The Secretary and his wife were lunching out, and the friends to whose

house they were bound were Warwickshire people. So Mrs Secretary had

already settled it in her own mind that she would question them

judiciously about Mr Karswell. But she was saved the trouble of leading

up to the subject, for the hostess said to the host, before many minutes

had passed, 'I saw the Abbot of Lufford this morning.' The host whistled.

'_Did_ you? What in the world brings him up to town?' 'Goodness knows; he

was coming out of the British Museum gate as I drove past.' It was not

unnatural that Mrs Secretary should inquire whether this was a real Abbot

who was being spoken of. 'Oh no, my dear: only a neighbour of ours in the

country who bought Lufford Abbey a few years ago. His real name is

Karswell.' 'Is he a friend of yours?' asked Mr Secretary, with a private

wink to his wife. The question let loose a torrent of declamation. There

was really nothing to be said for Mr Karswell. Nobody knew what he did

with himself: his servants were a horrible set of people; he had invented

a new religion for himself, and practised no one could tell what

appalling rites; he was very easily offended, and never forgave anybody;

he had a dreadful face (so the lady insisted, her husband somewhat

demurring); he never did a kind action, and whatever influence he did

exert was mischievous. 'Do the poor man justice, dear,' the husband

interrupted. 'You forget the treat he gave the school children.' 'Forget

it, indeed! But I'm glad you mentioned it, because it gives an idea of

the man. Now, Florence, listen to this. The first winter he was at

Lufford this delightful neighbour of ours wrote to the clergyman of his

parish (he's not ours, but we know him very well) and offered to show the

school children some magic-lantern slides. He said he had some new kinds,

which he thought would interest them. Well, the clergyman was rather

surprised, because Mr Karswell had shown himself inclined to be

unpleasant to the children--complaining of their trespassing, or

something of the sort; but of course he accepted, and the evening was

fixed, and our friend went himself to see that everything went right. He

said he never had been so thankful for anything as that his own children

were all prevented from being there: they were at a children's party at

our house, as a matter of fact. Because this Mr Karswell had evidently

set out with the intention of frightening these poor village children out

of their wits, and I do believe, if he had been allowed to go on, he

would actually have done so. He began with some comparatively mild

things. Red Riding Hood was one, and even then, Mr Farrer said, the wolf

was so dreadful that several of the smaller children had to be taken out:

and he said Mr Karswell began the story by producing a noise like a wolf

howling in the distance, which was the most gruesome thing he had ever

heard. All the slides he showed, Mr Farrer said, were most clever; they

were absolutely realistic, and where he had got them or how he worked

them he could not imagine. Well, the show went on, and the stories kept

on becoming a little more terrifying each time, and the children were

mesmerized into complete silence. At last he produced a series which

represented a little boy passing through his own park--Lufford, I

mean--in the evening. Every child in the room could recognize the place

from the pictures. And this poor boy was followed, and at last pursued

and overtaken, and either torn in pieces or somehow made away with, by a

horrible hopping creature in white, which you saw first dodging about

among the trees, and gradually it appeared more and more plainly. Mr

Farrer said it gave him one of the worst nightmares he ever remembered,

and what it must have meant to the children doesn't bear thinking of. Of

course this was too much, and he spoke very sharply indeed to Mr

Karswell, and said it couldn't go on. All _he_ said was: "Oh, you think

it's time to bring our little show to an end and send them home to their

beds? _Very_ well!" And then, if you please, he switched on another

slide, which showed a great mass of snakes, centipedes, and disgusting

creatures with wings, and somehow or other he made it seem as if they

were climbing out of the picture and getting in amongst the audience; and

this was accompanied by a sort of dry rustling noise which sent the

children nearly mad, and of course they stampeded. A good many of them

were rather hurt in getting out of the room, and I don't suppose one of

them closed an eye that night. There was the most dreadful trouble in the

village afterwards. Of course the mothers threw a good part of the blame

on poor Mr Farrer, and, if they could have got past the gates, I believe

the fathers would have broken every window in the Abbey. Well, now,

that's Mr Karswell: that's the Abbot of Lufford, my dear, and you can

imagine how we covet _his_ society.'

'Yes, I think he has all the possibilities of a distinguished criminal,

has Karswell,' said the host. 'I should be sorry for anyone who got into

his bad books.'

'Is he the man, or am I mixing him up with someone else?' asked the

Secretary (who for some minutes had been wearing the frown of the man who

is trying to recollect something). 'Is he the man who brought out a

_History of Witchcraft_ some time back--ten years or more?'

'That's the man; do you remember the reviews of it?'

'Certainly I do; and what's equally to the point, I knew the author of

the most incisive of the lot. So did you: you must remember John

Harrington; he was at John's in our time.'

'Oh, very well indeed, though I don't think I saw or heard anything of

him between the time I went down and the day I read the account of the

inquest on him.'

'Inquest?' said one of the ladies. 'What has happened to him?'

'Why, what happened was that he fell out of a tree and broke his neck.

But the puzzle was, what could have induced him to get up there. It was a

mysterious business, I must say. Here was this man--not an athletic

fellow, was he? and with no eccentric twist about him that was ever

noticed--walking home along a country road late in the evening--no tramps

about--well known and liked in the place--and he suddenly begins to run

like mad, loses his hat and stick, and finally shins up a tree--quite a

difficult tree--growing in the hedgerow: a dead branch gives way, and he

comes down with it and breaks his neck, and there he's found next morning

with the most dreadful face of fear on him that could be imagined. It was

pretty evident, of course, that he had been chased by something, and

people talked of savage dogs, and beasts escaped out of menageries; but

there was nothing to be made of that. That was in '89, and I believe his

brother Henry (whom I remember as well at Cambridge, but _you_ probably

don't) has been trying to get on the track of an explanation ever since.

