Part 1 out of 3
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Thomas Berger, and PG Distributed Proofreaders
PART 2: More Ghost Stories
GHOST STORIES OF AN ANTIQUARY
_These stories are dedicated to all those who at various times have
listened to them._
PART I: GHOST STORIES OF AN ANTIQUARY
Canon Alberic's Scrap-book
'Oh, Whistle, and I'll Come to You, My Lad'
The Treasure of Abbot Thomas
PART 2: MORE GHOST STORIES
A School Story
The Rose Garden
The Tractate Middoth
Casting the Runes
The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral
Mr Humphreys and his Inheritance
* * * * *
The first six of the seven tales were Christmas productions, the very
first ('A School Story') having been made up for the benefit of King's
College Choir School. 'The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral' was printed in
_Contemporary Review_; 'Mr Humphreys and his Inheritance' was written to
fill up the volume. In 'A School Story' I had Temple Grove, East Sheen in
mind; in 'The Tractate Middoth', Cambridge University Library; in
'Martin's Close', Sampford Courtenay in Devon. The Cathedral of
Barchester is a blend of Canterbury, Salisbury, and Hereford.
* * * * *
A SCHOOL STORY
Two men in a smoking-room were talking of their private-school days. 'At
_our_ school,' said A., 'we had a ghost's footmark on the staircase. What
was it like? Oh, very unconvincing. Just the shape of a shoe, with a
square toe, if I remember right. The staircase was a stone one. I never
heard any story about the thing. That seems odd, when you come to think
of it. Why didn't somebody invent one, I wonder?'
'You never can tell with little boys. They have a mythology of their own.
There's a subject for you, by the way--"The Folklore of Private
'Yes; the crop is rather scanty, though. I imagine, if you were to
investigate the cycle of ghost stories, for instance, which the boys at
private schools tell each other, they would all turn out to be
highly-compressed versions of stories out of books.'
'Nowadays the _Strand_ and _Pearson's_, and so on, would be extensively
'No doubt: they weren't born or thought of in _my_ time. Let's see. I
wonder if I can remember the staple ones that I was told. First, there
was the house with a room in which a series of people insisted on passing
a night; and each of them in the morning was found kneeling in a corner,
and had just time to say, "I've seen it," and died.'
'Wasn't that the house in Berkeley Square?'
'I dare say it was. Then there was the man who heard a noise in the
passage at night, opened his door, and saw someone crawling towards him
on all fours with his eye hanging out on his cheek. There was besides,
let me think--Yes! the room where a man was found dead in bed with a
horseshoe mark on his forehead, and the floor under the bed was covered
with marks of horseshoes also; I don't know why. Also there was the lady
who, on locking her bedroom door in a strange house, heard a thin voice
among the bed-curtains say, "Now we're shut in for the night." None of
those had any explanation or sequel. I wonder if they go on still, those
'Oh, likely enough--with additions from the magazines, as I said. You
never heard, did you, of a real ghost at a private school? I thought not;
nobody has that ever I came across.'
'From the way in which you said that, I gather that _you_ have.'
'I really don't know; but this is what was in my mind. It happened at my
private school thirty odd years ago, and I haven't any explanation of it.
'The school I mean was near London. It was established in a large and
fairly old house--a great white building with very fine grounds about it;
there were large cedars in the garden, as there are in so many of the
older gardens in the Thames valley, and ancient elms in the three or four
fields which we used for our games. I think probably it was quite an
attractive place, but boys seldom allow that their schools possess any
'I came to the school in a September, soon after the year 1870; and among
the boys who arrived on the same day was one whom I took to: a Highland
boy, whom I will call McLeod. I needn't spend time in describing him: the
main thing is that I got to know him very well. He was not an exceptional
boy in any way--not particularly good at books or games--but he suited
'The school was a large one: there must have been from 120 to 130 boys
there as a rule, and so a considerable staff of masters was required, and
there were rather frequent changes among them.
'One term--perhaps it was my third or fourth--a new master made his
appearance. His name was Sampson. He was a tallish, stoutish, pale,
black-bearded man. I think we liked him: he had travelled a good deal,
and had stories which amused us on our school walks, so that there was
some competition among us to get within earshot of him. I remember
too--dear me, I have hardly thought of it since then!--that he had a
charm on his watch-chain that attracted my attention one day, and he let
me examine it. It was, I now suppose, a gold Byzantine coin; there was an
effigy of some absurd emperor on one side; the other side had been worn
practically smooth, and he had had cut on it--rather barbarously--his own
initials, G.W.S., and a date, 24 July, 1865. Yes, I can see it now: he
told me he had picked it up in Constantinople: it was about the size of a
florin, perhaps rather smaller.
'Well, the first odd thing that happened was this. Sampson was doing
Latin grammar with us. One of his favourite methods--perhaps it is rather
a good one--was to make us construct sentences out of our own heads to
illustrate the rules he was trying to make us learn. Of course that is a
thing which gives a silly boy a chance of being impertinent: there are
lots of school stories in which that happens--or anyhow there might be.
But Sampson was too good a disciplinarian for us to think of trying that
on with him. Now, on this occasion he was telling us how to express
_remembering_ in Latin: and he ordered us each to make a sentence
bringing in the verb _memini_, "I remember." Well, most of us made up
some ordinary sentence such as "I remember my father," or "He remembers
his book," or something equally uninteresting: and I dare say a good many
put down _memino librum meum_, and so forth: but the boy I
mentioned--McLeod--was evidently thinking of something more elaborate
than that. The rest of us wanted to have our sentences passed, and get on
to something else, so some kicked him under the desk, and I, who was next
to him, poked him and whispered to him to look sharp. But he didn't seem
to attend. I looked at his paper and saw he had put down nothing at all.
So I jogged him again harder than before and upbraided him sharply for
keeping us all waiting. That did have some effect. He started and seemed
to wake up, and then very quickly he scribbled about a couple of lines on
his paper, and showed it up with the rest. As it was the last, or nearly
the last, to come in, and as Sampson had a good deal to say to the boys
who had written _meminiscimus patri meo_ and the rest of it, it turned
out that the clock struck twelve before he had got to McLeod, and McLeod
had to wait afterwards to have his sentence corrected. There was nothing
much going on outside when I got out, so I waited for him to come. He
came very slowly when he did arrive, and I guessed there had been some
sort of trouble. "Well," I said, "what did you get?" "Oh, I don't know,"
said McLeod, "nothing much: but I think Sampson's rather sick with me."
"Why, did you show him up some rot?" "No fear," he said. "It was all
right as far as I could see: it was like this: _Memento_--that's right
enough for remember, and it takes a genitive,--_memento putei inter
quatuor taxos_." "What silly rot!" I said. "What made you shove that
down? What does it mean?" "That's the funny part," said McLeod. "I'm not
quite sure what it does mean. All I know is, it just came into my head
and I corked it down. I know what I _think_ it means, because just before
I wrote it down I had a sort of picture of it in my head: I believe it
means 'Remember the well among the four'--what are those dark sort of
trees that have red berries on them?" "Mountain ashes, I s'pose you
mean." "I never heard of them," said McLeod; "no, _I'll_ tell you--yews."
"Well, and what did Sampson say?" "Why, he was jolly odd about it. When
he read it he got up and went to the mantelpiece and stopped quite a long
time without saying anything, with his back to me. And then he said,
without turning round, and rather quiet, 'What do you suppose that
means?' I told him what I thought; only I couldn't remember the name of
the silly tree: and then he wanted to know why I put it down, and I had
to say something or other. And after that he left off talking about it,
and asked me how long I'd been here, and where my people lived, and
things like that: and then I came away: but he wasn't looking a bit
'I don't remember any more that was said by either of us about this. Next
day McLeod took to his bed with a chill or something of the kind, and it
was a week or more before he was in school again. And as much as a month
went by without anything happening that was noticeable. Whether or not Mr
Sampson was really startled, as McLeod had thought, he didn't show it. I
am pretty sure, of course, now, that there was something very curious in
his past history, but I'm not going to pretend that we boys were sharp
enough to guess any such thing.
'There was one other incident of the same kind as the last which I told
you. Several times since that day we had had to make up examples in
school to illustrate different rules, but there had never been any row
except when we did them wrong. At last there came a day when we were
going through those dismal things which people call Conditional
Sentences, and we were told to make a conditional sentence, expressing a
future consequence. We did it, right or wrong, and showed up our bits of
paper, and Sampson began looking through them. All at once he got up,
made some odd sort of noise in his throat, and rushed out by a door that
was just by his desk. We sat there for a minute or two, and then--I
suppose it was incorrect--but we went up, I and one or two others, to
look at the papers on his desk. Of course I thought someone must have put
down some nonsense or other, and Sampson had gone off to report him. All
the same, I noticed that he hadn't taken any of the papers with him when
he ran out. Well, the top paper on the desk was written in red ink--which
no one used--and it wasn't in anyone's hand who was in the class. They
all looked at it--McLeod and all--and took their dying oaths that it
wasn't theirs. Then I thought of counting the bits of paper. And of this
I made quite certain: that there were seventeen bits of paper on the
desk, and sixteen boys in the form. Well, I bagged the extra paper, and
kept it, and I believe I have it now. And now you will want to know what
was written on it. It was simple enough, and harmless enough, I should
'"_Si tu non veneris ad me, ego veniam ad te_," which means, I suppose,
"If you don't come to me, I'll come to you."'
'Could you show me the paper?' interrupted the listener.
'Yes, I could: but there's another odd thing about it. That same
afternoon I took it out of my locker--I know for certain it was the same
bit, for I made a finger-mark on it--and no single trace of writing of
any kind was there on it. I kept it, as I said, and since that time I
have tried various experiments to see whether sympathetic ink had been
used, but absolutely without result.
'So much for that. After about half an hour Sampson looked in again: said
he had felt very unwell, and told us we might go. He came rather gingerly
to his desk and gave just one look at the uppermost paper: and I suppose
he thought he must have been dreaming: anyhow, he asked no questions.
'That day was a half-holiday, and next day Sampson was in school again,
much as usual. That night the third and last incident in my story
'We--McLeod and I--slept in a dormitory at right angles to the main
building. Sampson slept in the main building on the first floor. There
was a very bright full moon. At an hour which I can't tell exactly, but
some time between one and two, I was woken up by somebody shaking me. It
was McLeod; and a nice state of mind he seemed to be in. "Come," he
said,--"come! there's a burglar getting in through Sampson's window." As
soon as I could speak, I said, "Well, why not call out and wake everybody
up?" "No, no," he said, "I'm not sure who it is: don't make a row: come
and look." Naturally I came and looked, and naturally there was no one
there. I was cross enough, and should have called McLeod plenty of names:
only--I couldn't tell why--it seemed to me that there _was_ something
wrong--something that made me very glad I wasn't alone to face it. We
were still at the window looking out, and as soon as I could, I asked him
what he had heard or seen. "I didn't _hear_ anything at all," he said,
"but about five minutes before I woke you, I found myself looking out of
this window here, and there was a man sitting or kneeling on Sampson's
window-sill, and looking in, and I thought he was beckoning." "What sort
of man?" McLeod wriggled. "I don't know," he said, "but I can tell you
one thing--he was beastly thin: and he looked as if he was wet all over:
and," he said, looking round and whispering as if he hardly liked to hear
himself, "I'm not at all sure that he was alive."
