The wind battered Thornbridge Hall with relentless fury, as though nature itself conspired against the house. Inside, the heavy velvet drapes swayed, failing to block the persistent draft that crept into every corner and chilled me to the bone. The cold wore on me, my old wounds crying out in protest. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, providing little comfort against the storm.
Sleep eluded me. I lay beneath the canopy of my bed, my mind returning over and over to Lord Remington's words—the veiled accusations that clung to the evening like smoke. Holmes had said little after we parted, retreating to his room with that singular focus I had come to expect in moments like these. The ticking of his mind, sifting through each fragment of the evening's mystery, was almost palpable.
But for me, the case was only part of my unrest. Thornbridge Hall gnawed at my thoughts. There was a sense of watchfulness in the very stones, as though the house itself was alive with whispered secrets, long buried yet eager to rise again. Each creak of the floorboards and waver of the candlelight seemed to carry the weight of the past.
My thoughts were interrupted by a sound outside my door. At first, I dismissed it as the storm, but then came the unmistakable tread of footsteps—slow, deliberate. My heart quickened.
Sitting up, I strained to listen. The sound stopped for a moment, replaced by a faint rustling, as though someone searched for something in the dark. I hesitated, yet an unease I couldn't name urged me forward.
Quietly, I rose from the bed and moved toward the door. The knob was cold under my hand, and as I opened it, dim light spilled into the hallway. The corridor stretched ahead of me, dimly lit by the gaslights that sputtered in protest against the draft. It appeared empty, though the gaslights sputtered, and for a moment, the shadows on the wall seemed to move of their own accord.
I was about to close the door when I heard it again—a low, stifled sob. I stiffened involuntarily, as though the very air thickened with the sorrow it carried. For a moment, I debated returning to fetch Holmes, but something stronger pulled me forward.
The sobbing grew louder as I approached the grand staircase. At the top of the stairs, I paused, scanning the shadows below. There, hunched at the foot of the stairs, sat Margaret Wilkes. Her frail figure trembled, her face buried in her hands, her sobs barely contained.
"Mrs. Wilkes?" I called softly, descending the stairs toward her.
She looked up, startled, her tear-streaked face catching the faint glow of the gaslight. For a moment, she seemed disoriented, as if she had forgotten where she was. Her gray hair had fallen loose around her shoulders, giving her the appearance of a girl unraveling before my eyes. Stepping closer to her revealed a face etched with sadness and lines, weighed down with pain. Her hands twisted the shawl around her fingers as though it were the only thing anchoring her to the present.
"I'm sorry," she whispered hoarsely, her voice raw from crying. "I didn't mean to wake anyone."
I reached her, kneeling by her side. "What troubles you, Mrs. Wilkes?"
Her eyes darted around the shadowed room, her lips trembling as she tried to form words. But instead of an answer, she clutched at her shawl, pulling it tighter as if to ward off some unseen terror. "It's... Emily," she murmured, her voice a whisper in the stillness. "She haunts my dreams. She asks... why we didn't save her."
"It was an accident, wasn't it?" I asked gently, though even as I spoke, I sensed the answer was more complicated.
Before she could respond, a creak sounded from above. I looked up to see Holmes standing at the top of the stairs, his silhouette barely discernible against the dim light.
"Watson," he called softly, his voice calm but insistent, "I believe we have much to discuss. But for now, we should return to our rooms."
Margaret's eyes flitted between us, filled with a terror that had only begun to surface. With Holmes's silent nod, I helped her to her feet and guided her back to her room.
As we moved down the corridor towards our rooms, my eyes caught light coming from beneath the door to what I recalled to be Miss Stavros' room. Holmes spotted it as well and we paused just outside the door, Holmes putting an ear to the wood. I could faintly hear the sounds of three voices from the room, two women and a man, speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Though I could not make out more than a few words, the impact seemed clear: panic.
"There's nothing left." A man's voice, raised a bit too loudly. "It's been too long."
"It doesn't matter anymore," said a woman.
"Hush or we'll be overheard," said a second woman and silence fell.
Holmes stepped back and gestured for me to follow.
Once back in my room, a strange restlessness gnawed at me. Sleep refused to come. I needed fresh air, a moment to clear my thoughts.
I draped my coat over my shoulders and made my way down the narrow corridor toward the back of the house. The heavy door creaked open as I stepped into the courtyard. The storm had abated somewhat, though the air remained thick with moisture, the scent of wet stone mingling with the earthy aroma of the surrounding woods.