He, of course, insists there was malice in it, but I don't know. It's

difficult to see how it could have come in.'

After a time the talk reverted to the _History of Witchcraft_. 'Did you

ever look into it?' asked the host.

'Yes, I did,' said the Secretary. 'I went so far as to read it.'

'Was it as bad as it was made out to be?'

'Oh, in point of style and form, quite hopeless. It deserved all the

pulverizing it got. But, besides that, it was an evil book. The man

believed every word of what he was saying, and I'm very much mistaken if

he hadn't tried the greater part of his receipts.'

'Well, I only remember Harrington's review of it, and I must say if I'd

been the author it would have quenched my literary ambition for good. I

should never have held up my head again.'

'It hasn't had that effect in the present case. But come, it's half-past

three; I must be off.'

On the way home the Secretary's wife said, 'I do hope that horrible man

won't find out that Mr Dunning had anything to do with the rejection of

his paper.' 'I don't think there's much chance of that,' said the

Secretary. 'Dunning won't mention it himself, for these matters are

confidential, and none of us will for the same reason. Karswell won't

know his name, for Dunning hasn't published anything on the same subject

yet. The only danger is that Karswell might find out, if he was to ask

the British Museum people who was in the habit of consulting alchemical

manuscripts: I can't very well tell them not to mention Dunning, can I?

It would set them talking at once. Let's hope it won't occur to him.'

However, Mr Karswell was an astute man.

* * * * *

This much is in the way of prologue. On an evening rather later in the

same week, Mr Edward Dunning was returning from the British Museum, where

he had been engaged in Research, to the comfortable house in a suburb

where he lived alone, tended by two excellent women who had been long

with him. There is nothing to be added by way of description of him to

what we have heard already. Let us follow him as he takes his sober

course homewards.

* * * * *

A train took him to within a mile or two of his house, and an electric

tram a stage farther. The line ended at a point some three hundred yards

from his front door. He had had enough of reading when he got into the

car, and indeed the light was not such as to allow him to do more than

study the advertisements on the panes of glass that faced him as he sat.

As was not unnatural, the advertisements in this particular line of cars

were objects of his frequent contemplation, and, with the possible

exception of the brilliant and convincing dialogue between Mr Lamplough

and an eminent K.C. on the subject of Pyretic Saline, none of them

afforded much scope to his imagination. I am wrong: there was one at the

corner of the car farthest from him which did not seem familiar. It was

in blue letters on a yellow ground, and all that he could read of it was

a name--John Harrington--and something like a date. It could be of no

interest to him to know more; but for all that, as the car emptied, he

was just curious enough to move along the seat until he could read it

well. He felt to a slight extent repaid for his trouble; the

advertisement was _not_ of the usual type. It ran thus: 'In memory of

John Harrington, F.S.A., of The Laurels, Ashbrooke. Died Sept. 18th,

1889. Three months were allowed.'

The car stopped. Mr Dunning, still contemplating the blue letters on the

yellow ground, had to be stimulated to rise by a word from the conductor.

'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'I was looking at that advertisement; it's

a very odd one, isn't it?' The conductor read it slowly. 'Well, my word,'

he said, 'I never see that one before. Well, that is a cure, ain't it?

Someone bin up to their jokes 'ere, I should think.' He got out a duster

and applied it, not without saliva, to the pane and then to the outside.

'No,' he said, returning, 'that ain't no transfer; seems to me as if it

was reg'lar _in_ the glass, what I mean in the substance, as you may say.

Don't you think so, sir?' Mr Dunning examined it and rubbed it with his

glove, and agreed. 'Who looks after these advertisements, and gives leave

for them to be put up? I wish you would inquire. I will just take a note

of the words.' At this moment there came a call from the driver: 'Look

alive, George, time's up.' 'All right, all right; there's somethink else

what's up at this end. You come and look at this 'ere glass.' 'What's

gorn with the glass?' said the driver, approaching. 'Well, and oo's

'Arrington? What's it all about?' 'I was just asking who was responsible

for putting the advertisements up in your cars, and saying it would be as

well to make some inquiry about this one.' 'Well, sir, that's all done at

the Company's orfice, that work is: it's our Mr Timms, I believe, looks

into that. When we put up tonight I'll leave word, and per'aps I'll be

able to tell you tomorrer if you 'appen to be coming this way.'

This was all that passed that evening. Mr Dunning did just go to the

trouble of looking up Ashbrooke, and found that it was in Warwickshire.

Next day he went to town again. The car (it was the same car) was too

full in the morning to allow of his getting a word with the conductor: he

could only be sure that the curious advertisement had been made away

with. The close of the day brought a further element of mystery into the

transaction. He had missed the tram, or else preferred walking home, but

at a rather late hour, while he was at work in his study, one of the

maids came to say that two men from the tramways was very anxious to

speak to him. This was a reminder of the advertisement, which he had, he

says, nearly forgotten. He had the men in--they were the conductor and

driver of the car--and when the matter of refreshment had been attended

to, asked what Mr Timms had had to say about the advertisement. 'Well,

sir, that's what we took the liberty to step round about,' said the

conductor. 'Mr Timms 'e give William 'ere the rough side of his tongue

about that: 'cordin' to 'im there warn't no advertisement of that

description sent in, nor ordered, nor paid for, nor put up, nor nothink,

let alone not bein' there, and we was playing the fool takin' up his

time. "Well," I says, "if that's the case, all I ask of you, Mr Timms," I

says, "is to take and look at it for yourself," I says. "Of course if it

ain't there," I says, "you may take and call me what you like." "Right,"

he says, "I will": and we went straight off. Now, I leave it to you, sir,

if that ad., as we term 'em, with 'Arrington on it warn't as plain as

ever you see anythink--blue letters on yeller glass, and as I says at the

time, and you borne me out, reg'lar _in_ the glass, because, if you

remember, you recollect of me swabbing it with my duster.' 'To be sure I

do, quite clearly--well?' 'You may say well, I don't think. Mr Timms he

gets in that car with a light--no, he telled William to 'old the light

outside. "Now," he says, "where's your precious ad. what we've 'eard so

much about?" "'Ere it is," I says, "Mr Timms," and I laid my 'and on it.'

