Curious Warnings: The Great Ghost Stories of M.R. James

by M. R. James

  “His account of it was this: ‘There has always been a belief in these parts in the three holy crowns. The old people say they were buried in different places near the coast to keep off the Danes or the French or the Germans. And they say that one of the three was dug up a long time ago, and another has disappeared by the encroaching of the sea, and one’s still left doing its work, keeping off invaders.

  “‘Well, now, if you have read the ordinary guides and histories of this county, you will remember perhaps that in 1687 a crown, which was said to be the crown of Redwald, King of the East Angles, was dug up at Rendlesham, and alas! alas! melted down before it was even properly described or drawn. Well, Rendlesham isn’t on the coast, but it isn’t so very far inland, and it’s on a very important line of access. And I believe that is the crown which the people mean when they say that one has been dug up.

  “‘Then on the south you don’t want me to tell you where there was a Saxon royal palace which is now under the sea, eh? Well, there was the second crown, I take it. And up beyond these two, they say, lies the third.’

  “‘Do they say where it is?’ of course I asked.

  “He said, ‘Yes, indeed, they do, but they don’t tell,’ and his manner did not encourage me to put the obvious question.

  “Instead of that I waited a moment, and said: ‘What did the old man mean when he said you knew William Ager, as if that had something to do with the crowns?’

  “‘To be sure,’ he said, ‘now that’s another curious story. These Agers—it’s a very old name in these parts, but I can’t find that they were ever people of quality or big owners—these Agers say, or said, that their branch of the family were the guardians of the last crown.

  “‘A certain old Nathaniel Ager was the first one I knew—I was born and brought up quite near here—and he, I believe, camped out at the place during the whole of the war of 1870. William, his son, did the same, I know, during the South African War. And young William, his son, who has only died fairly recently, took lodgings at the cottage nearest the spot, and I’ve no doubt hastened his end, for he was a consumptive, by exposure and night watching.

  “‘And he was the last of that branch. It was a dreadful grief to him to think that he was the last, but he could do nothing, the only relations at all near him were in the colonies. I wrote letters for him to them imploring them to come over on business very important to the family, but there has been no answer.

  “‘So the last of the holy crowns, if it’s there, has no guardian now.’

  “That was what the rector told me, and you can fancy how interesting I found it. The only thing I could think of when I left him was how to hit upon the spot where the crown was supposed to be. I wish I’d left it alone.

  “But there was a sort of fate in it, for as I bicycled back past the churchyard wall my eye caught a fairly new gravestone, and on it was the name of William Ager. Of course I got off and read it. It said: of this parish, died at Seaburgh, 19—, age 28. There it was, you see. A little judicious questioning in the right place, and I should at least find the cottage nearest the spot.

  “Only I didn’t quite know what was the right place to begin my questioning at. Again there was fate: it took me to the curiosity-shop down that way—you know—and I turned over some old books, and, if you please, one was a prayer-book of 1740 odd, in a rather handsome binding—I’ll just go and get it, it’s in my room.”

  He left us in a state of some surprise, but we had hardly time to exchange any remarks when he was back, panting, and handed us the book opened at the fly-leaf, on which was, in a straggly hand:

  Nathaniel Ager is my name and England is my nation,

  Seaburgh is my dwelling-place and Christ is my Salvation,

  When I am dead and in my Grave, and all my bones are rotton,

  I hope the lord will think on me when I am quite forgotton.

  This poem was dated 1754, and there were many more entries of Agers, Nathaniel, Frederick, William, and so on, ending with William, 19—.

  “You see,” he said, “anybody would call it the greatest bit of luck. I did, but I don’t now. Of course I asked the shopman about William Ager, and of course he happened to remember that he lodged in a cottage in the North Field and died there.

  “This was just chalking the road for me. I knew which the cottage must be: there is only one sizeable one about there. The next thing was to scrape some sort of acquaintance with the people, and I took a walk that way at once. A dog did the business for me: he made at me so fiercely that they had to run out and beat him off, and then naturally begged my pardon, and we got into talk.