'We went on talking in whispers some time longer, and eventually crept
back to bed. No one else in the room woke or stirred the whole time. I
believe we did sleep a bit afterwards, but we were very cheap next day.
'And next day Mr Sampson was gone: not to be found: and I believe no
trace of him has ever come to light since. In thinking it over, one of
the oddest things about it all has seemed to me to be the fact that
neither McLeod nor I ever mentioned what we had seen to any third person
whatever. Of course no questions were asked on the subject, and if they
had been, I am inclined to believe that we could not have made any
answer: we seemed unable to speak about it.
'That is my story,' said the narrator. 'The only approach to a ghost
story connected with a school that I know, but still, I think, an
approach to such a thing.'
* * * * *
The sequel to this may perhaps be reckoned highly conventional; but a
sequel there is, and so it must be produced. There had been more than one
listener to the story, and, in the latter part of that same year, or of
the next, one such listener was staying at a country house in Ireland.
One evening his host was turning over a drawer full of odds and ends in
the smoking-room. Suddenly he put his hand upon a little box. 'Now,' he
said, 'you know about old things; tell me what that is.' My friend opened
the little box, and found in it a thin gold chain with an object attached
to it. He glanced at the object and then took off his spectacles to
examine it more narrowly. 'What's the history of this?' he asked. 'Odd
enough,' was the answer. 'You know the yew thicket in the shrubbery:
well, a year or two back we were cleaning out the old well that used to
be in the clearing here, and what do you suppose we found?'
'Is it possible that you found a body?' said the visitor, with an odd
feeling of nervousness.
'We did that: but what's more, in every sense of the word, we found two.'
'Good Heavens! Two? Was there anything to show how they got there? Was
this thing found with them?'
'It was. Amongst the rags of the clothes that were on one of the bodies.
A bad business, whatever the story of it may have been. One body had the
arms tight round the other. They must have been there thirty years or
more--long enough before we came to this place. You may judge we filled
the well up fast enough. Do you make anything of what's cut on that gold
coin you have there?'
'I think I can,' said my friend, holding it to the light (but he read it
without much difficulty); 'it seems to be G.W.S., 24 July, 1865.'
THE ROSE GARDEN
Mr and Mrs Anstruther were at breakfast in the parlour of Westfield Hall,
in the county of Essex. They were arranging plans for the day.
'George,' said Mrs Anstruther, 'I think you had better take the car to
Maldon and see if you can get any of those knitted things I was speaking
about which would do for my stall at the bazaar.'
'Oh well, if you wish it, Mary, of course I can do that, but I had half
arranged to play a round with Geoffrey Williamson this morning. The
bazaar isn't till Thursday of next week, is it?'
'What has that to do with it, George? I should have thought you would
have guessed that if I can't get the things I want in Maldon I shall have
to write to all manner of shops in town: and they are certain to send
something quite unsuitable in price or quality the first time. If you
have actually made an appointment with Mr Williamson, you had better keep
it, but I must say I think you might have let me know.'
'Oh no, no, it wasn't really an appointment. I quite see what you mean.
I'll go. And what shall you do yourself?'
'Why, when the work of the house is arranged for, I must see about laying
out my new rose garden. By the way, before you start for Maldon I wish
you would just take Collins to look at the place I fixed upon. You know
it, of course.'
'Well, I'm not quite sure that I do, Mary. Is it at the upper end,
towards the village?'
'Good gracious no, my dear George; I thought I had made that quite clear.
No, it's that small clearing just off the shrubbery path that goes
towards the church.'
'Oh yes, where we were saying there must have been a summer-house once:
the place with the old seat and the posts. But do you think there's
enough sun there?'
'My dear George, do allow me _some_ common sense, and don't credit me
with all your ideas about summer-houses. Yes, there will be plenty of sun
when we have got rid of some of those box-bushes. I know what you are
going to say, and I have as little wish as you to strip the place bare.
All I want Collins to do is to clear away the old seats and the posts and
things before I come out in an hour's time. And I hope you will manage to
get off fairly soon. After luncheon I think I shall go on with my sketch
of the church; and if you please you can go over to the links, or--'
'Ah, a good idea--very good! Yes, you finish that sketch, Mary, and I
should be glad of a round.'
'I was going to say, you might call on the Bishop; but I suppose it is no
use my making _any_ suggestion. And now do be getting ready, or half the
morning will be gone.'
Mr Anstruther's face, which had shown symptoms of lengthening, shortened
itself again, and he hurried from the room, and was soon heard giving
orders in the passage. Mrs Anstruther, a stately dame of some fifty
summers, proceeded, after a second consideration of the morning's
letters, to her housekeeping.
Within a few minutes Mr Anstruther had discovered Collins in the
greenhouse, and they were on their way to the site of the projected rose
garden. I do not know much about the conditions most suitable to these
nurseries, but I am inclined to believe that Mrs Anstruther, though in
the habit of describing herself as 'a great gardener', had not been well
advised in the selection of a spot for the purpose. It was a small, dank
clearing, bounded on one side by a path, and on the other by thick
box-bushes, laurels, and other evergreens. The ground was almost bare of
grass and dark of aspect. Remains of rustic seats and an old and
corrugated oak post somewhere near the middle of the clearing had given
rise to Mr Anstruther's conjecture that a summer-house had once stood
Clearly Collins had not been put in possession of his mistress's
intentions with regard to this plot of ground: and when he learnt them
from Mr Anstruther he displayed no enthusiasm.
'Of course I could clear them seats away soon enough,' he said. 'They
aren't no ornament to the place, Mr Anstruther, and rotten too. Look
'ere, sir,'--and he broke off a large piece--'rotten right through. Yes,
clear them away, to be sure we can do that.'
'And the post,' said Mr Anstruther, 'that's got to go too.'
Collins advanced, and shook the post with both hands: then he rubbed his
'That's firm in the ground, that post is,' he said. 'That's been there a
number of years, Mr Anstruther. I doubt I shan't get that up not quite so
soon as what I can do with them seats.'
'But your mistress specially wishes it to be got out of the way in an
hour's time,' said Mr Anstruther.
Collins smiled and shook his head slowly. 'You'll excuse me, sir, but you
feel of it for yourself. No, sir, no one can't do what's impossible to
'em, can they, sir? I could git that post up by after tea-time, sir, but
that'll want a lot of digging. What you require, you see, sir, if you'll
excuse me naming of it, you want the soil loosening round this post 'ere,
and me and the boy we shall take a little time doing of that. But now,
these 'ere seats,' said Collins, appearing to appropriate this portion of
the scheme as due to his own resourcefulness, 'why, I can get the barrer
round and 'ave them cleared away in, why less than an hour's time from
now, if you'll permit of it. Only--'
'Only what, Collins?'
'Well now, ain't for me to go against orders no more than what it is for
you yourself--or anyone else' (this was added somewhat hurriedly), 'but
if you'll pardon me, sir, this ain't the place I should have picked out
for no rose garden myself. Why look at them box and laurestinus, 'ow they
reg'lar preclude the light from--'
'Ah yes, but we've got to get rid of some of them, of course.'
'Oh, indeed, get rid of them! Yes, to be sure, but--I beg your pardon, Mr
'I'm sorry, Collins, but I must be getting on now. I hear the car at the
door. Your mistress will explain exactly what she wishes. I'll tell her,
then, that you can see your way to clearing away the seats at once, and
the post this afternoon. Good morning.'
Collins was left rubbing his chin. Mrs Anstruther received the report
with some discontent, but did not insist upon any change of plan.
By four o'clock that afternoon she had dismissed her husband to his golf,
had dealt faithfully with Collins and with the other duties of the day,
and, having sent a campstool and umbrella to the proper spot, had just
settled down to her sketch of the church as seen from the shrubbery, when
a maid came hurrying down the path to report that Miss Wilkins had
Miss Wilkins was one of the few remaining members of the family from whom
the Anstruthers had bought the Westfield estate some few years back. She
had been staying in the neighbourhood, and this was probably a farewell
visit. 'Perhaps you could ask Miss Wilkins to join me here,' said Mrs
Anstruther, and soon Miss Wilkins, a person of mature years, approached.
'Yes, I'm leaving the Ashes to-morrow, and I shall be able to tell my
brother how tremendously you have improved the place. Of course he can't
help regretting the old house just a little--as I do myself--but the
garden is really delightful now.'
'I am so glad you can say so. But you mustn't think we've finished our
improvements. Let me show you where I mean to put a rose garden. It's
close by here.'
The details of the project were laid before Miss Wilkins at some length;
but her thoughts were evidently elsewhere.
'Yes, delightful,' she said at last rather absently. 'But do you know,
Mrs Anstruther, I'm afraid I was thinking of old times. I'm _very_ glad
to have seen just this spot again before you altered it. Frank and I had
quite a romance about this place.'
'Yes?' said Mrs Anstruther smilingly; 'do tell me what it was. Something
quaint and charming, I'm sure.'
'Not so very charming, but it has always seemed to me curious. Neither of
us would ever be here alone when we were children, and I'm not sure that
I should care about it now in certain moods. It is one of those things
that can hardly be put into words--by me at least--and that sound rather
foolish if they are not properly expressed. I can tell you after a
fashion what it was that gave us--well, almost a horror of the place when
we were alone. It was towards the evening of one very hot autumn day,
when Frank had disappeared mysteriously about the grounds, and I was
looking for him to fetch him to tea, and going down this path I suddenly
saw him, not hiding in the bushes, as I rather expected, but sitting on
the bench in the old summer-house--there was a wooden summer-house here,
you know--up in the corner, asleep, but with such a dreadful look on his
face that I really thought he must be ill or even dead. I rushed at him
and shook him, and told him to wake up; and wake up he did, with a
scream. I assure you the poor boy seemed almost beside himself with
fright. He hurried me away to the house, and was in a terrible state all
that night, hardly sleeping. Someone had to sit up with him, as far as I
remember. He was better very soon, but for days I couldn't get him to say
why he had been in such a condition. It came out at last that he had
really been asleep and had had a very odd disjointed sort of dream. He
never _saw_ much of what was around him, but he _felt_ the scenes most
vividly. First he made out that he was standing in a large room with a
number of people in it, and that someone was opposite to him who was
"very powerful", and he was being asked questions which he felt to be
very important, and, whenever he answered them, someone--either the
person opposite to him, or someone else in the room--seemed to be, as he
said, making something up against him. All the voices sounded to him very
distant, but he remembered bits of the things that were said: "Where were
you on the 19th of October?" and "Is this your handwriting?" and so on. I
can see now, of course, that he was dreaming of some trial: but we were
never allowed to see the papers, and it was odd that a boy of eight
should have such a vivid idea of what went on in a court. All the time he
felt, he said, the most intense anxiety and oppression and hopelessness
(though I don't suppose he used such words as that to me). Then, after
that, there was an interval in which he remembered being dreadfully
restless and miserable, and then there came another sort of picture, when
he was aware that he had come out of doors on a dark raw morning with a
little snow about. It was in a street, or at any rate among houses, and
he felt that there were numbers and numbers of people there too, and that
he was taken up some creaking wooden steps and stood on a sort of
platform, but the only thing he could actually see was a small fire
burning somewhere near him. Someone who had been holding his arm left
hold of it and went towards this fire, and then he said the fright he was
in was worse than at any other part of his dream, and if I had not
wakened him up he didn't know what would have become of him. A curious
dream for a child to have, wasn't it? Well, so much for that. It must
have been later in the year that Frank and I were here, and I was sitting
in the arbour just about sunset. I noticed the sun was going down, and
told Frank to run in and see if tea was ready while I finished a chapter
in the book I was reading. Frank was away longer than I expected, and the
light was going so fast that I had to bend over my book to make it out.