The conductor paused.

'Well,' said Mr Dunning, 'it was gone, I suppose. Broken?'

'Broke!--not it. There warn't, if you'll believe me, no more trace of

them letters--blue letters they was--on that piece o' glass, than--well,

it's no good _me_ talkin'. _I_ never see such a thing. I leave it to

William here if--but there, as I says, where's the benefit in me going on

about it?'

'And what did Mr Timms say?'

'Why 'e did what I give 'im leave to--called us pretty much anythink he

liked, and I don't know as I blame him so much neither. But what we

thought, William and me did, was as we seen you take down a bit of a note

about that--well, that letterin'--'

'I certainly did that, and I have it now. Did you wish me to speak to Mr

Timms myself, and show it to him? Was that what you came in about?'

'There, didn't I say as much?' said William. 'Deal with a gent if you can

get on the track of one, that's my word. Now perhaps, George, you'll

allow as I ain't took you very far wrong tonight.'

'Very well, William, very well; no need for you to go on as if you'd 'ad

to frog's-march me 'ere. I come quiet, didn't I? All the same for that,

we 'adn't ought to take up your time this way, sir; but if it so 'appened

you could find time to step round to the Company's orfice in the morning

and tell Mr Timms what you seen for yourself, we should lay under a very

'igh obligation to you for the trouble. You see it ain't bein'

called--well, one thing and another, as we mind, but if they got it into

their 'ead at the orfice as we seen things as warn't there, why, one

thing leads to another, and where we should be a twelvemunce 'ence--well,

you can understand what I mean.'

Amid further elucidations of the proposition, George, conducted by

William, left the room.

The incredulity of Mr Timms (who had a nodding acquaintance with Mr

Dunning) was greatly modified on the following day by what the latter

could tell and show him; and any bad mark that might have been attached

to the names of William and George was not suffered to remain on the

Company's books; but explanation there was none.

Mr Dunning's interest in the matter was kept alive by an incident of the

following afternoon. He was walking from his club to the train, and he

noticed some way ahead a man with a handful of leaflets such as are

distributed to passers-by by agents of enterprising firms. This agent had

not chosen a very crowded street for his operations: in fact, Mr Dunning

did not see him get rid of a single leaflet before he himself reached the

spot. One was thrust into his hand as he passed: the hand that gave it

touched his, and he experienced a sort of little shock as it did so. It

seemed unnaturally rough and hot. He looked in passing at the giver, but

the impression he got was so unclear that, however much he tried to

reckon it up subsequently, nothing would come. He was walking quickly,

and as he went on glanced at the paper. It was a blue one. The name of

Harrington in large capitals caught his eye. He stopped, startled, and

felt for his glasses. The next instant the leaflet was twitched out of

his hand by a man who hurried past, and was irrecoverably gone. He ran

back a few paces, but where was the passer-by? and where the distributor?

It was in a somewhat pensive frame of mind that Mr Dunning passed on the

following day into the Select Manuscript Room of the British Museum, and

filled up tickets for Harley 3586, and some other volumes. After a few

minutes they were brought to him, and he was settling the one he wanted

first upon the desk, when he thought he heard his own name whispered

behind him. He turned round hastily, and in doing so, brushed his little

portfolio of loose papers on to the floor. He saw no one he recognized

except one of the staff in charge of the room, who nodded to him, and he

proceeded to pick up his papers. He thought he had them all, and was

turning to begin work, when a stout gentleman at the table behind him,

who was just rising to leave, and had collected his own belongings,

touched him on the shoulder, saying, 'May I give you this? I think it

should be yours,' and handed him a missing quire. 'It is mine, thank

you,' said Mr Dunning. In another moment the man had left the room. Upon

finishing his work for the afternoon, Mr Dunning had some conversation

with the assistant in charge, and took occasion to ask who the stout

gentleman was. 'Oh, he's a man named Karswell,' said the assistant; 'he

was asking me a week ago who were the great authorities on alchemy, and

of course I told him you were the only one in the country. I'll see if I

can't catch him: he'd like to meet you, I'm sure.'

'For heaven's sake don't dream of it!' said Mr Dunning, 'I'm particularly

anxious to avoid him.'

'Oh! very well,' said the assistant, 'he doesn't come here often: I dare

say you won't meet him.'

More than once on the way home that day Mr Dunning confessed to himself

that he did not look forward with his usual cheerfulness to a solitary

evening. It seemed to him that something ill-defined and impalpable had

stepped in between him and his fellow-men--had taken him in charge, as it

were. He wanted to sit close up to his neighbours in the train and in the

tram, but as luck would have it both train and car were markedly empty.

The conductor George was thoughtful, and appeared to be absorbed in

calculations as to the number of passengers. On arriving at his house he

found Dr Watson, his medical man, on his doorstep. 'I've had to upset

your household arrangements, I'm sorry to say, Dunning. Both your

servants _hors de combat_. In fact, I've had to send them to the Nursing

Home.'

