November, 1897Dr Bond We dined at Charles Hebbert’s. Perhaps it was my imagination, but as we sat at the table, even with the lights glowing brightly, it seemed as if the darkness that had filled the house before – when James Harrington had been living here – had once again returned. Shadows crept up the walls, bleeding darkness into the patterns, and although it was cold outside, the air felt stifled, as if no windows had been opened all summer. Even the fire barely crackled in the grate, as if it too felt the weight that hung over the room. Was this my fault? Had some part of what had infected Harrington and now had me in its grip touched Hebbert so badly that it lingered in his house? He had not redecorated since Mary had died and there was an emptiness in the building that no amount of forced laughter could fill. I had not realised the depth of his grief for his wife’s loss, instead trusting in his stoicism and his apparent return to good humour, but the house was haunted with echoes of her.
