by M. R. James
CASTING THE RUNES
_April 15th, 190-_
Dear Sir,
I am requested by the Council of the ---- Association to return to youthe draft of a paper on _The Truth of Alchemy_, which you have been goodenough to offer to read at our forthcoming meeting, and to inform youthat 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 youan interview on the subject of your proposed paper. Nor do our laws allowof your discussing the matter with a Committee of our Council, as yousuggest. Please allow me to assure you that the fullest consideration wasgiven to the draft which you submitted, and that it was not declinedwithout having been referred to the judgement of a most competentauthority. No personal question (it can hardly be necessary for me toadd) 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 MrKarswell that it is impossible for him to communicate the name of anyperson or persons to whom the draft of Mr Karswell's paper may have beensubmitted; and further desires to intimate that he cannot undertake toreply to any further letters on this subject.
* * * * *
'And who _is_ Mr Karswell?' inquired the Secretary's wife. She had calledat his office, and (perhaps unwarrantably) had picked up the last ofthese three letters, which the typist had just brought in.
'Why, my dear, just at present Mr Karswell is a very angry man. But Idon't know much about him otherwise, except that he is a person ofwealth, his address is Lufford Abbey, Warwickshire, and he's analchemist, apparently, and wants to tell us all about it; and that'sabout 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 paperhe wanted to read at the next meeting, and we referred it to EdwardDunning--almost the only man in England who knows about these things--andhe said it was perfectly hopeless, so we declined it. So Karswell hasbeen pelting me with letters ever since. The last thing he wanted was thename 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 happyman, is Dunning. Lots of hobbies and a comfortable home, and all his timeto 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 whosehouse they were bound were Warwickshire people. So Mrs Secretary hadalready settled it in her own mind that she would question themjudiciously about Mr Karswell. But she was saved the trouble of leadingup to the subject, for the hostess said to the host, before many minuteshad 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; hewas coming out of the British Museum gate as I drove past.' It was notunnatural that Mrs Secretary should inquire whether this was a real Abbotwho was being spoken of. 'Oh no, my dear: only a neighbour of ours in thecountry who bought Lufford Abbey a few years ago. His real name isKarswell.' 'Is he a friend of yours?' asked Mr Secretary, with a privatewink to his wife. The question let loose a torrent of declamation. Therewas really nothing to be said for Mr Karswell. Nobody knew what he didwith himself: his servants were a horrible set of people; he had inventeda new religion for himself, and practised no one could tell whatappalling rites; he was very easily offended, and never forgave anybody;he had a dreadful face (so the lady insisted, her husband somewhatdemurring); he never did a kind action, and whatever influence he didexert was mischievous. 'Do the poor man justice, dear,' the husbandinterrupted. 'You forget the treat he gave the school children.' 'Forgetit, indeed! But I'm glad you mentioned it, because it gives an idea ofthe man. Now, Florence, listen to this. The first winter he was atLufford this delightful neighbour of ours wrote to the clergyman of hisparish (he's not ours, but we know him very well) and offered to show theschool children some magic-lantern slides. He said he had some new kinds,which he thought would interest them. Well, the clergyman was rathersurprised, because Mr Karswell had shown himself inclined to beunpleasant to the children--complaining of their trespassing, orsomething of the sort; but of course he accepted, and the evening wasfixed, and our friend went himself to see that everything went right. Hesaid he never had been so thankful for anything as that his own childrenwere all prevented from being there: they were at a children's party atour house, as a matter of fact. Because this Mr Karswell had evidentlyset out with the intention of frightening these poor village children outof their wits, and I do believe, if he had been allowed to go on, hewould actually have done so. He began with some comparatively mildthings. Red Riding Hood was one, and even then, Mr Farrer said, the wolfwas 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 wolfhowling in the distance, which was the most gruesome thing he had everheard. All the slides he showed, Mr Farrer said, were most clever; theywere absolutely realistic, and where he had got them or how he workedthem he could not imagine. Well, the show went on, and the stories kepton becoming a little more terrifying each time, and the children weremesmerized into complete silence. At last he produced a series whichrepresented a little boy passing through his own park--Lufford, Imean--in the evening. Every child in the room could recognize the placefrom the pictures. And this poor boy was followed, and at last pursuedand overtaken, and either torn to pieces or somehow made away with, by ahorrible hopping creature in white, which you saw first dodging aboutamong the trees, and gradually it appeared more and more plainly. MrFarrer 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. Ofcourse this was too much, and he spoke very sharply indeed to MrKarswell, and said it couldn't go on. All _he_ said was: "Oh, you thinkit's time to bring our little show to an end and send them home to theirbeds? _Very_ well!" And then, if you please, he switched on anotherslide, which showed a great mass of snakes, centipedes, and disgustingcreatures with wings, and somehow or other he made it seem as if theywere climbing out of the picture and getting in amongst the audience; andthis was accompanied by a sort of dry rustling noise which sent thechildren nearly mad, and of course they stampeded. A good many of themwere rather hurt in getting out of the room, and I don't suppose one ofthem closed an eye that night. There was the most dreadful trouble in thevillage afterwards. Of course the mothers threw a good part of the blameon poor Mr Farrer, and, if they could have got past the gates, I believethe 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 canimagine 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 intohis bad books.'
