Dear Arthur,

Who would have thought traipsing through wet fields and getting electrocuted could make one ill? And yet, such would appear to be the case. I have spent the first few days of my stay in the village of Drakesheath confined to my room, drinking hot broth and writing my report to William about the Rollright Stones.

This report, you may be interested to know, was composed on a type-writer. Yes, like Mr. Clemens, I have developed a rather ambiguous relationship with the beast. It would appear almost perfectly designed for the sole purpose of hindering all attempts to place my thoughts upon paper, and yet without it I would never have been able to write a word, since my right hand was temporarily out of commission and my left hand is so stupid I wouldn't trust it to pound sand.

I'm back on my feet, however, and will be exploring the village a little more. The Inn at which I've been staying is quite interesting, but I've hardly had a chance to meet either its staff or guests. My next step, of course, is to contact the Lord of Drakesheath manor, present him with William's letter of introduction, and see about boarding there. In the meantime, I intend to start taking my meals in the common room and, with any luck, collect a few interesting anecdotes of a psychical nature. Places like Drakesheath always have an abundance of eerie tales.

Stay well.

Richard