'Good heavens! what's the matter?'

'It's something like ptomaine poisoning, I should think: you've not

suffered yourself, I can see, or you wouldn't be walking about. I think

they'll pull through all right.'

'Dear, dear! Have you any idea what brought it on?'

'Well, they tell me they bought some shell-fish from

a hawker at their dinner-time. It's odd. I've made

inquiries, but I can't find that any hawker has been to other

houses in the street. I couldn't send word to you; they won't be back for

a bit yet. You come and dine with me tonight, anyhow, and we can make

arrangements for going on. Eight o'clock. Don't be too anxious.'

The solitary evening was thus obviated; at the expense of some distress and

inconvenience, it is true. Mr Dunning spent the time pleasantly enough

with the doctor (a rather recent settler), and returned to his lonely

home at about 11.30. The night he passed is not one on which he looks

back with any satisfaction. He was in bed and the light was out. He was

wondering if the charwoman would come early enough to get him hot water

next morning, when he heard the unmistakable sound of his study door

opening. No step followed it on the passage floor, but the sound must

mean mischief, for he knew that he had shut the door that evening after

putting his papers away in his desk. It was rather shame than courage

that induced him to slip out into the passage and lean over the banister

in his nightgown, listening. No light was visible; no further sound came:

only a gust of warm, or even hot air played for an instant round his

shins. He went back and decided to lock himself into his room. There was

more unpleasantness, however. Either an economical suburban company had

decided that their light would not be required in the small hours, and

had stopped working, or else something was wrong with the meter; the

effect was in any case that the electric light was off. The obvious

course was to find a match, and also to consult his watch: he might as

well know how many hours of discomfort awaited him. So he put his hand

into the well-known nook under the pillow: only, it did not get so far.

What he touched was, according to his account, a mouth, with teeth, and

with hair about it, and, he declares, not the mouth of a human being. I

do not think it is any use to guess what he said or did; but he was in a

spare room with the door locked and his ear to it before he was clearly

conscious again. And there he spent the rest of a most miserable night,

looking every moment for some fumbling at the door: but nothing came.

The venturing back to his own room in the morning was attended with many

listenings and quiverings. The door stood open, fortunately, and the

blinds were up (the servants had been out of the house before the hour of

drawing them down); there was, to be short, no trace of an inhabitant.

The watch, too, was in its usual place; nothing was disturbed, only the

wardrobe door had swung open, in accordance with its confirmed habit. A

ring at the back door now announced the charwoman, who had been ordered

the night before, and nerved Mr Dunning, after letting her in, to

continue his search in other parts of the house. It was equally

fruitless.

The day thus begun went on dismally enough. He dared not go to the

Museum: in spite of what the assistant had said, Karswell might turn up

there, and Dunning felt he could not cope with a probably hostile

stranger. His own house was odious; he hated sponging on the doctor. He

spent some little time in a call at the Nursing Home, where he was

slightly cheered by a good report of his housekeeper and maid. Towards

lunch-time he betook himself to his club, again experiencing a gleam of

satisfaction at seeing the Secretary of the Association. At luncheon

Dunning told his friend the more material of his woes, but could not

bring himself to speak of those that weighed most heavily on his spirits.

'My poor dear man,' said the Secretary, 'what an upset! Look here: we're

alone at home, absolutely. You must put up with us. Yes! no excuse: send

your things in this afternoon.' Dunning was unable to stand out: he was,

in truth, becoming acutely anxious, as the hours went on, as to what that

night might have waiting for him. He was almost happy as he hurried home

to pack up.

His friends, when they had time to take stock of him, were rather shocked

at his lorn appearance, and did their best to keep him up to the mark.

Not altogether without success: but, when the two men were smoking alone

later, Dunning became dull again. Suddenly he said, 'Gayton, I believe

that alchemist man knows it was I who got his paper rejected.' Gayton

whistled. 'What makes you think that?' he said. Dunning told of his

conversation with the Museum assistant, and Gayton could only agree that

the guess seemed likely to be correct. 'Not that I care much,' Dunning

went on, 'only it might be a nuisance if we were to meet. He's a

bad-tempered party, I imagine.' Conversation dropped again; Gayton became

more and more strongly impressed with the desolateness that came over

Dunning's face and bearing, and finally--though with a considerable

effort--he asked him point-blank whether something serious was not

bothering him. Dunning gave an exclamation of relief. 'I was perishing to

get it off my mind,' he said. 'Do you know anything about a man named

John Harrington?' Gayton was thoroughly startled, and at the moment could

only ask why. Then the complete story of Dunning's experiences came

out--what had happened in the tramcar, in his own house, and in the

street, the troubling of spirit that had crept over him, and still held

him; and he ended with the question he had begun with. Gayton was at a

loss how to answer him. To tell the story of Harrington's end would

perhaps be right; only, Dunning was in a nervous state, the story was a

grim one, and he could not help asking himself whether there were not a

connecting link between these two cases, in the person of Karswell. It

was a difficult concession for a scientific man, but it could be eased by

the phrase 'hypnotic suggestion'. In the end he decided that his answer

tonight should be guarded; he would talk the situation over with his

wife. So he said that he had known Harrington at Cambridge, and believed

he had died suddenly in 1889, adding a few details about the man and his

published work. He did talk over the matter with Mrs Gayton, and, as he

had anticipated, she leapt at once to the conclusion which had been

hovering before him. It was she who reminded him of the surviving

brother, Henry Harrington, and she also who suggested that he might be

got hold of by means of their hosts of the day before. 'He might be a

hopeless crank,' objected Gayton. 'That could be ascertained from the

Bennetts, who knew him,' Mrs Gayton retorted; and she undertook to see

the Bennetts the very next day.

