Curious Warnings - The Great Ghost Stories Of M.R. James (78 page)

On the whole the line of least resistance was to stay.

Well, he stayed out his week. Nothing took him past that door, and, often as he would pause in a quiet hour of day or night in the passage and listen, and listen, no sound whatever issued from that direction.

You might have thought that Thomson would have made some attempt at ferreting out stories connected with the inn—hardly perhaps from Betts, but from the parson of the parish, or old people in the village; but no, the reticence which commonly falls on people who have had strange experiences, and believe in them, was upon him.

Nevertheless, as the end of his stay drew near, his yearning after some kind of explanation grew more and more acute.

On his solitary walks he persisted in planning out some way, the least obtrusive, of getting another daylight glimpse into that room, and eventually arrived at this scheme.

He would leave by an afternoon train—about four o’clock. When his fly was waiting, and his luggage on it, he would make one last expedition upstairs to look around his own room and see if anything was left unpacked, and then, with that key, which he had contrived to oil (as if that made any difference!), the door should once more be opened, for a moment, and shut.

So it worked out. The bill was paid, the consequent small talk gone through while the fly was loaded: “Pleasant part of the country—been very comfortable, thanks to you and Mrs. Betts—hope to come back sometime,” on one side.

On the other: “Very glad you’ve found satisfaction, sir, done our best—always glad to ’ave your good word—very much favored we’ve been with the weather, to be sure.”

Then, “I’ll just take a look upstairs in case I’ve left a book or something out—no, don’t trouble, I’ll be back in a minute.”

And as noiselessly as possible he stole to the door and opened it.

The shattering of the illusion! Propped, or you might say sitting, on the edge of the bed was—nothing in the round world but a scarecrow!

A scarecrow out of the garden, of course, dumped into the deserted room … Yes, but here amusement ceased.

Have scarecrows bare bony feet? Do their heads loll on their shoulders? Have they iron collars and links of chain about their necks? Can they get up and move, if never so stiffly, across a floor, with wagging heads and arms close at their sides? And shiver?

The slam of the door, the dash to the stair-head, the leap downstairs, were followed by a faint.

Awakening, Thomson saw Betts standing over him with the brandy bottle and a very reproachful face. “You shouldn’t a done so, sir, really you shouldn’t. It ain’t a kind way to act by persons as done the best they could for you.”

Thomson heard words of this kind, but what he said in reply he did not know.

Mr. Betts, and perhaps even more Mrs. Betts, found it hard to accept his apologies and his assurances that he would say no word that could damage the good name of the house. However, they
were
accepted.

Since the train could not now be caught, it was arranged that Thomson should be driven to the town to sleep there.

Before he went the Bettses told him what little they knew. ‘They say he was a landlord ’ere a long time back, and was in with the ’ighwaymen that ’ad their beat about the ’eath.

“That’s how he come by his end: ’ung in chains, they say, up where you see that stone what the gallus stood in. Yes, the fishermen made away with that, I believe, because they see it out at sea and it kep’ the fish off, according to their idea.

“Yes, we ’ad the account from the people that ’ad the ’ouse before we come. ‘You keep that room shut up,’ they says, ‘but don’t move the bed out, and you’ll find there won’t be no trouble.’ And no more there ’as been. Not once he haven’t come out into the ’ouse, though what he may do now there ain’t no sayin.”

“Anyway, you’re the first I know that’s seen him since we’ve been ’ere. I
never set eyes on him myself, nor don’t want. And ever since we’ve made the servants rooms in the stablin’, we ain’t ’ad no difficulty that way.

“Only I do ’ope, sir, as you’ll keep a close tongue, considerin’ ’ow an ’ouse do get talked about”: with more to this effect.

The promise of silence was kept for many years.

The occasion of my hearing the story at last was this: that when Mr. Thomson came to stay with my father it fell to me to show him to his room, and instead of letting me open the door for him he stepped forward and threw it open himself, and then for some moments stood in the doorway holding up his candle and looking narrowly into the interior.

Then he seemed to recollect himself and said: “I beg your pardon. Very absurd, but I can’t help doing that, for a particular reason.”

What that reason was I heard some days afterward, and you have heard now.

A NEW YEAR’S EVE GHOST STORY
(Full Directions will be found at the End)

T
HE
R
EVEREND
D
R
. H
ALL
was in his study making up the entries for the year in the parish register, it being his custom to note baptisms, weddings and burials in a paper book as they occurred, and in the last days of December to write them out fairly in the vellum book that was kept in the parish chest.

To him entered his housekeeper, in evident agitation. “Oh, sir,” said she, “whatever do you think? The poor Squire’s gone!”

“The Squire? Squire Bowles? What are you talking about, woman? Why, only yesterday—”

“Yes, I know, sir, but it’s the truth. Wickem, the clerk, just left word on his way down to toll the bell—you’ll hear it yourself in a minute. There now, just listen.”

Sure enough the sound broke on the still night—not loud, for the Rectory did not immediately adjoin the churchyard.

Dr. Hall rose hastily.

“Terrible, terrible,” he said. “I must see them at the Hall at once. He seemed so greatly better yesterday.” He paused. “Did you hear any word of the sickness having come this way at all? There was nothing said in Norwich. It seems so sudden.”

“No, indeed, sir, no such thing. Just caught away with a choking in his
throat, Wickem says. It do make one feel—well, I’m sure I had to set down as much as a minute or more, I come over that queer when I heard the words—and by what I could understand they’ll be asking for the burial very quick. There’s some can’t bear the thought of the cold corpse laying in the house, and—”

“Yes. Well, I must find out from Madam Bowles herself or Mr. Joseph. Get me my cloak, will you? Ah, and could you let Wickem know that I desire to see him when the tolling is over?”