  “I had only to bring up Ager’s name, and pretend I knew, or thought I knew something of him, and then the woman said how sad it was him dying so young, and she was sure it came of him spending the night out of doors in the cold weather.

  “Then I had to say: ‘Did he go out on the sea at night?’ and she said: ‘Oh, no, it was on the hillock yonder with the trees on it.’ And there I was.

  “I know something about digging in these barrows: I’ve opened many of them in the down country. But that was with owner’s leave, and in broad daylight and with men to help.

  “I had to prospect very carefully here before I put a spade in. I couldn’t trench across the mound, and with those old firs growing there I knew there would be awkward tree roots. Still the soil was very light and sandy and easy, and there was a rabbit hole or so that might be developed into a sort of tunnel.

  “The going out and coming back at odd hours to the hotel was going to be the awkward part. When I made up my mind about the way to excavate I told the people that I was called away for a night, and I spent it out there. I made my tunnel—I won’t bore you with the details of how I supported it and filled it in when I’d done, but the main thing is that I got the crown.”

  Naturally we both broke out into exclamations of surprise and interest. I for one had long known about the finding of the crown at Rendlesham and had often lamented its fate. No one has ever seen an Anglo-Saxon crown—at least no one had. But our man gazed at us with a rueful eye.

  “Yes,” he said, “and the worst of it is I don’t know how to put it back.”

  “Put it back?” we cried out. “Why, my dear sir, you’ve made one of the most exciting finds ever heard of in this country. Of course it ought to go to the Jewel House at the Tower. What’s your difficulty? If you’re thinking about the owner of the land, and treasure-trove, and all that, we can certainly help you through. Nobody’s going to make a fuss about technicalities in a case of this kind.”

  Probably more was said, but all he did was to put his face in his hands, and mutter: “I don’t know how to put it back.”

  At last Long said: “You’ll forgive me, I hope, if I seem impertinent, but are you quite sure you’ve got it?”

  I was wanting to ask much the same question myself, for of course the story did seem a lunatic’s dream when one thought over it. But I hadn’t quite dared to say what might hurt the poor young man’s feelings.

  However, he took it quite calmly—really, with the calm of despair, you might say. He sat up and said: “Oh, yes, there’s no doubt of that: I have it here, in my room, locked up in my bag. You can come look at it if you like. I won’t offer to bring it here.”

  We were not likely to let the chance slip. We went with him—his room was only a few doors off. The boots was just collecting shoes in the passage, or so we thought. Afterward we were not sure.

  Our visitor—his name was Paxton—was in a worse state of shivers than before, and went hurriedly into the room, and beckoned us after him, turned on the light, and shut the door carefully. Then he unlocked his kit-bag, and produced a bundle of clean pocket-handkerchiefs in which something was wrapped, laid it on the bed, and undid it.

  I can now say I have seen an actual Anglo-Saxon crown. It was of silver—as the Rendlesham one is always said to have been—it was set with some gems, mostly antique intaglios and cameos, and was of ra
ther plain, almost rough workmanship. In fact, it was like those you see on the coins and in the manuscripts.

  I found no reason to think it was later than the 9th century. I was intensely interested, of course, and I wanted to turn it over in my hands, but Paxton prevented me.

  “Don’t you touch it,” he said, “I’ll do that.” And with a sigh that was, I declare to you, dreadful to hear, he took it up and turned it about so that we could see every part of it. “Seen enough?” he said at last, and we nodded. He wrapped it up and locked it in his bag, and stood looking at us dumbly.

  “Come back to our room,” Long said, “and tell us what the trouble is.”

  He thanked us, and said: “Will you go first and see if—if the coast is clear?”

  That wasn’t very intelligible, for our proceedings hadn’t been, after all, very suspicious, and the hotel, as I said, was practically empty. However, we were beginning to have inklings of—we didn’t know what, and anyhow nerves are infectious.

