The Two Different Women

As his gaze shifted to something beyond me, I saw my friend’s eyes narrow with the slightest indication of irritation. Having known Mr. Sherlock Holmes at that time for nearly a quarter-century, I had long ago learned not to twist like a new constable and attempt to see what had provoked that most subtle of reactions.

Holmes, being who he was, had of course noticed that I had noticed his glance, and he didn’t need to evince his uncanny skills, sometimes mistaken for mind-reading, to understand my unspoken question.

“A pesterment, Watson,” explained. “Nothing more.” Then, as almost an afterthought, he added, “Give me your opinion.”

Free now to pivot in my seat, I laid down my fork and turned slightly, looking across the common room at the man and woman seating themselves at a nearby table. The woman was concentrating on getting situated in her chair, and I realized that she was, in fact, well into her second term. The man paused beside his own chair, caught in the act of looking rather despairingly in our direction. Turning my attention his way caused his focus to shift slightly from my friend to me, and our gazes met. Then his eyes dropped, rather nervously I thought, and he settled into his own seat beside his companion.

I took another moment to frankly study him while he gestured, almost angrily, toward the bar. I noticed that he had a head that was much too large for his narrow shoulders, before realizing that it was actually normal, and that it was his body that was smallish. His lower lip, underneath a Bismarck moustache waxed at the tips, rested above an average chin and was pursed with a natural petulance. This didn’t not improve when a large whisky was set before him. Although he appeared to be in his mid-thirties, his high forehead was quite lined and topped by thin brownish hair, parted on his left and already going gray at the temples. Those same eyes which had looked my way were underscored with dark circles, along with an underlying shiftiness that would certainly have been there before whatever was worrying him now had begun, and would still be there in future days as well.

“His wife?” I asked rather foolishly, turning back to my own dinner, a magnificent piece of roasted pork with a thin layer of flavorful fat forming an outer layer, crisped and awaiting my further attentions. I suspected that, as the friend of Sherlock Holmes, I was being rewarded. Holmes, with a similar slab upon his plate, seemed indifferent.

“Obviously. But what else did you see?”

I shifted my eyes, gazing into the distance and concentrating a moment before replying. “Moderately wealthy,” I began, recalling the excellent quality of the couples’ clothing – at least what I could see across the dim dining room.

“The clothing,” agreed Holmes, nodding and following my thinking, still serving as something of a teacher after all these years. “And?”

“American,” I added as I envisioned the peculiar cut of the garments that suggested ostentatiousness without a corresponding level of class. Holmes began to pounce, but I held up a hand. “Wait. The clothing was purchased in America, I should say. It has something of the western styles that I saw in San Francisco years ago. But it wasn’t obtained recently, as it seems rather worn. Based on that fact, along with the man’s moustaches and gestures, and a few other random indications from his lady, I should say that they are actually of German descent, having moved to America at some time in the past, where they had enough money to the purchase moderately expensive clothing. But for some reason they haven’t purchased new clothing since traveling here.”

Holmes dropped his napkin and clapped with a smile and a rather loud, “Ha!” which caused an elderly man at the adjacent table to start and drop his spoon with a clatter. Holmes ignored the resulting scowl and replied, “Really, Watson, that was excellent. If I wasn’t already retired and rusticating here in my self-imposed apiaristic seclusion, I would have to consider leaving things in your capable hands!”

I snorted, replying, “We both know that your ‘retirement’ has ended up being almost a hobby, as you still become involved in nearly as many cases now as when you lived in London. You have your brother to thank for that, if not your own curiosity. Else, why would I be down here?”

We both knew the answer to that, as I had arrived only that afternoon from the capital on the Eastbourne train, carrying with me the final evidence that would prove the guilt of Vincent Berne, the False Parson of East Dean. It was a tragic tale, spiraling out from one of Holmes’s long-past cases, and set into motion by the untimely death of Berne’s own son who, upon learning what his father had done to his mother, had tragically jumped over the high cliff of Beachy Head, directly across from Holmes’s own retirement villa.

“I should point out,” continued Holmes, “that the gentleman and his wife, both of whom are actually both from the Kingdom of Bavaria, did live in the western United States for several years before returning to the German Empire late last year, apparently choosing to retain their American clothing throughout the trip rather than purchase something new in their native land. They have one daughter, less than a year old, currently upstairs in the care of a nurse. They are now returning to the United States, but have inexplicably stopped in this little inn in this out-of-the-way village, where they seem determined to stay for an indefinite period of time.”

I was beginning to feel that usual amazement when Holmes meticulously revealed all the hidden layers of anyone that fell under his scrutiny. And then I remembered his short statement referring to the man as a pesterment. “You’ve met him before,” I said.

“Indeed. Three days ago. He introduced himself and attempted to solicit my services. As he had been here for nearly two weeks at that point, and as my reasons for ‘retirement’ include being aware of all things German, I had already become curious about – and wary of – him. I naturally wonder about any Germans who stay around here for too long, and for no apparent reasons. Therefore, I instigated some inquiries through my brother, and also with friends across both the eastern and western seas. In short, this is not a man with whom I wish to associate.”

Having known Holmes for so long, I realized that he would reveal nothing more. However, circumstances were such that I was soon to be introduced to the traveler and his wife, although by an unexpected source.

For at that moment, our table was approached by Tom Keller, the proprietor of the Tiger Inn where we supped. At the time of this narrative, mid-June 1905, I had known Keller for a little under two years. Not long after Holmes announced his retirement from active London practice in October 1903, with the intention to settle east of Birling Gap (which I have referred to in some of my notes as “Fulworth” – something of an inside joke), I had travelled down to visit. During the course of that first stay, Holmes and I had naturally walked the mile or so from his “villa” (as he liked to call it), across the fields to the Tiger Inn on the East Dean common. It was an old smuggler’s inn, like so many others dotting the landscape of these seacoast hamlets, dating back half-a-thousand years or more – although that was still young compared to some of the nearby churches, now approaching their first millennial birthdays.

Holmes, as a nearby resident, made the trip from his Sussex home to the common regularly, as he had an arrangement with the village estate office to serve as a mailing address. It was at that same building, west across the green and visible through the window where we now sat, that we had confronted Vincent Berne only a few hours earlier. After that unpleasant encounter, it had been only natural to repair to the inn. Stepping through the low door, clearly built for men of another age, we had been greeted by the owner and shown to a fine table near the window. The late afternoon sun had long since disappeared, leaving only massing clouds behind the brick buildings lined across the far side of the green.

Keller had recommended the pork, and had also brought us ale. “On the house,” he added, in a tone that brooked no argument. As he walked away, I raised my eyebrows.

“A benefit related to little service that I performed for him several weeks ago. A trifle.”