All at once I became conscious that someone was whispering to me inside
the arbour. The only words I could distinguish, or thought I could, were
something like "Pull, pull. I'll push, you pull."
'I started up in something of a fright. The voice--it was little more
than a whisper--sounded so hoarse and angry, and yet as if it came from a
long, long way off--just as it had done in Frank's dream. But, though I
was startled, I had enough courage to look round and try to make out
where the sound came from. And--this sounds very foolish, I know, but
still it is the fact--I made sure that it was strongest when I put my ear
to an old post which was part of the end of the seat. I was so certain of
this that I remember making some marks on the post--as deep as I could
with the scissors out of my work-basket. I don't know why. I wonder, by
the way, whether that isn't the very post itself.... Well, yes, it might
be: there _are_ marks and scratches on it--but one can't be sure. Anyhow,
it was just like that post you have there. My father got to know that
both of us had had a fright in the arbour, and he went down there himself
one evening after dinner, and the arbour was pulled down at very short
notice. I recollect hearing my father talking about it to an old man who
used to do odd jobs in the place, and the old man saying, "Don't you fear
for that, sir: he's fast enough in there without no one don't take and
let him out." But when I asked who it was, I could get no satisfactory
answer. Possibly my father or mother might have told me more about it
when I grew up, but, as you know, they both died when we were still quite
children. I must say it has always seemed very odd to me, and I've often
asked the older people in the village whether they knew of anything
strange: but either they knew nothing or they wouldn't tell me. Dear,
dear, how I have been boring you with my childish remembrances! but
indeed that arbour did absorb our thoughts quite remarkably for a time.
You can fancy, can't you, the kind of stories that we made up for
ourselves. Well, dear Mrs Anstruther, I must be leaving you now. We shall
meet in town this winter, I hope, shan't we?' etc., etc.
The seats and the post were cleared away and uprooted respectively by
that evening. Late summer weather is proverbially treacherous, and during
dinner-time Mrs Collins sent up to ask for a little brandy, because her
husband had took a nasty chill and she was afraid he would not be able to
do much next day.
Mrs Anstruther's morning reflections were not wholly placid. She was sure
some roughs had got into the plantation during the night. 'And another
thing, George: the moment that Collins is about again, you must tell him
to do something about the owls. I never heard anything like them, and I'm
positive one came and perched somewhere just outside our window. If it
had come in I should have been out of my wits: it must have been a very
large bird, from its voice. Didn't you hear it? No, of course not, you
were sound asleep as usual. Still, I must say, George, you don't look as
if your night had done you much good.'
'My dear, I feel as if another of the same would turn me silly. You have
no idea of the dreams I had. I couldn't speak of them when I woke up, and
if this room wasn't so bright and sunny I shouldn't care to think of them
'Well, really, George, that isn't very common with you, I must say. You
must have--no, you only had what I had yesterday--unless you had tea at
that wretched club house: did you?'
'No, no; nothing but a cup of tea and some bread and butter. I should
really like to know how I came to put my dream together--as I suppose one
does put one's dreams together from a lot of little things one has been
seeing or reading. Look here, Mary, it was like this--if I shan' t be
'I _wish_ to hear what it was, George. I will tell you when I have had
'All right. I must tell you that it wasn't like other nightmares in one
way, because I didn't really _see_ anyone who spoke to me or touched me,
and yet I was most fearfully impressed with the reality of it all. First
I was sitting, no, moving about, in an old-fashioned sort of panelled
room. I remember there was a fireplace and a lot of burnt papers in it,
and I was in a great state of anxiety about something. There was someone
else--a servant, I suppose, because I remember saying to him, "Horses, as
quick as you can," and then waiting a bit: and next I heard several
people coming upstairs and a noise like spurs on a boarded floor, and
then the door opened and whatever it was that I was expecting happened.'
'Yes, but what was that?'
'You see, I couldn't tell: it was the sort of shock that upsets you in a
dream. You either wake up or else everything goes black. That was what
happened to me. Then I was in a big dark-walled room, panelled, I think,
like the other, and a number of people, and I was evidently--'
'Standing your trial, I suppose, George.'
'Goodness! yes, Mary, I was; but did you dream that too? How very odd!'
'No, no; I didn't get enough sleep for that. Go on, George, and I will
tell you afterwards.'
'Yes; well, I _was_ being tried, for my life, I've no doubt, from the
state I was in. I had no one speaking for me, and somewhere there was a
most fearful fellow--on the bench I should have said, only that he seemed
to be pitching into me most unfairly, and twisting everything I said, and
asking most abominable questions.'
'Why, dates when I was at particular places, and letters I was supposed
to have written, and why I had destroyed some papers; and I recollect his
laughing at answers I made in a way that quite daunted me. It doesn't
sound much, but I can tell you, Mary, it was really appalling at the
time. I am quite certain there was such a man once, and a most horrible
villain he must have been. The things he said--'
'Thank you, I have no wish to hear them. I can go to the links any day
myself. How did it end?'
'Oh, against me; _he_ saw to that. I do wish, Mary, I could give you a
notion of the strain that came after that, and seemed to me to last for
days: waiting and waiting, and sometimes writing things I knew to be
enormously important to me, and waiting for answers and none coming, and
after that I came out--'
'What makes you say that? Do you know what sort of thing I saw?'
'Was it a dark cold day, and snow in the streets, and a fire burning
somewhere near you?'
'By George, it was! You _have_ had the same nightmare! Really not? Well,
it is the oddest thing! Yes; I've no doubt it was an execution for high
treason. I know I was laid on straw and jolted along most wretchedly, and
then had to go up some steps, and someone was holding my arm, and I
remember seeing a bit of a ladder and hearing a sound of a lot of people.
I really don't think I could bear now to go into a crowd of people and
hear the noise they make talking. However, mercifully, I didn't get to
the real business. The dream passed off with a sort of thunder inside my
head. But, Mary--'
'I know what you are going to ask. I suppose this is an instance of a
kind of thought-reading. Miss Wilkins called yesterday and told me of a
dream her brother had as a child when they lived here, and something did
no doubt make me think of that when I was awake last night listening to
those horrible owls and those men talking and laughing in the shrubbery
(by the way, I wish you would see if they have done any damage, and speak
to the police about it); and so, I suppose, from my brain it must have
got into yours while you were asleep. Curious, no doubt, and I am sorry
it gave you such a bad night. You had better be as much in the fresh air
as you can to-day.'
'Oh, it's all right now; but I think I _will_ go over to the Lodge and
see if I can get a game with any of them. And you?'
'I have enough to do for this morning; and this afternoon, if I am not
interrupted, there is my drawing.'
'To be sure--I want to see that finished very much.'
No damage was discoverable in the shrubbery. Mr Anstruther surveyed with
faint interest the site of the rose garden, where the uprooted post still
lay, and the hole it had occupied remained unfilled. Collins, upon
inquiry made, proved to be better, but quite unable to come to his work.
He expressed, by the mouth of his wife, a hope that he hadn't done
nothing wrong clearing away them things. Mrs Collins added that there was
a lot of talking people in Westfield, and the hold ones was the worst:
seemed to think everything of them having been in the parish longer than
what other people had. But as to what they said no more could then be
ascertained than that it had quite upset Collins, and was a lot of
* * * * *
Recruited by lunch and a brief period of slumber, Mrs Anstruther settled
herself comfortably upon her sketching chair in the path leading through
the shrubbery to the side-gate of the churchyard. Trees and buildings
were among her favourite subjects, and here she had good studies of both.
She worked hard, and the drawing was becoming a really pleasant thing to
look upon by the time that the wooded hills to the west had shut off the
sun. Still she would have persevered, but the light changed rapidly, and
it became obvious that the last touches must be added on the morrow. She
rose and turned towards the house, pausing for a time to take delight in
the limpid green western sky. Then she passed on between the dark
box-bushes, and, at a point just before the path debouched on the lawn,
she stopped once again and considered the quiet evening landscape, and
made a mental note that that must be the tower of one of the Roothing
churches that one caught on the sky-line. Then a bird (perhaps) rustled
in the box-bush on her left, and she turned and started at seeing what at
first she took to be a Fifth of November mask peeping out among the
branches. She looked closer.
It was not a mask. It was a face--large, smooth, and pink. She remembers
the minute drops of perspiration which were starting from its forehead:
she remembers how the jaws were clean-shaven and the eyes shut. She
remembers also, and with an accuracy which makes the thought intolerable
to her, how the mouth was open and a single tooth appeared below the
upper lip. As she looked the face receded into the darkness of the bush.
The shelter of the house was gained and the door shut before she
Mr and Mrs Anstruther had been for a week or more recruiting at Brighton
before they received a circular from the Essex Archaeological Society,
and a query as to whether they possessed certain historical portraits
which it was desired to include in the forthcoming work on Essex
Portraits, to be published under the Society's auspices. There was an
accompanying letter from the Secretary which contained the following
passage: 'We are specially anxious to know whether you possess the
original of the engraving of which I enclose a photograph. It represents
Sir ---- ----, Lord Chief Justice under Charles II, who, as you doubtless
know, retired after his disgrace to Westfield, and is supposed to have
died there of remorse. It may interest you to hear that a curious entry
has recently been found in the registers, not of Westfield but of Priors
Roothing to the effect that the parish was so much troubled after his
death that the rector of Westfield summoned the parsons of all the
Roothings to come and lay him; which they did. The entry ends by saying:
"The stake is in a field adjoining to the churchyard of Westfield, on the
west side." Perhaps you can let us know if any tradition to this effect
is current in your parish.'
The incidents which the 'enclosed photograph' recalled were productive of
a severe shock to Mrs Anstruther. It was decided that she must spend the
Mr Anstruther, when he went down to Westfield to make the necessary
arrangements, not unnaturally told his story to the rector (an old
gentleman), who showed little surprise.
'Really I had managed to piece out for myself very much what must have
happened, partly from old people's talk and partly from what I saw in
your grounds. Of course we have suffered to some extent also. Yes, it was
bad at first: like owls, as you say, and men talking sometimes. One night
it was in this garden, and at other times about several of the cottages.
But lately there has been very little: I think it will die out. There is
nothing in our registers except the entry of the burial, and what I for a
long time took to be the family motto: but last time I looked at it I
noticed that it was added in a later hand and had the initials of one of
our rectors quite late in the seventeenth century, A. C.--Augustine
Crompton. Here it is, you see--_quieta non movere_. I suppose-- Well, it
is rather hard to say exactly what I do suppose.'
THE TRACTATE MIDDOTH
Towards the end of an autumn afternoon an elderly man with a thin face
and grey Piccadilly weepers pushed open the swing-door leading into the
vestibule of a certain famous library, and addressing himself to an
attendant, stated that he believed he was entitled to use the library,
and inquired if he might take a book out. Yes, if he were on the list of
those to whom that privilege was given. He produced his card--Mr John
Eldred--and, the register being consulted, a favourable answer was given.