He hurried off.

In an hour’s time he was back and found Wickem waiting for him. “There is work for you, Wickem,” he said, as he threw off his cloak, “and not overmuch time to do it in.”

“Yes, sir,” said Wickem, “the vault to be opened to be sure—”

“No, no, that’s not the message I have. The poor Squire, they tell me, charged them before now not to lay him in the chancel. It was to be an earth grave in the yard, on the north side.”

He stopped at an inarticulate exclamation from the clerk. “Well?” he said.

“I ask pardon, sir,” said Wickem in a shocked voice, “but did I understand you right? No vault, you say, and on the north side? Tt-tt-! Why the poor gentleman must a been wandering.”

“Yes, it does seem strange to me, too,” said Dr. Hall, “but no, Mr. Joseph tells me it was his father’s—I should say stepfather’s—clear wish, expressed more than once, and when he was in good health. Clean earth and open air. You know, of course, the poor Squire had his fancies, though he never spoke of this one to me. And there’s another thing, Wickem. No coffin.”

“Oh dear, dear, sir,” said Wickem, yet more shocked. “Oh, but that’ll make sad talk, that will, and what a disappointment for Wright, too! I know he’d looked out some beautiful wood for the Squire, and had it by him years past.”

“Well, well, perhaps the family will make it up to Wright in some way,” said the Rector, rather impatiently, “but what you have to do is to get the grave dug and all things in a readiness—torches from Wright you must not forget—by ten o’clock tomorrow night. I don’t doubt but there will be somewhat coming to you for your pains and hurry.”

“Very well, sir, if those be the orders, I must do my best to carry them out. And should I call in on my way down and send the women up to the Hall to lay out the body, sir?”

“No. That, I think—I am sure—was not spoken of. Mr. Joseph will send, no doubt, if they are needed. No, you have enough without that. Goodnight, Wickem. I was making up the registers when this doleful news came. Little had I thought to add such an entry to them as I must now.”

All things had been done in decent order. The torchlighted cortège had passed from the Hall through the park, up the lime avenue to the top of the knoll on which the church stood. All the village had been there, and such neighbors as could be warned in the few hours available. There was no great surprise at the hurry.

Formalities of law there were none then, and no one blamed the stricken widow for hastening to lay her dead to rest. Nor did anyone look to see her following in the funeral train. Her son Joseph—only issue of her first marriage with a Calvert of Yorkshire—was the chief mourner.

There were, indeed, no kinsfolk on Squire Bowles’s side who could have been bidden. The will, executed at the time of the Squire’s second marriage, left everything to the widow.

And what was “everything”? Land, house, furniture, pictures, plate were all obvious. But there should have been accumulations in coin, and beyond a few hundreds in the hands of agents—honest men and no embezzlers—cash there was none.

Yet Francis Bowles had for years received good rents and paid little out. Nor was he a reputed miser; he kept a good table, and money was always forthcoming for the moderate spendings of his wife and stepson. Joseph Calvert had been maintained ungrudgingly at school and college.

What, then, had he done with it all? No ransacking of the house brought any secret hoard to light; no servant, old or young, had any tale to tell of meeting the Squire in unexpected places at strange hours.

No, Madam Bowles and her son were fairly nonplussed. As they sat one evening in the parlor discussing the problem for the twentieth time:

“You have been at his books and papers, Joseph, again today, haven’t you?”

“Yes, mother, and no forwarder.”

“What was it he would be writing at, and why was he always sending letters to Mr. Fowler at Gloucester?”

“Why, you know he had a maggot about the Middle State of the Soul. ’Twas over that he and that other were always busy. The last thing he wrote would be a letter that he never finished. I’ll fetch it … Yes, the same song over again.

“‘Honored friend, I make some slow advance in our studies, but I know not well how far to trust our authors. Here is one lately come my way who will have it that for a time after death the soul is under control of certain spirits, as Raphael, and another whom I doubtfully read as Nares; but still so near this state of life that on prayer to them he may be free to come disclose matters to the living.

“‘Come, indeed, he must, if he be rightly called, the manner of which is set forth in an experiment. But having come, and once opened his mouth, it may chance that his summoner shall see and hear more than of the hid treasure which it is likely he bargained for; since the experiment puts this in the forefront of things to be inquired.

“‘But the eftest way is to send you the whole, which herewith I do; copied from a book of recipes which I had of good Bishop Moore.’”

Here Joseph stopped, and made no comment, gazing on the paper. For more than a minute nothing was said, then Madam Bowles, drawing her needle through her work and looking at it, coughed and said, “There was no more written?”

“No, nothing, mother.”

“No? Well, it is strange stuff. Did ever you meet this Mr. Fowler?”

“Yes, it might be once or twice, in Oxford, a civil gentleman enough.”

“Now I think of it,” said she, “it would be but right to acquaint him with—with what has happened: they were close friends. Yes, Joseph, you should do that. You will know what should be said. And the letter is his, after all.”

“You are in the right, mother, and I’ll not delay it.” And forthwith he sat down to write.

From Norfolk to Gloucester was no quick transit. But a letter went, and a larger packet came in answer; and there were more evening talks in the paneled parlor at the Hall.

At the close of one, these words were said: “Tonight, then, if you are certain
of yourself, go round by the field path. Ay, and here is a cloth will serve.”

“What cloth is that, mother? A napkin?”

“Yes, of a kind: what matter?” So he went out by the way of the garden, and she stood in the door, musing, with her hand on her mouth. Then the hand dropped and she said half-aloud: “If only I had not been so hurried! But it was the face cloth, sure enough.”

It was a very dark night, and the spring wind blew loud over the black fields—loud enough to drown all sounds of shouting or calling. If calling there was, there was no voice, nor any that answered, nor any that regarded—yet.