'Is he the man, or am I mixing him up with someone else?' asked theSecretary (who for some minutes had been wearing the frown of the man whois 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 ofthe most incisive o
f the lot. So did you: you must remember JohnHarrington; he was at John's in our time.'
'Oh, very well indeed, though I don't think I saw or heard anything ofhim between the time I went down and the day I read the account of theinquest 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 amysterious business, I must say. Here was this man--not an athleticfellow, was he? and with no eccentric twist about him that was evernoticed--walking home along a country road late in the evening--no trampsabout--well known and liked in the place--and he suddenly begins to runlike mad, loses his hat and stick, and finally shins up a tree--quite adifficult tree--growing in the hedgerow: a dead branch gives way, and hecomes down with it and breaks his neck, and there he's found next morningwith the most dreadful face of fear on him that could be imagined. It waspretty evident, of course, that he had been chased by something, andpeople talked of savage dogs, and beasts escaped out of menageries; butthere was nothing to be made of that. That was in '89, and I believe hisbrother Henry (whom I remember as well at Cambridge, but _you_ probablydon'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'sdifficult to see how it could have come in.'
After a time the talk reverted to the _History of Witchcraft_. 'Did youever 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 thepulverizing it got. But, besides that, it was an evil book. The manbelieved every word of what he was saying, and I'm very much mistaken ifhe hadn't tried the greater part of his receipts.'
'Well, I only remember Harrington's review of it, and I must say if I'dbeen the author it would have quenched my literary ambition for good. Ishould never have held up my head again.'
'It hasn't had that effect in the present case. But come, it's half-pastthree; I must be off.'
On the way home the Secretary's wife said, 'I do hope that horrible manwon't find out that Mr Dunning had anything to do with the rejection ofhis paper.' 'I don't think there's much chance of that,' said theSecretary. 'Dunning won't mention it himself, for these matters areconfidential, and none of us will for the same reason. Karswell won'tknow his name, for Dunning hasn't published anything on the same subjectyet. The only danger is that Karswell might find out, if he was to askthe British Museum people who was in the habit of consulting alchemicalmanuscripts: 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 thesame week, Mr Edward Dunning was returning from the British Museum, wherehe had been engaged in research, to the comfortable house in a suburbwhere he lived alone, tended by two excellent women who had been longwith him. There is nothing to be added by way of description of him towhat we have heard already. Let us follow him as he takes his sobercourse homewards.