'Now, another point,' said he. 'It is a long time since I was here, and I
do not know my way about your building; besides, it is near closing-time,
and it is bad for me to hurry up and down stairs. I have here the title
of the book I want: is there anyone at liberty who could go and find it
for me?' After a moment's thought the doorkeeper beckoned to a young man
who was passing. 'Mr Garrett,' he said, 'have you a minute to assist this
gentleman?' 'With pleasure,' was Mr Garrett's answer. The slip with the
title was handed to him. 'I think I can put my hand on this; it happens
to be in the class I inspected last quarter, but I'll just look it up in
the catalogue to make sure. I suppose it is that particular edition that
you require, sir?' 'Yes, if you please; that, and no other,' said Mr
Eldred; 'I am exceedingly obliged to you.' 'Don't mention it I beg, sir,'
said Mr Garrett, and hurried off.
'I thought so,' he said to himself, when his finger, travelling down the
pages of the catalogue, stopped at a particular entry. 'Talmud: Tractate
Middoth, with the commentary of Nachmanides, Amsterdam, 1707. 11.3.34.
Hebrew class, of course. Not a very difficult job this.'
Mr Eldred, accommodated with a chair in the vestibule, awaited anxiously
the return of his messenger--and his disappointment at seeing an
empty-handed Mr Garrett running down the staircase was very evident. 'I'm
sorry to disappoint you, sir,' said the young man, 'but the book is out.'
'Oh dear!' said Mr Eldred, 'is that so? You are sure there can be no
mistake?' 'I don't think there is much chance of it, sir: but it's
possible, if you like to wait a minute, that you might meet the very
gentleman that's got it. He must be leaving the library soon, and I
_think_ I saw him take that particular book out of the shelf.' 'Indeed!
You didn't recognize him, I suppose? Would it be one of the professors or
one of the students?' 'I don't think so: certainly not a professor. I
should have known him; but the light isn't very good in that part of the
library at this time of day, and I didn't see his face. I should have
said he was a shortish old gentleman, perhaps a clergyman, in a cloak. If
you could wait, I can easily find out whether he wants the book very
'No, no,' said Mr Eldred, 'I won't--I can't wait now, thank you--no. I
must be off. But I'll call again to-morrow if I may, and perhaps you
could find out who has it.'
'Certainly, sir, and I'll have the book ready for you if we--' But Mr
Eldred was already off, and hurrying more than one would have thought
wholesome for him.
Garrett had a few moments to spare; and, thought he, 'I'll go back to
that case and see if I can find the old man. Most likely he could put off
using the book for a few days. I dare say the other one doesn't want to
keep it for long.' So off with him to the Hebrew class. But when he got
there it was unoccupied, and the volume marked 11.3.34 was in its place
on the shelf. It was vexatious to Garrett's self-respect to have
disappointed an inquirer with so little reason: and he would have liked,
had it not been against library rules, to take the book down to the
vestibule then and there, so that it might be ready for Mr Eldred when he
called. However, next morning he would be on the look out for him, and he
begged the doorkeeper to send and let him know when the moment came. As a
matter of fact, he was himself in the vestibule when Mr Eldred arrived,
very soon after the library opened and when hardly anyone besides the
staff were in the building.
'I'm very sorry,' he said; 'it's not often that I make such a stupid
mistake, but I did feel sure that the old gentleman I saw took out that
very book and kept it in his hand without opening it, just as people do,
you know, sir, when they mean to take a book out of the library and not
merely refer to it. But, however, I'll run up now at once and get it for
you this time.'
And here intervened a pause. Mr Eldred paced the entry, read all the
notices, consulted his watch, sat and gazed up the staircase, did all
that a very impatient man could, until some twenty minutes had run out.
At last he addressed himself to the doorkeeper and inquired if it was a
very long way to that part of the library to which Mr Garrett had gone.
'Well, I was thinking it was funny, sir: he's a quick man as a rule, but
to be sure he might have been sent for by the librarian, but even so I
think he'd have mentioned to him that you was waiting. I'll just speak
him up on the toob and see.' And to the tube he addressed himself. As he
absorbed the reply to his question his face changed, and he made one or
two supplementary inquiries which were shortly answered. Then he came
forward to his counter and spoke in a lower tone. 'I'm sorry to hear,
sir, that something seems to have 'appened a little awkward. Mr Garrett
has been took poorly, it appears, and the librarian sent him 'ome in a
cab the other way. Something of an attack, by what I can hear.' 'What,
really? Do you mean that someone has injured him?' 'No, sir, not violence
'ere, but, as I should judge, attacked with an attack, what you might
term it, of illness. Not a strong constitootion, Mr Garrett. But as to
your book, sir, perhaps you might be able to find it for yourself. It's
too bad you should be disappointed this way twice over--' 'Er--well, but
I'm so sorry that Mr Garrett should have been taken ill in this way while
he was obliging me. I think I must leave the book, and call and inquire
after him. You can give me his address, I suppose.' That was easily done:
Mr Garrett, it appeared, lodged in rooms not far from the station. 'And
one other question. Did you happen to notice if an old gentleman, perhaps
a clergyman, in a--yes--in a black cloak, left the library after I did
yesterday. I think he may have been a--I think, that is, that he may be
staying--or rather that I may have known him.'
'Not in a black cloak, sir; no. There were only two gentlemen left later
than what you done, sir, both of them youngish men. There was Mr Carter
took out a music-book and one of the prefessors with a couple o' novels.
That's the lot, sir; and then I went off to me tea, and glad to get it.
Thank you, sir, much obliged.'
* * * * *
Mr Eldred, still a prey to anxiety, betook himself in a cab to Mr
Garrett's address, but the young man was not yet in a condition to
receive visitors. He was better, but his landlady considered that he must
have had a severe shock. She thought most likely from what the doctor
said that he would be able to see Mr Eldred to-morrow. Mr Eldred returned
to his hotel at dusk and spent, I fear, but a dull evening.
On the next day he was able to see Mr Garrett. When in health Mr Garrett
was a cheerful and pleasant-looking young man. Now he was a very white
and shaky being, propped up in an arm-chair by the fire, and inclined to
shiver and keep an eye on the door. If however, there were visitors whom
he was not prepared to welcome, Mr Eldred was not among them. 'It really
is I who owe you an apology, and I was despairing of being able to pay
it, for I didn't know your address. But I am very glad you have called. I
do dislike and regret giving all this trouble, but you know I could not
have foreseen this--this attack which I had.'
'Of course not; but now, I am something of a doctor. You'll excuse my
asking; you have had, I am sure, good advice. Was it a fall you had?'
'No. I did fall on the floor--but not from any height. It was, really, a
'You mean something startled you. Was it anything you thought you saw?'
'Not much _thinking_ in the case, I'm afraid. Yes, it was something I
saw. You remember when you called the first time at the library?'
'Yes, of course. Well, now, let me beg you not to try to describe it--it
will not be good for you to recall it, I'm sure.'
'But indeed it would be a relief to me to tell anyone like yourself: you
might be able to explain it away. It was just when I was going into the
class where your book is--'
'Indeed, Mr Garrett, I insist; besides, my watch tells me I have but very
little time left in which to get my things together and take the train.
No--not another word--it would be more distressing to you than you
imagine, perhaps. Now there is just one thing I want to say. I feel that
I am really indirectly responsible for this illness of yours, and I think
I ought to defray the expense which it has--eh?'
But this offer was quite distinctly declined. Mr Eldred, not pressing it,
left almost at once: not, however, before Mr Garrett had insisted upon
his taking a note of the class-mark of the Tractate Middoth, which, as he
said, Mr Eldred could at leisure get for himself. But Mr Eldred did not
reappear at the library.
* * * * *
William Garrett had another visitor that day in the person of a
contemporary and colleague from the library, one George Earle. Earle had
been one of those who found Garrett lying insensible on the floor just
inside the 'class' or cubicle (opening upon the central alley of a
spacious gallery) in which the Hebrew books were placed, and Earle had
naturally been very anxious about his friend's condition. So as soon as
library hours were over he appeared at the lodgings. 'Well,' he said
(after other conversation), 'I've no notion what it was that put you
wrong, but I've got the idea that there's something wrong in the
atmosphere of the library. I know this, that just before we found you I
was coming along the gallery with Davis, and I said to him, "Did ever you
know such a musty smell anywhere as there is about here? It can't be
wholesome." Well now, if one goes on living a long time with a smell of
that kind (I tell you it was worse than I ever knew it) it must get into
the system and break out some time, don't you think?'
Garrett shook his head. 'That's all very well about the smell--but it
isn't always there, though I've noticed it the last day or two--a sort of
unnaturally strong smell of dust. But no--that's not what did for me. It
was something I _saw_. And I want to tell you about it. I went into that
Hebrew class to get a book for a man that was inquiring for it down
below. Now that same book I'd made a mistake about the day before. I'd
been for it, for the same man, and made sure that I saw an old parson in
a cloak taking it out. I told my man it was out: off he went, to call
again next day. I went back to see if I could get it out of the parson:
no parson there, and the book on the shelf. Well, yesterday, as I say, I
went again. This time, if you please--ten o'clock in the morning,
remember, and as much light as ever you get in those classes, and there
was my parson again, back to me, looking at the books on the shelf I
wanted. His hat was on the table, and he had a bald head. I waited a
second or two looking at him rather particularly. I tell you, he had a
very nasty bald head. It looked to me dry, and it looked dusty, and the
streaks of hair across it were much less like hair than cobwebs. Well, I
made a bit of a noise on purpose, coughed and moved my feet. He turned
round and let me see his face--which I hadn't seen before. I tell you
again, I'm not mistaken. Though, for one reason or another I didn't take
in the lower part of his face, I did see the upper part; and it was
perfectly dry, and the eyes were very deep-sunk; and over them, from the
eyebrows to the cheek-bone, there were _cobwebs_--thick. Now that closed
me up, as they say, and I can't tell you anything more.'
* * * * *
What explanations were furnished by Earle of this phenomenon it does not
very much concern us to inquire; at all events they did not convince
Garrett that he had not seen what he had seen.
* * * * *
Before William Garrett returned to work at the library, the librarian
insisted upon his taking a week's rest and change of air. Within a few
days' time, therefore, he was at the station with his bag, looking for a
desirable smoking compartment in which to travel to Burnstow-on-Sea,
which he had not previously visited. One compartment and one only seemed
to be suitable. But, just as he approached it, he saw, standing in front
of the door, a figure so like one bound up with recent unpleasant
associations that, with a sickening qualm, and hardly knowing what he
did, he tore open the door of the next compartment and pulled himself
into it as quickly as if death were at his heels. The train moved off,
and he must have turned quite faint, for he was next conscious of a
smelling-bottle being put to his nose. His physician was a nice-looking
old lady, who, with her daughter, was the only passenger in the carriage.
But for this incident it is not very likely that he would have made any
overtures to his fellow-travellers. As it was, thanks and inquiries and
general conversation supervened inevitably; and Garrett found himself
provided before the journey's end not only with a physician, but with a
landlady: for Mrs Simpson had apartments to let at Burnstow, which seemed
in all ways suitable. The place was empty at that season, so that Garrett
was thrown a good deal into the society of the mother and daughter. He
found them very acceptable company. On the third evening of his stay he
was on such terms with them as to be asked to spend the evening in their
During their talk it transpired that Garrett's work lay in a library.
'Ah, libraries are fine places,' said Mrs Simpson, putting down her work
with a sigh; 'but for all that, books have played me a sad turn, or
rather _a_ book has.'
