by M. R. James
THE STORY OF A DISAPPEARANCEAND AN APPEARANCE
The letters which I now publish were sent to me recently by a personwho knows me to be interested in ghost stories. There is no doubtabout their authenticity. The paper on which they are written, theink, and the whole external aspect put their date beyond the reach ofquestion.
The only point which they do not make clear is the identity of thewriter. He signs with initials only, and as none of the envelopes ofthe letters are preserved, the surname of his correspondent--obviouslya married brother--is as obscure as his own. No further preliminaryexplanation is needed, I think. Luckily the first letter supplies allthat could be expected.
LETTER I
GREAT CHRISHALL, _Dec. 22, 1837_.
MY DEAR ROBERT,--It is with great regret for the enjoyment I amlosing, and for a reason which you will deplore equally with myself,that I write to inform you that I am unable to join your circle forthis Christmas: but you will agree with me that it is unavoidable whenI say that I have within these few hours received a letter from Mrs.Hunt at B----, to the effect that our Uncle Henry has suddenly andmysteriously disappeared, and begging me to go down there immediatelyand join the search that is being made for him. Little as I, or youeither, I think, have ever seen of Uncle, I naturally feel that thisis not a request that can be regarded lightly, and accordingly Ipropose to go to B---- by this afternoon's mail, reaching it late inthe evening. I shall not go to the Rectory, but put up at the King'sHead, and to which you may address letters. I enclose a small draft,which you will please make use of for the benefit of the young people.I shall write you daily (supposing me to be detained more than asingle day) what goes on, and you may be sure, should the business becleared up in time to permit of my coming to the Manor after all, Ishall present myself. I have but a few minutes at disposal. Withcordial greetings to you all, and many regrets, believe me, youraffectionate Bro.,
W. R.
LETTER II
KING'S HEAD, _Dec. 23, '37_.
MY DEAR ROBERT,--In the first place, there is as yet no news of UncleH., and I think you may finally dismiss any idea--I won't sayhope--that I might after all "turn up" for Xmas. However, my thoughtswill be with you, and you have my best wishes for a really festiveday. Mind that none of my nephews or nieces expend any fraction oftheir guineas on presents for me.
Since I got here I have been blaming myself for taking this affair ofUncle H. too easily. From what people here say, I gather that there isvery little hope that he can still be alive; but whether it isaccident or design that carried him off I cannot judge. The facts arethese. On Friday the 19th, he went as usual shortly before fiveo'clock to read evening prayers at the Church; and when they were overthe clerk brought him a message, in response to which he set off topay a visit to a sick person at an outlying cottage the better part oftwo miles away. He paid the visit, and started on his return journeyat about half-past six. This is the last that is known of him. Thepeople here are very much grieved at his loss; he had been here manyyears, as you know, and though, as you also know, he was not the mostgenial of men, and had more than a little of the _martinet_ in hiscomposition, he seems to have been active in good works, and unsparingof trouble to himself.
Poor Mrs. Hunt, who has been his housekeeper ever since she leftWoodley, is quite overcome: it seems like the end of the world to her.I am glad that I did not entertain the idea of taking quarters at theRectory; and I have declined several kindly offers of hospitality frompeople in the place, preferring as I do to be independent, and findingmyself very comfortable here.
You will, of course, wish to know what has been done in the way ofinquiry and search. First, nothing was to be expected frominvestigation at the Rectory; and to be brief, nothing has transpired.I asked Mrs. Hunt--as others had done before--whether there was eitherany unfavourable symptom in her master such as might portend a suddenstroke, or attack of illness, or whether he had ever had reason toapprehend any such thing: but both she, and also his medical man, wereclear that this was not the case. He was quite in his usual health.In the second place, naturally, ponds and streams have been dragged,and fields in the neighbourhood which he is known to have visitedlast, have been searched--without result. I have myself talked to theparish clerk and--more important--have been to the house where he paidhis visit.