* * * * *

It is not necessary to tell in further detail the steps by which Henry

Harrington and Dunning were brought together.

* * * * *

The next scene that does require to be narrated is a conversation that

took place between the two. Dunning had told Harrington of the strange

ways in which the dead man's name had been brought before him, and had

said something, besides, of his own subsequent experiences. Then he had

asked if Harrington was disposed, in return, to recall any of the

circumstances connected with his brother's death. Harrington's surprise

at what he heard can be imagined: but his reply was readily given.

'John,' he said, 'was in a very odd state, undeniably, from time to time,

during some weeks before, though not immediately before, the catastrophe.

There were several things; the principal notion he had was that he

thought he was being followed. No doubt he was an impressionable man, but

he never had had such fancies as this before. I cannot get it out of my

mind that there was ill-will at work, and what you tell me about yourself

reminds me very much of my brother. Can you think of any possible

connecting link?'

'There is just one that has been taking shape vaguely in my mind. I've

been told that your brother reviewed a book very severely not long before

he died, and just lately I have happened to cross the path of the man who

wrote that book in a way he would resent.'

'Don't tell me the man was called Karswell.'

'Why not? that is exactly his name.'

Henry Harrington leant back. 'That is final to my mind. Now I must

explain further. From something he said, I feel sure that my brother John

was beginning to believe--very much against his will--that Karswell was

at the bottom of his trouble. I want to tell you what seems to me to have

a bearing on the situation. My brother was a great musician, and used to

run up to concerts in town. He came back, three months before he died,

from one of these, and gave me his programme to look at--an analytical

programme: he always kept them. "I nearly missed this one," he said. "I

suppose I must have dropped it: anyhow, I was looking for it under my

seat and in my pockets and so on, and my neighbour offered me his; said

'might he give it me, he had no further use for it,' and he went away

just afterwards. I don't know who he was--a stout, clean-shaven man. I

should have been sorry to miss it; of course I could have bought another,

but this cost me nothing." At another time he told me that he had been

very uncomfortable both on the way to his hotel and during the night. I

piece things together now in thinking it over. Then, not very long after,

he was going over these programmes, putting them in order to have them

bound up, and in this particular one (which by the way I had hardly

glanced at), he found quite near the beginning a strip of paper with some

very odd writing on it in red and black--most carefully done--it looked

to me more like Runic letters than anything else. "Why," he said, "this

must belong to my fat neighbour. It looks as if it might be worth

returning to him; it may be a copy of something; evidently someone has

taken trouble over it. How can I find his address?" We talked it over for

a little and agreed that it wasn't worth advertising about, and that my

brother had better look out for the man at the next concert, to which he

was going very soon. The paper was lying on the book and we were both by

the fire; it was a cold, windy summer evening. I suppose the door blew

open, though I didn't notice it: at any rate a gust--a warm gust it

was--came quite suddenly between us, took the paper and blew it straight

into the fire: it was light, thin paper, and flared and went up the

chimney in a single ash. "Well," I said, "you can't give it back now." He

said nothing for a minute: then rather crossly, "No, I can't; but why you

should keep on saying so I don't know." I remarked that I didn't say it

more than once. "Not more than four times, you mean," was all he said. I

remember all that very clearly, without any good reason; and now to come

to the point. I don't know if you looked at that book of Karswell's which

my unfortunate brother reviewed. It's not likely that you should: but I

did, both before his death and after it. The first time we made game of

it together. It was written in no style at all--split infinitives, and

every sort of thing that makes an Oxford gorge rise. Then there was

nothing that the man didn't swallow: mixing up classical myths, and

stories out of the _Golden Legend_ with reports of savage customs of

today--all very proper, no doubt, if you know how to use them, but he

didn't: he seemed to put the _Golden Legend_ and the _Golden Bough_

exactly on a par, and to believe both: a pitiable exhibition, in short.

Well, after the misfortune, I looked over the book again. It was no

better than before, but the impression which it left this time on my mind

was different. I suspected--as I told you--that Karswell had borne

ill-will to my brother, even that he was in some way responsible for what

had happened; and now his book seemed to me to be a very sinister

performance indeed. One chapter in particular struck me, in which he

spoke of "casting the Runes" on people, either for the purpose of gaining

their affection or of getting them out of the way--perhaps more

especially the latter: he spoke of all this in a way that really seemed

to me to imply actual knowledge. I've not time to go into details, but

the upshot is that I am pretty sure from information received that the

civil man at the concert was Karswell: I suspect--I more than

suspect--that the paper was of importance: and I do believe that if my

brother had been able to give it back, he might have been alive now.

Therefore, it occurs to me to ask you whether you have anything to put

beside what I have told you.'

By way of answer, Dunning had the episode in the Manuscript Room at the

British Museum to relate. 'Then he did actually hand you some papers;

have you examined them? No? because we must, if you'll allow it, look at

them at once, and very carefully.'

They went to the still empty house--empty, for the two servants were not

yet able to return to work. Dunning's portfolio of papers was gathering

dust on the writing-table. In it were the quires of small-sized

scribbling paper which he used for his transcripts: and from one of

these, as he took it up, there slipped and fluttered out into the room

with uncanny quickness, a strip of thin light paper. The window was open,

but Harrington slammed it to, just in time to intercept the paper, which

he caught. 'I thought so,' he said; 'it might be the identical thing that

was given to my brother. You'll have to look out, Dunning; this may mean

something quite serious for you.'