'Well, books give me my living, Mrs Simpson, and I should be sorry to say
a word against them: I don't like to hear that they have been bad for
'Perhaps Mr Garrett could help us to solve our puzzle, mother,' said Miss
'I don't want to set Mr Garrett off on a hunt that might waste a
lifetime, my dear, nor yet to trouble him with our private affairs.'
'But if you think it in the least likely that I could be of use, I do beg
you to tell me what the puzzle is, Mrs Simpson. If it is finding out
anything about a book, you see, I am in rather a good position to do it.'
'Yes, I do see that, but the worst of it is that we don't know the name
of the book.'
'Nor what it is about?'
'No, nor that either.'
'Except that we don't think it's in English, mother--and that is not much
of a clue.'
'Well, Mr Garrett,' said Mrs Simpson, who had not yet resumed her work,
and was looking at the fire thoughtfully, 'I shall tell you the story.
You will please keep it to yourself, if you don't mind? Thank you. Now it
is just this. I had an old uncle, a Dr Rant. Perhaps you may have heard
of him. Not that he was a distinguished man, but from the odd way he
chose to be buried.'
'I rather think I have seen the name in some guidebook.'
'That would be it,' said Miss Simpson. 'He left directions--horrid old
man!--that he was to be put, sitting at a table in his ordinary clothes,
in a brick room that he'd had made underground in a field near his house.
Of course the country people say he's been seen about there in his old
'Well, dear, I don't know much about such things,' Mrs Simpson went on,
'but anyhow he is dead, these twenty years and more. He was a clergyman,
though I'm sure I can't imagine how he got to be one: but he did no duty
for the last part of his life, which I think was a good thing; and he
lived on his own property: a very nice estate not a great way from here.
He had no wife or family; only one niece, who was myself, and one nephew,
and he had no particular liking for either of us--nor for anyone else, as
far as that goes. If anything, he liked my cousin better than he did
me--for John was much more like him in his temper, and, I'm afraid I must
say, his very mean sharp ways. It might have been different if I had not
married; but I did, and that he very much resented. Very well: here he
was with this estate and a good deal of money, as it turned out, of which
he had the absolute disposal, and it was understood that we--my cousin
and I--would share it equally at his death. In a certain winter, over
twenty years back, as I said, he was taken ill, and I was sent for to
nurse him. My husband was alive then, but the old man would not hear of
_his_ coming. As I drove up to the house I saw my cousin John driving
away from it in an open fly and looking, I noticed, in very good spirits.
I went up and did what I could for my uncle, but I was very soon sure
that this would be his last illness; and he was convinced of it too.
During the day before he died he got me to sit by him all the time, and I
could see there was something, and probably something unpleasant, that he
was saving up to tell me, and putting it off as long as he felt he could
afford the strength--I'm afraid purposely in order to keep me on the
stretch. But, at last, out it came. "Mary," he said,--"Mary, I've made my
will in John's favour: he has everything, Mary." Well, of course that
came as a bitter shock to me, for we--my husband and I--were not rich
people, and if he could have managed to live a little easier than he was
obliged to do, I felt it might be the prolonging of his life. But I said
little or nothing to my uncle, except that he had a right to do what he
pleased: partly because I couldn't think of anything to say, and partly
because I was sure there was more to come: and so there was. "But, Mary,"
he said, "I'm not very fond of John, and I've made another will in _your_
favour. _You_ can have everything. Only you've got to find the will, you
see: and I don't mean to tell you where it is." Then he chuckled to
himself, and I waited, for again I was sure he hadn't finished. "That's a
good girl," he said after a time,--"you wait, and I'll tell you as much
as I told John. But just let me remind you, you can't go into court with
what I'm saying to you, for _you_ won't be able to produce any collateral
evidence beyond your own word, and John's a man that can do a little hard
swearing if necessary. Very well then, that's understood. Now, I had the
fancy that I wouldn't write this will quite in the common way, so I wrote
it in a book, Mary, a printed book. And there's several thousand books in
this house. But there! you needn't trouble yourself with them, for it
isn't one of them. It's in safe keeping elsewhere: in a place where John
can go and find it any day, if he only knew, and you can't. A good will
it is: properly signed and witnessed, but I don't think you'll find the
witnesses in a hurry."
'Still I said nothing: if I had moved at all I must have taken hold of
the old wretch and shaken him. He lay there laughing to himself, and at
last he said:
'"Well, well, you've taken it very quietly, and as I want to start you
both on equal terms, and John has a bit of a purchase in being able to go
where the book is, I'll tell you just two other things which I didn't
tell him. The will's in English, but you won't know that if ever you see
it. That's one thing, and another is that when I'm gone you'll find an
envelope in my desk directed to you, and inside it something that would
help you to find it, if only you have the wits to use it."
'In a few hours from that he was gone, and though I made an appeal to
John Eldred about it--'
'John Eldred? I beg your pardon, Mrs Simpson--I think I've seen a Mr John
Eldred. What is he like to look at?'
'It must be ten years since I saw him: he would be a thin elderly man
now, and unless he has shaved them off, he has that sort of whiskers
which people used to call Dundreary or Piccadilly something.'
'--weepers. Yes, that _is_ the man.'
'Where did you come across him, Mr Garrett?'
'I don't know if I could tell you,' said Garrett mendaciously, 'in some
public place. But you hadn't finished.'
'Really I had nothing much to add, only that John Eldred, of course, paid
no attention whatever to my letters, and has enjoyed the estate ever
since, while my daughter and I have had to take to the lodging-house
business here, which I must say has not turned out by any means so
unpleasant as I feared it might.'
'But about the envelope.'
'To be sure! Why, the puzzle turns on that. Give Mr Garrett the paper out
of my desk.'
It was a small slip, with nothing whatever on it but five numerals, not
divided or punctuated in any way: 11334.
Mr Garrett pondered, but there was a light in his eye. Suddenly he 'made
a face', and then asked, 'Do you suppose that Mr Eldred can have any more
clue than you have to the title of the book?'
'I have sometimes thought he must,' said Mrs Simpson, 'and in this way:
that my uncle must have made the will not very long before he died (that,
I think, he said himself), and got rid of the book immediately
afterwards. But all his books were very carefully catalogued: and John
has the catalogue: and John was most particular that no books whatever
should be sold out of the house. And I'm told that he is always
journeying about to booksellers and libraries; so I fancy that he must
have found out just which books are missing from my uncle's library of
those which are entered in the catalogue, and must be hunting for them.'
'Just so, just so,' said Mr Garrett, and relapsed into thought.
* * * * *
No later than next day he received a letter which, as he told Mrs Simpson
with great regret, made it absolutely necessary for him to cut short his
stay at Burnstow.
Sorry as he was to leave them (and they were at least as sorry to part
with him), he had begun to feel that a crisis, all-important to Mrs (and
shall we add, Miss?) Simpson, was very possibly supervening.
In the train Garrett was uneasy and excited. He racked his brains to
think whether the press mark of the book which Mr Eldred had been
inquiring after was one in any way corresponding to the numbers on Mrs
Simpson's little bit of paper. But he found to his dismay that the shock
of the previous week had really so upset him that he could neither
remember any vestige of the title or nature of the book, or even of the
locality to which he had gone to seek it. And yet all other parts of
library topography and work were clear as ever in his mind.
And another thing--he stamped with annoyance as he thought of it--he had
at first hesitated, and then had forgotten, to ask Mrs Simpson for the
name of the place where Eldred lived. That, however, he could write
At least he had his clue in the figures on the paper. If they referred to
a press mark in his library, they were only susceptible of a limited
number of interpretations. They might be divided into 1.13.34, 11.33.4,
or 11.3.34. He could try all these in the space of a few minutes, and if
any one were missing he had every means of tracing it. He got very
quickly to work, though a few minutes had to be spent in explaining his
early return to his landlady and his colleagues. 1.13.34. was in place
and contained no extraneous writing. As he drew near to Class 11 in the
same gallery, its association struck him like a chill. But he _must_ go
on. After a cursory glance at 11.33.4 (which first confronted him, and
was a perfectly new book) he ran his eye along the line of quartos which
fills 11.3. The gap he feared was there: 34 was out. A moment was spent
in making sure that it had not been misplaced, and then he was off to the
'Has 11.3.34 gone out? Do you recollect noticing that number?'
'Notice the number? What do you take me for, Mr Garrett? There, take and
look over the tickets for yourself, if you've got a free day before you.'
'Well then, has a Mr Eldred called again?--the old gentleman who came the
day I was taken ill. Come! you'd remember him.'
'What do you suppose? Of course I recollect of him: no, he haven't been
in again, not since you went off for your 'oliday. And yet I seem
to--there now. Roberts'll know. Roberts, do you recollect of the name of
'Not arf,' said Roberts. 'You mean the man that sent a bob over the price
for the parcel, and I wish they all did.'
'Do you mean to say you've been sending books to Mr Eldred? Come, do
speak up! Have you?'
'Well now, Mr Garrett, if a gentleman sends the ticket all wrote correct
and the secketry says this book may go and the box ready addressed sent
with the note, and a sum of money sufficient to deefray the railway
charges, what would be _your_ action in the matter, Mr Garrett, if I may
take the liberty to ask such a question? Would you or would you not have
taken the trouble to oblige, or would you have chucked the 'ole thing
under the counter and--'
'You were perfectly right, of course, Hodgson--perfectly right: only,
would you kindly oblige me by showing me the ticket Mr Eldred sent, and
letting me know his address?'
'To be sure, Mr Garrett; so long as I'm not 'ectored about and informed
that I don't know my duty, I'm willing to oblige in every way feasible to
my power. There is the ticket on the file. J. Eldred, 11.3.34. Title of
work: T-a-l-m--well, there, you can make what you like of it--not a
novel, I should 'azard the guess. And here is Mr Heldred's note applying
for the book in question, which I see he terms it a track.'
'Thanks, thanks: but the address? There's none on the note.'
'Ah, indeed; well, now ... stay now, Mr Garrett, I 'ave it. Why, that
note come inside of the parcel, which was directed very thoughtful to
save all trouble, ready to be sent back with the book inside; and if I
_have_ made any mistake in this 'ole transaction, it lays just in the one
point that I neglected to enter the address in my little book here what I
keep. Not but what I dare say there was good reasons for me not entering
of it: but there, I haven't the time, neither have you, I dare say, to go
into 'em just now. And--no, Mr Garrett, I do _not_ carry it in my 'ed,
else what would be the use of me keeping this little book here--just a
ordinary common notebook, you see, which I make a practice of entering
all such names and addresses in it as I see fit to do?'
'Admirable arrangement, to be sure--but--all right, thank you. When did
the parcel go off?'
'Half-past ten, this morning.'
'Oh, good; and it's just one now.'
Garrett went upstairs in deep thought. How was he to get the address? A
telegram to Mrs Simpson: he might miss a train by waiting for the answer.
Yes, there was one other way. She had said that Eldred lived on his
uncle's estate. If this were so, he might find that place entered in the
donation-book. That he could run through quickly, now that he knew the
title of the book. The register was soon before him, and, knowing that
the old man had died more than twenty years ago, he gave him a good
margin, and turned back to 1870. There was but one entry possible. 1875,
August 14th. _Talmud: Tractatus Middoth cum comm. R. Nachmanidae._
Amstelod. 1707. Given by J. Rant, D.D., of Bretfield Manor.
