Watson's POV

The following morning Holmes insisted on meticulously examining the place where he had found me lying, though from his frustrated expression afterwards I could tell there was nothing untoward to be seen there. He scraped up some samples of dust all the same and drew a few threads of fabric from the jacket I had been wearing. He even insisted on plucking hairs from my moustache, despite my indignant protests.

It was clear to me from the intensity of this investigation that something more had happened the previous night than I knew at the time. Holmes' deadly white face as he knelt beside me was still clear in my mind. It took no small amount of prompting, but he eventually confessed what he had seen, or thought he had seen, when he looked down at me from the upper floor.

"It was extremely convincing," he said as we sat in my bedroom after breakfast. "And yet I refuse to believe I allowed my imagination to get the better of me, and to put what I saw down to something from beyond this world is out of the question."

I put a hand to my face, shuddering inwardly at the idea of the third possible explanation: that someone had drugged me and transformed me into a horrible tableau for Holmes' benefit.

He began to pace up and down the room, his brows drawn together in a fierce scowl. I guessed him to be chafing without his chemical equipment, a supposition borne out by his next words.

"Do you happen to have a bottle of tincture of iodine in your medical case, Watson?"

"I'm afraid not," I said. "I favour carbolic acid as an antiseptic."

He glowered at this perfectly reasonable choice.

"Perhaps you could ask Lady Ashdown whether her husband ever had a laboratory here," I suggested.

He ignored this and picked up my shaving mug, frowning at it as though gauging its suitability as an experimental flask.

I was propped up on a pile of pillows on the bed, having prescribed myself absolute rest for my aching muscles. I was still stiff and sore from the distorted, twisted shape in which Holmes told me he had found me lying.

Holmes soon tired of pacing around the room and announced his intention to make enquiries below stairs, among the servants. After his departure I tried to while away the time with the novel I had brought, but my head ached and I soon dozed off.

I awoke with a start when Holmes burst into the room.

"My enquiries have met with a frustrating but unsurprising dead end," he said, throwing himself into a chair. "Several of the servants have given notice this week, including he whom I was most keen to speak to: the footman whose timely action with a blanket saved the burning stable boy."

"I'm surprised any of them are still here, in fact," I remarked.

Holmes sat frowning into the fireplace, his chin propped up on his fingertips. "I shall have to return to London this afternoon," he announced after some minutes of silence.

"Already?"

"I want to visit Ashdown's laboratory at the university. I have a few chemical analyses to perform too, and for that I shall need my equipment."

The man who the previous evening had been belittling Lady Ashdown's over-active imagination had completely vanished. Holmes now seemed to be taking the case much more seriously, indeed I might say personally. With my aching limbs and head, I cannot say I disapproved.

Holmes left later that afternoon to catch the last train to London, after giving me a list of instructions and admonitions and commanding me to observe it to the letter. I was feeling much better by then and was even able to descend to dinner with only a slight hobble in my step.

Lady Ashdown was subdued throughout the meal. After enquiring after my health, she scarcely looked up from her meal long enough to make monosyllabic replies to my attempts at conversation.

As per Holmes' instructions, I ate only from the dishes Lady Ashdown also took and managed to wipe my glass and cutlery discreetly with my handkerchief before the meal began. If the servants or Lady Ashdown noticed, they gave no indication of it. Indeed, they appeared to have other things on their minds; the atmosphere was distinctly nervy. Everyone seemed on edge, and the crash of the sauce jug dropped by an unfortunate footman caused the most frightful commotion among his nervous fellows. I was relieved to escape to my room.

I was staying on the uppermost floor of the house and the corridor there was narrow and poorly lit. As I fumbled with the doorknob I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see Sir Nigel standing at the end of the corridor, his face lit from below by the candle he held. He looked dreadful, his red-rimmed eyes disappearing into the shadows of his haggard face. I was under strict instructions from Holmes not to approach him, but my heart went out to the man; I could not help it. I took a step towards him.

"Good evening, Sir Nigel. Isn't there something I can do to help you?"