  So we did go, first peering out as we opened the door, and fancying (I found we both had the fancy) that a shadow, or more than a shadow—but it made no sound—passed from before us to one side as we came out into the passage.

  “It’s all right,” we whispered to Paxton—whispering seemed the proper tone—and we went, with him between us, back to our sitting room. I was preparing, when we got there, to be ecstatic about the unique interest of what we had seen, but when I looked at Paxton I saw that would be terribly out of place, and I left it to him to begin.

  “What is to be done?” was his opening.

  Long thought it right (as he explained to me afterward) to be obtuse, and said: “Why not find out who the owner of the land is, and inform—”

  “Oh, no, no!” Paxton broke in impatiently, “I beg your pardon. You’ve been very kind, but don’t you see it’s got to go back, and I daren’t be there at night, and daytime’s impossible. Perhaps, though, you don’t see—well, then, the truth is that I’ve never been alone since I touched it.”

  I was beginning some fairly stupid comment, but Long caught my eye, and I stopped.

  Long said: “I think I do see, perhaps. But wouldn’t it be—a relief—to tell us a little more clearly what the situation is?”

  Then it all came out. Paxton looked over his shoulder and beckoned to us to come nearer to him, and began speaking in a low voice. We listened most intently, of course, and compared notes afterward, and I wrote down our version, so I am confident I have what he told us almost word for word.

  He said: “It began when I was first prospecting, and put me off again and again. There was always somebody—a man—standing by one of the firs. This was in daylight, you know. He was never in front of me. I always saw him with the tail of my eye on the left or the right, and he was never there when I looked straight for him.

  “I would lie down for quite a long time and take careful observations, and make sure there was no one, and then when I got up and began prospecting again, there he was.

  “And he began to give me hints, besides. For wherever I put that prayer-book—short of locking it up, which I did at last—when I came back to my room it was always out on my table open at the flyleaf where the names are, and one of my razors across it to keep it open. I’m sure he just can’t open my bag, or something more would have happened.

  “You see, he’s light and weak, but all the same I daren’t face him. Well, then, when I was making the tunnel, of course it was worse, and if I hadn’t been so keen I should have dropped the whole thing and run. It was like someone scraping at my back all the time. I thought for a long time it was only soil dropping on me, but as I got nearer the—the crown, it was unmistakable. And when I actually laid it bare and got my fingers into the ring of it and pulled it out, there came a sort of cry behind me—oh, I can’t tell you how desolate it was! And horribly threatening too. It spoiled all my pleasure in my find—cut it off that moment. And if I hadn’t been the wretched fool I am, I should have put the thing back and left it.

  “But I didn’t. The rest of the time was just awful. I had hours to get through before I could decently come back to the hotel. First I spent time filling up my tunnel and covering my tracks, and all the while he was there trying to thwart me. Sometimes, you know, you see him, and sometimes you don’t, just as he pleases, I think—he’s there, but he has some power over your eyes.

  “Well, I wasn’t off the spot very long before sunrise, and then I had to get to the junction for Seaburgh, and take a train back. And though it was daylight fairly soon, I don’t know if that made it much better. There were always hedges, or gorse-bushes, or park fences along the road—some sort of cover, I mean—and I was never easy for a second.

  “And then when I began to meet people going to work, they always looked behind me very strangely. It might have been that they were surprised at seeing anyone so early, but I didn’t think it was only that, and I don’t now—they didn’t look exactly at me. And the porter at the train was like that too. And the guard held open the door after I’d got into the carriage—just as he would if there was somebody else coming, you know.

  “Oh, you may be very sure it isn’t my fancy,” he said with a dull sort of laugh. Then he went on: “And even if I do get it put back, he won’t forgive me. I can tell that. And I was so happy a fortnight ago.” He dropped into a chair, and I believe he began to cry.