A gazetteer showed Bretfield to be three miles from a small station on
the main line. Now to ask the doorkeeper whether he recollected if the
name on the parcel had been anything like Bretfield.
'No, nothing like. It was, now you mention it, Mr Garrett, either
Bredfield or Britfield, but nothing like that other name what you
So far well. Next, a time-table. A train could be got in twenty
minutes--taking two hours over the journey. The only chance, but one not
to be missed; and the train was taken.
If he had been fidgety on the journey up, he was almost distracted on the
journey down. If he found Eldred, what could he say? That it had been
discovered that the book was a rarity and must be recalled? An obvious
untruth. Or that it was believed to contain important manuscript notes?
Eldred would of course show him the book, from which the leaf would
already have been removed. He might, perhaps, find traces of the
removal--a torn edge of a fly-leaf probably--and who could disprove, what
Eldred was certain to say, that he too had noticed and regretted the
mutilation? Altogether the chase seemed very hopeless. The one chance was
this. The book had left the library at 10.30: it might not have been put
into the first possible train, at 11.20. Granted that, then he might be
lucky enough to arrive simultaneously with it and patch up some story
which would induce Eldred to give it up.
It was drawing towards evening when he got out upon the platform of his
station, and, like most country stations, this one seemed unnaturally
quiet. He waited about till the one or two passengers who got out with
him had drifted off, and then inquired of the station-master whether Mr
Eldred was in the neighbourhood.
'Yes, and pretty near too, I believe. I fancy he means calling here for a
parcel he expects. Called for it once to-day already, didn't he, Bob?'
(to the porter).
'Yes, sir, he did; and appeared to think it was all along of me that it
didn't come by the two o'clock. Anyhow, I've got it for him now,' and the
porter flourished a square parcel, which--a glance assured Garrett
contained all that was of any importance to him at that particular
'Bretfield, sir? Yes--three miles just about. Short cut across these
three fields brings it down by half a mile. There: there's Mr Eldred's
A dog-cart drove up with two men in it, of whom Garrett, gazing back as
he crossed the little station yard, easily recognized one. The fact that
Eldred was driving was slightly in his favour--for most likely he would
not open the parcel in the presence of his servant. On the other hand, he
would get home quickly, and unless Garrett were there within a very few
minutes of his arrival, all would be over. He must hurry; and that he
did. His short cut took him along one side of a triangle, while the cart
had two sides to traverse; and it was delayed a little at the station, so
that Garrett was in the third of the three fields when he heard the
wheels fairly near. He had made the best progress possible, but the pace
at which the cart was coming made him despair. At this rate it _must_
reach home ten minutes before him, and ten minutes would more than
suffice for the fulfilment of Mr Eldred's project.
It was just at this time that the luck fairly turned. The evening was
still, and sounds came clearly. Seldom has any sound given greater relief
than that which he now heard: that of the cart pulling up. A few words
were exchanged, and it drove on. Garrett, halting in the utmost anxiety,
was able to see as it drove past the stile (near which he now stood) that
it contained only the servant and not Eldred; further, he made out that
Eldred was following on foot. From behind the tall hedge by the stile
leading into the road he watched the thin wiry figure pass quickly by
with the parcel beneath its arm, and feeling in its pockets. Just as he
passed the stile something fell out of a pocket upon the grass, but with
so little sound that Eldred was not conscious of it. In a moment more it
was safe for Garrett to cross the stile into the road and pick up--a box
of matches. Eldred went on, and, as he went, his arms made hasty
movements, difficult to interpret in the shadow of the trees that
overhung the road. But, as Garrett followed cautiously, he found at
various points the key to them--a piece of string, and then the wrapper
of the parcel--meant to be thrown over the hedge, but sticking in it.
Now Eldred was walking slower, and it could just be made out that he had
opened the book and was turning over the leaves. He stopped, evidently
troubled by the failing light. Garrett slipped into a gate-opening, but
still watched. Eldred, hastily looking around, sat down on a felled
tree-trunk by the roadside and held the open book up close to his eyes.
Suddenly he laid it, still open, on his knee, and felt in all his
pockets: clearly in vain, and clearly to his annoyance. 'You would be
glad of your matches now,' thought Garrett. Then he took hold of a leaf,
and was carefully tearing it out, when two things happened. First,
something black seemed to drop upon the white leaf and run down it, and
then as Eldred started and was turning to look behind him, a little dark
form appeared to rise out of the shadow behind the tree-trunk and from it
two arms enclosing a mass of blackness came before Eldred's face and
covered his head and neck. His legs and arms were wildly flourished, but
no sound came. Then, there was no more movement. Eldred was alone. He had
fallen back into the grass behind the tree-trunk. The book was cast into
the roadway. Garrett, his anger and suspicion gone for the moment at the
sight of this horrid struggle, rushed up with loud cries of 'Help!' and
so too, to his enormous relief, did a labourer who had just emerged from
a field opposite. Together they bent over and supported Eldred, but to no
purpose. The conclusion that he was dead was inevitable. 'Poor
gentleman!' said Garrett to the labourer, when they had laid him down,
'what happened to him, do you think?' 'I wasn't two hundred yards away,'
said the man, 'when I see Squire Eldred setting reading in his book, and
to my thinking he was took with one of these fits--face seemed to go all
over black.' 'Just so,' said Garrett. 'You didn't see anyone near him? It
couldn't have been an assault?' 'Not possible--no one couldn't have got
away without you or me seeing them.' 'So I thought. Well, we must get
some help, and the doctor and the policeman; and perhaps I had better
give them this book.'
It was obviously a case for an inquest, and obvious also that Garrett
must stay at Bretfield and give his evidence. The medical inspection
showed that, though some black dust was found on the face and in the
mouth of the deceased, the cause of death was a shock to a weak heart,
and not asphyxiation. The fateful book was produced, a respectable quarto
printed wholly in Hebrew, and not of an aspect likely to excite even the
'You say, Mr Garrett, that the deceased gentleman appeared at the moment
before his attack to be tearing a leaf out of this book?'
'Yes; I think one of the fly-leaves.'
'There is here a fly-leaf partially torn through. It has Hebrew writing
on it. Will you kindly inspect it?'
'There are three names in English, sir, also, and a date. But I am sorry
to say I cannot read Hebrew writing.'
'Thank you. The names have the appearance of being signatures. They are
John Rant, Walter Gibson, and James Frost, and the date is 20 July, 1875.
Does anyone here know any of these names?'
The Rector, who was present, volunteered a statement that the uncle of
the deceased, from whom he inherited, had been named Rant.
The book being handed to him, he shook a puzzled head. 'This is not like
any Hebrew I ever learnt.'
'You are sure that it is Hebrew?'
'What? Yes--I suppose.... No--my dear sir, you are perfectly right--that
is, your suggestion is exactly to the point. Of course--it is not Hebrew
at all. It is English, and it is a will.'
It did not take many minutes to show that here was indeed a will of Dr
John Rant, bequeathing the whole of the property lately held by John
Eldred to Mrs Mary Simpson. Clearly the discovery of such a document
would amply justify Mr Eldred's agitation. As to the partial tearing of
the leaf, the coroner pointed out that no useful purpose could be
attained by speculations whose correctness it would never be possible to
* * * * *
The Tractate Middoth was naturally taken in charge by the coroner for
further investigation, and Mr Garrett explained privately to him the
history of it, and the position of events so far as he knew or guessed
He returned to his work next day, and on his walk to the station passed
the scene of Mr Eldred's catastrophe. He could hardly leave it without
another look, though the recollection of what he had seen there made him
shiver, even on that bright morning. He walked round, with some
misgivings, behind the felled tree. Something dark that still lay there
made him start back for a moment: but it hardly stirred. Looking closer,
he saw that it was a thick black mass of cobwebs; and, as he stirred it
gingerly with his stick, several large spiders ran out of it into the
* * * * *
There is no great difficulty in imagining the steps by which William
Garrett, from being an assistant in a great library, attained to his
present position of prospective owner of Bretfield Manor, now in the
occupation of his mother-in-law, Mrs Mary Simpson.
CASTING THE RUNES
_April 15th, 190-_
I am requested by the Council of the ---- Association to return to you
the draft of a paper on _The Truth of Alchemy_, which you have been good
enough to offer to read at our forthcoming meeting, and to inform you
that the Council do not see their way to including it in the programme.
* * * * *
I am sorry to say that my engagements do not permit of my affording you
an interview on the subject of your proposed paper. Nor do our laws allow
of your discussing the matter with a Committee of our Council, as you
suggest. Please allow me to assure you that the fullest consideration was
given to the draft which you submitted, and that it was not declined
without having been referred to the judgement of a most competent
authority. No personal question (it can hardly be necessary for me to
add) can have had the slightest influence on the decision of the Council.
Believe me (_ut supra_).
* * * * *
The Secretary of the ---- Association begs respectfully to inform Mr
Karswell that it is impossible for him to communicate the name of any
person or persons to whom the draft of Mr Karswell's paper may have been
submitted; and further desires to intimate that he cannot undertake to
reply to any further letters on this subject.
* * * * *
'And who _is_ Mr Karswell?' inquired the Secretary's wife. She had called
at his office, and (perhaps unwarrantably) had picked up the last of
these three letters, which the typist had just brought in.
'Why, my dear, just at present Mr Karswell is a very angry man. But I
don't know much about him otherwise, except that he is a person of
wealth, his address is Lufford Abbey, Warwickshire, and he's an
alchemist, apparently, and wants to tell us all about it; and that's
about all--except that I don't want to meet him for the next week or two.
Now, if you're ready to leave this place, I am.'
'What have you been doing to make him angry?' asked Mrs Secretary.
'The usual thing, my dear, the usual thing: he sent in a draft of a paper
he wanted to read at the next meeting, and we referred it to Edward
Dunning--almost the only man in England who knows about these things--and
he said it was perfectly hopeless, so we declined it. So Karswell has
been pelting me with letters ever since. The last thing he wanted was the
name of the man we referred his nonsense to; you saw my answer to that.
But don't you say anything about it, for goodness' sake.'
'I should think not, indeed. Did I ever do such a thing? I do hope,
though, he won't get to know that it was poor Mr Dunning.'
'Poor Mr Dunning? I don't know why you call him that; he's a very happy
man, is Dunning. Lots of hobbies and a comfortable home, and all his time
'I only meant I should be sorry for him if this man got hold of his name,
and came and bothered him.'
'Oh, ah! yes. I dare say he would be poor Mr Dunning then.'
The Secretary and his wife were lunching out, and the friends to whose
house they were bound were Warwickshire people. So Mrs Secretary had
already settled it in her own mind that she would question them
judiciously about Mr Karswell. But she was saved the trouble of leading
up to the subject, for the hostess said to the host, before many minutes
had passed, 'I saw the Abbot of Lufford this morning.' The host whistled.