There can be no question of any foul play on these people's part. Theone man in the house is ill in bed and very weak: the wife and thechildren of course could do nothing themselves, nor is there theshadow of a probability that they or any of them should have agreed todecoy poor Uncle H. out in order that he might be attacked on the wayback. They had told what they knew to several other inquirers already,but the woman repeated it to me. The Rector was looking just as usual:he wasn't very long with the sick man--"He ain't," she said, "likesome what has a gift in prayer; but there, if we was all that way,'owever would the chapel people get their living?" He left some moneywhen he went away, and one of the children saw him cross the stileinto the next field. He was dressed as he always was: wore hisbands--I gather he is nearly the last man remaining who does so--atany rate in this district.
You see I am putting down everything. The fact is that I have nothingelse to do, having brought no business papers with me; and, moreover,it serves to clear my own mind, and may suggest points which have beenoverlooked. So I shall continue to write all that passes, even toconversations if need be--you may read or not as you please, but praykeep the letters. I have another reason for writing so fully, but itis not a very tangible one.
You may ask if I have myself made any search in the fields near thecottage. Something--a good deal--has been done by others, as Imentioned; but I hope to go over the ground to-morrow. Bow Street hasnow been informed, and will send down by to-night's coach, but I donot think they will make much of the job. There is no snow, whichmight have helped us. The fields are all grass. Of course I was on the_qui vive_ for any indication to-day both going and returning; butthere was a thick mist on the way back, and I was not in trim forwandering about unknown pastures, especially on an evening when busheslooked like men, and a cow lowing in the distance might have been thelast trump. I assure you, if Uncle Henry had stepped out from amongthe trees in a little copse which borders the path at one place,carrying his head under his arm, I should have been very little moreuncomfortable than I was. To tell you the truth, I was ratherexpecting something of the kind. But I must drop my pen for themoment: Mr. Lucas, the curate, is announced.
_Later._ Mr. Lucas has been, and gone, and there is not much beyondthe decencies of ordinary sentiment to be got from him. I can see thathe has given up any idea that the Rector can be alive, and that, sofar as he can be, he is truly sorry. I can also discern that even in amore emotional person than Mr. Lucas, Uncle Henry was not likely toinspire strong attachment.
Besides Mr. Lucas, I have had another visitor in the shape of myBoniface--mine host of the "King's Head"--who came to see whether Ihad everything I wished, and who really requires the pen of a Boz todo him justice. He was very solemn and weighty at first. "Well, sir,"he said, "I suppose we must bow our 'ead beneath the blow, as my poorwife had used to say. So far as I can gather there's been neitherhide nor yet hair of our late respected incumbent scented out as yet;not that he was what the Scripture terms a hairy man in any sense ofthe word."
I said--as well as I could--that I supposed not, but could not helpadding that I had heard he was sometimes a little difficult to dealwith. Mr. Bowman looked at me sharply for a moment, and then passed ina flash from solemn sympathy to impassioned declamation. "When Ithink," he said, "of the language that man see fit to employ to me inthis here parlour over no more a matter than a cask of beer--such athing as I told him might happen any day of the week to a man with afamily--though as it turned out he was quite under a mistake, and thatI knew at the time, only I was that shocked to hear him I couldn't laymy tongue to the right expression."
He stopped abruptly and eyed me with some embarrassment. I
only said,"Dear me, I'm sorry to hear you had any little differences; I supposemy uncle will be a good deal missed in the parish?" Mr. Bowman drew along breath. "Ah, yes!" he said; "your uncle! You'll understand mewhen I say that for the moment it had slipped my remembrance that hewas a relative; and natural enough, I must say, as it should, for asto you bearing any resemblance to--to him, the notion of any such athing is clean ridiculous. All the same, 'ad I 'ave bore it in mymind, you'll be among the first to feel, I'm sure, as I should haveabstained my lips, or rather I should _not_ have abstained my lipswith no such reflections."
I assured him that I quite understood, and was going to have asked himsome further questions, but he was called away to see after somebusiness. By the way, you need not take it into your head that he hasanything to fear from the inquiry into poor Uncle Henry'sdisappearance--though, no doubt, in the watches of the night it willoccur to him that _I_ think he has, and I may expect explanationsto-morrow.