Realizing that this was another of Holmes’s investigations that I would likely never add to my notes, I instead questioned him about some more details from the Berne affair, which I hope to publish in due course, as my restriction against placing narratives of Holmes’s adventures in The Strand was lifted upon his retirement. The food arrived, excellent as expected, and we proceeded through the meal to the point where we had observed our fellow diners, the Bavarians, and so on to Keller’s arrival at our table, asking, “Is it all right, then?”

“Excellent!” I beamed.

Keller nodded and turned his head towards Holmes, who added with a more leveled enthusiasm, “Indeed.”

The proprietor nodded, as if he expected no other response, but his eyes didn’t seem as if he were truly listening. He appeared distracted, and he said in a lowered voice. “A word please, Mr. Holmes? When you and the Doctor are finished?”

Holmes, long accustomed to surreptitious conversations, simply nodded. “I’ll be in my office,” Keller added, turning away and gesturing toward his daughter Katy. She went into motion, resulting in her smiling appearance beside us a moment later with two fresh ales standing beside our plates.

At that point, Holmes began to finish his meal, but in a steady workmanlike way, rather than savoring the brilliance of the preparation. I turned toward the window, observing with some uneasiness the piling clouds in the west. There was a storm coming.

Within moments, Holmes had finished and, seeing that I had also concluded my portion, he arose and walked towards the foreign man and his wife without casting either of them a glance, whereas both of them were clearly watching us. I tried not to look at them either, but instead followed Holmes around the end of the bar, and so into Keller’s small office behind it.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Keller?” asked Holmes as we found our seats. The big man didn’t answer for a moment, and then he ran his hands over his face in a curious washing motion before releasing a sigh.

“I hate to ask it, Mr. Holmes, especially so soon after what you did to help Katy.” Holmes waved a hand in dismissal, but Keller continued. “No, it’s true. I’ll always be in your debt, and have no right to be bothering you again, and especially so soon. And during your dinner, no less. But he’s been pestering me about it for a couple of days, and I told him no, but then you and the Doctor walked in, and… and I decided to go ahead and ask anyway.”

“The he that’s been pestering you,” said Holmes, “is surely Herr Siegen, now in the dining room with his wife.”

“It is. He told me how he spoke to you the other day, and that you turned him down. Rightly so, I might add. If doesn’t like it, he can go somewhere else. I don’t know why he stays, to be honest, if he’s that unhappy.”

“I asked him the same question,” said my friend. “He had no good answer. That, and what I already knew about him, led me to turn down his initial request.”

“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting as I had a thousand times before in an attempt to find the trail. “What would Mr. Siegen’s problem be, exactly?”

Holmes’s lips tightened. “He feels that he is being persecuted by a ghost.”

By now, nothing surprised me, and knowing Holmes, I understood why he had declined the case. Keller interjected, “The White Lady wouldn’t persecute anyone. She was a healer in life.”

“The White Lady?” I asked, as the door opened, allowing Katy Keller to slip inside.

“That’s what we call her,” answered Keller, glancing toward his daughter. “We don’t know what her real name was.”

“She’s been here for several hundred years, at least, or longer,” added Katy, taking a seat beside her father. “All the stories agree that she was a nurse, or at least someone who cared for the ill and wounded. There are stories that she first worked for the Estate as a servant, but that she also tended to the injured who were placed in the houses just next door during the wars with Napoleon. Others think that she has been here much longer than that – since The Plague in the 1600’s.”

“And like all of these spirits,” added Holmes, with a touch of sarcasm, “she would rather stay here than move on.”

“She can’t move on, you see,” said Keller. “Whatever she saw in life – the suffering, the pain – affected her in some way, and now she stays.” He looked from one to the other of us as if that explained it. “We’ve all seen her, you know. At different times. In the hallways or on the stairs. In the kitchen, or in the bar when it’s late and closed and when there’s no bright light to obscure her.”

A sudden burst of wind outside rattled the window, causing me to start involuntarily. Keller and his daughter also looked unnerved, and Holmes smiled slightly to himself.

“Sometimes I wake up, and she’s standing by my bed,” said the young lady softly. Keller nodded, as if this didn’t surprise him.

“I’ve seen her since I was a little girl,” continued Katy. “I… I used to think it was my mum.” She glanced at her father, whose eyes dropped, and then continued. “But now I know better. Mum… Mum has let me know in other ways that she’s watching over us. The White Lady is someone else. She watches too, but in a different way. She’s good – I can feel it. She never does anything hurtful. Sometimes she just moves things, or shuts doors or windows.”

“The usual ghostly forms of amusement,” added Holmes, with just the hint of sarcasm. I knew that he could say more. Often in days past, he and I, along with our friend the spiritual investigator Alton Peake, would sit in Baker Street, sharing a glass and telling tales. It was always one of Holmes’s sticking points that a spirit, free from the body and physical obligations and limitations, and with a world – nay a universe – to explore, should instead choose to remain in one location and drop books and slam doors to get attention. Peake would shake his head with a tolerant smile and give us yet another example of why such a behavior, in his experience, was caused by a torment that the poor spirit could not overcome. Peake had debunked many a false claim, but he also insisted that he had seen the real thing, and he told us that in many cases he had exorcised these souls, allowing them to finally achieve peace. Holmes was a skeptic, but he also respected Peake, and therefore he – usually – held his tongue.

Now, he was clearly doing the same in Keller’s office. “This is what Siegen asked you about?” I said to Holmes. “To protect him from the Tiger Inn’s ghost?” He nodded, and I added, “I understand why you declined, but why did you not refer him to Peake in London?”

“Because I didn’t want our friend to have to deal with this man any more than I wanted to.” Holmes shifted his gaze to Keller. “You know something of my background,” he said. “I am a cautious man, and part of that is to be aware of my surroundings, and those who populate them. Word reached me through the usual local gossip – your cook by way of Mrs. Hudson – that this man Siegen was staying here for quite a long time and for no apparent reason, and that he seemed to be unhappy while doing so. It wasn’t sinister per se, but it was a bit unusual. I sent a few messages here and there to learn more about him. He is… unsavory.

“His name, loosely translated, means triumph, but I find his history anything but. He is originally from Kallstadt, in Bavaria, near Mannheim. When he was in his teens, he moved to the United States, where he lived with relatives for a number of years in the East. At some point, apparently related to the gold discoveries in the West, he traveled, and when settled he began to scramble, revealing his true character. He was able to worm into a series of questionable shipping investments and land deals, and he began to build a modest fortune. However…” At this point, Holmes paused for just a moment, glancing at Katy before continuing, “… However, his greatest source income came from establishing a sizeable bordello along the routes to the gold fields. Upon this shaky ground, his wealth multiplied exponentially.

“At some point, he became a citizen of the United States. Returning to Bavaria for a visit a few years ago, he ended up marrying a woman who is a number of years younger than he. Then they returned to America, where they have lived until last year, before returning to Kallstadt for a visit. After only being back there for only a short while, there was some sort of scandal, and Siegen was ordered to leave. Rather than returning directly to their home, they traveled, first to France, and then on to London, before eventually washing up here – to your consternation, Mr. Keller.”