'_Did_ you? What in the world brings him up to town?' 'Goodness knows; he
was coming out of the British Museum gate as I drove past.' It was not
unnatural that Mrs Secretary should inquire whether this was a real Abbot
who was being spoken of. 'Oh no, my dear: only a neighbour of ours in the
country who bought Lufford Abbey a few years ago. His real name is
Karswell.' 'Is he a friend of yours?' asked Mr Secretary, with a private
wink to his wife. The question let loose a torrent of declamation. There
was really nothing to be said for Mr Karswell. Nobody knew what he did
with himself: his servants were a horrible set of people; he had invented
a new religion for himself, and practised no one could tell what
appalling rites; he was very easily offended, and never forgave anybody;
he had a dreadful face (so the lady insisted, her husband somewhat
demurring); he never did a kind action, and whatever influence he did
exert was mischievous. 'Do the poor man justice, dear,' the husband
interrupted. 'You forget the treat he gave the school children.' 'Forget
it, indeed! But I'm glad you mentioned it, because it gives an idea of
the man. Now, Florence, listen to this. The first winter he was at
Lufford this delightful neighbour of ours wrote to the clergyman of his
parish (he's not ours, but we know him very well) and offered to show the
school children some magic-lantern slides. He said he had some new kinds,
which he thought would interest them. Well, the clergyman was rather
surprised, because Mr Karswell had shown himself inclined to be
unpleasant to the children--complaining of their trespassing, or
something of the sort; but of course he accepted, and the evening was
fixed, and our friend went himself to see that everything went right. He
said he never had been so thankful for anything as that his own children
were all prevented from being there: they were at a children's party at
our house, as a matter of fact. Because this Mr Karswell had evidently
set out with the intention of frightening these poor village children out
of their wits, and I do believe, if he had been allowed to go on, he
would actually have done so. He began with some comparatively mild
things. Red Riding Hood was one, and even then, Mr Farrer said, the wolf
was so dreadful that several of the smaller children had to be taken out:
and he said Mr Karswell began the story by producing a noise like a wolf
howling in the distance, which was the most gruesome thing he had ever
heard. All the slides he showed, Mr Farrer said, were most clever; they
were absolutely realistic, and where he had got them or how he worked
them he could not imagine. Well, the show went on, and the stories kept
on becoming a little more terrifying each time, and the children were
mesmerized into complete silence. At last he produced a series which
represented a little boy passing through his own park--Lufford, I
mean--in the evening. Every child in the room could recognize the place
from the pictures. And this poor boy was followed, and at last pursued
and overtaken, and either torn to pieces or somehow made away with, by a
horrible hopping creature in white, which you saw first dodging about
among the trees, and gradually it appeared more and more plainly. Mr
Farrer said it gave him one of the worst nightmares he ever remembered,
and what it must have meant to the children doesn't bear thinking of. Of
course this was too much, and he spoke very sharply indeed to Mr
Karswell, and said it couldn't go on. All _he_ said was: "Oh, you think
it's time to bring our little show to an end and send them home to their
beds? _Very_ well!" And then, if you please, he switched on another
slide, which showed a great mass of snakes, centipedes, and disgusting
creatures with wings, and somehow or other he made it seem as if they
were climbing out of the picture and getting in amongst the audience; and
this was accompanied by a sort of dry rustling noise which sent the
children nearly mad, and of course they stampeded. A good many of them
were rather hurt in getting out of the room, and I don't suppose one of
them closed an eye that night. There was the most dreadful trouble in the
village afterwards. Of course the mothers threw a good part of the blame
on poor Mr Farrer, and, if they could have got past the gates, I believe
the fathers would have broken every window in the Abbey. Well, now,
that's Mr Karswell: that's the Abbot of Lufford, my dear, and you can
imagine how we covet _his_ society.'
'Yes, I think he has all the possibilities of a distinguished criminal,
has Karswell,' said the host. 'I should be sorry for anyone who got into
his bad books.'
'Is he the man, or am I mixing him up with someone else?' asked the
Secretary (who for some minutes had been wearing the frown of the man who
is trying to recollect something). 'Is he the man who brought out a
_History of Witchcraft_ some time back--ten years or more?'
'That's the man; do you remember the reviews of it?'
'Certainly I do; and what's equally to the point, I knew the author of
the most incisive of the lot. So did you: you must remember John
Harrington; he was at John's in our time.'
'Oh, very well indeed, though I don't think I saw or heard anything of
him between the time I went down and the day I read the account of the
inquest on him.'
'Inquest?' said one of the ladies. 'What has happened to him?'
'Why, what happened was that he fell out of a tree and broke his neck.
But the puzzle was, what could have induced him to get up there. It was a
mysterious business, I must say. Here was this man--not an athletic
fellow, was he? and with no eccentric twist about him that was ever
noticed--walking home along a country road late in the evening--no tramps
about--well known and liked in the place--and he suddenly begins to run
like mad, loses his hat and stick, and finally shins up a tree--quite a
difficult tree--growing in the hedgerow: a dead branch gives way, and he
comes down with it and breaks his neck, and there he's found next morning
with the most dreadful face of fear on him that could be imagined. It was
pretty evident, of course, that he had been chased by something, and
people talked of savage dogs, and beasts escaped out of menageries; but
there was nothing to be made of that. That was in '89, and I believe his
brother Henry (whom I remember as well at Cambridge, but _you_ probably
don't) has been trying to get on the track of an explanation ever since.
He, of course, insists there was malice in it, but I don't know. It's
difficult to see how it could have come in.'
After a time the talk reverted to the _History of Witchcraft_. 'Did you
ever look into it?' asked the host.
'Yes, I did,' said the Secretary. 'I went so far as to read it.'
'Was it as bad as it was made out to be?'
'Oh, in point of style and form, quite hopeless. It deserved all the
pulverizing it got. But, besides that, it was an evil book. The man
believed every word of what he was saying, and I'm very much mistaken if
he hadn't tried the greater part of his receipts.'
'Well, I only remember Harrington's review of it, and I must say if I'd
been the author it would have quenched my literary ambition for good. I
should never have held up my head again.'
'It hasn't had that effect in the present case. But come, it's half-past
three; I must be off.'
On the way home the Secretary's wife said, 'I do hope that horrible man
won't find out that Mr Dunning had anything to do with the rejection of
his paper.' 'I don't think there's much chance of that,' said the
Secretary. 'Dunning won't mention it himself, for these matters are
confidential, and none of us will for the same reason. Karswell won't
know his name, for Dunning hasn't published anything on the same subject
yet. The only danger is that Karswell might find out, if he was to ask
the British Museum people who was in the habit of consulting alchemical
manuscripts: I can't very well tell them not to mention Dunning, can I?
It would set them talking at once. Let's hope it won't occur to him.'
However, Mr Karswell was an astute man.
* * * * *
This much is in the way of prologue. On an evening rather later in the
same week, Mr Edward Dunning was returning from the British Museum, where
he had been engaged in research, to the comfortable house in a suburb
where he lived alone, tended by two excellent women who had been long
with him. There is nothing to be added by way of description of him to
what we have heard already. Let us follow him as he takes his sober
* * * * *
A train took him to within a mile or two of his house, and an electric
tram a stage farther. The line ended at a point some three hundred yards
from his front door. He had had enough of reading when he got into the
car, and indeed the light was not such as to allow him to do more than
study the advertisements on the panes of glass that faced him as he sat.
As was not unnatural, the advertisements in this particular line of cars
were objects of his frequent contemplation, and, with the possible
exception of the brilliant and convincing dialogue between Mr Lamplough
and an eminent K.C. on the subject of Pyretic Saline, none of them
afforded much scope to his imagination. I am wrong: there was one at the
corner of the car farthest from him which did not seem familiar. It was
in blue letters on a yellow ground, and all that he could read of it was
a name--John Harrington--and something like a date. It could be of no
interest to him to know more; but for all that, as the car emptied, he
was just curious enough to move along the seat until he could read it
well. He felt to a slight extent repaid for his trouble; the
advertisement was _not_ of the usual type. It ran thus: 'In memory of
John Harrington, F.S.A., of The Laurels, Ashbrooke. Died Sept. 18th,
1889. Three months were allowed.'
The car stopped. Mr Dunning, still contemplating the blue letters on the
yellow ground, had to be stimulated to rise by a word from the conductor.
'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'I was looking at that advertisement; it's
a very odd one, isn't it?' The conductor read it slowly. 'Well, my word,'
he said, 'I never see that one before. Well, that is a cure, ain't it?
Someone bin up to their jokes 'ere, I should think.' He got out a duster
and applied it, not without saliva, to the pane and then to the outside.
'No,' he said, returning,'that ain't no transfer; seems to me as if it
was reg'lar _in_ the glass, what I mean in the substance, as you may say.
Don't you think so, sir?' Mr Dunning examined it and rubbed it with his
glove, and agreed. 'Who looks after these advertisements, and gives leave
for them to be put up? I wish you would inquire. I will just take a note
of the words.' At this moment there came a call from the driver: 'Look
alive, George, time's up.' 'All right, all right; there's something else
what's up at this end. You come and look at this 'ere glass.' 'What's
gorn with the glass?' said the driver, approaching. 'Well, and oo's
'Arrington? What's it all about?' 'I was just asking who was responsible
for putting the advertisements up in your cars, and saying it would be as
well to make some inquiry about this one.' 'Well, sir, that's all done at
the Company's office, that work is: it's our Mr Timms, I believe, looks
into that. When we put up tonight I'll leave word, and per'aps I'll be
able to tell you tomorrer if you 'appen to be coming this way.'
This was all that passed that evening. Mr Dunning did just go to the
trouble of looking up Ashbrooke, and found that it was in Warwickshire.
Next day he went to town again. The car (it was the same car) was too
full in the morning to allow of his getting a word with the conductor: he
could only be sure that the curious advertisement had been made away
with. The close of the day brought a further element of mystery into the
transaction. He had missed the tram, or else preferred walking home, but
at a rather late hour, while he was at work in his study, one of the
maids came to say that two men from the tramways was very anxious to
speak to him. This was a reminder of the advertisement, which he had, he
says, nearly forgotten. He had the men in--they were the conductor and
driver of the car--and when the matter of refreshment had been attended
to, asked what Mr Timms had had to say about the advertisement. 'Well,
sir, that's what we took the liberty to step round about,' said the
conductor. 'Mr Timms 'e give William 'ere the rough side of his tongue
about that: 'cordin' to 'im there warn't no advertisement of that
description sent in, nor ordered, nor paid for, nor put up, nor nothink,
let alone not bein' there, and we was playing the fool takin' up his
time. "Well," I says, "if that's the case, all I ask of you, Mr Timms," I
says, "is to take and look at it for yourself," I says. "Of course if it
ain't there," I says, "you may take and call me what you like." "Right,"
he says, "I will": and we went straight off. Now, I leave it to you, sir,
if that ad., as we term 'em, with 'Arrington on it warn't as plain as
ever you see anythink--blue letters on yeller glass, and as I says at the
time, and you borne me out, reg'lar _in_ the glass, because, if you
remember, you recollect of me swabbing it with my duster.' 'To be sure I
do, quite clearly--well?' 'You may say well, I don't think. Mr Timms he
gets in that car with a light--no, he telled William to 'old the light
outside. "Now," he says, "where's your precious ad. what we've 'card so
much about?" "'Ere it is," I says, "Mr Timms," and I laid my 'and on it.'
The conductor paused.
'Well,' said Mr Dunning, 'it was gone, I suppose. Broken?'
'Broke!--not it. There warn't, if you'll believe me, no more trace of
them letters--blue letters they was--on that piece o' glass, than--well,
it's no good _me_ talkin'. _I_ never see such a thing. I leave it to
William here if--but there, as I says, where's the benefit in me going on
'And what did Mr Timms say?'