  We didn’t know what to say, but we felt we must come to the rescue somehow, and so—it really seemed the only thing—we said if he was so set on putting the crown back in its place, we would help him.

  And I must say that after what we had heard it did seem the right thing. If these horrid consequences had come on this poor man, might there not really be something in the original idea of the crown having some curious power bound up with it, to guard the coast? At least, that was my feeling, and I think it was Long’s too.

  Our offer was very welcome to Paxton, anyhow. When could we do it? It was nearing half-past ten. Could we contrive to make a late walk plausible to the hotel people that very night? We looked out of the window: there was a brilliant full moon—the Paschal moon.

  Long undertook to tackle the boots and propitiate him. He was to say that we should not be much over the hour, and if we did find it so pleasant that we stopped out a bit longer we would see that he didn’t lose by sitting up.

  Well, we were pretty regular customers of the hotel, and did not give much trouble, and were considered by the servants to be not under the mark in the way of tips. And so the boots was propitiated, and let us out on to the sea-front, and remained, as we heard later, looking after us.

  Paxton had a large coat over his arm, under which was the wrapped-up crown.

  So we were off on this strange errand before we had time to think how very much out of the way it was. I have told this part quite shortly on purpose, for it really does represent the haste with which we settled our plan and took action.

  “The shortest way is up the hill and through the churchyard,” Paxton said, as we stood a moment before the hotel looking up and down the front.

  There was nobody about—nobody at all. Seaburgh out of the season is an early, quiet place.

  “We can’t go along the dyke by the cottage, because of the dog,” Paxton also said, when I pointed to what I thought a shorter way along the front and across two fields.

  The reason he gave was good enough. We went up the road to the church, and turned in at the churchyard gate. I confess to having thought that there might be some lying there who might be conscious of our business. But if it was so, they were also conscious that one who was on their side, so to say, had us under surveillance, and we saw no sign of them. But under observation we felt we were, as I have never felt it at another time.

  Specially was it so when we passed out of the churchyard into a narrow path with close high hedges, through which we hurried as Christian did through that Valley, and so got out into open fields. Then along hedges, though I would soo
ner have been in the open, where I could see if anyone was visible behind me. Over a gate or two, and then a swerve to the left, taking us up on to the ridge which ended in that mound.

  As we neared it, Henry Long felt, and I felt too, that there were what I can only call dim presences waiting for us, as well as a far more actual one attending us.

  Of Paxton’s agitation all this time I can give you no adequate picture. He breathed like a hunted beast, and we could not either of us look at his face. How he would manage when we got to the very place we had not troubled to think—he had seemed so sure that that would not be difficult.

  Nor was it. I never saw anything like the dash with which he flung himself at a particular spot in the side of the mound, and tore at it, so that in a very few minutes the greater part of his body was out of sight. We stood holding the coat and that bundle of handkerchiefs, and looking, very fearfully, I must admit, about us.

  There was nothing to be seen: a line of dark firs behind us made one skyline, more trees and the church tower half-a-mile off on the right, cottages and a windmill on the horizon on the left, calm sea dead in front, faint barking of a dog at a cottage on a gleaming dyke between us and it; full moon making that path we know across the sea; the eternal whisper of the Scotch firs just above us, and of the sea in front.

  Yet, in all this quiet, an acute, an acrid consciousness of a restrained hostility very near us, like a dog on a leash that might be let go at any moment.

  Paxton pulled himself out of the hole, and stretched a hand back to us. “Give it to me,” he whispered, “unwrapped.”

  We pulled off the handkerchiefs, and he took the crown. The moonlight just fell on it as he snatched it.

  We had not ourselves touched that bit of metal, and I have thought since that it was just as well.

  In another moment Paxton was out of the hole again and busy shoveling back the soil with hands that were already bleeding. He would have none of our help, though. It was much the longest part of the job to get the place to look undisturbed. Yet—I don’t know how—he made a wonderful success of it.