Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James

by M. R. James

  There it was: St. Mark. Oliver Cromwell born, 1599.

  That, coupled with the painted ceiling, seemed to explain a good deal. The figure of old Lady Sadleir became more substantial to his imagination, as of one in whom love for Church and King had gradually given place to intense hate of the power that had silenced the one and slaughtered the other.

  What curious evil service was that which she and a few like her had been wont to celebrate year by year in that remote valley? And how in the world had she managed to elude authority?

  And again, did not this persistent opening of the books agree oddly with the other traits of her portrait known to him? It would be interesting for anyone who chanced to be near Brockstone on the 25th of April to look in at the chapel and see if anything exceptional happened.

  When he came to think of it, there seemed to be no reason why he should not be that person himself. He, and if possible, some congenial friend. He resolved that so it should be.

  Knowing that he knew really nothing about the printing of prayer-books, he realized that he must make it his business to get the best light on the matter without divulging his reasons.

  I may say at once that his search was entirely fruitless. One writer of the early part of the 19th century, a writer of rather windy and rhapsodical chat about books, professed to have heard of a special anti-Cromwellian issue of the prayer-book in the very midst of the Commonwealth period.

  But he did not claim to have seen a copy, and no one had believed him. Looking into this matter, Mr. Davidson found that the statement was based on letters from a correspondent who had lived near Longbridge, so he was inclined to think that the Brockstone prayer-books were at the bottom of it, and had excited a momentary interest.

  Months went on, and St. Mark’s Day came near. Nothing interfered with Mr. Davidson’s plans of visiting Brockstone, or with those of the friend whom he had persuaded to go with him, and to whom alone he had confided the puzzle.

  The same 9:45 train which had taken him in January took them now to Kingsbourne. The same field-path led them to Brockstone.

  But today they stopped more than once to pick a cowslip. The distant woods and plowed uplands were of another color, and in the copse there was, as Mrs. Porter said, “a regular charm of birds. Why you couldn’t hardly collect your mind sometimes with it.”

  She recognized Mr. Davidson at once, and was very ready to do the honors of the Chapel. The new visitor, Mr. Witham, was as much struck by the completeness of it as Mr. Davidson had been. “There can’t be such another in England,” he said.

  “Books open again, Mrs. Porter?” said Davidson, as they walked up to the chancel.

  “Dear, yes, I expect so, sir,” said Mrs. Porter, as she drew off the cloths. “Well, there!” she exclaimed the next moment, “if they ain’t shut! That’s the first time ever I’ve found ’em so.

  “But it’s not for want of care on my part, I do assure you, gentlemen, if they wasn’t, for I felt the cloths the last thing before I shut up last week, when the gentleman had done photografting the heast winder, and every one was shut, and where there was ribbons left, I tied ’em.

  “Now I think of it, I don’t remember ever to ’ave done that before, and per’aps, whoever it is, it just made the difference to ’em. Well, it only shows, don’t it? If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.”

  Meanwhile the two men had been examining the books, and now Davidson spoke.

  “I’m sorry to say I’m afraid there’s something wrong here, Mrs. Porter. These are not the same books.”

  It would make too long a business to detail all Mrs. Porter’s outcries, and the questionings that followed. The upshot was this. Early in January the gentleman had come to see over the Chapel, and thought a great deal of it, and said he must come back in the spring weather and take some photografts.

  And only a week ago he had drove up in his motoring car, and a very ’eavy box with the slides in it, and she had locked him in because he said something about a long explosion, and she was afraid of some damage happening. And he says, no, not explosion, but it appeared the lantern what they take the slides with worked very slow.

  And so he was in there the best part of an hour and she come and let him out, and he drove off with his box and all and gave her his visiting-card, and oh, dear, dear, to think of such a thing! He must have changed the books and took the old ones away with him in his box.

  “What sort of man was he?”

  “Oh, dear, he was a small-made gentleman, if you can call him so after the way he’ve behaved, with black hair, that is if it was hair, and gold eye-glasses, if they was gold.