I must close this letter: it has to go by the late coach.
LETTER III
_Dec. 25, '37_.
MY DEAR ROBERT,--This is a curious letter to be writing on ChristmasDay, and yet after all there is nothing much in it. Or there maybe--you shall be the judge. At least, nothing decisive. The BowStreet men practically say that they have no clue. The length of timeand the weather conditions have made all tracks so faint as to bequite useless: nothing that belonged to the dead man--I'm afraid noother word will do--has been picked up.
As I expected, Mr. Bowman was uneasy in his mind this morning; quiteearly I heard him holding forth in a very distinct voice--purposelyso, I thought--to the Bow Street officers in the bar, as to the lossthat the town had sustained in their Rector, and as to the necessityof leaving no stone unturned (he was very great on this phrase) inorder to come at the truth. I suspect him of being an orator of reputeat convivial meetings.
When I was at breakfast he came to wait on me, and took an opportunitywhen handing a muffin to say in a low tone, "I 'ope, sir, you reconizeas my feelings towards your relative is not actuated by any taint ofwhat you may call melignity--you can leave the room, Eliza, I will seethe gentleman 'as all he requires with my own hands--I ask yourpardon, sir, but you must be well aware a man is not always master ofhimself: and when that man has been 'urt in his mind by theapplication of expressions which I will go so far as to say 'ad notought to have been made use of (his voice was rising all this time andhis face growing redder); no, sir; and 'ere, if you will permit of it,I should like to explain to you in a very few words the exact state ofthe bone of contention. This cask--I might more truly call it afirkin--of beer--"
I felt it was time to interpose, and said that I did not see that itwould help us very much to go into that matter in detail. Mr. Bowmanacquiesced, and resumed more calmly:
"Well, sir, I bow to your ruling, and as you say, be that here or beit there, it don't contribute a great deal, perhaps, to the presentquestion. All I wish you to understand is that I am prepared as youare yourself to lend every hand to the business we have afore us,and--as I took the opportunity to say as much to the Orficers notthree-quarters of an hour ago--to leave no stone unturned as may throweven a spark of light on this painful matter."
In fact, Mr. Bowman did accompany us on our exploration, but though Iam sure his genuine wish was to be helpful, I am afraid he did notcontribute to the serious side of it. He appeared to be under theimpression that we were likely to meet either Uncle Henry or theperson responsible for his disappearance, walking about thefields--and did a great deal of shading his eyes with his hand andcalling our attention, by pointing with his stick, to distant cattleand labourers. He held several long conversations with old women whomwe met, and was very strict and severe in his manner--but on eachoccasion returned to our party saying, "Well, I find she don't seem to'ave no connexion with this sad affair. I think you may take it fromme, sir, as there's little or no light to be looked for from thatquarter; not without she's keeping somethink back intentional."
We gained no appreciable result, as I told you at starting; the BowStreet men have left the town, whether for London or not, I am notsure.
This evening I had company in the shape of a bagman, a smartishfellow. He knew what was going forward, but though he has been on theroads for some days about here, he had nothing to tell of suspiciouscharacters--tramps, wandering sailors or gipsies. He was very full ofa capital Punch and Judy Show he had seen this same day at W----, andasked if it had been here yet, and advised me by no means to miss itif it does come. The best Punch and the best Toby dog, he said, he hadever come across. Toby dogs, you know, are the last new thing in theshows. I have only seen one myself, but before long all the men willhave them.
Now why, you will want to know, do I trouble to write all this to you?I am obliged to do it, because it has something to do with anotherabsurd trifle (as you will inevitably say), which in my present stateof rather unquiet fancy--nothing more, perhaps--I have to put down. Itis a dream, sir, which I am going to record, and I must say it is oneof the oddest I have had. Is there anything in it beyond what thebagman's talk and Uncle Henry's disappearance could have suggested?You, I repeat, shall judge: I am not in a sufficiently cool andjudicial frame to do so.
