The Year's Best Horror Stories 9 (13 page)

It was without doubt a gross calumny which the unfortunate victim most strenuously answered, both directly and through the papers. But, as is usual in such cases, it was impossible to establish the author of the blow, and in any case the deed was done. After taking all possible legal advice the poor doctor had to realize that there could be no redress. But for ever afterward there would rankle in his mind, not so much the disappointment as the dastardly stab behind it.

Thus, with his declining years overshadowed by bitterness, he lived more than ever among his books in the reading-cabinet or in the oratory below, leaning upon the sympathetic offices of Mr. Sanderton, his chaplain.

Now this good man, being nephew of one of the Canons of Durham, had always entertained a lively concern for the new university then beginning to establish itself in the north. It was in this connection that his friendship with Professor Courtleigh had been ripened. The pair of them had drawn up a list of works which they considered the indispensable minimum for the use of the undergraduates; and Sanderton had sent along some of his own volumes as a gift. Only by chance did Dr. Propert make this discovery in conversation with his chaplain for it would have been abhorrent to Sanderton either to advertise his own donation or to suggest that another should follow his example. Yet, when the discovery was made, something of the bachelor cleric’s devotion to so obscure a cause appealed to the old collector. Before long he himself—weaned by bitterness of any remaining love for his own college—began to take a growing interest in what he playfully called “our poor little Oxford of the north.”

Mr. Sanderton, indeed, was half delighted and half startled to see how rapidly the fire of this fresh enthusiasm was devouring his patron’s whole attention. Nothing could abate his eagerness. A slight seizure, which overtook the doctor in the summer, not only caused no diminution of interest but actually spurred him to an urgency of benevolent planning which took the little clergyman’s breath away. Whispers reached Oxford that the Propert books were now likely to go to Durham, that the doctor was aging visibly, and that one of the professors from up north had even been invited to Peryford to select a number of the volumes to be transferred for use forthwith.

And so it came about that in October Courtleigh was down at Peryford Priory for the second time. Sanderton took him at once to meet the doctor, and the three of them had a thorough and very pleasant conference. It was agreed to draw up a legal instrument next day and make an inspection of the books at the same time. The following morning saw them busy in the library itself; and in the afternoon the doctor’s solicitor came down from York to attend them there. It would have been a memorable day in any case but it was made more so by a strange intrusion.

For who should have the temerity to present himself again at Peryford but Faik! He came uninvited and without warning. Whether he deceived himself into believing that Propert was not aware of his infamous part in the college election, or whether he considered he could at last safely trade upon his old friend’s good nature to accept him again, I cannot tell. Perhaps it was merely that he had the vulgarity to suppose that, armed with money and a direct proposal, he could carry off his purpose well enough.

Anyhow he had, knowingly or unknowingly, chosen a critical moment to reappear. The great library was a scene of unusual activity. The legal business had been concluded; and the doctor, assisted by Courtleigh, was superintending the labors of carpenter Hook and two old servingmen in the removal of some heavy tomes across to the Muniment Room, while Mr. Sanderton and the lawyer were in conversation by the gallery stairs, when the butler opened the door and ushered in the unwelcome visitor.

The air became electrified at once. The rector, who was nearest the door, made a stiff bow; Courtleigh and the solicitor looked up in mild surprise; but the doctor confronted his former friend with a withering stare.

“Good afternoon, Propert,” cried the intruder with false geniality, “I’m sorry to surprise you like this. You seem busy!”

“Professor Courtleigh is here by my invitation on a little matter concerning some books. May I ask what your business is?” replied Propert coldly.

“Ah,” said Faik in urbane tones, “I’ve heard some talk about your interest in Durham. But you have a duty to your own college, you know. I’m sure you’ve not forgotten that, despite that unfortunate little incident.”

“Mr. Faik,” repeated the doctor, “what is your business?”

Things were beginning to look ugly when, at a sign from the rector, Hook and the other men withdrew on tiptoe.

“If we must be so blunt,” resumed Faik, more briskly now, “I’ve been commissioned by the Master and resident Fellows of Carpe Corpus to make an offer to purchase the whole collection of your books, Dr. Propert.”