* * * * *
A train took him to within a mile or two of his house, and an electrictram a stage farther. The line ended at a point some three hundred yardsfrom his front door. He had had enough of reading when he got into thecar, and indeed the light was not such as to allow him to do more thanstudy the advertisements on the panes of glass that faced him as he sat.As was not unnatural, the advertisements in this particular line of carswere objects of his frequent contemplation, and, with the possibleexception of the brilliant and convincing dialogue between Mr Lamploughand an eminent K.C. on the subject of Pyretic Saline, none of themafforded much scope to his imagination. I am wrong: there was one at thecorner of the car farthest from him which did not seem familiar. It wasin blue letters on a yellow ground, and all that he could read of it wasa name--John Harrington--and something like a date. It could be of nointerest to him to know more; but for all that, as the car emptied, hewas just curious enough to move along the seat until he could read itwell. He felt to a slight extent repaid for his trouble; theadvertisement was _not_ of the usual type. It ran thus: 'In memory ofJohn 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 theyellow 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'sa 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 dusterand 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 itwas 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 hisglove, and agreed. 'Who looks after these advertisements, and gives leavefor them to be put up? I wish you would inquire. I will just take a noteof the words.' At this moment there came a call from the driver: 'Lookalive, George, time's up.' 'All right, all right; there's something elsewhat's up at this end. You come and look at this 'ere glass.' 'What'sgorn with the glass?' said the driver, approaching. 'Well, and oo's'Arrington? What's it all about?' 'I was just asking who was responsiblefor putting the advertisements up in your cars, and saying it would be aswell to make some inquiry about this one.' 'Well, sir, that's all done atthe Company's office, that work is: it's our Mr Timms, I believe, looksinto that. When we put up tonight I'll leave word, and per'aps I'll beable 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 thetrouble 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 toofull in the morning to allow of his getting a word with the conductor: hecould only be sure that the curious advertisement had been made awaywith. The close of the day brought a further element of mystery into thetransaction. He had missed the tram, or else preferred walking home, butat a rather late hour, while he was at work in his study, one of themaids came to say that two men from the tramways was very anxious tospeak to him. This was a reminder of the advertisement, which he had, hesays, nearly forgotten. He had the men in--they were the conductor anddriver of the car--and when the matter of refreshment had been attendedto, 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 theconductor. 'Mr Timms 'e give William 'ere the rough side of his tongueabout that: 'cordin' to 'im there warn't no advertisement of thatdescription 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 histime. "Well," I says, "if that's the case, all I ask of you, Mr Timms," Isays, "is to take and look at it for yourself," I says. "Of course if itain'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 asever you see anythink--blue letters on yeller glass, and as I says at thetime, and you borne me out, reg'lar _in_ the glass, because, if youremember, you recollect of me swabbing it with my duster.' 'To be sure Ido, quite clearly--well?' 'You may say well, I don't think. Mr Timms hegets in that car with a light--no, he telled William to 'old the lightoutside. "Now," he says, "where's your precious ad. what we've 'eard somuch 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 ofthem 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 toWilliam here if--but there, as I says, where's the benefit in me going onabout it?'
'And what did Mr Timms say?'
'Why 'e did what I give 'im leave to--called us pretty much anythink heliked, and I don't know as I blame him so much neither. But what wethought, William and me did, was as we seen you take down a bit of a noteabout that--well, that letterin'--'
'I certainly did that, and I have it now. Did you wish me to speak to MrTimms 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 canget on the track of one, that's my word. Now perhaps, George, you'llallow 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 'adto 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 'appenedyou could find time to step round to the Company orfice in the morningand 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 intotheir 'ead at the orfice as we seen things as warn't there, why, onething 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 byWilliam, left the room.
The incredulity of Mr Timms (who had a nodding acquaintance with MrDunning) was greatly modified on the following day by what the lattercould tell and show him; and any bad mark that might have been attachedto the names of William and George was not suffered to remain on theCompany's books; but explanation there was none.
