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“Mrs. Allison, sir,” she replied, holding out her hands for the terrier and tucking it under her arm with an air of long practice. Carnacki nodded distractedly in thanks.

Mrs. Allison responded to the sal volatile and subsided into weeping, and I was eventually able to make out what she was saying.

“It was like Frank — but … but…” She put her hands to either side of her eyes and howled anew.

“Frank was her husband,” said Mrs. Westen who was looking almost as agitated as the housekeeper. I looked up and saw her properly for the first time: she had a heart-shaped face with a determined set to her jaw, and dancing dark eyes that would be very attractive when not red from her own grief. “It … it stood at the window. It stood at the window and stared in at us with big empty eyes,” she said in an oddly strained voice. Then, seeming to collect herself, she went on more calmly, “You must be Dr. Watson.”

I straightened and held out my hand to her. Susan, having stowed the dog somewhere, helped Mrs. Allison to her feet. “At your service, Mrs. Westen.” I turned as my friend hurried up to our little group. “And here is Sherlock Holmes,” I said.

“Was her husband?” Holmes asked.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Westen. “He died two years ago. Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, he died two years ago and yet something that looked very much like him stood at the kitchen window not a minute before.”

By the expression on my friend’s face I could see he was already dismissing all this as female hysteria. But Carnacki was wide-eyed with interest and looked first to the two women, then at the window and back again.

“Has this ever happened before?” he asked Mrs. Weston.

“No!” she said and shook her head vigorously. “No, never!”

“Sudden ghosts,” he muttered.

The housekeeper showed no sign of becoming more coherent, and was in such evident distress that I judged it best to administer a sedative before yielding Mrs. Allison’s care to Susan.

“Pray tell us what happened, Mrs. Westen?” Holmes asked with ill-concealed impatience.

“Yes, of course,” the lady replied. “I was discussing menus with Mrs. Allison in the kitchen when someone rapped on the window. We looked up and both of us saw … something that was the image of Frank Allison but with great, deep, dark hollows where his eyes should have been. When I went outside there wasn’t a soul to be seen.”

“I meant with your husband, Mrs. Westen,” said Holmes.

I saw Carnacki hide a smile. “Mrs. Westen,” he said, “with your permission, I think my time would be put to better use if I could now see the library.”

She nodded, and ran a hand over her hair. “Yes, of course. Ask Susan if you need anything. She is still rather new here, but a bright girl.”

Our Occult Detective took his leave.

“What is Mr. Carnacki’s interest in this matter?” asked Holmes.

“Oh, he helped my husband with the library a few years ago. I’m not entirely sure what he did, but I’m convinced it had something to do with the missing book.”

“Ah yes, the putative missing book.” Holmes smiled. “I am still not entirely clear as to why you think a volume is missing.”

She shot him a sharp look. “I deduced it, Mr. Holmes. Henry was lying unconscious in a locked room. A secret compartment whose existence I previously knew nothing of stood open and empty. Something must have been in it, and the room is a library after all. What else was I to think?”

Holmes is often not at his best when confronted by the more intelligent members of the fair sex — and for just a moment his expression resembled that of a man who had unexpectedly bitten into a hot pickle, though he quickly recovered himself.

“I think we should see Professor Westen now,” said Holmes. “Come, Watson, your expertise will be needed.”

Mrs. Westen bustled ahead of us, ushering us into the cottage and up a flight of stairs. We reached a landing and passed through an open door. There, in a bed, Professor Henry Westen lay still beneath a coverlet. He had a full head of hair, dark like his drooping and untrimmed moustache, without any trace of grey, which