  “Reely, one don’t know what to believe. Sometimes I doubt he weren’t a reel Englishman at all, and yet he seemed to know the language, and had the name on his visiting-card like anybody else might.”

  “Just so. Might we see the card? Yes. T.W. Henderson, and an address somewhere near Bristol.

  “Well, Mrs. Porter, it’s quite plain this Mr. Henderson, as he calls himself, has walked off with your eight prayer-books and put eight others about the same size in place of them.

  “Now listen to me. I suppose you must tell your husband about this, but neither you nor he must say one word about it to anyone else. If you’ll give me the address of the agent—Mr. Clark, isn’t it?—I will write to him and tell him exactly what has happened, and that it really is no fault of yours.

  “But, you understand, we must keep it very quiet. And why? Because this man who has stolen the books will of course try to sell them one at a time—for I may tell you they are worth a good deal of money—and the only way we can bring it home to him is by keeping a sharp look out and saying nothing.”

  By dint of repeating the same advice in various forms, they succeeded in impressing Mrs. Porter with the real need for silence, and were forced to make a concession only in the case of Mr. Avery, who was expected on a visit shortly.

  “But you may be safe with father, sir,” said Mrs. Porter. “Father ain’t a talkin’ man.”

  It was not quite Mr. Davidson’s experience of him. Still, there were no neighbors at Brockstone, and even Mr. Avery must be aware that gossip with anybody on such a subject would be likely to end in the Porters having to look out for another situation.

  A last question was whether Mr. Henderson, so-called, had anyone with him.

  “No, sir, not when he come he hadn’t. He was working his own motoring car himself, and what luggage he had, let me see: there was his lantern and this box of slides inside the carriage, which I helped him into the Chapel and out of it myself with it, if only I’d knowed!

  “And as he drove away under the big yew tree by the monument, I see the long white bundle laying on the top of the coach, what I didn’t notice when he drove up. But he set in front, sir, and only the boxes inside behind him. And do you reely think, sir, as his name weren’t Henderson at all?

  “Oh dear me, what a dreadful thing! Why, fancy what trouble it might bring to a innocent person that might never have set foot in the place but for that!”

  They left Mrs. Porter in tears. On the way home there was much discussion as to the best means of keeping watch upon possible sales.

  What Henderson/Homberger (for there could be no real doubt of the identity) had done was, obviously, to bring down the requisite number of folio prayer-books—disused copies from college chapels and the like, bought ostensibly for the sake of the bindings, which were superficially like enough to the old ones—and to substitute them at his leisure for the genuine articles.

  A week had now passed without any public notice being taken of the theft. He would take a little time himself to find out about the rarity of the books, and would ultimately, no doubt, “place” them cautiously.

  Between them, Davidson and Witham were in a position to know a good deal of what was passing in the book-world, and they could map out the ground pretty completely.

  A weak point with them at the moment was that neither of them knew
under what other name or names Henderson/Homberger carried on business. But there are ways of solving these problems.

  And yet all this planning proved unnecessary.

  IV

  We are transported to a London office on this same 25th of April. We find there, within closed doors, late in the day, two police inspectors, a commissionaire and a youthful clerk. The two latter, both rather pale and agitated in appearance, are sitting on chairs and being questioned.

  “How long do you say you’ve been in this Mr. Poschwitz’s employment? Six months? And what was his business? Attended sales in various parts and brought home parcels of books. Did he keep a shop anywhere? No? Disposed of ’em here and there, and sometimes to private collectors. Right.

  “Now then, when did he go out last? Rather better than a week ago? Tell you where he was going? No? Said he was going to start next day from his private residence, and shouldn’t be at the office—that’s here, eh?—before two days. You was to attend as usual.

  “Where is his private residence? Oh, that’s the address, Norwood way. I see. Any family? Not in this country?