Mr Dunning's interest in the matter was kept alive by an incident of thefollowing afternoon. He was walking from his club to the train, and henoticed some way ahead a man with a handful of leaflets such as aredistributed to passers-by by agents of enterprising firms. This agent hadnot chosen a very crowded street for his operations: in fact, Mr Dunningdid not see him get rid of a single leaflet before he himself reached thespot. One was thrust into his hand as he passed: the hand that gave ittouched his, and he experienced a sort of little shock as it did so. Itseemed unnaturally rough and hot. He looked in passing at the giver, butthe impression he got was so unclear that, however much he tried toreckon 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 ofHarrington in large capitals caught his eye. He stopped, startled, andfelt for his glasses. The next instant the leaflet was twitched out ofhis hand by a man who hurried past, and was irrecoverably gone. He ranback 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 thefollowing day into the Select Manuscript Room of the British Museum, andfilled up tickets for Harley 3586, and some other volumes. After a fewminutes they were brought to him, and he was settling the one he wantedfirst upon the desk, when he thought he heard his own name whisperedbehind him. He turned round hastily, and in doing so, brushed his littleportfolio of loose papers on to the floor. He saw no one he recognizedexcept one of the staff in charge of the room, who nodded to him, and heproceeded to pick up his papers. He thought he had them all, and wasturning 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 itshould be yours,' and handed him a missing quire. 'It is mine, thankyou,' said Mr Dunning. In another moment the man had left the room. Uponfinishing his work for the afternoon, Mr Dunning had some conversationwith the assistant in charge, and took occasion to ask who the stoutgentleman was. 'Oh, he's a man named Karswell,' said the assistant; 'hewas asking me a week ago who were the great authorities on alchemy, andof course I told him you were the only one in the country. I'll see if Ican 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 particularlyanxious to avoid him.'
'Oh! very well,' said the assistant, 'he doesn't come here often: I daresay you won't meet him.'
More than once on the way home that day Mr Dunning confessed to himselfthat he did not look forward with his usual cheerfulness to a solitaryevening. It seemed to him that something ill-defined and impalpable hadstepped in between him and his fellow-men--had taken him in charge, as itwere. He wanted to sit close up to his neighbours in the train and in thetram, but as luck would have it both train and car were markedly empty.The conductor George was thoughtful, and appeared to be absorbed incalculations as to the number of passengers. On arriving at his house hefound Dr Watson, his medical man, on his doorstep. 'I've had to upsetyour household arrangements, I'm sorry to say, Dunning. Both yourservants _hors de combat_. In fact, I've had to send them to the NursingHome.'
'Good heavens! what's the matter?'
'It's something like ptomaine poisoning, I should think: you've notsuffered yourself, I can see, or you wouldn't be walking about. I thinkthey'll pull through all right.'
'Dear, dear! Have you any idea what brought it on?' 'Well, they tell methey 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 otherhouses in the street. I couldn't send word to you; they won't be back fora bit yet. You come and dine with me tonight, anyhow, and we can makearrangements for going on. Eight o'clock. Don't be too anxious.' Thesolitary evening was thus obviated; at the expense of some distress andinconvenience, it is true. Mr Dunning spent the time pleasantly enoughwith the doctor (a rather recent settler), and returned to his lonelyhome at about 11.30. The night he passed is not one on which he looksback with any satisfaction. He was in bed and the light was out. He waswondering if the charwoman would come early enough to get him hot waternext morning, when he heard the unmistakable sound of his study dooropening. No step followed it on the passage floor, but the sound mustmean mischief, for he knew that he had shut the door that evening afterputting his papers away in his desk. It was rather shame than couragethat induced him to slip out into the passage and lean over the banisterin 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 hisshins. He went back and decided to lock himself into his room. There wasmore unpleasantness, however. Either an economical suburban company haddecided that their light would not be required in the small hours, andhad stopped working, or else something was wrong with the meter; theeffect was in any case that the electric light was off. The obviouscourse was to find a match, and also to consult his watch: he might aswell know how many hours of discomfort awaited him. So he put his handinto 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, andwith hair about it, and, he declares, not the mouth of a human being. Ido not think it is any use to guess what he said or did; but he was in aspare room with the door locked and his ear to it before he was clearlyconscious again. And there he spent the rest of a most miserable night,looking every moment for some fumbling at the door: but nothing came.
The venturing back to his own room in the morning was attended with manylistenings and quiverings. The door stood open, fortunately, and theblinds were up (the servants had been out of the house before the hour ofdrawing them down); there was, to be short, no trace of an inhabitant.The watch, too, was in its usual place; nothing was disturbed, only thewardrobe door had swung open, in accordance with its confirmed habit. Aring at the back door now announced the charwoman, who had been orderedthe night before, and nerved Mr Dunning, after letting her in, tocontinue his search in other parts of the house. It was equallyfruitless.
