Ghost Stories of an Antiquary - Montague Rhodes James (feel good books to read .TXT) 📗

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

about it?’

 

‘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

Home.’

 

‘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