Ghost Stories of an Antiquary by Montague Rhodes James (large screen ebook reader txt) 📕

were a horrible set of people; he had invented

a new religion for himself, and practised no one could tell what

appalling rites; he was very easily offended, and never forgave anybody;

he had a dreadful face (so the lady insisted, her husband somewhat

demurring); he never did a kind action, and whatever influence he did

exert was mischievous. ‘Do the poor man justice, dear,’ the husband

interrupted. ‘You forget the treat he gave the school children.’ ‘Forget

it, indeed! But I’m glad you mentioned it, because it gives an idea of

the man. Now, Florence, listen to this. The first winter he was at

Lufford this delightful neighbour of ours wrote to the clergyman of his

parish (he’s not ours, but we know him very well) and offered to show the

school children some magic-lantern slides. He said he had some new kinds,

which he thought would interest them. Well, the clergyman was rather

surprised, because Mr Karswell had shown himself inclined to be

unpleasant to the children—complaining of their trespassing, or

something of the sort; but of course he accepted, and the evening was

fixed, and our friend went himself to see that everything went right. He

said he never had been so thankful for anything as that his own children

were all prevented from being there: they were at a children’s party at

our house, as a matter of fact. Because this Mr Karswell had evidently

set out with the intention of frightening these poor village children out

of their wits, and I do believe, if he had been allowed to go on, he

would actually have done so. He began with some comparatively mild

things. Red Riding Hood was one, and even then, Mr Farrer said, the wolf

was so dreadful that several of the smaller children had to be taken out:

and he said Mr Karswell began the story by producing a noise like a wolf

howling in the distance, which was the most gruesome thing he had ever

heard. All the slides he showed, Mr Farrer said, were most clever; they

were absolutely realistic, and where he had got them or how he worked

them he could not imagine. Well, the show went on, and the stories kept

on becoming a little more terrifying each time, and the children were

mesmerized into complete silence. At last he produced a series which

represented a little boy passing through his own park—Lufford, I

mean—in the evening. Every child in the room could recognize the place

from the pictures. And this poor boy was followed, and at last pursued

and overtaken, and either torn to pieces or somehow made away with, by a

horrible hopping creature in white, which you saw first dodging about

among the trees, and gradually it appeared more and more plainly. Mr

Farrer said it gave him one of the worst nightmares he ever remembered,

and what it must have meant to the children doesn’t bear thinking of. Of

course this was too much, and he spoke very sharply indeed to Mr

Karswell, and said it couldn’t go on. All he said was: “Oh, you think

it’s time to bring our little show to an end and send them home to their

beds? Very well!” And then, if you please, he switched on another

slide, which showed a great mass of snakes, centipedes, and disgusting

creatures with wings, and somehow or other he made it seem as if they

were climbing out of the picture and getting in amongst the audience; and

this was accompanied by a sort of dry rustling noise which sent the

children nearly mad, and of course they stampeded. A good many of them

were rather hurt in getting out of the room, and I don’t suppose one of

them closed an eye that night. There was the most dreadful trouble in the

village afterwards. Of course the mothers threw a good part of the blame

on poor Mr Farrer, and, if they could have got past the gates, I believe

the fathers would have broken every window in the Abbey. Well, now,

that’s Mr Karswell: that’s the Abbot of Lufford, my dear, and you can

imagine how we covet his society.’

 

‘Yes, I think he has all the possibilities of a distinguished criminal,

has Karswell,’ said the host. ‘I should be sorry for anyone who got into

his bad books.’

 

‘Is he the man, or am I mixing him up with someone else?’ asked the

Secretary (who for some minutes had been wearing the frown of the man who

is trying to recollect something). ‘Is he the man who brought out a

History of Witchcraft some time back—ten years or more?’

 

‘That’s the man; do you remember the reviews of it?’

 

‘Certainly I do; and what’s equally to the point, I knew the author of

the most incisive of the lot. So did you: you must remember John

Harrington; he was at John’s in our time.’

 

‘Oh, very well indeed, though I don’t think I saw or heard anything of

him between the time I went down and the day I read the account of the

inquest on him.’

 

‘Inquest?’ said one of the ladies. ‘What has happened to him?’

 

‘Why, what happened was that he fell out of a tree and broke his neck.

But the puzzle was, what could have induced him to get up there. It was a

mysterious business, I must say. Here was this man—not an athletic

fellow, was he? and with no eccentric twist about him that was ever

noticed—walking home along a country road late in the evening—no tramps

about—well known and liked in the place—and he suddenly begins to run

like mad, loses his hat and stick, and finally shins up a tree—quite a

difficult tree—growing in the hedgerow: a dead branch gives way, and he

comes down with it and breaks his neck, and there he’s found next morning

with the most dreadful face of fear on him that could be imagined. It was

pretty evident, of course, that he had been chased by something, and

people talked of savage dogs, and beasts escaped out of menageries; but

there was nothing to be made of that. That was in ‘89, and I believe his

brother Henry (whom I remember as well at Cambridge, but you probably

don’t) has been trying to get on the track of an explanation ever since.