A long consultation took place. The paper was narrowly examined. As

Harrington had said, the characters on it were more like Runes than

anything else, but not decipherable by either man, and both hesitated to

copy them, for fear, as they confessed, of perpetuating whatever evil

purpose they might conceal. So it has remained impossible (if I may

anticipate a little) to ascertain what was conveyed in this curious

message or commission. Both Dunning and Harrington are firmly convinced

that it had the effect of bringing its possessors into very undesirable

company. That it must be returned to the source whence it came they were

agreed, and further, that the only safe and certain way was that of

personal service; and here contrivance would be necessary, for Dunning

was known by sight to Karswell. He must, for one thing, alter his

appearance by shaving his beard. But then might not the blow fall first?

Harrington thought they could time it. He knew the date of the concert at

which the 'black spot' had been put on his brother: it was June 18th. The

death had followed on Sept. 18th. Dunning reminded him that three months

had been mentioned on the inscription on the car-window. 'Perhaps,' he

added, with a cheerless laugh, 'mine may be a bill at three months too. I

believe I can fix it by my diary. Yes, April 23rd was the day at the

Museum; that brings us to July 23rd. Now, you know, it becomes extremely

important to me to know anything you will tell me about the progress of

your brother's trouble, if it is possible for you to speak of it.' 'Of

course. Well, the sense of being watched whenever he was alone was the

most distressing thing to him. After a time I took to sleeping in his

room, and he was the better for that: still, he talked a great deal in

his sleep. What about? Is it wise to dwell on that, at least before

things are straightened out? I think not, but I can tell you this: two

things came for him by post during those weeks, both with a London

postmark, and addressed in a commercial hand. One was a woodcut of

Bewick's, roughly torn out of the page: one which shows a moonlit road

and a man walking along it, followed by an awful demon creature. Under it

were written the lines out of the "Ancient Mariner" (which I suppose the

cut illustrates) about one who, having once looked round--

walks on,

And turns no more his head,

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

The other was a calendar, such as tradesmen often send. My brother paid

no attention to this, but I looked at it after his death, and found that

everything after Sept. 18 had been torn out. You may be surprised at his

having gone out alone the evening he was killed, but the fact is that

during the last ten days or so of his life he had been quite free from

the sense of being followed or watched.'

The end of the consultation was this. Harrington, who knew a neighbour of

Karswell's, thought he saw a way of keeping a watch on his movements. It

would be Dunning's part to be in readiness to try to cross Karswell's

path at any moment, to keep the paper safe and in a place of ready

access.

They parted. The next weeks were no doubt a severe strain upon Dunning's

nerves: the intangible barrier which had seemed to rise about him on the

day when he received the paper, gradually developed into a brooding

blackness that cut him off from the means of escape to which one might

have thought he might resort. No one was at hand who was likely to

suggest them to him, and he seemed robbed of all initiative. He waited

with inexpressible anxiety as May, June, and early July passed on, for a

mandate from Harrington. But all this time Karswell remained immovable at

Lufford.

At last, in less than a week before the date he had come to look upon as

the end of his earthly activities, came a telegram: 'Leaves Victoria by

boat train Thursday night. Do not miss. I come to you to-night.

Harrington.'

He arrived accordingly, and they concocted plans. The train left Victoria

at nine and its last stop before Dover was Croydon West. Harrington would

mark down Karswell at Victoria, and look out for Dunning at Croydon,

calling to him if need were by a name agreed upon. Dunning, disguised as

far as might be, was to have no label or initials on any hand luggage,

and must at all costs have the paper with him.

Dunning's suspense as he waited on the Croydon platform I need not

attempt to describe. His sense of danger during the last days had only

been sharpened by the fact that the cloud about him had perceptibly been

lighter; but relief was an ominous symptom, and, if Karswell eluded him

now, hope was gone: and there were so many chances of that. The rumour of

the journey might be itself a device. The twenty minutes in which he

paced the platform and persecuted every porter with inquiries as to the

boat train were as bitter as any he had spent. Still, the train came, and

Harrington was at the window. It was important, of course, that there

should be no recognition: so Dunning got in at the farther end of the

corridor carriage, and only gradually made his way to the compartment

where Harrington and Karswell were. He was pleased, on the whole, to see

that the train was far from full.

Karswell was on the alert, but gave no sign of recognition. Dunning took

the seat not immediately facing him, and attempted, vainly at first,

then with increasing command of his faculties, to reckon the

possibilities of making the desired transfer. Opposite to Karswell, and

next to Dunning, was a heap of Karswell's coats on the seat. It would be

of no use to slip the paper into these--he would not be safe, or would

not feel so, unless in some way it could be proffered by him and

accepted by the other. There was a handbag, open, and with papers in it.

Could he manage to conceal this (so that perhaps Karswell might leave

the carriage without it), and then find and give it to him? This was the

plan that suggested itself. If he could only have counselled with

Harrington! but that could not be. The minutes went on. More than once

Karswell rose and went out into the corridor. The second time Dunning

was on the point of attempting to make the bag fall off the seat, but he

caught Harrington's eye, and read in it a warning. Karswell, from the

corridor, was watching: probably to see if the two men recognized each

other. He returned, but was evidently restless: and, when he rose the

third time, hope dawned, for something did slip off his seat and fall

with hardly a sound to the floor. Karswell went out once more, and

passed out of range of the corridor window. Dunning picked up what had

fallen, and saw that the key was in his hands in the form of one of

Cook's ticket-cases, with tickets in it. These cases have a pocket in

the cover, and within very few seconds the paper of which we have heard

was in the pocket of this one. To make the operation more secure,

Harrington stood in the doorway of the compartment and fiddled with the

blind. It was done, and done at the right time, for the train was now

slowing down towards Dover.