Keller ran a hand over his whiskers and nodded. “Consternation is right, Mr. Holmes. I had no idea about his past until now, but I’ve never liked him much anyway.”

“Then why let him stay?” I asked. “Surely you can find a way to turn him out.”

Keller dropped his eyes, and then glanced at his daughter, who smiled. “It’s the money, you see,” she said. “He’s rented all of the upstairs rooms – the whole floor – and is paying twice the normal rate to keep them.”

The innkeeper glanced back up. “We’ve made some improvements in the last year or so. You can’t see them, as they relate to the piping and the drains and so forth. But there was some expense involved, major expense, and I’m still paying for it. The extra money… well, I can’t lie and say that it doesn’t help.”

“Twice?” said Holmes, fixating on Keller’s earlier statement. “He is paying twice your rate?”

“He is. He made the offer when he first arrived, without prompting. And as Katy said, that’s for all of the upstairs rooms.”

“His own, one for the nurse and the baby…”

“And one for his wife too. They are not lodging together. The rest stand empty”

“Twice the rate,” muttered Holmes to himself. “That is significant in and of itself.” Looking back at Keller, he asked, “Why would he do that – why would he wish to stay here, especially as he seems to be suffering under the illusion that this White Lady is tormenting him?”

“I cannot tell you,” said Keller, even as his daughter spoke at the same time: “I can’t believe that she would do that!”

“The Lady has always been gentle,” added her father. “Although I will say that since Siegen has been here, she’s been acting up quite a bit. She’s agitated. And more of her mischief has occurred than usual. Katy and I have seen her often of late.” The girl nodded in agreement.

Holmes shook his head, as if annoyed by a gnat. “And what do you want me to do for Herr. Siegen?”

“Well, it’s this way,” said Keller. “He has asked me… he… asked me to ask you to speak to him once more. To have mercy and see if you can’t give him some assistance.”

“Battling the supernatural does not fall within my purview,” said my friend shortly.

“I understand. I appreciate that. But as a favor to me – to us – ” I could see that the man hated being put in this position, but he also would do what was needed to keep the added funds flowing toward relieving his debt.

Holmes scratched his forehead and then cupped his chin in thought. Then, tapping his forefinger, he seemed to reach a decision. “May we use your office to speak with him?”

Keller seemed relieved, standing abruptly. “Of course. We’ll go and get him. And… and thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

As they left us, I glanced at my friend. “What changed your mind?”

“The Kellers, of course. They wouldn’t have asked if it were not important to them. Otherwise, I have no interest in proving or disproving the existence of a White Lady, and certainly not in helping Herr Siegen.”

He had made no effort to lower his voice, and he concluded this sentence even as the man in question was being shown into the office. He must have been waiting, poised on the edge of his seat to see if he would be summoned. As he walked in, the little man clearly heard Holmes’s declaration, and his eyes narrowed. Siegen’s wife, who had accompanied him, quite frankly looked rather angrier than her husband at this sleight.

Keller introduced me, and Katy slipped past him, setting down a tray with a full bottle of brandy and glasses. Then they both nodded and backed out, closing the door behind them.

Holmes and I had stood in deference to Mrs. Siegen. “My wife, Berta,” said our prospective client, providing us with the lady’s heretofore unspoken first name and clearly trying to be as charming as he knew how. He still had something of an accent, which his recent sojourn in Germany had likely sharpened.

Up close, I could see that Mrs. Siegen was quite a bit younger than her husband, as reported. She had classic Bavarian features, but they were marred by a cold and calculating expression that would only harden as she aged.

We found our seats, and Siegen reached for the brandy. He was already exhibiting the early signs of inebriation, which was no surprise, as he presented unmistakable indications of alcoholic tendencies, which were quite obvious up close. After pouring himself a tall measure, he remembered his manners and looked at Holmes and me, gesturing toward the other glasses. We declined. He made no such offer toward his wife – rightly so, I thought, for a woman in her condition, although I doubted if that was his reasoning.

Holmes began in a curt tone. “Mr. Siegen, I only agreed to speak with you again at the request of my friends, the Kellers. As I explained to you the other day, I do not waste my time on pointless investigations of the supernatural.”

Siegen started to speak, but he was interrupted by his wife, allowing him to take a deep swallow of the brandy. “Gott in Himmel, Friedrich!” she hissed. “Du machst dich selbst zum narren!”

Holmes’s German was excellent, and mine passable. Her criticism of him, telling him that he was making a fool of himself, caused his eyes to narrow, and he slammed the empty brandy glass onto the table.

“I am an American, now,” he said in English, “and my name is Fred, not Friedrich.” And then he filled the glass, raised it to his lips, emptied it, and proceeded to fill it again.

His wife turned to us. “I have tried to tell him! He is only imagining this White Woman that torments him so. He stays in his room all day, brooding and only coming out for meals. He drinks too much – ” and she glared at him, where his own actions seemed to be proving her point “ – and he is having problems sleeping. He has heard these innkeeper stories about a ghostly woman walking the hallways and causing mischief, and he has started to imagine that he’s seeing her.”

“I have seen her,” muttered Siegen in a surly tone.

“After what happened in Kallstadt,” continued his wife, “it’s no wonder that he’s upset. When we return home to New York, all will be well.”

“And what happened there, in Kallstadt?” asked Holmes, having noticed, as did I, that Siegen winced when his hometown was mentioned.

The downtrodden little man cleared his throat. “It… well, you see, my brother died while we were there.” Another swallow. Then, before the glass was emptied this time, he topped it off again.

“Really,” said Holmes blandly. “Was he murdered?”

Siegen’s eyes widened. “What? No! Don’t be absurd. He had a bad heart, and it finally caught up with him.”

“And that is why you are upset?”

“Of course.”

“Ah. I had heard differently, you see. My information was that there was some scandal there, necessitating your hasty departure. Perhaps, as I need to have an understanding of all of the relevant facts to determine why this spirit is harassing you, you will share that story as well.”

Siegen scowled and looked at his wife, who returned the expression. Then, with a nod, she released him to speak.

“It was determined – falsely, I would add – that when I first moved to the United States, it was to avoid service in the military of the German Empire. Nothing could be further from the truth. Upon my return last year, this was… discussed with me by the authorities, and based upon that, I was told to leave the country.”

Holmes nodded. “And then, instead of returning to America, you have buried yourself here in this English village, specifically within this establishment, where I’m told you have reserved the whole upstairs floor and pay above the going rate, in spite of clearly being unhappy and feeling as if you are being victimized by a dead woman.” His skepticism was palpable. “Why would you do that, Mr. Siegen?”