  “Now, then, what account do you give of what’s happened since he came back? Came back on the Tuesday, did he? And this is the Saturday. Bring any books? One package. Where is it? In the safe? You got the key? No, to be sure, it’s open, of course. How did he seem when he got back—cheerful? Well, but how do you mean—curious? Thought he might be in for an illness. He said that, did he? Odd smell got in his nose, couldn’t get rid of it. Told you to let him know who wanted to see him before you let ’em in? That wasn’t usual with him?

  “Much the same all Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Out a good deal. Said he was going to the British Museum. Often went there to make inquiries in the way of his business. Walked up and down a lot in the office when he was in.

  “Anyone call in on those days? Mostly when he was out. Anyone find him in? Oh, Mr. Collinson? Who’s Mr. Collinson? An old customer. Know his address? All right, give it us afterward.

  “Well, now, what about this morning? You left Mr. Poschwitz’s here at twelve and went home. Anybody see you? Commissionaire, you did? Remained at home till summoned here. Very well.

  “Now, Commissionaire: we have your name—Watkins. eh? Very well, make your statement. Don’t go too quick, so as we can get it down.”

  “I was on duty ’ere later than usual, Mr. Potwitch ’aving asked me to remain on, and ordered his lunching to be sent in, which come as ordered. I was in the lobby from eleven-thirty on, and see Mr. Bligh [the clerk] leave at about twelve. After that no one come in at all except Mr. Potwitch’s lunching come at one o’clock and the man left in five minutes’ time.

  “Toward the afternoon I became tired of waitin’ and I come upstairs to this first floor. The outer door what lead to the orfice stood open, and I come up to the plate-glass door here.

  “Mr. Potwitch he was standing behind the table smoking a cigar, and he laid it down on the mantelpiece and felt in his trouser pockets and took out a key and went across to the safe. And I knocked on the glass, thinkin’ to see if he wanted me to come take away his tray, but he didn’t take no notice, bein’ engaged with the safe door. Then he got it open and stooped down and seemed to be lifting up a package off of the floor of the safe.

  “And then, sir, I see what looked to be like a great roll of old shabby white flannel, about four to five feet high, fall for’ards out of the inside of the safe right against Mr. Potwitch’s shoulder as he was stooping over.

  “And Mr. Porwitch, he raised himself up as it were, resting his hands on the package, and give a exclamation. And I can’t hardly expect you should take what I says, but as true as I stand here I see this roll had a kind of a face in the upper end of it, sir. You can’t be more surprised than what I was, I can assure you, and I’ve seen a lot in me time.

  “Yes, I can describe it if you wish it, sir. It was very much the same as this wall here in color [the wall had an earth-colored distemper] and it had a bit of a band tied round underneath. And the eyes, well they was dry-like, and much as if there was two big spiders’ bodies in the holes.

  “Hair? No, I don’t know as there was much hair to be seen. The flannel-stuff was over the top of the ’ead. I’m very sure it warn’t what it should have been. No, I only see it in a flash, but I took it in like a photograft—wish I hadn’t.

  “Yes, sir, it fell right over on to Mr. Potwitch’s shoulder, and this face hid in his neck—yes, sir, about where the injury was—more like a ferret going for a rabbit than anythink else. And he rolled over, and of course I tried to get in at the door. But as you know, sir, it were locked on the inside, and all I could do, I rung up everyone, and the surgeon come, and the police and you gentlemen, and you know as much as what I do.

  “If you won’t be requirin’ me anymore today I’d be glad to be getting off home. It’s shook me up more than I thought for.”

  “Well,” said one of the inspectors, when they were left alone.

  And “Well?” said the other inspector. And, after a pause, “What’s the surgeon’s report again? You’ve got it there. Yes. Effect on the blood like the worst kind of snake-bite. Death almost instantaneous.

  “I’m glad of that, for his sake. He was a nasty sight. No case for detaining this man Watkins, anyway. We know all about him. And what about this safe, now? We’d better go over it again. And, by the way, we haven’t opened that package he was busy with when he died.”