'Why 'e did what I give 'im leave to--called us pretty much anythink he
liked, and I don't know as I blame him so much neither. But what we
thought, William and me did, was as we seen you take down a bit of a note
about that--well, that letterin'--'
'I certainly did that, and I have it now. Did you wish me to speak to Mr
Timms myself, and show it to him? Was that what you came in about?'
'There, didn't I say as much?' said William. 'Deal with a gent if you can
get on the track of one, that's my word. Now perhaps, George, you'll
allow as I ain't took you very far wrong tonight.'
'Very well, William, very well; no need for you to go on as if you'd 'ad
to frog's-march me 'ere. I come quiet, didn't I? All the same for that,
we 'adn't ought to take up your time this way, sir; but if it so 'appened
you could find time to step round to the Company orfice in the morning
and tell Mr Timms what you seen for yourself, we should lay under a very
'igh obligation to you for the trouble. You see it ain't bein'
called--well, one thing and another, as we mind, but if they got it into
their 'ead at the orfice as we seen things as warn't there, why, one
thing leads to another, and where we should be a twelvemunce 'ence--well,
you can understand what I mean.'
Amid further elucidations of the proposition, George, conducted by
William, left the room.
The incredulity of Mr Timms (who had a nodding acquaintance with Mr
Dunning) was greatly modified on the following day by what the latter
could tell and show him; and any bad mark that might have been attached
to the names of William and George was not suffered to remain on the
Company's books; but explanation there was none.
Mr Dunning's interest in the matter was kept alive by an incident of the
following afternoon. He was walking from his club to the train, and he
noticed some way ahead a man with a handful of leaflets such as are
distributed to passers-by by agents of enterprising firms. This agent had
not chosen a very crowded street for his operations: in fact, Mr Dunning
did not see him get rid of a single leaflet before he himself reached the
spot. One was thrust into his hand as he passed: the hand that gave it
touched his, and he experienced a sort of little shock as it did so. It
seemed unnaturally rough and hot. He looked in passing at the giver, but
the impression he got was so unclear that, however much he tried to
reckon it up subsequently, nothing would come. He was walking quickly,
and as he went on glanced at the paper. It was a blue one. The name of
Harrington in large capitals caught his eye. He stopped, startled, and
felt for his glasses. The next instant the leaflet was twitched out of
his hand by a man who hurried past, and was irrecoverably gone. He ran
back a few paces, but where was the passer-by? and where the distributor?
It was in a somewhat pensive frame of mind that Mr Dunning passed on the
following day into the Select Manuscript Room of the British Museum, and
filled up tickets for Harley 3586, and some other volumes. After a few
minutes they were brought to him, and he was settling the one he wanted
first upon the desk, when he thought he heard his own name whispered
behind him. He turned round hastily, and in doing so, brushed his little
portfolio of loose papers on to the floor. He saw no one he recognized
except one of the staff in charge of the room, who nodded to him, and he
proceeded to pick up his papers. He thought he had them all, and was
turning to begin work, when a stout gentleman at the table behind him,
who was just rising to leave, and had collected his own belongings,
touched him on the shoulder, saying, 'May I give you this? I think it
should be yours,' and handed him a missing quire. 'It is mine, thank
you,' said Mr Dunning. In another moment the man had left the room. Upon
finishing his work for the afternoon, Mr Dunning had some conversation
with the assistant in charge, and took occasion to ask who the stout
gentleman was. 'Oh, he's a man named Karswell,' said the assistant; 'he
was asking me a week ago who were the great authorities on alchemy, and
of course I told him you were the only one in the country. I'll see if I
can catch him: he'd like to meet you, I'm sure.'
'For heaven's sake don't dream of it!' said Mr Dunning, 'I'm particularly
anxious to avoid him.'
'Oh! very well,' said the assistant, 'he doesn't come here often: I dare
say you won't meet him.'
More than once on the way home that day Mr Dunning confessed to himself
that he did not look forward with his usual cheerfulness to a solitary
evening. It seemed to him that something ill-defined and impalpable had
stepped in between him and his fellow-men--had taken him in charge, as it
were. He wanted to sit close up to his neighbours in the train and in the
tram, but as luck would have it both train and car were markedly empty.
The conductor George was thoughtful, and appeared to be absorbed in
calculations as to the number of passengers. On arriving at his house he
found Dr Watson, his medical man, on his doorstep. 'I've had to upset
your household arrangements, I'm sorry to say, Dunning. Both your
servants _hors de combat_. In fact, I've had to send them to the Nursing
'Good heavens! what's the matter?'
'It's something like ptomaine poisoning, I should think: you've not
suffered yourself, I can see, or you wouldn't be walking about. I think
they'll pull through all right.'
'Dear, dear! Have you any idea what brought it on?' 'Well, they tell me
they bought some shell-fish from a hawker at their dinner-time. It's odd.
I've made inquiries, but I can't find that any hawker has been to other
houses in the street. I couldn't send word to you; they won't be back for
a bit yet. You come and dine with me tonight, anyhow, and we can make
arrangements for going on. Eight o'clock. Don't be too anxious.' The
solitary evening was thus obviated; at the expense of some distress and
inconvenience, it is true. Mr Dunning spent the time pleasantly enough
with the doctor (a rather recent settler), and returned to his lonely
home at about 11.30. The night he passed is not one on which he looks
back with any satisfaction. He was in bed and the light was out. He was
wondering if the charwoman would come early enough to get him hot water
next morning, when he heard the unmistakable sound of his study door
opening. No step followed it on the passage floor, but the sound must
mean mischief, for he knew that he had shut the door that evening after
putting his papers away in his desk. It was rather shame than courage
that induced him to slip out into the passage and lean over the banister
in his nightgown, listening. No light was visible; no further sound came:
only a gust of warm, or even hot air played for an instant round his
shins. He went back and decided to lock himself into his room. There was
more unpleasantness, however. Either an economical suburban company had
decided that their light would not be required in the small hours, and
had stopped working, or else something was wrong with the meter; the
effect was in any case that the electric light was off. The obvious
course was to find a match, and also to consult his watch: he might as
well know how many hours of discomfort awaited him. So he put his hand
into the well-known nook under the pillow: only, it did not get so far.
What he touched was, according to his account, a mouth, with teeth, and
with hair about it, and, he declares, not the mouth of a human being. I
do not think it is any use to guess what he said or did; but he was in a
spare room with the door locked and his ear to it before he was clearly
conscious again. And there he spent the rest of a most miserable night,
looking every moment for some fumbling at the door: but nothing came.
The venturing back to his own room in the morning was attended with many
listenings and quiverings. The door stood open, fortunately, and the
blinds were up (the servants had been out of the house before the hour of
drawing them down); there was, to be short, no trace of an inhabitant.
The watch, too, was in its usual place; nothing was disturbed, only the
wardrobe door had swung open, in accordance with its confirmed habit. A
ring at the back door now announced the charwoman, who had been ordered
the night before, and nerved Mr Dunning, after letting her in, to
continue his search in other parts of the house. It was equally
The day thus begun went on dismally enough. He dared not go to the
Museum: in spite of what the assistant had said, Karswell might turn up
there, and Dunning felt he could not cope with a probably hostile
stranger. His own house was odious; he hated sponging on the doctor. He
spent some little time in a call at the Nursing Home, where he was
slightly cheered by a good report of his housekeeper and maid. Towards
lunch-time he betook himself to his club, again experiencing a gleam of
satisfaction at seeing the Secretary of the Association. At luncheon
Dunning told his friend the more material of his woes, but could not
bring himself to speak of those that weighed most heavily on his spirits.
'My poor dear man,' said the Secretary, 'what an upset! Look here: we're
alone at home, absolutely. You must put up with us. Yes! no excuse: send
your things in this afternoon.' Dunning was unable to stand out: he was,
in truth, becoming acutely anxious, as the hours went on, as to what that
night might have waiting for him. He was almost happy as he hurried home
to pack up.
His friends, when they had time to take stock of him, were rather shocked
at his lorn appearance, and did their best to keep him up to the mark.
Not altogether without success: but, when the two men were smoking alone
later, Dunning became dull again. Suddenly he said, 'Gayton, I believe
that alchemist man knows it was I who got his paper rejected.' Gayton
whistled. 'What makes you think that?' he said. Dunning told of his
conversation with the Museum assistant, and Gayton could only agree that
the guess seemed likely to be correct. 'Not that I care much,' Dunning
went on, 'only it might be a nuisance if we were to meet. He's a
bad-tempered party, I imagine.' Conversation dropped again; Gayton became
more and more strongly impressed with the desolateness that came over
Dunning's face and bearing, and finally--though with a considerable
effort--he asked him point-blank whether something serious was not
bothering him. Dunning gave an exclamation of relief. 'I was perishing to
get it off my mind,' he said. 'Do you know anything about a man named
John Harrington?' Gayton was thoroughly startled, and at the moment could
only ask why. Then the complete story of Dunning's experiences came
out--what had happened in the tramcar, in his own house, and in the
street, the troubling of spirit that had crept over him, and still held
him; and he ended with the question he had begun with. Gayton was at a
loss how to answer him. To tell the story of Harrington's end would
perhaps be right; only, Dunning was in a nervous state, the story was a
grim one, and he could not help asking himself whether there were not a
connecting link between these two cases, in the person of Karswell. It
was a difficult concession for a scientific man, but it could be eased by
the phrase 'hypnotic suggestion'. In the end he decided that his answer
tonight should be guarded; he would talk the situation over with his
wife. So he said that he had known Harrington at Cambridge, and believed
he had died suddenly in 1889, adding a few details about the man and his
published work. He did talk over the matter with Mrs Gayton, and, as he
had anticipated, she leapt at once to the conclusion which had been
hovering before him. It was she who reminded him of the surviving
brother, Henry Harrington, and she also who suggested that he might be
got hold of by means of their hosts of the day before. 'He might be a
hopeless crank,' objected Gayton. 'That could be ascertained from the
Bennetts, who knew him,' Mrs Gayton retorted; and she undertook to see
the Bennetts the very next day.
* * * * *
It is not necessary to tell in further detail the steps by which Henry
Harrington and Dunning were brought together.
* * * * *
The next scene that does require to be narrated is a conversation that
took place between the two. Dunning had told Harrington of the strange
ways in which the dead man's name had been brought before him, and had
said something, besides, of his own subsequent experiences. Then he had
asked if Harrington was disposed, in return, to recall any of the
circumstances connected with his brother's death. Harrington's surprise
at what he heard can be imagined: but his reply was readily given.
'John,' he said, 'was in a very odd state, undeniably, from time to time,
during some weeks before, though not immediately before, the catastrophe.
There were several things; the principal notion he had was that he
thought he was being followed. No doubt he was an impressionable man, but
he never had had such fancies as this before. I cannot get it out of my
mind that there was ill-will at work, and what you tell me about yourself
reminds me very much of my brother. Can you think of any possible
'There is just one that has been taking shape vaguely in my mind. I've
been told that your brother reviewed a book very severely not long before
he died, and just lately I have happened to cross the path of the man who
wrote that book in a way he would resent.'
'Don't tell me the man was called Karswell.'
'Why not? that is exactly his name.'
Henry Harrington leant back. 'That is final to my mind. Now I must
explain further. From something he said, I feel sure that my brother John
was beginning to believe--very much against his will--that Karswell was
at the bottom of his trouble. I want to tell you what seems to me to have