It began with what I can only describe as a pulling aside of curtains:and I found myself seated in a place--I don't know whether in doors orout. There were people--only a few--on either side of me, but I didnot recognize them, or indeed think much about them. They never spoke,but, so far as I remember, were all grave and pale-faced and lookedfixedly before them. Facing me there was a Punch and Judy Show,perhaps rather larger than the ordinary ones, painted with blackfigures on a reddish-yellow ground. Behind it and on each side wasonly darkness, but in front there was a sufficiency of light. I was"strung up" to a high degree of expectation and listened every momentto hear the panpipes and the Roo-too-too-it. Instead of that therecame suddenly an enormous--I can use no other word--an enormous singletoll of a bell, I don't know from how far off--somewhere behind. Thelittle curtain flew up and the drama began.
I believe someone once tried to re-write Punch as a serious tragedy;but whoever he may have been, this performance would have suited himexactly. There was something Satanic about the hero. He varied hismethods of attack: for some of his victims he lay in wait, and to seehis horrible face--it was yellowish white, I may remark--peering roundthe wings made me think of the Vampyre in Fuseli's foul sketch. Toothers he was polite and carneying--particularly to the unfortunatealien who can only say _Shallabalah_--though what Punch said I nevercould catch. But with all of them I came to dread the moment of death.The crack of the stick on their skulls, which in the ordinary waydelights me, had here a crushing sound as if the bone was giving way,and the victims quivered and kicked as they lay. The baby--it soundsmore ridiculous as I go on--the baby, I am sure, was alive. Punchwrung its neck, and if the choke or squeak which it gave were notreal, I know nothing of reality.
The stage got perceptibly darker as each crime was consummated, and atlast there was one murder which was done quite in the dark, so that Icould see nothing of the victim, and took some time to effect. It wasaccompanied by hard breathing and horrid muffled sounds, and after itPunch came and sat on the foot-board and fanned himself and looked athis shoes, which were bloody, and hung his head on one side, andsniggered in so deadly a fashion that I saw some of those beside mecover their faces, and I would gladly have done the same. But in themeantime the scene behind Punch was clearing, and showed, not theusual house front, but something more ambitious--a grove of trees andthe gentle slope of a hill, with a very natural--in fact, I should saya real--moon shining on it. Over this there rose slowly an objectwhich I soon perceived to be a human figure with something peculiarabout the head--what, I was unable at first to see. It did not standon its feet, but began creeping or dragging itself across the middledistance towards Punch, who still sat back to it; and by this time, Imay remark (though it did not occur to me at the moment) that allpre
tence of this being a puppet show had vanished. Punch was stillPunch, it is true, but, like the others, was in some sense a livecreature, and both moved themselves at their own will.
When I next glanced at him he was sitting in malignant reflection; butin another instant something seemed to attract his attention, and hefirst sat up sharply and then turned round, and evidently caught sightof the person that was approaching him and was in fact now very near.Then, indeed, did he show unmistakable signs of terror: catching uphis stick, he rushed towards the wood, only just eluding the arm ofhis pursuer, which was suddenly flung out to intercept him. It waswith a revulsion which I cannot easily express that I now saw more orless clearly what this pursuer was like. He was a sturdy figure cladin black, and, as I thought, wearing bands: his head was covered witha whitish bag.
The chase which now began lasted I do not know how long, now among thetrees, now along the slope of the field, sometimes both figuresdisappearing wholly for a few seconds, and only some uncertain soundsletting one know that they were still afoot. At length there came amoment when Punch, evidently exhausted, staggered in from the left andthrew himself down among the trees. His pursuer was not long afterhim, and came looking uncertainly from side to side. Then, catchingsight of the figure on the ground, he too threw himself down--his backwas turned to the audience--with a swift motion twitched the coveringfrom his head, and thrust his face into that of Punch. Everything onthe instant grew dark.
There was one long, loud, shuddering scream, and I awoke to findmyself looking straight into the face of--what in all the world do youthink?--but a large owl, which was seated on my window-sillimmediately opposite my bed-foot, holding up its wings like twoshrouded arms. I caught the fierce glance of its yellow eyes, and thenit was gone. I heard the single enormous bell again--very likely, asyou are saying to yourself, the church clock; but I do not thinkso--and then I was broad awake.