  “Well, handle it careful,” said the other. “There might be this snake in it, for what you know. Get a light into the corners of the place, too. Well, there’s room for a shortish person to stand up in, but what about ventilation?”

  “Perhaps,” said the other slowly, as he explored the safe with a flashlight, “perhaps they didn’t require much of that. My word! It strikes warm coming out of that place! Like a vault, it is.

  “But here, what’s this bank-like of dust all spread out into the room? That must have come there since the door was opened. It would sweep it all away if you moved it—see? Now what do you make of that?”

  “Make of it? About as much as I make of anything else in this case. One of London’s mysteries this is going to be, by what I can see. And I don’t believe a photographer’s box full of large-size old-fashioned prayer-books is going to take us much further. For that’s just what your package is.”

  It was a natural but hasty utterance. The preceding narrative shows that there was, in fact, plenty of material for constructing a case. And when once Messrs. Davidson and Witham had brought their end to Scotland Yard, the join-up was soon made, and the circle completed.

  To the relief of Mrs. Porter, the owners of Brockstone decided not to replace the books in the Chapel. They repose, I believe, in a safe-deposit in town.

  The police have their own methods of keeping certain matters out of the newspapers. Otherwise it can hardly be supposed that Watkins’ evidence about Mr. Poschwitz’s death could have failed to furnish a good many headlines of a startling character to the press.

  The Five Jars

  BEING MORE OR LESS OF A FAIRY TALE

  CONTAINED IN A LETTER TO A YOUNG PERSON

  I: The Discovery

  My dear Jane,

  You remember that you were puzzled when I told you I had heard something from the owls—or if not puzzled (for I know you have some experience of these things), you were at any rate anxious to know exactly how it happened. Perhaps the time has now come for you to be told.

  It was really luck, and not any skill of mine, that put me in the way of it; luck, and also being ready to believe more than I could see. I have promised not to put down on paper the name of the wood where it happened: that can keep till we meet; but all the rest I can tell exactly as it came about.

  It is a wood with a stream at the edge of it; the water is brown and clear. On the other side of it are flat meadows, and beyond these a hillside quite covered with an oak wood. The stream has alder-trees along it, and is pretty well
shaded over; the sun hits it in places and makes flecks of light through the leaves.

  The day I am thinking of was a very hot one in early September. I had come across the meadows with some idea of sitting by the stream and reading. The only change in my plans that I made was that instead of sitting down I lay down, and instead of reading I went to sleep.

  You know how sometimes—but very, very seldom—you see something in a dream which you are quite sure is real. So it was with me this time. I did not dream any story or see any people; I only dreamt of a plant. In the dream no one told me anything about it. I just saw it growing under a tree: a small bit of the tree root came into the picture, an old gnarled root covered with moss, and with three sorts of eyes in it, round holes trimmed with moss—you know the kind.

  The plant was not one I should have thought much about, though certainly it was not one that I knew: it had no flowers or berries, and grew quite squat in the ground; more like a yellow aconite without the flower than anything else. It seemed to consist of a ring of six leaves spread out pretty flat with nine points on each leaf. As I say, I saw this quite clearly, and remembered it because six times nine makes fifty-four, which happens to be a number which I had a particular reason for remembering at that moment.

  Well, there was no more in the dream than that: but, such as it was, it fixed itself in my mind like a photograph, and I was sure that if ever I saw that tree root and that plant, I should know them again. And, though I neither saw nor heard anything more of them than I have told you, it was borne in upon my mind that the plant was worth finding.

  When I woke up I still lay, feeling very lazy, on the grass with my head within a foot or two of the edge of the stream and listened to its noise, until in five or six minutes—whether I began to doze off again or not does not much matter—the water-sound became like words, and said, “Trickle-up, trickle-up,” an immense number of times.

  It pleased me, for though in poetry we hear a deal about babbling brooks, and though I am particularly fond of the noise they make, I never was able before to pretend that I could hear any words.