Holmes’s tone had sharpened as if he were a prosecutor interrogating a lying witness. Siegen looked again to his wife, but she seemed to have no advice or direction for him this time. He swallowed and said, “When I first departed for America, twenty years ago, my brother – the one who has just died – went with me. We had plans to make our fortunes. He was a carpenter, and I, while having no special skills, was willing to work hard. We left home and began to make our way in a leisurely fashion, eventually reaching England. With no plan in mind, we explored a bit, and almost by accident we ended up in this village, staying in this very inn. We had a bit of money at the time, a gift from our grandmother for the journey, and those were happy days – at least at first. But my brother quickly became homesick, and we fought while we were here. Finally, he decided to return home and we parted – he to go back to Kallstadt, while I journeyed onward.

“Last year, my wife and I were both missing our old home after all those years away, and I especially wanted to visit and spend time with my brother, whom we had learned was ill. I tried to regain the closeness that we’d had when we were young, but it seemed as if we couldn’t rebuild the bond from twenty years ago. There were too many different experiences between us since then. He had grown to regret his decision to return home, and hearing about my adventures in the west had only fed his resentment. He was very ill during our entire visit, often unconscious, and when he died, there was no understanding between us. Then, soon after, we were asked to leave Germany, and we wandered a bit before I had the idea that if I stayed here, in the very inn where he and I had parted, I might obtain some sort of comfort.”

“Instead,” said Holmes, “you find yourself, not making peace with the shade of your brother as you’d hoped, but rather being visited by a stranger, an English woman dead for hundreds of years.”

“It is not just me,” said Siegen, with something of a whine creeping into his voice. “Gerda has seen her too.”

“Gerda?”

“The nurse,” snapped Mrs. Siegen. “She has mentioned something of the sort. But she is a simple-minded girl, and cannot be trusted.”

“Nevertheless,” said Holmes, “I shall want to speak to her. Is she available?”

“She is not,” said the wife firmly. “She is with the baby.”

“Ah. Perhaps tomorrow, then.” He turned back toward Siegen, who was pouring yet more brandy into his glass. “Does the nurse’s account agree with your own experience?”

Siegen nodded and took a drink, and his wife snapped, “It is foolish. I have seen nothing of this geist. Friedrich is hoping for a message from his brother, and instead his imagination creates some woman moving about his room.”

“Is that what she does?” I asked. “Appear in your room and move around?”

“She does,” answered the man. “Each night, my sleep is troubled. I fall asleep without incident, even when I try to stay awake, but I always become aware that she is there. I don’t know the exact time that she appears or leaves. It is as if I am paralyzed, but I can see her, glowing, as she moves from here to there about the room, intent on something, but often pausing to turn her gaze toward me, frowning in disapproval. Eventually, I fall back to sleep, awakening in the morning exhausted, as if I’ve had no true rest.”

“Then again I ask you: Why stay?” asked Holmes. “You’ve been here for several weeks now. You have been ignored by your brother’s spirit the entire time, and yet you continue to place yourself in a situation that only disturbs you.”

Siegen nodded. “You are right. I can only say that I feel that my business here is not yet finished, and if I must face this White Woman to do so, then so be it. But I would feel better if you could advise me, Mr. Holmes, and perhaps find a way to make her leave me alone so that I may rest.”

Holmes shook his head, and I thought that he was going to refuse, but he said, “I’m not clear on what exactly that I can do, as I know nothing about exorcising spirits, but I will make some sort of effort, if only because my friends the Kellers have requested it. However, I will need to do a bit of research, and the hour is late. May I call on you again in the morning?”

Siegen seemed to have a moment of emotion, possibly as he considered that night was approaching, and that he was facing another encounter with the inn’s resident phantom. But he nodded, rising and lurching slightly from the quantities of alcohol that he had just consumed in such a short time. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Doctor. I believe that my stay here will conclude successfully soon, but in the meantime, I will hope that your intervention can make the remaining days more tolerable.”

He turned to his wife. “It is as I’ve told you, Berta. Mr. Holmes can see things that others cannot. If anyone can get to the bottom of this, it is he.”

Mrs. Siegen simply frowned and nodded at our wishes for a good night. We let them proceed us out of the office, and I was amused to notice Siegen reach out for his wife’s hand. With a flick of her wrist, she swatted his fingers away before they could touch her, leaving him slumping as he shambled forward, attempting to retain his drunken balance. In a low voice, she began to berate him with a nearly continuous string of guttural billingsgate as they moved away from us.

We exited into the common room, now considerably emptier than it had been a half-hour earlier. In fact, Tom Keller was in the act of sending one last patron out the door and into the windy darkness. The Siegens also made their way to the front door, which opened onto a small vestibule. There, as was curiously the way in the construction of these old buildings, a separate doorway opened to the stairs leading up to the upper floor, wherein their rooms were located. We watched them open that door and begin to climb, the woman’s complaints never ceasing. As the door to the common room shut, we turned to Keller, who was now standing behind the bar.

“Can you help them?” he asked.

“Possibly. I told them that we’d be back tomorrow morning.”

At that moment, the wind rose afresh, throwing small pebbles against the front window. “Well, then,” said Keller. “I won’t hold you up. It promises to be a right night of it, or so the old fellows at the bar were saying before they scooted off home.”

I nodded in his direction and moved toward the entryway, taking my coat from the hook as I did so. Pulling the door open, I looked back to see that Holmes had moved in the opposite direction, leaning toward Keller and saying something quick and quiet and short. With a puzzled look on his face that quickly turned canny, Keller nodded. Then Holmes joined me, grabbing his own coat and hat as we ducked our heads, stepping into the vestibule. The area was shallow, just a few square feet across, with the doors to both the common room and the upstairs pressed close beside us. I started ask a question, but Holmes, in the act of adjusting his fore-and-aft cap, put a cautionary finger to his lips. Then he led me out onto the village green.

As we had perceived from inside, the wind had steadily risen, and dark clouds were moving with great speed across the sky toward us. In the distance I could see lightning. There was no thunder yet, as so far this was only some electrical disturbance in the high atmosphere. But I knew that it would arrive soon, along with the rains that undoubtedly follow.

“We should hurry,” I said, “or we’re going to be drenched.”

“No need,” said Holmes. “We want to stay here and see what happens.”

I understood. “So you told Keller – ”

“ – to join us in five minutes.”

“And your promise to return in the morning… ?”

“As you will have realized, old friend, that was simply a way to make sure that whatever has been happening on previous nights will also happen on this one. As soon as it is perceived that we will be taking a more focused interest in the matter, ostensibly in the morning, the conditions will change. I want to give the impression that there will be one more night wherein things can proceed as they have been doing before our further involvement skews the matter into a different direction.