All this, I may say, happened within the last half-hour. There was noprobability of my getting to sleep again, so I got up, put on clothesenough to keep me warm, and am writing this rigmarole in the firsthours of Christmas Day. Have I left out anything? Yes, there was noToby dog, and the names over the front of the Punch and Judy boothwere Kidman and Gallop, which were certainly not what the bagman toldme to look out for.
By this time, I feel a little more as if I could sleep, so this shallbe sealed and wafered.
LETTER IV
_Dec. 26, '37._
MY DEAR ROBERT,--All is over. The body has been found. I do not makeexcuses for not having sent off my news by last night's mail, for thesimple reason that I was incapable of putting pen to paper. The eventsthat attended the discovery bewildered me so completely that I neededwhat I could get of a night's rest to enable me to face the situationat all. Now I can give you my journal of the day, certainly thestrangest Christmas Day that ever I spent or am likely to spend.
The first incident was not very serious. Mr. Bowman had, I think, beenkeeping Christmas Eve, and was a little inclined to be captious: atleast, he was not on foot very early, and to judge from what I couldhear, neither men or maids could do anything to please him. The latterwere certainly reduced to tears; nor am I sure that Mr. Bowmansucceeded in preserving a manly composure. At any rate, when I camedownstairs, it was in a broken voice that he wished me the complimentsof the season, and a little later on, when he paid his visit ofceremony at breakfast, he was far from cheerful: even Byronic, I mightalmost say, in his outlook on life.
"I don't know," he said, "if you think with me, sir; but everyChristmas as comes round the world seems a hollerer thing to me. Why,take an example now from what lays under my own eye. There's myservant Eliza--been with me now for going on fifteen years. I thoughtI could have placed my confidence in Elizar, and yet this verymorning--Christmas morning too, of all the blessed days in theyear--with the bells a ringing and--and--all like that--I say, thisvery morning, had it not have been for Providence watching over usall, that girl would have put--indeed I may go so far to say, 'ad putthe cheese on your breakfast table----" He saw I was about to speak,and waved his hand at me. "It's all very well for you to say, 'Yes,Mr. Bowman, but you took away the cheese and locked it up in thecupboard,' which I did, and have the key here, or if not the actualkey one very much about the same size. That's true enough, sir, butwhat do you think is the effect of that action on me? Why it's noexaggeration for me to say that the ground is cut from under my feet.And yet when I said as much to Eliza, not nasty, mind you, but justfirm like, what was my return? 'Oh,' she says: 'Well,' she says,'there wasn't no bones broke, I suppose.' Well, sir, it 'urt me,that's all I can say: it 'urt me, and I don't like to think of itnow."
There was an ominous pause here, in which I ventured to say somethinglike, "Yes, very trying," and then asked at what hour the churchservice was to be. "Eleven o'clock," Mr. Bowman said with a heavysigh. "Ah, you won't have no such discourse from poor Mr. Lucas aswhat you would have done from our late Rector. Him and me may havehad our little differences, and did do, more's the pity."
I could see that a powerful effort was needed to keep him off thevexed question of the cask of beer, but he made it. "But I will saythis, that a better preacher, nor yet one to stand faster by hisrights, or what he considered to be his rights--however, that's notthe question now--I for one, never set under. Some might say, 'Was hea eloquent man?' and to that my answer would be: 'Well, there you've abetter right per'aps to speak of your own uncle than what I have.'Others might ask, 'Did he keep a hold of his congregation?' and thereagain I should reply, 'That depends.' But as I say--Yes, Eliza, mygirl, I'm coming--eleven o'clock, sir, and you inquire for the King'sHead pew." I believe Eliza had been very near the door, and shallconsider it in my vail.