He stared at me for a moment in silence and in spite of my initial feeling of compassion I could not help shivering, such was the intensity of his gaze. Then he turned and vanished through a door I could not see, and I was left feeling vaguely uneasy.

I was relieved to regain the comfort of my room, where the fire was already lit, the candles already burning and everything warm and cosy. I began to feel a little better. I have never been fond of reading or writing by candlelight, and so decided to go immediately to sleep.

I awoke some hours later from unpleasant dreams. The fire had died out and I lay there in the dark, wondering what sound had disturbed my sleep. Then I saw something that shocked me fully awake. A eerie blue light was flickering in the corner of the room.

My heart began to pound and I had to suppress a sudden childish impulse to hide under the bed-covers. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that in any other house but this one, I should have been intrigued rather than alarmed. There was certainly some perfectly rational explanation. Investigation was called for.

I lit a candle and the room was thrown into light. There was nothing untoward to be seen in that corner, merely the dresser with my shaving things, the washstand with a jug of water and the book I had been reading earlier in the day. Somehow this normality was even more unnerving.

I took another deep breath to calm myself, blew out the candle and lay down in bed. The light flickered back into sight. Was it my imagination or was it drawing closer?

I shut my eyes, trying to slow my racing heart. I could hardly sleep with the candle lit, like a child. Nonetheless, I wished I were in London and could fill the room with electric light or even gaslight, instead of this damned candlelight.

Then a tapping noise began to echo through the room, its source indeterminable. I was so startled, in my highly nervous state, that I jumped an inch in the bed.

I sat frozen, petrified. To my fevered imagination, it appeared that the noise was growing louder and the light growing stronger, as though I should be overwhelmed at any moment. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the noise stopped, the light vanished and all was calm.

After some time I gathered myself together and climbed out of bed, determined to search the room from top to bottom, for I knew I should never sleep otherwise. I began by lighting the candle and checking whether the door was properly closed, before going to the window. There was a grassy area behind the house, which would have been classed as a lawn were it not so ill-kept. The moon was full and by its light, I saw Lady Ashdown standing in the middle of the grass, staring up at the house as though in a trance.

I forgot my fear instantly, my one thought being to go to her aid. It was the matter of a few moments to throw on some clothes and hurry downstairs, although locating an oil lamp and then the back door took somewhat longer. Nevertheless, I reached the garden in time to see Lady Ashdown disappearing into the dark mass of pine trees that surrounded the house.

I hurried after her, ignoring my aching muscles. Soon the trees thinned and the ground underfoot began to rise. We emerged from the hollow in which the house was built and out onto the open moors. Lady Ashdown was a small, white-clad figure in the moonlight ahead of me, disappearing and reappearing as she crossed the hilly ground.

For the moment she seemed to be in no immediate danger and so I kept her in sight without attempting to overtake her. A cold wind swept across the open, desolate ground and I was glad of my coat.

We had covered almost a mile when the moon disappeared behind a cloud and we were plunged into darkness. I was suddenly aware of how dark and lonely it was out here on the open moors. I fumbled for a match to light my lamp, but the moon emerged from its cover before I was obliged to do so. I did not feel any better now in the moonlight; indeed, I felt horribly exposed out in the open, on that dark moor where anything could have been hiding behind the nearest rocky outcrop or curve in the ground.

Lady Ashdown was nowhere to be seen but, topping the next hillock, I found the track we followed led past some broken-down stone buildings to a narrow old bridge.

The moonlight shone on something small and white lying in the heather by the bridge. It was a crumpled piece of paper. I picked it up and smoothed it out.

My dear Beatrice,

mourn no more, but rejoice, for I have not left this world and I await you by the bridge. I beg you, come to my aid.

Sincerely yours,
Edmund Ellis

I stared in confusion. Beatrice was Lady Ashdown's Christian name but Edmund Ellis... I have not left this world...

Suddenly it came to me, and my blood ran cold. Dr Edmund Ellis was the name of the chemist who had been killed in Ashdown's laboratory. My heart raced as I stared at the note, thinking of the ghostly hand which must have penned it.

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