“In science,” he continued, leading me across the green toward the estate office, “sometimes the simple act of observing a reaction is enough to affect the reaction. For instance, measuring an electrical current with a voltage meter necessarily diverts some quantity of that current, no matter how minute, to power the measuring device, causing a slightly false reading of the true current. A thermometer must use some energy, thermal converted to kinetic, in order to move the mercury, again taking energy away from the thing being measured. Even checking the pressure in an automobile tire causes some air to be inadvertently released, resulting in a slightly inaccurate reading. Thus, the introduction of the two of us as variables into this situation will change the conditions of the experiment, and before that is expected to happen on the morrow, we need to allow it to play out tonight, as it has every night.”

I was about to make a contrary and less-scientific statement about “A watched pot never boils” when the door to the inn opened, and Keller slipped out. He looked around, spotted us in the dim light, and walked across to where we stood in the shadows of the estate office. “It’s going to be a raw night for sure,” he said, handing each of us Mackintoshes that he had thoughtfully gathered. Although both Holmes and I were wearing overcoats, for the day had been cool, we gratefully put on the waterproof coverings.

“I think that I understand the upstairs layout,” said Holmes, gesturing back the hundred or so feet toward the inn. “There is, unfortunately, nowhere to hide within the hallway itself, or I would have suggested it. The steps leading up from the entryway there in the vestibule open at the top into the hallway, which then leads along the front of the building where behind those windows there. The rooms in question are each situated along the backside of the building. Do they also have windows?”

“Of course. They look down on the courtyard.”

“Excellent. Then I’m afraid there is nothing to do but wait. I have a key to the estate office, and if the rains begin we’ll certainly step inside, but for now we’ll be able to see much better from out here. It shouldn’t take long. Mr. Siegen is already quite inebriated, and will no doubt be asleep very soon.”

“What do you expect to see?” asked Keller, glancing back and forth from the inn to Holmes.

“Why, your White Lady, of course. With the knowledge that our investigation begins in earnest tomorrow, things will have to intensify tonight. No doubt she will appear. Eyes sharp, now.”

And in truth, it did not take very long at all before we saw signs of something in the hallway windows. On the left a light suddenly glowed, near where the stairs down to the outside door were located. “Ah,” said Holmes. “She is confident enough that there is no need to put out her own bedroom light when she opens her door.”

“Who?” asked Keller. “Mrs. Siegen?”

“Indeed. Watch.”

It was hard to see, but there was some movement across the windows as the woman moved down the hallway from our left to right. “Mr. Siegen is in the last room?” asked Holmes.

“He is. Their rooms are separated by that of the nurse.”

The light vanished to the right, apparently as the woman entered Siegen’s room. After several moments where nothing happened, I was moved to ask, “What do we expect to see?”

“That, for whatever reason, Mr. Siegen’s specter is really his wife, as just indicated by her visit to his room.”

“Surely,” I countered, “it isn’t completely unusual for a wife to visit her husband’s room – even such an unpleasant couple as the Siegens. Perhaps he is ill, and she is checking on him.”

“I suppose so,” replied Holmes, “But we must be certain. Keller, is there a ladder near the back courtyard, long enough to reach the first floor windows?”

“Mr. Holmes, I – ” He swallowed whatever objection was about to be voiced and said, “Yes. In the open shed.”

“Excellent. I shall return momentarily.” And with that, he vanished into the ever-growing darkness, leaving Keller and me looking at one another with puzzled and somewhat uncomfortable expressions. It didn’t surprise me that Holmes would leave no stone unturned, no fact unverified. In the meantime, I was aware that the wind was increasing, and the first hints of rain – those fine, almost non-existent drops that brush one’s face or the back of one’s hand and might only be imagined – seemed to be increasing.

We had stood there in silence for nearly five minutes, and I was considering leading us to a more sheltered location, when Holmes reappeared, a smile barely visible upon his face. “As I expected. Siegen is lying on the bed, still fully clothed, flat on his back and apparently passed out – no doubt helped down that path by whatever was slipped to him by his wife. You didn’t see it? Well, you were facing the wrong direction. While he was turned to request yet another whisky at dinner, she passed a hand over his glass. I could just see something drop from it. At the time, it was none of my business. But now? It becomes amazingly relevant. As of just a few minutes ago, she is frantically searching his room. She must be looking at night for whatever it is that he has been seeking unsuccessfully during the day. What a pair! The promise of our involvement and interest has motivated her to try even harder than before.”

“Wait,” said Keller. “You’re saying that she’s been drugging him, and then going into his room at night to look for something hidden there?”

“Undoubtedly. Siegen probably learned of whatever it is that they seek from his dying brother, who must have hidden it there in that room twenty years ago when they first stayed at this inn. That’s why he came back here now, and why he rented out the whole upstairs, and why he’s been spending his days in his room. He’s searching for something – and his wife also wants to find it – apparently without his knowledge. But time is slipping away from him – from both of them. And no doubt Mrs. Siegen has been drugging him with something of an evening to render him unconscious – thought not enough so that he is completely unaware of when she is moving about the room. His fogged mind has convinced him that what he sees, combined with the induced paralysis, is the result of the ghost that he has heard inhabits the place.”

While Keller and I considered Holmes’s conclusions, the storm began to arrive in its entirety. The lightning, so silent and distant earlier, was now nearly on top of us, along with the related thunder. The light raindrops had begun to solidify into larger pellets. Holmes glanced up and said, “We’ve let this go on long enough. I shall gather Mrs. Siegen, and we’ll discuss the matter in the common room.” And once again, as he had just a few minutes earlier, he vanished into the darkness.

At that moment, the storm broke in full force, and a flash of lightning revealed that Holmes had already covered the thirty yards or so to the inn door and was stepping into the vestibule, pulling open the door of the stairs leading to the upstairs rooms. Keller and I stayed put for a moment, reluctant to venture out of the protection of the estate office and into the now-driving rain. We saw the dark shadow of Holmes pass in front of the first floor hall windows, left to right, and then after a moment or so, return more slowly along the same path, now lit by Mrs. Siegen’s lantern as he moved with a light-shaded bulk that could only be the lady in question. Seconds later, the hallway returned to darkness and the door at the bottom of the steps opened, revealing the two of them in the vestibule, pulling open the second door to the common room.

Realizing that it was time to join Holmes, I took a deep breath and prepared to spring through the rain, only to be stopped by Keller’s oddly quiet voice. “There she is,” he whispered flatly, pulling at my arm and pointing toward the inn.

I followed his gaze and saw her, standing in the window to far right, the side located near Siegen’s room. She was tall and thin, nearly reaching the top of the window, and nothing like the dumpy silhouette of the woman who had just passed that way. There is no other way to describe it – she was illuminated somehow from within, not throwing any light of her own, but possessing light nonetheless. It was a cool glow, slightly greenish in cast but not unpleasant, and it seemed to pulsate with faint regularity, although that may have only been from the beating of my own heart, as my pulse was suddenly throbbing anxiously.

“The nurse,” I whispered, my voice raspy. “It must be the nurse.”

