthon! Wake up!”

Holmes grabbed a pitcher of water nearby and splashed some on her face. Finally, she stirred.

“Oh God,” she said softly. “What has happened?”

“You have taken too much sleep medicine,” I said gently, trying not to frighten her.

She looked at me, quite puzzled.

“Do you remember anything?” asked Holmes.

“I remember preparing for bed, as I always do, hoping this would be the night when I finally found sleep. But as I was removing my necklace, my thoughts went to my husband, wishing it was he who had removed it, wishing he were here still, holding me in his arms, and I knew right then I would remain restless another night. I broke down, I think, and took all that remained of the sleeping drug.”

“And then?” said Holmes.

“Nothing. Just the darkness. The horrible, unending darkness. I couldn’t find my way out of the darkness.” She looked up at us then, seeing the blood that covered my hands and my nightclothes. “Dr. Watson, what’s happened? Where is Arthur?”

I could not bring myself to speak, leaving it to Holmes.

“Dead,” was all he said.

She began to sob. “This is all my fault.”

“I think not,” said Holmes. “He was not murdered by your hand.”

“It came for me,” she said, shaking her head from side to side. “In the night. From those hideous dreams.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “The creature came for you?”

“It wanted something from me. That night in January, when the moon went dark. I knew that it wanted something, but God help me, I could not comprehend what. A key, I think. An opening. A doorway to some other place. I could not understand what it wanted. I felt its thoughts, but its language was foreign to me. I begged it to leave me be. But it would not give me a single night’s rest. Each time I tried to close my eyes, each time I allowed myself to be in darkness, it came haunting me again. I warned people. I told them to keep their lights on at night, to avoid the darkness. It feared the light. Hated the light. It came from the darkness, you know, from the void. It traveled a great distance, searching . . .”

“Searching for what?” I asked.

“I do not know,” she said softly.

“Well, it can search no more,” said Holmes, taking up the necklace from where it lay at her bedside. “We have put an end to it.”

We dressed quickly, leaving Carthon on foot as the sun was rising. Looking back at the mansion, we found it a much different place in the day. It had a sadness, a solemnity, which neither sunlight nor lamplight could ever hope to hide. The glowing beacon of light that lit up the previous evening was gone, a dream turned nightmare, and now in the daytime the illusion was replaced by stark, unpleasant reality.

As we walked back to Inswich, I asked Holmes to recount what he had done after he left Mashbourne and me the previous night, and how he had happened to come to my rescue so quickly.

“After I bid the two of you good night,” he said, “I followed Lady Carthon to her room, making sure she had put herself safely away for the evening. When you and Mashbourne adjourned to your rooms, I began to put out the lights, moving from the far eastern side of the manor to the west. I was hoping to call out this thing, to confront it, to ascertain whether it really existed at all. That is when I heard it—”

“The beast that nearly killed me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I heard a terrible crash, from Mashbourne’s room. I lit my lantern and raced to him, but it was too late. Then I went immediately to summon you. Finding the door locked, I proceeded to shoulder it open.”

“And I am most grateful that you did, my friend.”

“I’m sorry, Watson. I had not expected you both to put out your lights. I had instructed you not to.”

“Force of habit, old man,” I said. “Not your fault at all.”

“I should have anticipated that possibility,” he said. “I should have been more forceful in my instructions. Perhaps it was my own fatigue, but I did not think the beast would act so murderously.”

“I still don’t understand why you believed the stories of this creature. They sounded most preposterous to me.”

“I could only conjecture, Watson,” he replied.

“But how could you even guess?” I said, trying to comprehend his reasoning.

“First, there was the fact that no one could offer any other cause, or medical explanation, for such a widespread epidemic of sleeplessness. A hysterical condition did not seem out of the question at first. No doubt the lady’s warnings put everyone on edge. And the soporific had me a bit confused as well, I must admit, for it seemed that when it was first administered, the citizens did sleep through the night, but their symptoms soon returned. And after hearing tales of a creature from so many, seeing the child’s drawing, and sensing the carriage driver’s dread of this place, I began to suspect there was more truth than superstition to these stories.