“I have no books to sell,” answered the doctor curtly, and added with tremulous warmth, “the college might have had them as a gift—but for its readiness to listen to blackguards who slander honest men. I have decided, sir, to put my poor volumes at the disposal of a needier and, I hope, more grateful body.”

“A most regrettable step,” muttered Faik uncomfortably, “but there is still time to make a compromise. The college authorizes me to offer ten thousand pounds for the major part of the books, provided certain specified volumes are included.”

The doctor was silent. Faik mistook the opportunity to press further: “Ten thousand pounds is a large sum. With it much might be done to benefit another institution,” he urged, glancing suggestively toward the professor. “Nor would the terms preclude many useful volumes also going elsewhere.”

He paused, looking more hopeful. Then the doctor said quietly, “Perhaps Mr. Bates will lead the way to the cabinet. I’d like you all to come, gentlemen.”

They trooped upstairs after the lawyer and along the gallery to the little apartment at the end.

“And now,” said the doctor, “will you, Mr. Bates, be so good as to read out for Mr. Faik’s benefit the terms of my will which you witnessed earlier on—the portion, that is, relating to the books?”

The solicitor opened the dead-box again and, finding the place among the documents, read the relevant clauses and then repeated, “. . . and the residue of all books, manuscripts, incunabula, charters, tracts or pamphlets, contained in or appertaining to, the aforesaid Frater Library . . . I bequeath to the University of Durham . . .”

“I hope, Mr. Faik,” said the doctor gravely after a pause, “you will now consider that your proposals are fully and decisively answered.” It was a devastating blow, and Faik was evidently crestfallen. Yet he had not quite done, even then.

“This is a most lamentable decision, Dr. Propert,” he said heavily, “but I will convey your answer to the college.” He paused, strumming on one of the oak presses, then looked up to add, “I have but one more request or offer to make, and this time a personal one on my own account.”

“There was,” he continued, “in this library a certain
Household Book of Peryford Priory
which has always very much interested me. That it is valuable as a fifteenth-century record I am well aware. Nor do I ask it altogether as a favor. I am, I say as a collector, specially attracted by the volume. May I offer five hundred pounds for it now?”

Courtleigh and the rest looked quickly at the doctor.

“I have, sir,” replied that veteran with just a hint of somber irony, “already heard from Mr. Sanderton’s predecessor of your interest in this rather—let us call it—obscure book. But the fact is we have (without—at my request—going so far as to inspect its contents) very particularly disposed of the book in question only an hour ago.”

He bent to open a cupboard at the side, and returned with an ancient calf-bound volume.

“As it is, its significance is largely wasted to be sure,” he continued pensively as he weighed it in his hands, and cleared his throat to assume what might have been a mock tone of public speaking. “But in order to make its contents generally available, and fully intelligible—for let us be frank and say there are some apparently meaningless entries in it—I have asked Professor Courtleigh to undertake to bring out an annotated edition, and also to compose a preface embodying something of my personal biography. The whole thing, you see, will form a sort of memorial volume. For, I confess, I have lately entertained the vanity of acquainting the world how this little book has affected my own humble fortunes; and I fancy the disclosures may prove of some interest in academic circles. They certainly would go far to account for my change of intention toward my old college. On behalf of the authorities at Durham, Professor Courtleigh has very obligingly agreed to this—and, incidentally, we have also arranged that the bequest of my books come into effect immediately after the public issue of the memorial volume.”

Faik was visibly disturbed. But the doctor, carrying the book with him and leading the way downstairs again, pursued the theme with benign malice, apparently addressing Faik:

“I am afraid any pleasure you or others could derive from the perusal of this publication may have to be postponed a little while as I do not wish it to appear in my lifetime. Probably you will not have long to wait; but until I am gone I wish the whole matter to remain dormant. When the time comes the Professor will find jotted down at the end of the
Household Book
a concise testimony of the facts he is to use—as well as some other curious matter which for a long time I was not able to understand and whose precise meaning I shall probably never comprehend fully—though (as you will in good time find from my comments there) I have made some headway with the clues. Yes, yes . . .”

