Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James (42 page)

The play began on the stroke of a quarter to three by the church clock. Certainly it was very good; and I was soon relieved to find that the disgust my dream had given me for Punch’s onslaughts on his ill-starred visitors was only transient. I laughed at the demise of the Turncock, the Foreigner, the Beadle, and even the baby. The only drawback was the Toby dog’s developing a tendency to howl in the wrong place. Something had occurred, I suppose, to upset him, and something considerable: for, I forget exactly at what point, he gave a most lamentable cry, leapt off the foot-board, and shot away across the market-place and down a side street.

There was a stage-wait, but only a brief one. I suppose the men decided that it was no good going after him, and that he was likely to turn up again at night.

We went on. Punch dealt faithfully with Judy, and in fact with all comers; and then came the moment when the gallows was erected, and the great scene with Mr. Ketch was to be enacted. It was now that something happened of which I can certainly not yet see the import fully.

You have witnessed an execution, and know what the criminal’s head looks like with the cap on. If you are like me, you never wish to think of it again, and I do not willingly remind you of it. It was just such a head as that, that I, from my somewhat higher post, saw in the 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 there slowly rose for a few seconds an uncovered face, with an expression of terror upon it, of which I have never imagined the like.

It seemed as if the man, whoever he was, was being forcibly lifted, with his arms somehow pinioned or held back, toward the little gibbet on the stage. I could just see the nightcapped head behind him. Then there was a cry and a crash. The whole show-box fell over backward; kicking legs were seen among the ruins, and then
two figures—as some said; I can only answer for one—were visible running at top speed across the square 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 chalk pit: the man went over the edge quite blindly and broke his neck. They searched everywhere for the other, until it occurred to me to ask whether he had ever left the marketplace. At first everyone was sure that he had. But when we came to look, he was there, under the show-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 a peaked corner of the sack sticking out of the soil that attracted attention. I cannot bring myself to write in greater detail.

I forgot to say the men’s real names were Kidman and Gallop. I feel sure I have heard them, but no one here seems to know anything about them.

I am coming to you as soon as I can after the funeral. I must tell you when we meet what I think of it all.

T
HERE WAS ONCE
a learned gentleman who was deputed to examine and report upon the archives of the Cathedral of Southminster. The examination of these records demanded a very considerable expenditure of time—hence it became advisable for him to engage lodgings in the city, for though the Cathedral body were profuse in their offers of hospitality, Mr. Lake felt that he would prefer to be master of his day. This was recognized as reasonable.

The Dean eventually wrote advising Mr. Lake, if he were not already suited, to communicate with Mr. Worby, the principal Verger, who occupied a house convenient to the church and was prepared to take in a quiet lodger for three or four weeks.

Such an arrangement was precisely what Mr. Lake desired. Terms were easily agreed upon, and early in December, like another Mr. Datchery (as he remarked to himself), the investigator found himself in the occupation of a very comfortable room in an ancient and “cathedraly” house.

One so familiar with the customs of Cathedral churches, and treated with such obvious consideration by the Dean and Chapter of this Cathedral in particular, could not fail to command the respect of the Head Verger. Mr. Worby even acquiesced in certain modifications of statements he had been accustomed to offer for years to parties of visitors. Mr. Lake, on his part, found the Verger a very cheery companion, and took advantage of any occasion that presented itself for enjoying his conversation when the day’s work was over.

One evening, about nine o’clock, Mr. Worby knocked at his lodger’s door. “I’ve occasion,” he said, “to go across to the Cathedral, Mr. Lake, and I think I made you a promise when I did so next I would give you the opportunity to see what it looks like at night time. It’s quite fine and dry outside, if you care to come.”

“To be sure I will; very much obliged to you, Mr. Worby, for thinking of it, but let me get my coat.”

“Here it is, sir, and I’ve another lantern here that you’ll find advisable for the steps, as there’s no moon.”

“Anyone might think we were Jasper and Durdles, over again, mightn’t they?” said Lake, as they crossed the close, for he had ascertained that the Verger had read
Edwin Drood
.

“Well, so they might,” said Mr. Worby, with a short laugh, “though I don t know whether we ought to take it as a compliment. Odd ways, I often think, they had at that Cathedral, don’t it seem so to you, sir? Full choral matins at seven o’clock in the morning all the year round. Wouldn’t suit our boys’ voices nowadays, and I think there’s one of two of the men would be applying for a rise if the Chapter was to bring it in—particular the alltoes.”

They were now at the south-west door. As Mr. Worby was unlocking it, Lake said, “Did you ever find anybody locked in here by accident?”

“Twice I did. One was a drunk sailor; however he got in I don’t know. I s’pose he went to sleep in the service, but by the time I got to him he was praying fit to bring the roof in. Lor’! What a noise that man did make! Said it was the first time he’d been inside a church for ten years, and blest if ever he’d try it again. The other was an old sheep: them boys it was, up to their games. That was the last time they tried it on, though.

“There, sit, now you see what we look like—our late Dean used now and again to bring parties in, but he preferred a moonlight night, and there was a piece of verse he’d coat to ’em, relating to a Scotch cathedral, I understand, but I don’t know. I almost think the effect’s better when it’s all dark-like. Seems to add to the size and heighth.

“Now if you won’t mind stopping somewhere in the nave while I go up into the choir where my business lays, you’ll see what I mean.”