“No, it can’t be,” said Keller, an edge to his tone. “She’s a tiny girl, no bigger than Katy. See how tall this woman is?” His grip tightened on my arm, and I realized that I hadn’t noticed that he’d never let go from before. “She’s there. It’s her. It’s the Lady. But I’ve never seen her so clear before.”

And clear she was. Although a hundred feet separated us from that window and where we stood, I felt as if I could see the very expression upon her face. It was one of great beauty, and infinite sadness. The features were visible in that greenish glow, although they shouldn’t have been at that distance. Her eyes were each a black abyss, framed in pain and wisdom, yet mysterious nonetheless. Even as I watched, she gestured, indicating in some way that gave me an instinctive understanding that I was needed. Yet, I was paralyzed, continuing to watch her while my feet remained locked to that patch of ground by the estate house doorway. Only when she gestured again, this time sharper and with what almost looked like urgency and impatience, did I gain the impetus to break free and move.

“Come on!” I called to Keller, and set off running.

There was a blinding crack of lightning, and that, along with the sudden shock of the freezing rain instantly soaking through my clothing, left me gasping. I ran blindly, and as my vision cleared, I realized that I was already about half the distance to the inn. Looking up at the window, I saw that she was gone. That window was now as dark as the others along the same hallway, as if it had always been so.

Reaching the alcove, I wrenched open the door to the common room, seeing Holmes and Mrs. Siegen standing there facing one another, both with attitudes of tension. They turned their heads in my direction, and I summoned my breath to cry, “Holmes! Upstairs!” And then, letting that door swing shut, I opened the adjacent one and pounded up the steps, aware that Keller was right behind me.

Swinging around at the top, I ran along the hallway, sparing a glance as I passed the window where I had observed the woman, yet realizing without pause that there would now be nothing there to indicate her presence. I turned to the nearby door and was immediately joined by Keller. Thinking we would need a key, I reached for the knob, only to find it unlocked. I pushed open the door and entered.

The now nearly continuous lightning illuminated the room to reveal a low ceiling, crossed by ancient wooden beams, their bare unfinished appearance in contrast to the shadowed plaster bracketing them. Stepping closer to the bed in the center of the room, I perceived a foul smell hovering nearby, indicating that someone had been ill. And as there was only one person in the room, there was no question as to whom.

“Light a lantern,” I snapped to Keller, moving toward the bed, where Siegen was lying on his back, as Holmes had described. I reached and turned his head toward the window, revealing the vomitus running alongside his mouth, down one cheek to puddle on the bed covering. Was it possible that he had aspirated it, too drunk or drugged to do otherwise? I was feeling his clammy forehead when simultaneously Keller lit the lamp and Holmes arrived.

“Mrs. Siegen?” I asked.

“She isn’t going anywhere.”

I could see that Siegen was in a bad way. His breath was quite shallow, and his eyes rolled up into his head. There was a distinct brandy-like odor wafting from his lips, along with a sour smell that could be anything from simple illness-related matter to poison.

“Keller,” I snapped. “Black coffee. Not too hot – we have to get it into him as fast as possible. And find someone with an automobile.”

“I have the remains of today’s last pot beside the stove,” said the innkeeper, moving toward the door. “And I’ll wake up Clayton at the tobacconists across the way. He has a car.”

“Have him go to Holmes’s cottage. Bring my bag.”

“Right.”

“And send up Katy.”

“I’ll wake her.”

After he left, Holmes helped me turn Siegen onto his side, instinctively understanding that the man was suffering from some likely combination of a narcotic and alcohol. “I don’t believe that she intentionally poisoned him,” I muttered as we effected respiration techniques. “This was likely an accident, spooked into using too much of what she’s been giving him, combined with the increasingly large amounts of brandy and whisky that he consumed tonight. His respiration is dangerously suppressed.”

“Agreed,” said my friend. And then, “How did you know? To check him?”

I continued my efforts in silence for a moment before glancing up. “You won’t believe me when I tell you.”

In just a moment, Katy looked in, alerted by her father as he departed to seek an automobile. When she asked if there was anything that she could do, I sent her next door to check on the nurse, Gerda. Soon she reported that the girl was sleeping heavily and could not be awakened – “I pinched her!” – no doubt drugged, as had been Siegen, but she appeared to be in no danger.

Nearly half-an-hour was to pass before Keller finally returned, carrying my bag. I fished around for a stimulant, and used my stethoscope to verify what I’d already tried to hear without it – namely, whether the man’s lungs were filled with any fluids from when he was ill while unconscious and on his back. They appeared to be clear, but I knew that he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

It was touch-and-go for a while, but eventually he began to rally, and the stimulants brought him further around so that he could sit up and drink the cold coffee. Soon we had him up and walking, although he was not yet coherent at all.

When Siegen was somewhat better, I went next door and checked on the nurse, finding that the tiny figure was as Katy had indicated. Gerda might feel terrible in the morning, but for now she was in no danger.

I returned to Siegen’s room to find that, in my absence, Anderson of the Sussex Constabulary had arrived, and that Holmes was apparently examining one of the low beams crisscrossing the ceiling with great satisfaction.

Even as I entered, he slipped something into his pocket, unseen by Anderson and Keller, who were both looking at Siegen, now slumped and groaning on the side of his bed, his hands on his head.

“Watson, you might give a short sketch of tonight’s events to Anderson. In the meantime, I must tie up a few loose ends. I’ll return with a full explanation shortly.”

And with that, he slipped past us and out the door, leaving Anderson looking my way expectantly.

I pulled out my watch to discover that it was already approaching five in the morning. Where had that time gone? Glancing at Siegen, and not wanting to reveal too much in his presence, I nodded toward the hallway. Anderson joined me and, after pulling the door shut, I gave him a short précis of the night’s happenings, from the time we were asked to meet with Siegen and his wife, to the observation of Berta Siegen going to her husband’s room and Holmes’s subsequent revelation of her nightly searches, followed by the discovery of Siegen’s condition. Thankfully, Anderson didn’t ask how I knew to check on the man, and I didn’t volunteer it. “What are they looking for?” was his only question, and I had no answer for him.

We checked on Siegen one more time. He was still very sleepy, but as his condition had improved, letting him go back to bed now and sleep normally would only help his recovery, as he was out of danger. Downstairs, Keller and Katy had prepared coffee and an early breakfast, and we ate at one side of the common room, while Mrs. Siegen sat alone at the other. No one attempted to question her, or otherwise engage her in the least. At one point, she stood, indicating that she wished to check on her baby, but Katy quickly said that she would, and Mrs. Siegen could see that Anderson would accept no arguments otherwise.

It was nearly eight before Holmes returned. He bounded in, looking fresh and energetic as he crossed the room to the cold left-overs and made up a plate. Eating it quickly while standing, he watched us all with amusement, occasionally turning his gaze toward the glowering woman sitting by herself.

“Mr. Keller,” he said, “would you and your daughter summon Mr. Siegen and the nurse? Thank you.”