“But it was Mashbourne himself who finally convinced me. He saw the body of Captain Carthon. He said it did not look to him like he was murdered by grave robbers, but mutilated by some wild animal.”

“And you think it was the same creature that killed Mashbourne?”

“The very same.”

“But why?”

“For this,” said Holmes, pulling Lady Carthon’s necklace out of his pocket.

“The necklace?” I said.

“Not the necklace,” said Holmes. “The stone on the necklace.”

I looked at what he held in his hand. In the daylight, it seemed merely a black rock, the obsidian trinket of some long-dead Egyptian. Yet when I stared at it awhile, Holmes had to call my name loudly to regain my attention.

“This is the key that Lady Carthon spoke of?” I asked.

“I believe so, Watson,” he said. “As I listened to her talk about the creature, about what it seemed to be after, I recalled something I had read in a dark text, rarely mentioned, written by a mad Arab, about objects that act as windows on the void, objects older than this earth, which lay buried in lightless crypts built by long-forgotten pharaohs.”

“Not forgotten long enough,” I said, still transfixed by the black stone. “So this is what got Captain Carthon murdered?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Holmes. “And more might have died if Lady Carthon had not discovered the creature’s weakness, and warned the whole town to always keep a light on.”

“How did it know to come to Inswich at all? And why did it take so long to get here?” I asked, trying to fit the remaining pieces of the puzzle together.

“No doubt it could sense where the stone was. But it seems it was only able to travel such a great distance in total darkness,” said Holmes.

“The eclipse,” I said, finally understanding everything.

“Correct,” said Holmes.

“So what will you do with the thing?” I asked. “Turn it over to the Royal Society?”

“No, Watson. That would be too dangerous. I’m afraid this is beyond our abilities to reason, beyond science’s understanding. I think perhaps that I must drop it in some deep well, and hope to never hear from it again.”

At the Black Hart, the innkeeper was asleep in her rocking chair, quietly snoring. We went to our rooms and collected our things, then left sovereigns on the counter as payment, without disturbing the good woman.

Outside, we found our chatty driver, asleep atop his transom. Holmes nudged him awake.

“Apologies, guv,” he said. “I musta dozed off.” Recognizing us, he added with surprise, “I see you’re safely back from Carthon. Where can I take you, gentlemen?”

“To the station at Barrington, my good man,” said Holmes, flipping him a sovereign. “And an extra guinea if you get us there before the nine o’clock to London leaves.”

He eagerly jumped down from his perch, taking our bags and securing them to the rear of the open carriage as we climbed up. In a moment we were off.

“Barrington’s a nice spot,” he said. “Me mother-in-law lives there.”

He continued talking the entire length of the ride back to town, but I was too lost in my own thoughts to pay him any heed. Upon our arrival, Holmes asked him to stop at the local constabulary.

“Has some crime been committed?” the man asked.

“No,” I said quickly. “Just an unfortunate accident.”

We found the constable, a short, stout man of fifty, quietly snoring away at his desk. Once he was sufficiently recovered from the embarrassment of being found asleep at his post, Holmes related to him the episode of the previous evening, carefully omitting the more fantastic elements, substituting a rabid dog for the otherworldly beast, and ending it all by explaining that there was a body to be found at Carthon House.

We made the nine o’clock train with time to spare and settled in for the long journey home. Later that day, Holmes would make arrangements for Lady Carthon to spend time convalescing at a sanitarium outside London. The unpleasant task of notifying Mashbourne’s next of kin he left to me.

As we departed the station, I turned to see my friend fast asleep, his arms crossed, his chin resting comfortably upon his chest, his breathing slow and measured. I envied him his quietude. After what I had seen at Carthon, it would be some time before I could sleep as soundly.