The next episode was church: I felt Mr. Lucas had a difficult task indoing justice to Christmas sentiments, and also to the feeling ofdisquiet and regret which, whatever Mr. Bowman might say, was clearlyprevalent. I do not think he rose to the occasion. I wasuncomfortable. The organ wolved--you know what I mean: the winddied--twice in the Christmas Hymn, and the tenor bell, I suppose owingto some negligence on the part of the ringers, kept sounding faintlyabout once in a minute during the sermon. The clerk sent up a man tosee to it, but he seemed unable to do much. I was glad when it wasover. There was an odd incident, too, before the service. I went inrather early, and came upon two men carrying the parish bier back toits place under the tower. From what I overheard them saying, itappeared that it had been put out by mistake, by some one who was notthere. I also saw the clerk busy folding up a moth-eaten velvetpall--not a sight for Christmas Day.
I dined soon after this, and then, feeling disinclined to go out, tookmy seat by the fire in the parlour, with the last number of_Pickwick_, which I had been saving up for some days. I thought Icould be sure of keeping awake over this, but I turned out as bad asour friend Smith. I suppose it was half-past two when I was roused bya piercing whistle and laughing and talking voices outside in themarket-place. It was a Punch and Judy--I had no doubt the one that mybagman had seen at W----. I was half delighted, half not--the latterbecause my unpleasant dream came back to me so vividly; but, anyhow, Idetermined to see it through, and I sent Eliza out with a crown-pieceto the performers and a request that they would face my window if theycould manage it.
The show was a very smart new one; the names of the proprietors, Ineed hardly tell you, were Italian, Foresta and Calpigi. The Toby dogwas there, as I had been led to expect. All B---- turned out, but didnot obstruct my view, for I was at the large first-floor window andnot ten yards away.
The play began on the stroke of a quarter to three by the churchclock. Certainly it was very good; and I was soon relieved to findthat the disgust my dream had given me for Punch's onslaughts on hisill-starred visitors was only transient. I laughed at the demise ofthe Turncock, the Foreigner, the Beadle, and even the baby. The onlydrawback was the Toby dog's developing a tendency to howl in the wrongplace. Something had occurred, I suppose, to upset him, and somet
hingconsiderable: for, I forget exactly at what point, he gave a mostlamentable cry, leapt off the foot board, and shot away across themarket-place and down a side street. There was a stage-wait, but onlya brief one. I suppose the men decided that it was no good going afterhim, and that he was likely to turn up again at night.
We went on. Punch dealt faithfully with Judy, and in fact with allcomers; and then came the moment when the gallows was erected, and thegreat scene with Mr. Ketch was to be enacted. It was now thatsomething happened of which I can certainly not yet see the importfully. You have witnessed an execution, and know what the criminal'shead looks like with the cap on. If you are like me, you never wish tothink of it again, and I do not willingly remind you of it. It wasjust such a head as that, that I, from my somewhat higher post, saw inthe inside of the show-box; but at first the audience did not see it.I expected it to emerge into their view, but instead of that thereslowly rose for a few seconds an uncovered face, with an expression ofterror upon it, of which I have never imagined the like. It seemed asif the man, whoever he was, was being forcibly lifted, with his armssomehow pinioned or held back, towards the little gibbet on thestage. I could just see the nightcapped head behind him. Then therewas a cry and a crash. The whole show-box fell over backwards; kickinglegs were seen among the ruins, and then two figures--as some said; Ican only answer for one--were visible running at top speed across thesquare and disappearing in a lane which leads to the fields.
Of course everybody gave chase. I followed; but the pace was killing,and very few were in, literally, at the death. It happened in a chalkpit: the man went over the edge quite blindly and broke his neck. Theysearched everywhere for the other, until it occurred to me to askwhether he had ever left the market-place. At first everyone was surethat he had; but when we came to look, he was there, under theshow-box, dead too.
But in the chalk pit it was that poor Uncle Henry's body was found,with a sack over the head, the throat horribly mangled. It was apeaked corner of the sack sticking out of the soil that attractedattention. I cannot bring myself to write in greater detail.
I forgot to say the men's real names were Kidman and Gallop. I feelsure I have heard them, but no one here seems to know anything aboutthem.
I am coming to you as soon as I can after the funeral. I must tell youwhen we meet what I think of it all.
TWO DOCTORS