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

it up, there slipped and fluttered out into the room

with uncanny quickness, a strip of thin light paper. The window was open,

but Harrington slammed it to, just in time to intercept the paper, which

he caught. ‘I thought so,’ he said; ‘it might be the identical thing that

was given to my brother. You’ll have to look out, Dunning; this may mean

something quite serious for you.’

 

A long consultation took place. The paper was narrowly examined. As

Harrington had said, the characters on it were more like Runes than

anything else, but not decipherable by either man, and both hesitated to

copy them, for fear, as they confessed, of perpetuating whatever evil

purpose they might conceal. So it has remained impossible (if I may

anticipate a little) to ascertain what was conveyed in this curious

message or commission. Both Dunning and Harrington are firmly convinced

that it had the effect of bringing its possessors into very undesirable

company. That it must be returned to the source whence it came they were

agreed, and further, that the only safe and certain way was that of

personal service; and here contrivance would be necessary, for Dunning

was known by sight to Karswell. He must, for one thing, alter his

appearance by shaving his beard. But then might not the blow fall first?

Harrington thought they could time it. He knew the date of the concert at

which the ‘black spot’ had been put on his brother: it was June 18th. The

death had followed on Sept. 18th. Dunning reminded him that three months

had been mentioned on the inscription on the car-window. ‘Perhaps,’ he

added, with a cheerless laugh, ‘mine may be a bill at three months too. I

believe I can fix it by my diary. Yes, April 23rd was the day at the

Museum; that brings us to July 23rd. Now, you know, it becomes extremely

important to me to know anything you will tell me about the progress of

your brother’s trouble, if it is possible for you to speak of it.’ ‘Of

course. Well, the sense of being watched whenever he was alone was the

most distressing thing to him. After a time I took to sleeping in his

room, and he was the better for that: still, he talked a great deal in

his sleep. What about? Is it wise to dwell on that, at least before

things are straightened out? I think not, but I can tell you this: two

things came for him by post during those weeks, both with a London

postmark, and addressed in a commercial hand. One was a woodcut of

Bewick’s, roughly torn out of the page: one which shows a moonlit road

and a man walking along it, followed by an awful demon creature. Under it

were written the lines out of the “Ancient Mariner” (which I suppose the

cut illustrates) about one who, having once looked round—

 

walks on,

And turns no more his head,

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

 

The other was a calendar, such as tradesmen often send. My brother paid

no attention to this, but I looked at it after his death, and found that

everything after Sept. 18 had been torn out. You may be surprised at his

having gone out alone the evening he was killed, but the fact is that

during the last ten days or so of his life he had been quite free from

the sense of being followed or watched.’

 

The end of the consultation was this. Harrington, who knew a neighbour of

Karswell’s, thought he saw a way of keeping a watch on his movements. It

would be Dunning’s part to be in readiness to try to cross Karswell’s

path at any moment, to keep the paper safe and in a place of ready

access.

 

They parted. The next weeks were no doubt a severe strain upon Dunning’s

nerves: the intangible barrier which had seemed to rise about him on the

day when he received the paper, gradually developed into a brooding

blackness that cut him off from the means of escape to which one might

have thought he might resort. No one was at hand who was likely to

suggest them to him, and he seemed robbed of all initiative. He waited

with inexpressible anxiety as May, June, and early July passed on, for a

mandate from Harrington. But all this time Karswell remained immovable at

Lufford.

 

At last, in less than a week before the date he had come to look upon as

the end of his earthly activities, came a telegram: ‘Leaves Victoria by

boat train Thursday night. Do not miss. I come to you tonight.

Harrington.’

 

He arrived accordingly, and they concocted plans. The train left Victoria

at nine and its last stop before Dover was Croydon West. Harrington would

mark down Karswell at Victoria, and look out for Dunning at Croydon,

calling to him if need were by a name agreed upon. Dunning, disguised as

far as might be, was to have no label or initials on any hand luggage,

and must at all costs have the paper with him.

 

Dunning’s suspense as he waited on the Groydon platform I need not

attempt to describe. His sense of danger during the last days had only

been sharpened by the fact that the cloud about him had perceptibly been

lighter; but relief was an ominous symptom, and, if Karswell eluded him

now, hope was gone: and there were so many chances of that. The rumour of

the journey might be itself a device. The twenty minutes in which he

paced the platform and persecuted every porter with inquiries as to the

boat train were as bitter as any he had spent. Still, the train came, and

Harrington was at the window. It was important, of course, that there

should be no recognition: so Dunning got in at the farther end of the

corridor carriage, and only gradually made his way to the compartment

where Harrington and Karswell were. He was pleased, on the whole, to see

that the train was far from full.