I wandered through the courtyard, my thoughts heavy, until a faint glimmer caught my eye. There, near the edge of the garden, was a small lake, the opening to which was half-hidden by overgrown weeds and ivy. I found myself wondering if this was the spot that young Emily had died. I approached it gingerly, my shoes sticking to the fresh mud; I almost did not want to, but something pulled me in. The surface of the water rippled slightly, disturbed by the wind, but as I drew closer, it was not the lake itself that drew my attention—it was the faint silhouette of something submerged just below the surface.
Curiosity overtook caution, and I moved to crouch beside the water's edge, peering into the murky depths. My bad leg seared with pain beneath me as I slipped in the muck, barely stopping myself from falling.
There, beneath the surface, lay a stone, half-covered in silt, its shape barely discernible—but unmistakably a marker of some sort. I crouched by the water's edge, my fingers brushing the cold stone beneath the surface. With a flick of my wrist, I wiped away the muck, revealing lettering carved deep into the stone—my blood ran cold. I fumbled in my pockets for a match. Lighting it, I leaned forward and could just barely make out a date, confirming my suspicions. A chill crept up my spine as I envisioned a girl of sixteen thrashing in the dark waters.
A voice broke the stillness behind me. "What are you doing, Doctor?"
I turned sharply to find Lady Carlyle standing at the edge of the courtyard, a flash of anger in her eyes, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
"I... was just getting some air," I stammered, rising to my feet. Her sudden appearance unnerved me, though she gave no indication of malice.
Lady Carlyle's gaze flicked toward the water, then back to me, her lips curling into a tight smile ."It's late," she said, her voice soft, almost a whisper. "The night can hold strange things, Doctor. You'd do well to return inside."
There was something in her tone—a warning, perhaps—that sent a shiver down my spine. I acknowledged her with a brief nod and turned toward the door, but as I walked away, I could feel her eyes following me, lingering on the spot where I had knelt by the water's edge.
As I turned to walk back inside, the weight of the stone's inscription pressed on my thoughts. There was something chillingly final about the date carved there—a reminder that the dead could never truly rest until the living set them free.
Dawn crept in, casting pale light over the grounds. Upon my venturing into the room of my companion, I discovered Holmes had not slept; his restless pacing left faint imprints in the worn carpet, and his eyes gleamed with the thrill of a puzzle.
"What do you make of it, Watson?" he asked.
"Lord Remington is playing a dangerous game if he truly believes one of his guests drowned that poor girl," said I. "It is as though he is divorced from the outcome of the case."
Holmes hummed a note under his breath. "So you think he is mad?"
I raised a hand to the back of my neck and pressed my fingers into the skin. "Perhaps." I told him of my conversation with Lady Carlyle the night before. "There's something terribly wrong here, Holmes. The way Lady Carlyle looked at me—there's fear in her eyes, but not the fear of discovery. It's as though she's afraid of something beyond our reach."
Our uneasy silence was shattered by a piercing cry, echoing through the halls like a warning bell. It came from the drawing room, the very place we had gathered the previous night.
Holmes was already at the door, moving swiftly toward the source of the commotion. I followed, my heart racing. The door to the drawing room stood ajar, and inside, Lady Carlyle was frozen in horror, her face drained of all color.
"Rupert," she gasped, pointing with trembling fingers.
In the far corner of the room, slumped against the wall, was Rupert Caddell. His eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, his hand clutched at his chest, and beside him lay a half-drained glass of brandy. Instinctively, I knew: he had been poisoned.
Holmes crouched beside the body, his keen eyes scanning the scene. "It was quick," he muttered. "The poison—likely administered after dinner."
Frederick Somers stumbled into the room, his face ashen, followed closely by Beatrice Stavros, who gasped at the sight of the corpse. She staggered backward, clutching the door frame for support.
Lady Carlyle's voice wavered. "Poison? But who—who would do such a thing?"
"Caddell held a key to Emily Remington's death," Holmes murmured, inspecting the glass. "And someone feared what he might unlock."
Beatrice let out a strangled sob, sinking into a nearby chair. Somers' panic was written on his face. "But that was years ago!" he exclaimed. "We swore—"
"Swore to what, Mr. Somers?" Holmes's voice cut through the room, sharp as a blade. "The past has a way of catching up to those who bury it. Until the truth is uncovered, no one is to leave this house."
As the others began to filter out in shock, Holmes glanced down at Rupert's lifeless body, his expression unreadable. "He was not the first to know the truth, Watson. But he may have been the last to die for it."