Accordingly Lake waited, leaning against a pillar, and watched the light wavering along the length of the church, and up the steps into the choir, until
it was intercepted by some screen or other furniture, which only allowed the reflection to be seen on the piers and roof.

Not many minutes had passed before Worby reappeared at the door of the choir and by waving his lantern signaled to Lake to rejoin him.

“I suppose it
is
Worby, and not a substitute,” thought Lake to himself, as he walked up the nave.

There was, in fact, nothing untoward. Worby showed him the papers which he had come to fetch out of the Dean’s stall, and asked him what he thought of the spectacle. Lake agreed that it was well worth seeing. “I suppose,” he said, as they walked toward the altar-steps together, “that you’re too much used to going about here at night to feel nervous—but you must get a start every now and then, don’t you, when a book falls down or a door swings to?”

“No, Mr. Lake, I can’t say I think much about noises, not nowadays: I’m much more afraid of finding an escape of gas or a burst in the stove pipes than anything else. Still there have been times, years ago.

“Did you notice that plain altar-tomb there—15th century we say it is, I don’t know if you agree to that? Well, if you didn’t look at it, just come back and give it a glance, if you’d be so good.”

It was on the north side of the choir, and rather awkwardly placed: only about three feet from the enclosing stone screen. Quite plain, as the Verger had said, but for some ordinary stone paneling. A metal cross of some size on the northern side (that next to the screen) was the solitary feature of any interest.

Lake agreed that it was not earlier than the Perpendicular period, “But,” he said, “unless it’s the tomb of some remarkable person, you’ll forgive me for saying that I don’t think it’s particularly noteworthy.”

“Well, I can’t say as it is the tomb of anybody noted in ’istory,” said Worby, who had a dry smile on his face, “for we don’t own any record whatsoever of who it was put up to. For all that, if you’ve half-an-hour to spare, sir, when we get back to the house, Mr. Lake, I could tell you a tale about that tomb. I won’t begin on it now; it strikes cold here, and we don’t want to be dawdling about all night.”

“Of course I should like to hear it immensely.”

“Very well, sir, you shall. Now if I might put a question to you,” he went
on, as they passed down the choir aisle, “in our little local guide—and not only there, but in the little book on our Cathedral in the series—you’ll find it stated that this portion of the building was erected previous to the 12th century. Now of course I should be glad enough to take that view, but—mind the step, sir—but, I put it to you: does the lay of the stone ’ere in this portion of the wall (which he tapped with his key), does it to your eye carry the flavor of what you might call Saxon masonry?

“No, I thought not, no more it does to me. Now, if you’ll believe me, I’ve said as much to those men—one’s the librarian of our Free Libry here, and the other came down from London on purpose—fifty times, if I have once, but I might just as well have talked to that bit of stonework. But there it is, I suppose every one’s got their opinions.”

The discussion of this peculiar trait of human nature occupied Mr. Worby almost up to the moment when he and Lake re-entered the former’s house. The condition of the fire in Lake’s sitting room led to a suggestion from Mr. Worby that they should finish the evening in his own parlor.

We find them accordingly settled there some short time afterward.

Mr. Worby made his story a long one, and I will not undertake to tell it wholly in his own words, or in his own order. Lake committed the substance of it to paper immediately after hearing it, together with some few passages of the narrative which had fixed themselves
verbatim
in his mind. I shall probably find it expedient to condense Lake’s record to some extent.

Mr. Worby was born, it appeared, about the year 1828. His father before him had been connected with the Cathedral, and likewise his grandfather. One or both had been choristers, and in later life both had done work as mason and carpenter respectively about the fabric. Worby himself, though possessed, as he frankly acknowledged, of an indifferent voice, had been drafted into the choir at about ten years of age.

It was in 1840 that the wave of the Gothic revival smote the Cathedral of Southminster. “There was a lot of lovely stuff went then, sir,” said Worby, with a sigh. “My father couldn’t hardly believe it when he got his orders to clear out the choir. There was a new dean just come in—Dean Burscough it was—and my father had been ’prenticed to a good firm of joiners in the city, and knew what good work was when he saw it.

“Crool it was, he used to say: all that beautiful wainscot oak, as good as
the day it was put up, and garlands-like of foliage and fruit, and lovely old gilding work on the coats of arms and the organ pipes. All went to the timber yard—every bit except some little pieces worked up in the Lady Chapel, and ’ere in this overmantel.

“Well—I may be mistook, but I say our choir never looked as well since. Still there was a lot found out about the history of the church, and no doubt but what it did stand in need of repair. There was very few winters passed but what we’d lose a pinnicle.”

Mr. Lake expressed his concurrence with Worby’s views of restoration, but owns to a fear about this point lest the story proper should never be reached. Possibly this was perceptible in his manner.

Worby hastened to reassure him, “Not but what I could carry on about that topic for hours at a time, and do do when I see my opportunity.

“But Dean Burscough he was very set on the Gothic period, and nothing would serve him but everything must be made agreeable to that. And one morning after service he appointed for my father to meet him in the choir, and he came back after he’d taken off his robes in the vestry, and he’d got a roll of paper with him, and the verger that was then brought in a table, and they begun spreading it out on the table with prayer books to keep it down, and my father helped ’em, and he saw it was a picture of the inside of a choir in a Cathedral; and the Dean—he was a quick-spoken gentleman—he says, ‘Well, Worby, what do you think of that?’

“‘Why,’ says my father, ‘I don’t think I ’ave the pleasure of knowing that view. Would that be Hereford Cathedral, Mr. Dean?’