Whatever these last remarks may have meant—and four faces were evidently arrested with intrigue—the doctor’s voice trailed off at this point into silent musing. Then he pulled himself up sharp and in a different tone remarked, “Tomorrow we will have the volume specially deposited and sealed, but for tonight I think it should be safe enough as it is in the Muniment Room.”

By this time, he was again on the ground floor at the foot of the stone stairs at the other side of the library. In another minute he had gone up, placed the book somewhere within the Muniment Room and locked its heavy door.

“I don’t think,” he concluded simply as he rejoined the others, “we need detain ourselves here any longer, gentlemen.”

The scene was over. Faik, tense with chagrin and alarm, departed abruptly as Propert, wearing a strange smile, stood meaningly at the outer door. As soon as the intruder had gone he insisted on locking it himself, then caught up with his friends who had set off for the hall, buzzing with excitement. The gong was sounding for dinner as they left the park and its much-disputed library under the gathering pall of night.

And a very memorable night it was, that 17th of October. A great gale was blowing and the trees about the old house were tossing wildly when Dr. Propert, his chaplain, and the professor withdrew after dinner to the smoking room.

Talk had turned again to Faik and his unexpected visit, and the doctor evinced a gleeful sense of elation at the way in which the deal with Durham had been culminated on a day which served to thwart his enemy so neatly. Certainly it was a rare thing for anyone to see the old benefactor so openly festive.

Perhaps, indeed, the excitement of the day had been too much for him. At any rate Mr. Sanderton could not but observe his patron’s feverish mien and suggest an early bed. But the doctor brushed aside all solicitation, so set was he upon discussing with Courtleigh the business of publishing the memoirs that would one day vindicate him. More wine was ordered in, and the two guests settled down to hear what their host would disclose concerning Faik and his practices.

Courtleigh had been saying how mystified he was by the guarded words used by the doctor that afternoon in reference to the contents of the
Household Book
which, he observed with a whimsical shrug, neither Sanderton nor himself had yet seen.

Propert was silent awhile pondering the hint. Then he said, “Yes, I suppose it is time I let you both into the secret, especially after the transactions today. I had to be ambiguous in the presence of Faik, for—though I am certain he knew all about the jottings I referred to—I didn’t want him to challenge me for proof. You see,” he added with a wry inclination of the head, “you’ve got to be careful about accusing a man of certain things.

“The contents of the book,” he continued, “the original contents, are normal enough; a diary of expenditure, inventories of gear and stores, cellarer’s accounts and what not, such as you expect in a noble establishment of the fifteenth century. But there are later entries too; strange recipes—some of them quite barbarous—scraps of proverbs and weather lore. Again, not very surprising. Then, jotted in with this, a lot of rigmarole (some of it quite recently written) that I found totally meaningless at first. Lately, however, I have begun to see the purpose of it. I won’t tell you my conclusions yet, but tomorrow we’ll go down to the library again and you shall see it for yourselves.”

His listeners could only remain mystified but deferential. “I ought to say,” he added, “that it was Mr. Laycock’s suspicions which first put me on the track. He was both a good man and a discerning man, though at first I thought his suggestion absurd. The whole thing is remarkably deep and complicated and, but for my dear friend (who had delved a good deal into some of the backwaters of profane learning), there is no knowing how far matters would have gone. And now, before anything public is done, I have arranged to give Faik an opportunity of, er, well, of proving his guilt!”

“But, I take it,” interposed Courtleigh gently, “that Mr. Laycock had evidence, enough. Certain books were missing?”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the doctor. “It was not the number, though, but the kind of books that set him thinking. Moreover, quite apart from the volumes lost, there were some unusual volumes found.”

“You mean atheism or blasphemy, I suppose?” ventured the rector in sad tones.

“Something of the sort,” replied Propert with a certain restraint as he rose. “It is an unpleasant business to be handling, and it’s as well to use every care. To begin with, I must bring down—no, I will not have it fetched—an old psalter that I keep for use in the oratory, but which I brought across with me tonight and put in my dressing room. No, even Perkins couldn’t find it, thank you. I’ll be back with it in a minute.”