The day thus begun went on dismally enough. He dared not go to theMuseum: in spite of what the assistant had said, Karswell might turn
upthere, and Dunning felt he could not cope with a probably hostilestranger. His own house was odious; he hated sponging on the doctor. Hespent some little time in a call at the Nursing Home, where he wasslightly cheered by a good report of his housekeeper and maid. Towardslunch-time he betook himself to his club, again experiencing a gleam ofsatisfaction at seeing the Secretary of the Association. At luncheonDunning told his friend the more material of his woes, but could notbring himself to speak of those that weighed most heavily on his spirits.'My poor dear man,' said the Secretary, 'what an upset! Look here: we'realone at home, absolutely. You must put up with us. Yes! no excuse: sendyour things in this afternoon.' Dunning was unable to stand out: he was,in truth, becoming acutely anxious, as the hours went on, as to what thatnight might have waiting for him. He was almost happy as he hurried hometo pack up.
His friends, when they had time to take stock of him, were rather shockedat his lorn appearance, and did their best to keep him up to the mark.Not altogether without success: but, when the two men were smoking alonelater, Dunning became dull again. Suddenly he said, 'Gayton, I believethat alchemist man knows it was I who got his paper rejected.' Gaytonwhistled. 'What makes you think that?' he said. Dunning told of hisconversation with the Museum assistant, and Gayton could only agree thatthe guess seemed likely to be correct. 'Not that I care much,' Dunningwent on, 'only it might be a nuisance if we were to meet. He's abad-tempered party, I imagine.' Conversation dropped again; Gayton becamemore and more strongly impressed with the desolateness that came overDunning's face and bearing, and finally--though with a considerableeffort--he asked him point-blank whether something serious was notbothering him. Dunning gave an exclamation of relief. 'I was perishing toget it off my mind,' he said. 'Do you know anything about a man namedJohn Harrington?' Gayton was thoroughly startled, and at the moment couldonly ask why. Then the complete story of Dunning's experiences cameout--what had happened in the tramcar, in his own house, and in thestreet, the troubling of spirit that had crept over him, and still heldhim; and he ended with the question he had begun with. Gayton was at aloss how to answer him. To tell the story of Harrington's end wouldperhaps be right; only, Dunning was in a nervous state, the story was agrim one, and he could not help asking himself whether there were not aconnecting link between these two cases, in the person of Karswell. Itwas a difficult concession for a scientific man, but it could be eased bythe phrase 'hypnotic suggestion'. In the end he decided that his answertonight should be guarded; he would talk the situation over with hiswife. So he said that he had known Harrington at Cambridge, and believedhe had died suddenly in 1889, adding a few details about the man and hispublished work. He did talk over the matter with Mrs Gayton, and, as hehad anticipated, she leapt at once to the conclusion which had beenhovering before him. It was she who reminded him of the survivingbrother, Henry Harrington, and she also who suggested that he might begot hold of by means of their hosts of the day before. 'He might be ahopeless crank,' objected Gayton. 'That could be ascertained from theBennetts, who knew him,' Mrs Gayton retorted; and she undertook to seethe Bennetts the very next day.
* * * * *
It is not necessary to tell in further detail the steps by which HenryHarrington and Dunning were brought together.
* * * * *
The next scene that does require to be narrated is a conversation thattook place between the two. Dunning had told Harrington of the strangeways in which the dead man's name had been brought before him, and hadsaid something, besides, of his own subsequent experiences. Then he hadasked if Harrington was disposed, in return, to recall any of thecircumstances connected with his brother's death. Harrington's surpriseat what he heard can be imagined: but his reply was readily given.
'John,' he said, 'was in a very odd state, undeniably, from time to time,during some weeks before, though not immediately before, the catastrophe.There were several things; the principal notion he had was that hethought he was being followed. No doubt he was an impressionable man, buthe never had had such fancies as this before. I cannot get it out of mymind that there was ill-will at work, and what you tell me about yourselfreminds me very much of my brother. Can you think of any possibleconnecting link?'
'There is just one that has been taking shape vaguely in my mind. I'vebeen told that your brother reviewed a book very severely not long beforehe died, and just lately I have happened to cross the path of the man whowrote that book in a way he would resent.'
'Don't tell me the man was called Karswell.'
'Why not? that is exactly his name.'