There was no conversation in the twenty minutes or so that we waited while the drugged individuals readied themselves. Eventually they entered, each looking befuddled and confused. They were led to seats near Mrs. Siegen, where they watched with puzzlement. Katy cuddled the baby, still sleeping, to her shoulder.

Turning to Mrs. Siegen, Holmes said, “Did you also drug the child?”

The woman looked startled. “No!” she said. “Mein Gott, no! She’s always been a good baby, sleeping through the night.”

“For your sake, I hope that’s the truth.” Then, “Mr. Siegen!”

His sharp tone focused the little man’s attention. With a cough, he said, “Yes?”

“I want you to know that prevarication is useless. I have found the jewel. So far I believe you to be innocent. Now all I need from you is the truth.”

“The… the jewel? What do you mean? I cannot think…”

“The jewel that was stolen from Countess Brazelton in Bad Dürkheim in 1885. Your brother was a suspect, but there were others, so he was never seriously investigated. When you and he left the country at approximately the same time, it was considered suspicious, but when he returned alone a few months later, with no signs of increased wealth, it was finally decided that he was innocent, and the search focused elsewhere. The jewel has never been found.”

At that point, he placed a thumb and forefinger in his waistcoat pocket, pulling out a sizeable emerald that winked in the morning light as he turned it this way and that. “Until now.”

“The… the jewel,” said Siegen, now more alert. “But… how did… how did you… ?”

“Yes, how?” snapped his wife, her harsh tone shocking us.”

“It was inserted into one of the beams crossing the ceiling over the bed. Considering that your brother had been a carpenter, I assumed that whatever you were searching for would be cleverly concealed in some wooden object, but apparently that fact never crossed your minds. Or it did, but your imaginations were limited to articles of furniture, and you were unable to see the tell-tale marks that gave away the previous work when your brother opened a cavity in the beam.

“As for my deciding an object was concealed in the room in the first place? Last night, I considered why you were spending so much time in that room, in a place that you hadn’t visited in twenty years. Your story of attempting to achieve a closeness with your deceased brother was, frankly, poppycock. I considered seven separate possibilities, but the most likely was that something was hidden there. But not by you, or you could have retrieved it on the first night. No, you didn’t know where it was – thus, your continued stay, and willingness to reserve the rooms at double the rate to ensure that you would not be turned out. Clearly whatever you sought was worth more than whatever you were paying to keep the upstairs rooms free.

“You gave me the rest of the explanation when you explained that your brother, who had been here with you, had recently died. What else could it be, but that he was the one who had hidden the item here on his earlier visit, failing to return over those long years, and had at the last told you where it was – but not precisely where.”

Siegen nodded sadly. “When we left Kallstadt as boys, I didn’t know that he had taken it. He had been in Bad Dürkheim, making a repair at the spa, and discovered that the jewel was left unsecured. He walked out with it, and though he realized that no one suspected him, he decided that it would be a good time to go to America, something that we had long discussed. Our grandmother gave us some money, and we decided to see the world along the way. Arriving in England, we traveled along the southern coast, intending to work our way to Bristol.

“But here in the inn, a random stop on our way to see some of the nearby white cliffs, Otto revealed the jewel to me, and how he had obtained it. I was appalled, and certain that we would be arrested immediately. By then, he also regretted taking it, but he was afraid to return it, and unwilling to completely abandon it. Unknown to me then, he hid it somewhere in our room, where he could sever his association with it, but find it again in years to come if he changed his mind. We continued to argue, and finally agreed to part ways.

“I proceeded to America, and gave only passing thoughts to the emerald over the next twenty years. Even when I visited Kallstadt a few years ago, and married Berta, Otto and I didn’t discuss it – unwilling, I suppose, to open old wounds. But then I heard that he was sick, and Berta was missing the old country, so we went back again. This time, Otto wanted to tell me what had happened to the jewel, but the cancer had almost overwhelmed him at that point. He was only conscious long enough to relate that he’d hidden it in the old room upstairs, but was unable to share any other information.

“I should have let it go. But… but since selling out my business interests in the west and moving to New York, my finances have been… precarious. The possibility of getting the jewel became tempting. And… and I had told the story to Berta, and she was most anxious that we should find it.”

His wife glowered by said nothing. However, Holmes addressed her.

“Mrs. Siegen. You gave the impression during our conversation last night that you were ready to leave for New York as soon as your husband could be convinced. And yet, you were actually as anxious as he to retrieve the jewel. Why argue to leave when you also wanted to stay?”

“Because,” she snapped, “I knew that he would stay regardless of what I said. And I didn’t want it to seem as if I was too interested in finding it.”

“Because he might get suspicious at your interest, of course, if it was actually greater than his.” She didn’t answer, and he continued. “What were your plans if you found it?”

“Why, to sell it, of course. We can always use the money.”

“Ah, but if it was to be used for the both of you, the ‘we’ to which you refer, then why did you feel the need to search in secret? Why not help your husband during his daytime searches? Why drug him at night, so that you could search on your own, if not to find it on your own, keeping the knowledge to yourself.”

Siegen looked at his wife, shocked understanding crossing his features. “Berta?” he said, his voice small. “You… you drugged me?”

She stood up abruptly, her voice cutting like a whip. “Of course I drugged you, dummkopf! You, who were too stupid to take the jewel when you had the chance! You, who would have gone back home without trying to find it!”

“But… but I was trying to find it for us. Why would you try to keep it for yourself?”

“Why not? What have you ever done for me?”

“The house? The business? They were always for you.”

“You spineless kretin! What kind of business do you have now? You had the chance to be a rich man and threw it away!”

“But I sold the… the club out west because I didn’t want you to be embarrassed.”

“You fool! That business would have made us rich! And now you won’t even consider starting something similar in New York.” She stood and rested her hands on her mid-section, where Siegen’s unborn child rested. “This one, and Etta upstairs, are all that I need. If I could have found the jewel, I would have been able to leave you and find a real man!”

Siegen unexpectedly sobbed and lowered his head into his hands, while the rest of us looked on in mortified silence. He muttered something about the raging woman being “his life”, to which she said, “Do you think that I don’t know about the others? Heuchler! The lawyer’s wife? Mrs. Allyn next door? This one!” And she flung out a hand toward Gerda, the nurse, who turned bright red before standing and fleeing from the room. Siegen made no reply.

“Mr. Siegen,” said Holmes, his quiet voice cutting through the tension. “Your wife has been drugging you to search your room each night. Doubtless is it some opiate that didn’t quite put you to sleep, but caused you to hallucinate that it was a ghost moving about your room, when in reality you were seeing her search. Last night, a combination of several things nearly resulted in your death: Your greater-than-normal drinking and her decision to use a higher dosage level, as her search had become more urgent, knowing that Dr. Watson and I would be investigating today, possibly finding some indication of her involvement, or even the jewel itself.

