Welcome back to Nighty Night, Bedtime Stories to Keep You Awake. I'm your host,

Rabiachadri. And in this week's episode, we are forced to consider whether all is fair for the sake of science,

even denying the dead their secrets. And the Dead Spake by E.F. Benson.

There is not in all London a quieter spot, or one apparently more withdrawn from the heat

and bustle of life than Newsom Terrace.

It is a cul-de-sac, for at the upper end the roadway between its two lines of square compact little residences is brought to an end by a high brick wall,

while at the lower end the only access to it is through Newsom Square,

that small, discreet oblong of Georgian houses, a relic of the time when Kensington was a suburban

village sundered from the metropolis by a stretch of pastures stretching to the river.

Both square and terrace are most inconveniently situated for those whose ideal environment

includes a rank of taxi cabs immediately opposite their door, aate of buses roaring down the street, and a

procession of underground trains accessible by a station a few yards away, shaking

and rattling the cutlery and silver on their dining tables.

In consequence, Newsom Terrace had come two years ago to be inhabited by leisurely and

retired folk or by those who wish to pursue their work in quiet and tranquility.

Children with hoops and scooters are phenomena rarely encountered in the terrace,

and dogs are equally uncommon.

In front of each of the couple of dozen houses, dogs are equally uncommon.

In front of each of the couple of dozen houses of which the terraces composed lies a little

square of railed garden, in which you may often see the middle-aged or elderly mistress of the residence

horticulturally employed. By five o'clock of a winter's evening the pavements

will generally be empty of all passengers except the policemen who with felted step at intervals throughout the night

...