 

Karswell was on the alert, but gave no sign of recognition. Dunning took

the seat not immediately facing him, and attempted, vainly at first, then

with increasing command of his faculties, to reckon the possibilities of

making the desired transfer. Opposite to Karswell, and next to Dunning,

was a heap of Karswell’s coats on the seat. It would be of no use to slip

the paper into these—he would not be safe, or would not feel so, unless

in some way it could be proffered by him and accepted by the other. There

was a handbag, open, and with papers in it. Could he manage to conceal

this (so that perhaps Karswell might leave the carriage without it), and

then find and give it to him? This was the plan that suggested itself. If

he could only have counselled with Harrington! but that could not be. The

minutes went on. More than once Karswell rose and went out into the

corridor. The second time Dunning was on the point of attempting to make

the bag fall off the seat, but he caught Harrington’s eye, and read in it

a warning.

 

Karswell, from the corridor, was watching: probably to see if the two men

recognized each other. He returned, but was evidently restless: and, when

he rose the third time, hope dawned, for something did slip off his seat

and fall with hardly a sound to the floor. Karswell went out once more,

and passed out of range of the corridor window. Dunning picked up what

had fallen, and saw that the key was in his hands in the form of one of

Cook’s ticket-cases, with tickets in it. These cases have a pocket in the

cover, and within very few seconds the paper of which we have heard was

in the pocket of this one. To make the operation more secure, Harrington

stood in the doorway of the compartment and fiddled with the blind. It

was done, and done at the right time, for the train was now slowing down

towards Dover.

 

In a moment more Karswell re-entered the compartment. As he did so,

Dunning, managing, he knew not how, to suppress the tremble in his voice,

handed him the ticket-case, saying, ‘May I give you this, sir? I believe

it is yours.’ After a brief glance at the ticket inside, Karswell uttered

the hoped-for response, ‘Yes, it is; much obliged to you, sir,’ and he

placed it in his breast pocket.

 

Even in the few moments that remained—moments of tense anxiety, for they

knew not to what a premature finding of the paper might lead—both men

noticed that the carriage seemed to darken about them and to grow warmer;

that Karswell was fidgety and oppressed; that he drew the heap of loose

coats near to him and cast it back as if it repelled him; and that he

then sat upright and glanced anxiously at both. They, with sickening

anxiety, busied themselves in collecting their belongings; but they both

thought that Karswell was on the point of speaking when the train stopped

at Dover Town. It was natural that in the short space between town and

pier they should both go into the corridor.

 

At the pier they got out, but so empty was the train that they were

forced to linger on the platform until Karswell should have passed ahead

of them with his porter on the way to the boat, and only then was it safe

for them to exchange a pressure of the hand and a word of concentrated

congratulation. The effect upon Dunning was to make him almost faint.

Harrington made him lean up against the wall, while he himself went

forward a few yards within sight of the gangway to the boat, at which

Karswell had now arrived. The man at the head of it examined his ticket,

and, laden with coats he passed down into the boat. Suddenly the official

called after him, ‘You, sir, beg pardon, did the other gentleman show his

ticket?’ ‘What the devil do you mean by the other gentleman?’ Karswell’s

snarling voice called back from the deck. The man bent over and looked at

him. ‘The devil? Well, I don’t know, I’m sure,’ Harrington heard him say

to himself, and then aloud, ‘My mistake, sir; must have been your rugs!

ask your pardon.’ And then, to a subordinate near him, ”Ad he got a dog

with him, or what? Funny thing: I could ‘a’ swore ‘e wasn’t alone. Well,

whatever it was, they’ll ‘ave to see to it aboard. She’s off now. Another

week and we shall be gettin’ the ‘oliday customers.’ In five minutes more

there was nothing but the lessening lights of the boat, the long line of

the Dover lamps, the night breeze, and the moon.

 

Long and long the two sat in their room at the ‘Lord Warden’. In spite of

the removal of their greatest anxiety, they were oppressed with a doubt,

not of the lightest. Had they been justified in sending a man to his

death, as they believed they had? Ought they not to warn him, at least?

‘No,’ said Harrington; ‘if he is the murderer I think him, we have done

no more than is just. Still, if you think it better—but how and where

can you warn him?’ ‘He was booked to Abbeville only,’ said Dunning. ‘I

saw that. If I wired to the hotels there in Joanne’s Guide, “Examine your

ticket-case, Dunning,” I should feel happier. This is the 21st: he will

have a day. But I am afraid he has gone into the dark.’ So telegrams were

left at the hotel office.

 

It is not clear whether these reached their destination, or whether, if

they