Henry Harrington leant back. 'That is final to my mind. Now I mustexplain further. From something he said, I feel sure that my brother Johnwas beginning to believe--very much against his will--that Karswell wasat the bottom of his trouble. I want to tell you what seems to me to havea bearing on the situation. My brother was a great musician, and used torun up to concerts in town. He came back, three months before he died,from one of these, and gave me his programme to look at--an analyticalprogramme: he always kept them. "I nearly missed this one," he said. "Isuppose I must have dropped it: anyhow, I was looking for it under myseat and in my pockets and so on, and my neighbour offered me his, said'might he give it me, he had no further use for it,' and he went awayjust afterwards. I don't know who he was--a stout, clean-shaven man. Ishould have been sorry to miss it; of course I could have bought another,but this cost me nothing." At another time he told me that he had beenvery uncomfortable both on the way to his hotel and during the night. Ipiece things together now in thinking it over. Then, not very long after,he was going over these programmes, putting them in order to have thembound up, and in this particular one (which by the way I had hardlyglanced at), he found quite near the beginning a strip of paper with somevery odd writing on it in red and black--most carefully done--it lookedto me more like Runic letters than anything else. "Why," he said, "thismust belong to my fat neighbour. It looks as if it might be worthreturning to him; it may be a copy of something; evidently someone hastaken trouble over it. How can I find his address?" We talked it over fora little and agreed that it wasn't worth advertising about, and that mybrother had better look out for the man at the next concert, to which hewas going very soon. The paper was lying on the book and we were both bythe fire; it was a cold, windy summer evening. I suppose the door blewopen, though I didn't notice it: at any rate a gust--a warm gust itwas--came quite suddenly between us, took the paper and blew it straightinto the fire: it was light, thin paper, and flared and went up thechimney in a single ash. "Well," I said, "you can't give it back now." Hesaid nothing for a minute: then rather crossly, "No, I can't; but why youshould keep on saying so I don't know." I remarked that I didn't say itmore than once. "Not more than four times, you mean," was all he said. Iremember all that very clearly, without any good reason; and now to cometo the point. I don't know if you looked at that book of Karswell's whichmy unfortunate brother reviewed. It's not likely that you should: but Idid, both before his death and after it. The first time we made game ofit together. It was written in no style at all--split infinitives, andevery sort of thing that makes an Oxford gorge rise. Then there wasnothing that the man didn't swallow: mixing up classical myths, andstories out of the _Golden Legend_ with reports of savage customs oftoday--all very proper, no doubt, if you know how to use them, but hedidn't: he seemed to put the _Golden Legend_ and the _Golden Bough_exactly on a par, and to believe both: a pitiable exhibition, in short.Well, after the misfortune, I looked over the book again. It was nobetter than before, but the impression which it left this time on my mindwas different. I suspected--as I told you--that Karswell had borneill-will to my brother, even that he was in some way responsible for whathad happened; and now his book seemed to me to be a very sinisterperformance indeed. One chapter in particular struck me, in which hespoke of "casting the Runes" on people, either for the purpose of gainingtheir affection or of getting them out of the way--perhaps moreespecially the latter:
he spoke of all this in a way that really seemedto me to imply actual knowledge. I've not time to go into details, butthe upshot is that I am pretty sure from information received that thecivil man at the concert was Karswell: I suspect--I more thansuspect--that the paper was of importance: and I do believe that if mybrother had been able to give it back, he might have been alive now.Therefore, it occurs to me to ask you whether you have anything to putbeside what I have told you.'
By way of answer, Dunning had the episode in the Manuscript Room at theBritish Museum to relate.
'Then he did actually hand you some papers; have you examined them? No?because we must, if you'll allow it, look at them at once, and verycarefully.'
They went to the still empty house--empty, for the two servants were notyet able to return to work. Dunning's portfolio of papers was gatheringdust on the writing-table. In it were the quires of small-sizedscribbling paper which he used for his transcripts: and from one ofthese, as he took it up, there slipped and fluttered out into the roomwith uncanny quickness, a strip of thin light paper. The window was open,but Harrington slammed it to, just in time to intercept the paper, whichhe caught. 'I thought so,' he said; 'it might be the identical thing thatwas given to my brother. You'll have to look out, Dunning; this may meansomething quite serious for you.'