In a moment more Karswell re-entered the compartment. As he did so,

Dunning, managing, he knew not how, to suppress the tremble in his voice,

handed him the ticket-case, saying, 'May I give you this, sir? I believe

it is yours.' After a brief glance at the ticket inside, Karswell uttered

the hoped-for response, 'Yes, it is; much obliged to you, sir,' and he

placed it in his breast pocket.

Even in the few moments that remained--moments of tense anxiety, for they

knew not to what a premature finding of the paper might lead--both men

noticed that the carriage seemed to darken about them and to grow warmer;

that Karswell was fidgety and oppressed; that he drew the heap of loose

coats near to him and cast it back as if it repelled him; and that he

then sat upright and glanced anxiously at both. They, with sickening

anxiety, busied themselves in collecting their belongings; but they both

thought that Karswell was on the point of speaking when the train stopped

at Dover Town. It was natural that in the short space between town and

pier they should both go into the corridor.

At the pier they got out, but so empty was the train that they were

forced to linger on the platform until Karswell should have passed ahead

of them with his porter on the way to the boat, and only then was it safe

for them to exchange a pressure of the hand and a word of concentrated

congratulation. The effect upon Dunning was to make him almost faint.

Harrington made him lean up against the wall, while he himself went

forward a few yards within sight of the gangway to the boat, at which

Karswell had now arrived. The man at the head of it examined his ticket,

and, laden with coats, he passed down into the boat. Suddenly the official

called after him, 'You, sir, beg pardon, did the other gentleman show his

ticket?' 'What the devil do you mean by the other gentleman?' Karswell's

snarling voice called back from the deck. The man bent over and looked at

him. 'The devil? Well, I don't know, I'm sure,' Harrington heard him say

to himself, and then aloud, 'My mistake, sir; must have been your rugs!

ask your pardon.' And then, to a subordinate near him, ''Ad he got a dog

with him, or what? Funny thing: I could 'a' swore 'e wasn't alone. Well,

whatever it was, they'll 'ave to see to it aboard. She's off now. Another

week and we shall be gettin' the 'oliday customers.' In five minutes more

there was nothing but the lessening lights of the boat, the long line of

the Dover lamps, the night breeze, and the moon.

Long and long the two sat in their room at the 'Lord Warden'. In spite of

the removal of their greatest anxiety, they were oppressed with a doubt,

not of the lightest. Had they been justified in sending a man to his

death, as they believed they had? Ought they not to warn him, at least?

'No,' said Harrington; 'if he is the murderer I think him, we have done

no more than is just. Still, if you think it better--but how and where

can you warn him?' 'He was booked to Abbeville only,' said Dunning. 'I

saw that. If I wired to the hotels there in Joanne's Guide, "Examine your

ticket-case, Dunning," I should feel happier. This is the 21st: he will

have a day. But I am afraid he has gone into the dark.' So telegrams were

left at the hotel office.

It is not clear whether these reached their destination, or whether, if

they did, they were understood. All that is known is that, on the

afternoon of the 23rd, an English traveller, examining the front of St

Wulfram's Church at Abbeville, then under extensive repair, was struck on

the head and instantly killed by a stone falling from the scaffold

erected round the north-western tower, there being, as was clearly

proved, no workman on the scaffold at that moment: and the traveller's

papers identified him as Mr Karswell.

Only one detail shall be added. At Karswell's sale a set of Bewick, sold

with all faults, was acquired by Harrington. The page with the woodcut of

the traveller and the demon was, as he had expected, mutilated. Also,

after a judicious interval, Harrington repeated to Dunning something of

what he had heard his brother say in his sleep: but it was not long

before Dunning stopped him.

THE STALLS OF BARCHESTER CATHEDRAL

This matter began, as far as I am concerned, with the reading of a notice

in the obituary section of the _Gentleman's Magazine_ for an early year

in the nineteenth century:

On February 26th, at his residence in the Cathedral Close of

Barchester, the Venerable John Benwell Haynes, D.D., aged 57,

Archdeacon of Sowerbridge and Rector of Pickhill and Candley. He was

of ---- College, Cambridge, and where, by talent and assiduity, he

commanded the esteem of his seniors; when, at the usual time, he took

his first degree, his name stood high in the list of _wranglers_.

These academical honours procured for him within a short time a

Fellowship of his College. In the year 1783 he received Holy Orders,

and was shortly afterwards presented to the perpetual Curacy of

Ranxton-sub-Ashe by his friend and patron the late truly venerable

Bishop of Lichfield.... His speedy preferments, first to a Prebend,

and subsequently to the dignity of Precentor in the Cathedral of

Barchester, form an eloquent testimony to the respect in which he was

held and to his eminent qualifications. He succeeded to the

Archdeaconry upon the sudden decease of Archdeacon Pulteney in 1810.

