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

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

most sensitive.

 

‘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

establish.

 

*

 

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

them.

 

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

grass.

 

*

 

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-

 

Dear Sir,

 

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,

 

Yours faithfully,

 

– Secretary.

 

*

 

April 18th

 

Dear Sir,

 

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_).

 

*

 

April 20th

 

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

to himself.’

 

‘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