He, of course, insists there was malice in it, but I don’t know. It’s

difficult to see how it could have come in.’

 

After a time the talk reverted to the History of Witchcraft. ‘Did you

ever look into it?’ asked the host.

 

‘Yes, I did,’ said the Secretary. ‘I went so far as to read it.’

 

‘Was it as bad as it was made out to be?’

 

‘Oh, in point of style and form, quite hopeless. It deserved all the

pulverizing it got. But, besides that, it was an evil book. The man

believed every word of what he was saying, and I’m very much mistaken if

he hadn’t tried the greater part of his receipts.’

 

‘Well, I only remember Harrington’s review of it, and I must say if I’d

been the author it would have quenched my literary ambition for good. I

should never have held up my head again.’

 

‘It hasn’t had that effect in the present case. But come, it’s half-past

three; I must be off.’

 

On the way home the Secretary’s wife said, ‘I do hope that horrible man

won’t find out that Mr Dunning had anything to do with the rejection of

his paper.’ ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of that,’ said the

Secretary. ‘Dunning won’t mention it himself, for these matters are

confidential, and none of us will for the same reason. Karswell won’t

know his name, for Dunning hasn’t published anything on the same subject

yet. The only danger is that Karswell might find out, if he was to ask

the British Museum people who was in the habit of consulting alchemical

manuscripts: I can’t very well tell them not to mention Dunning, can I?

It would set them talking at once. Let’s hope it won’t occur to him.’

 

However, Mr Karswell was an astute man.

 

*

 

This much is in the way of prologue. On an evening rather later in the

same week, Mr Edward Dunning was returning from the British Museum, where

he had been engaged in research, to the comfortable house in a suburb

where he lived alone, tended by two excellent women who had been long

with him. There is nothing to be added by way of description of him to

what we have heard already. Let us follow him as he takes his sober

course homewards.

 

*

 

A train took him to within a mile or two of his house, and an electric

tram a stage farther. The line ended at a point some three hundred yards

from his front door. He had had enough of reading when he got into the

car, and indeed the light was not such as to allow him to do more than

study the advertisements on the panes of glass that faced him as he sat.

As was not unnatural, the advertisements in this particular line of cars

were objects of his frequent contemplation, and, with the possible

exception of the brilliant and convincing dialogue between Mr Lamplough

and an eminent K.C. on the subject of Pyretic Saline, none of them

afforded much scope to his imagination. I am wrong: there was one at the

corner of the car farthest from him which did not seem familiar. It was

in blue letters on a yellow ground, and all that he could read of it was

a name—John Harrington—and something like a date. It could be of no

interest to him to know more; but for all that, as the car emptied, he

was just curious enough to move along the seat until he could read it

well. He felt to a slight extent repaid for his trouble; the

advertisement was not of the usual type. It ran thus: ‘In memory of

John Harrington, F.S.A., of The Laurels, Ashbrooke. Died Sept. 18th,

1889. Three months were allowed.’

 

The car stopped. Mr Dunning, still contemplating the blue letters on the

yellow ground, had to be stimulated to rise by a word from the conductor.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said, ‘I was looking at that advertisement; it’s

a very odd one, isn’t it?’ The conductor read it slowly. ‘Well, my word,’

he said, ‘I never see that one before. Well, that is a cure, ain’t it?

Someone bin up to their jokes ‘ere, I should think.’ He got out a duster

and applied it, not without saliva, to the pane and then to the outside.

‘No,’ he said, returning,‘that ain’t no transfer; seems to me as if it

was reg’lar in the glass, what I mean in the substance, as you may say.

Don’t you think so, sir?’ Mr Dunning examined it and rubbed it with his

glove, and agreed. ‘Who looks after these advertisements, and gives leave

for them to be put up? I wish you would inquire. I will just take a note

of the words.’ At this moment there came a call from the driver: ‘Look

alive, George, time’s up.’ ‘All right, all right; there’s something else

what’s up at this end. You come and look at this ‘ere glass.’ ‘What’s

gorn with the glass?’ said the driver, approaching. ‘Well, and oo’s

‘Arrington? What’s it all about?’ ‘I was just asking who was responsible

for putting the advertisements up in your cars, and saying it would be as

well to make some inquiry about this one.’ ‘Well, sir,