Ghost Stories of an Antiquary, Montague Rhodes James [best ereader under 100 .TXT] 📗

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

fruitless.

 

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

connecting link?’

 

‘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

a bearing on the situation. My brother was a great musician, and used to

run up to concerts in town. He came back, three months before he died,

from one of these, and gave me his programme to look at—an analytical

programme: he always kept them. “I nearly missed this one,” he said. “I

suppose I must have dropped it: anyhow, I was looking for it under my

seat and in my pockets and so on, and my neighbour offered me his, said

‘might he give it me, he had no further use for it,’ and he went away

just afterwards. I don’t know who he was—a stout, clean-shaven man. I

should have been sorry to miss it; of course I could have bought another,

but this cost me nothing.” At another time he told me that he had been

very uncomfortable both on the way to his hotel and during the night. I

piece things together now in thinking it over. Then, not very long after,

he was going over these programmes, putting them in order to have them

bound up, and in this particular one (which by the way I had hardly

glanced at), he found quite near the beginning a strip of paper with some

very odd writing on it in red and black—most carefully done—it looked

to me more like Runic letters than anything else. “Why,” he said, “this

must belong to my fat neighbour. It looks as if it might be worth

returning to him; it may be a copy of something; evidently someone has

taken trouble over it. How can I find his address?” We talked it over for

a little and agreed that it wasn’t worth advertising about, and that my

brother had better look out for the man at the next concert, to which he

was going very soon. The paper was lying on the book and we were both by

the fire; it was a cold, windy summer evening. I suppose the door blew

open, though I didn’t notice it: at any rate a gust—a warm gust it

was—came quite suddenly between us, took the paper and blew it straight

into the fire: it was light, thin paper, and flared and went up the

chimney in a single ash. “Well,” I said, “you can’t give it back now.” He

said nothing for a minute: then rather crossly, “No, I can’t; but why you

should keep on saying so I don’t know.” I remarked that I didn’t say it

more than once. “Not more than four times, you mean,” was all he said. I

remember all that very clearly, without any good reason; and now to come

to the point. I don’t know if you looked at that book of Karswell’s which

my unfortunate brother reviewed. It’s not likely that you should: but I

did, both before his death and after it. The first time we made game of

it together. It was written in no style at all—split infinitives, and

every sort of thing that makes an Oxford gorge rise. Then there was

nothing that the man didn’t swallow: mixing up classical myths, and

stories out of the Golden Legend with reports of savage customs of

today—all very proper, no doubt, if you know how to use them, but he

didn’t: he seemed to put the Golden Legend and the Golden Bough

exactly on a par, and to believe both: a pitiable exhibition, in short.

Well, after the misfortune, I looked over the book again. It was no

better than before, but the impression which it left this time on my mind

was different. I suspected—as I told you—that Karswell had borne

ill-will to my brother, even that he was in some way responsible for what

had happened; and now his book seemed to me to be a very sinister

performance indeed. One chapter in particular struck me, in which he

spoke of “casting the Runes” on people, either for the purpose of gaining

their affection or of getting them out of the way—perhaps more

especially the latter: he spoke of all this in a way that really seemed

to me to imply actual knowledge. I’ve not time to go into details, but

the upshot is that I am pretty sure from information received that the

civil man at the concert was Karswell: I suspect—I more than

suspect—that the paper was of importance: and I do believe that if my

brother had been able to give it back, he might have been alive now.

Therefore, it occurs to me to ask you whether you have anything to put

beside what I have told you.’

 

By way of answer, Dunning had the episode in the Manuscript Room at the

British Museum to relate.

 

‘Then he did actually hand you some papers; have you examined them? No?

because we must, if you’ll allow it, look at them at once, and very

carefully.’

 

They went to the still empty house—empty, for the two servants were not

yet able to return to work. Dunning’s portfolio of papers was gathering

dust on the writing-table. In it were the quires of small-sized

scribbling paper which he used for his transcripts: and from one of

these, as he took