A long consultation took place. The paper was narrowly examined. AsHarrington had said, the characters on it were more like Runes thananything else, but not decipherable by either man, and both hesitated tocopy them, for fear, as they confessed, of perpetuating whatever evilpurpose they might conceal. So it has remained impossible (if I mayanticipate a little) to ascertain what was conveyed in this curiousmessage or commission. Both Dunning and Harrington are firmly convincedthat it had the effect of bringing its possessors into very undesirablecompany. That it must be returned to the source whence it came they wereagreed, and further, that the only safe and certain way was that ofpersonal service; and here contrivance would be necessary, for Dunningwas known by sight to Karswell. He must, for one thing, alter hisappearance 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 atwhich the 'black spot' had been put on his brother: it was June 18th. Thedeath had followed on Sept. 18th. Dunning reminded him that three monthshad been mentioned on the inscription on the car-window. 'Perhaps,' headded, with a cheerless laugh, 'mine may be a bill at three months too. Ibelieve I can fix it by my diary. Yes, April 23rd was the day at theMuseum; that brings us to July 23rd. Now, you know, it becomes extremelyimportant to me to know anything you will tell me about the progress ofyour brother's trouble, if it is possible for you to speak of it.' 'Ofcourse. Well, the sense of being watched whenever he was alone was themost distressing thing to him. After a time I took to sleeping in hisroom, and he was the better for that: still, he talked a great deal inhis sleep. What about? Is it wise to dwell on that, at least beforethings are straightened out? I think not, but I can tell you this: twothings came for him by post during those weeks, both with a Londonpostmark, and addressed in a commercial hand. One was a woodcut ofBewick's, roughly torn out of the page: one which shows a moonlit roadand a man walking along it, followed by an awful demon creature. Under itwere written the lines out of the "Ancient Mariner" (which I suppose thecut 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 paidno attention to this, but I looked at it after his death, and found thateverything after Sept. 18 had been torn out. You may be surprised at hishaving gone out alone the evening he was killed, but the fact is thatduring the last ten days or so of his life he had been quite free fromthe sense of being followed or watched.'
The end of the consultation was this. Harrington, who knew a neighbour ofKarswell's, thought he saw a way of keeping a watch on his movements. Itwould be Dunning's part to be in readiness to try to cross Karswell'spath at any moment, to keep the paper safe and in a place of readyaccess.
They parted. The next weeks were no doubt a severe strain upon Dunning'snerves: the intangible barrier which had seemed to rise about him on theday when he received the paper, gradually developed into a broodingblackness that cut him off from the means of escape to which one mighthave thought he might resort. No one was at hand who was likely tosuggest them to him, and he seemed robbed of all initiative. He waitedwith inexpressible anxiety as May, June, and early July passed on, for amandate from Harrington. But all this time Karswell remained immovable atLufford.
At last, in less than a week before the date he had come to look upon asthe end of his earthly activities, came a telegram: 'Leaves Victoria byboat train Thursday night. Do not miss. I come to you to-night.Harrington.'
He arrived accordingly, and they concocted plans. The train left Victoriaat nine and its last stop before Dover was Croydon West. Harrington wouldmark down Karswell at Victoria, and look out for Dunning at Croydon,calling to him if need were by a name agreed upon. Dunning, disguised asfar 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 Croydon platform I need notattempt to describe. His sense of danger during the last days had onlybeen sharpened by the fact that the cloud about him had perceptibly beenlighter; but relief was an ominous symptom, and, if Karswell eluded himnow, hope was gone: and there were so many chances of that. The rumour ofthe journey might be itself a device. The twenty minutes in which hepaced the platform and persecuted every porter with inquiries as to theboat train were as bitter as any he had spent. Still, the train came, andHarrington was at the window. It was important, of course, that thereshould be no recognition: so Dunning got in at the farther end of thecorridor carriage, and only gradually made his way to the compartmentwhere Harrington and Karswell were. He was pleased, on the whole, to seethat the train was far from full.