“I do not believe that she intended you any true harm… this time. But I must warn you – this is a dangerous woman. Should it suit her, and if she believes that she can accomplish it without consequences, she will kill you. Possibly not this year, or even this decade, but should the need arise, you will die, and likely in a way that seems natural and above suspicion.”

He turned to the woman, who had sat back down and was hunched like a cornered beast. “After I had some idea of what had happened, I sent telegrams early this morning to Kallstadt. The wires sizzled between Germany and Eastbourne. Sorting through their records, they provided information that allowed me to narrow down what had likely happened twenty years ago, giving me a direction to search. But along the way, a great deal of information, madam, was sent this way about you too. It is their contention that you, as they say in America, are a piece of work.

“I will have my eye on you,” he added. “And, as much as I dislike Mr. Siegen, he is now under my protection. Should something happen to him, I will know the reason why. Do you understand me?”

Of course, she made no acknowledgement. But I could see in her eyes, now stripped of all pretense, the dangerous animal lurking underneath, like some venomous lizard moving in and out of the light. So could Siegen, who was looking at her with raw fear.

“I can’t tell you what to do, Mr. Siegen,” concluded Holmes, “and I suspect that you’ll return to New York with this woman. You are a weak man. But have a care, sir. Have a care!”

Of course, as the world now knows, Siegen did indeed come to a bad and unexpected end, and Holmes kept his promise, although things did not end quite as either of us expected.

I never saw the White Lady again – at least, not until last week, when I received an urgent message requesting my presence from Katy Hollander née Keller, still at the Tiger Inn, and fast approaching the date of her confinement. I was honored that she would contact me, in London, before even reaching out to Holmes. I rushed down to her aid… but that is another story.

Later in the afternoon following the recovery of the jewel, after the Siegens had been left in one another’s custody and Holmes and I had returned to his villa, we found ourselves sitting in his study, discussing the recent events. My own questions had all been answered, and I sensed that we were circling closer to that matter which still puzzled him and of which I had yet to speak. Without making him ask, I explained.

“It was the White Lady,” I sighed. “At least I suppose that it was. If I can make myself believe in such a thing.” I went on to relate, as best I could, how she had become visible to both Keller and me from our vantage in the storm.

As expected, Holmes scoffed. “Nonsense,” he said, lighting his pipe. “You somehow connected all of the alcohol that the man had been drinking with my report that his wife had drugged him, and you feared the results.”

I shook my head. “It was Keller who drew my attention to her.”

“Then it was the nurse,” he said confidently.

“Not possible,” I said. “She was also drugged.”

“Perhaps she drugged herself after signaling to you from the window.”

“Now why would she do that? And in any case, Mrs. Siegen has confirmed that she gave the opioid to the girl an hour or so earlier. There is no way that, at that dose, that she could have been up and walking by the window, let alone signaling for help. And soon after we found Siegen, Katy confirmed that the nurse was asleep.”

“Katy, then,” said Holmes, clutching at straws. “She was the one at the window.”

“She said she wasn’t, and you and I both know she wouldn’t lie. The woman that Keller and I saw was too tall for Katy – and also for the nurse. And in any case, what business would Katy have had up there, in a hallway where you and Mrs. Siegen had just passed by seconds before?”

“Then it was a flash of lightning – your eyes were affected by the glare. Or a reflection on the wavy window glass.”

This time I didn’t answer at all, and Holmes fell silent. We both sipped our whisky. Then, to my great surprise, Holmes murmured, “When you have eliminated the impossible…”

I lowered my glass. “Holmes! That is the last response that I would have expected from you.”

“Good to know that I can still surprise you after all these years,” he smiled. Then his smile failed. “How sad,” he said.

“What?”

“If one admits the existence of a ghost – and do not mistake this conversation for such an admission on my part! – then why doesn’t this nameless woman who spent her life serving others – a nurse or something like that, we’re told – merit some sort of special dispensation for her soul, rather than being compelled to exist, year after year, century after century, in that place in-between, by whatever means that we do not understand – a phantom, prevented from going to her deserved rest? Is she somehow punished for having such a good and generous heart that she must remain to provide further help when needed, even across the generations?

“And yet, a creature such as Mrs. Siegen will barrel onward through her own misbegotten life, shedding misery around her in every direction, and no doubt poisoning the lives of her children and her children’s children. Who can tell how far her evil influence will spread, and how much pain and suffering it will cause?

“Two women,” he finished after a moment. “So different, and both with such very different fates.”

I tried to think of some response. I knew that Holmes could occasionally find his way down these existential rabbit holes, and I was determined to prevent it. I took a deep breath, not knowing what to say, but trusting that I would think of something. But before I could begin, I heard the sound of a motorcar arriving. I raised my eyebrows.

“Just in time,” said Holmes with a smile. “When I divined what might have happened to direct your attention to Siegen’s bedroom – what you think might have happened – I took the liberty of inviting Peake down, in order for him to hear your story. He might have some valuable insight.”

Soon our old friend had joined us, and it turned out that he did.

NOTE

It is claimed that The Tiger Inn in East Dean has been haunted by a figure known as The White Lady for several hundred years. Accounts vary as to her identity, with one possibility being that she was someone who was once employed by the family that owned both the village of East Dean and the surrounding estate. Another is that she was a nurse in a nearby hospital that was set up in the three buildings located immediately adjacent to the inn. At some point in the past, either during the Plague Years or the later Napoleonic Wars – accounts vary – her experiences were such that she has been unable to find any peace, even to the present time. The staff at The Tiger Inn reports slamming doors, falling pictures, and occasional appearances by the Lady.

In September 2013, I was able to make my first (of three so far) Holmes Pilgrimages, with a stop in East Dean to see the country around Holmes’s retirement villa, nearby Hodcombe Farm. I stayed overnight in The Tiger Inn, having no idea at that time about the inn’s connection with The White Lady. Coincidentally, I stayed in the same room that, from its description in this narrative, was used by Friedrich Siegen in 1905. During the night, I had one of the three (so far) supernatural occurrences that have happened to me in my life. I awakened from my sleep to find the room extremely cold, objects knocked to the floor, and flickering lights. I saw no shapes and heard no noises, but I felt that I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t scared, and after a few minutes, the incident ended, although I still felt as if I were being watched. Still, I eventually drifted back to sleep.

Sadly, I was too exhausted from my rambles over the Downs the day before to wake up further and investigate when the incident occurred. I did, however, mention the affair to the inn’s owner and staff downstairs at the bar the next morning, asking them innocently if they had a ghost. They were strangely reticent, which puzzled me, as I would think they would be proud of their ghost. It was only later, after coming into possession of this Watsonian manuscript that it occurred to me to verify through further research whether The Tiger Inn is known to be haunted. Unsurprisingly, I learned that The White Lady has been a long-time resident of the inn.

I only wish I had known that before I stayed there. I might have been better prepared to pay more attention when she was carrying out her shenanigans…

D.M.