Holmes did not sleep. He went straight to his room, and picked up his pipe from where it still smouldered on the ledge above the fire place, where he had abandoned it to respond to Sir Henry's cry. He did not doubt that the man had seen something which had scared him – the skeletal puppet made up to pass for Beryl Stapleton. Clenching the pipe between his teeth, he resumed his restless pacing. He had no doubt that a puppet of some sort was in use, but he had yet to figure out the method of manipulation. It was either from above – the roof, perhaps – or from elsewhere – such as an adjoining room.
Holmes frowned at a gentle thump from Watson's room, which interrupted his train of thought. Bad enough that the man had seen fit to rearrange the furniture in his room earlier – and quite noisily at that – now he seemed to have dropped something fairly heavy in his carelessness.
Ignoring the noise, and hearing nothing further, Holmes continued to smoke and pace. He knew, without a shadow of doubt, that whoever was trying the scare away Sir Henry's servants, and yet keep the man here himself, was already within the household. He discounted the Barrymore couple – they were faithful servants, and both had apparently seen the spectre; Mrs Barrymore had even fainted, and Holmes could see no reason for Mr Barrymore to scare his wife to such an extent. He had also observed the careful, loyal devotion of both the butler and the cook to their young lord and master.
Could it be Perkins, then, the groom? Or could it be the two new members of staff – the maid, sullen Sally, or the heretofore unmet gardener, Jenkins? Or perhaps there was another, unknown agent, secreted in the house somewhere? Holmes decided that he and Watson would make a fully armed search of the house and grounds as soon as it was politely possible to do so after breakfast.
Pacing slowly, deep in thought, Holmes did not rest at all that night.
~*~