Karswell was on the alert, but gave no sign of recognition. Dunning tookthe seat not immediately facing him, and attempted, vainly at first, thenwith increasing command of his faculties, to reckon the possibilities ofmaking 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 slipthe paper into these--he would not be safe, or would not feel so, unlessin some way it could be proffered by him and accepted by the other. Therewas a handbag, open, and with papers in it. Could he manage to concealthis (so that perhaps Karswell might leave the carriage without it), andthen find and give it to him? This was the plan that suggested itself. Ifhe could only have counselled with Harrington! but that could not be. Theminutes went on. More than once Karswell rose and went out into thecorridor. The second time Dunning was on the point of attempting to makethe bag fall off the seat, but he caught Harrington's eye, and read in ita warning.
Karswell, from the corridor, was watching: probably to see if the two menrecognized each other. He returned, but was evidently restless: and, whenhe rose the third time, hope dawned, for something did slip off his seatand 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 whathad fallen, and saw that the key was in his hands in the form of one ofCook's ticket-cases, with tickets in it. These cases have a pocket in thecover, and within very few seconds the paper of which we have heard wasin the pocket of this one. To make the operation more secure, Harringtonstood in the doorway of the compartment and fiddled with the blind. Itwas done, and done at the right time, for the train was now slowing downtowards 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 believeit is yours.' After a brief glance at the ticket inside, Karswell utteredthe hoped-for response, 'Yes, it is; much obliged to you, si
r,' and heplaced it in his breast pocket.
Even in the few moments that remained--moments of tense anxiety, for theyknew not to what a premature finding of the paper might lead--both mennoticed that the carriage seemed to darken about them and to grow warmer;that Karswell was fidgety and oppressed; that he drew the heap of loosecoats near to him and cast it back as if it repelled him; and that hethen sat upright and glanced anxiously at both. They, with sickeninganxiety, busied themselves in collecting their belongings; but they boththought that Karswell was on the point of speaking when the train stoppedat Dover Town. It was natural that in the short space between town andpier they should both go into the corridor.
At the pier they got out, but so empty was the train that they wereforced to linger on the platform until Karswell should have passed aheadof them with his porter on the way to the boat, and only then was it safefor them to exchange a pressure of the hand and a word of concentratedcongratulation. The effect upon Dunning was to make him almost faint.Harrington made him lean up against the wall, while he himself wentforward a few yards within sight of the gangway to the boat, at whichKarswell 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 officialcalled after him, 'You, sir, beg pardon, did the other gentleman show histicket?' 'What the devil do you mean by the other gentleman?' Karswell'ssnarling voice called back from the deck. The man bent over and looked athim. 'The devil? Well, I don't know, I'm sure,' Harrington heard him sayto 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 dogwith 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. Anotherweek and we shall be gettin' the 'oliday customers.' In five minutes morethere was nothing but the lessening lights of the boat, the long line ofthe Dover lamps, the night breeze, and the moon.
Long and long the two sat in their room at the 'Lord Warden'. In spite ofthe removal of their greatest anxiety, they were oppressed with a doubt,not of the lightest. Had they been justified in sending a man to hisdeath, 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 doneno more than is just. Still, if you think it better--but how and wherecan you warn him?' 'He was booked to Abbeville only,' said Dunning. 'Isaw that. If I wired to the hotels there in Joanne's Guide, "Examine yourticket-case, Dunning," I should feel happier. This is the 21st: he willhave a day. But I am afraid he has gone into the dark.' So telegrams wereleft at the hotel office.
It is not clear whether these reached their destination, or whether, ifthey did, they were understood. All that is known is that, on theafternoon of the 23rd, an English traveller, examining the front of StWulfram's Church at Abbeville, then under extensive repair, was struck onthe head and instantly killed by a stone falling from the scaffolderected round the north-western tower, there being, as was clearlyproved, no workman on the scaffold at that moment: and the traveller'spapers identified him as Mr Karswell.
Only one detail shall be added. At Karswell's sale a set of Bewick, soldwith all faults, was acquired by Harrington. The page with the woodcut ofthe traveller and the demon was, as he had expected, mutilated. Also,after a judicious interval, Harrington repeated to Dunning something ofwhat he had heard his brother say in his sleep: but it was not longbefore Dunning stopped him.