His sermons, ever conformable to the principles of the religion and

Church which he adorned, displayed in no ordinary degree, without the

least trace of enthusiasm, the refinement of the scholar united with

the graces of the Christian. Free from sectarian violence, and

informed by the spirit of the truest charity, they will long dwell in

the memories of his hearers. [Here a further omission.] The

productions of his pen include an able defence of Episcopacy, which,

though often perused by the author of this tribute to his memory,

afford but one additional instance of the want of liberality and

enterprise which is a too common characteristic of the publishers of

our generation. His published works are, indeed, confined to a

spirited and elegant version of the _Argonautica_ of Valerius Flaccus,

a volume of _Discourses upon the Several Events in the Life of

Joshua_, delivered in his Cathedral, and a number of the charges

which he pronounced at various visitations to the clergy of his

Archdeaconry. These are distinguished by etc., etc. The urbanity and

hospitality of the subject of these lines will not readily be

forgotten by those who enjoyed his acquaintance. His interest in the

venerable and awful pile under whose hoary vault he was so punctual

an attendant, and particularly in the musical portion of its rites,

might be termed filial, and formed a strong and delightful contrast

to the polite indifference displayed by too many of our Cathedral

dignitaries at the present time.

The final paragraph, after informing us that Dr Haynes died a bachelor,

says:

It might have been augured that an existence so placid and benevolent

would have been terminated in a ripe old age by a dissolution equally

gradual and calm. But how unsearchable are the workings of

Providence! The peaceful and retired seclusion amid which the

honoured evening of Dr Haynes' life was mellowing to its close was

destined to be disturbed, nay, shattered, by a tragedy as appalling

as it was unexpected. The morning of the 26th of February--

But perhaps I shall do better to keep back the remainder of the narrative

until I have told the circumstances which led up to it. These, as far as

they are now accessible, I have derived from another source.

I had read the obituary notice which I have been quoting, quite by

chance, along with a great many others of the same period. It had excited

some little speculation in my mind, but, beyond thinking that, if I ever

had an opportunity of examining the local records of the period

indicated, I would try to remember Dr Haynes, I made no effort to pursue

his case.

Quite lately I was cataloguing the manuscripts in the library of the

college to which he belonged. I had reached the end of the numbered

volumes on the shelves, and I proceeded to ask the librarian whether

there were any more books which he thought I ought to include in my

description. 'I don't think there are,' he said, 'but we had better come

and look at the manuscript class and make sure. Have you time to do that

now?' I had time. We went to the library, checked off the manuscripts,

and, at the end of our survey, arrived at a shelf of which I had seen

nothing. Its contents consisted for the most part of sermons, bundles of

fragmentary papers, college exercises, _Cyrus_, an epic poem in several

cantos, the product of a country clergyman's leisure, mathematical tracts

by a deceased professor, and other similar material of a kind with which

I am only too familiar. I took brief notes of these. Lastly, there was a

tin box, which was pulled out and dusted. Its label, much faded, was thus

inscribed: 'Papers of the Ven. Archdeacon Haynes. Bequeathed in 1834 by

his sister, Miss Letitia Haynes.'

I knew at once that the name was one which I had somewhere encountered,

and could very soon locate it. 'That must be the Archdeacon Haynes who

came to a very odd end at Barchester. I've read his obituary in the

_Gentleman's Magazine_. May I take the box home? Do you know if there is

anything interesting in it?'

The librarian was very willing that I should take the box and examine it

at leisure. 'I never looked inside it myself,' he said, 'but I've always

been meaning to. I am pretty sure that is the box which our old Master

once said ought never to have been accepted by the college. He said that

to Martin years ago; and he said also that as long as he had control over

the library it should never be opened. Martin told me about it, and said

that he wanted terribly to know what was in it; but the Master was

librarian, and always kept the box in the lodge, so there was no getting

at it in his time, and when he died it was taken away by mistake by his

heirs, and only returned a few years ago. I can't think why I haven't

opened it; but, as I have to go away from Cambridge this afternoon, you

had better have first go at it. I think I can trust you not to publish

anything undesirable in our catalogue.'

I took the box home and examined its contents, and thereafter consulted

the librarian as to what should be done about publication, and, since I

have his leave to make a story out of it, provided I disguise the

identity of the people concerned, I will try what can be done.

The materials are, of course, mainly journals and letters. How much I

shall quote and how much epitomize must be determined by considerations

of space. The proper understanding of the situation has necessitated a

little--not very arduous--research, which has been greatly facilitated by

the excellent illustrations and text of the Barchester volume in Bell's

_Cathedral Series_.

When you enter the choir of Barchester Cathedral now, you pass through a

screen of metal and coloured marbles, designed by Sir Gilbert Scott, and

find yourself in what I must call a very bare and odiously furnished

place. The stalls are modern, without canopies. The places of the

dignitaries and the names of the prebends have fortunately been allowed

to survive, and are inscribed on small brass plates affixed to the

stalls. The organ is in the triforium, and what is seen of the case is

Gothic. The reredos and its surroundings are like every other.

Careful engravings of a hundred years ago show a very different state of

things. The organ is on a massive classical screen. The stalls are also

classical and very massive. There is a baldacchino of wood over the

altar, with urns upon its corners. Farther east is a solid altar screen,

classical in design, of wood, with a pediment, in which is a triangle

surrounded by rays, enclosing certain Hebrew letters in gold. Cherubs

contemplate these. There is a pulpit with a great sounding-board at the

eastern end of the stalls on the north side, and there is a black and

white marble pavement. Two ladies and a gentleman are admiring the

general effect. From other sources I gather that the archdeacon's stall

then, as now, was next to the bishop's throne at the south-eastern end of

the stalls. His house almost faces the west front of the church, and is a

fine red-brick building of William the Third's time.

Here Dr Haynes, already a mature man, took up his abode with his sister

in the year 1810. The dignity had long been the object of his wishes, but

his predecessor refused to depart until he had attained the age of

ninety-two. About a week after he had held a modest festival in

celebration of that ninety-second birthday, there came a morning, late in

the year, when Dr Haynes, hurrying cheerfully into his breakfast-room,

rubbing his hands and humming a tune, was greeted, and checked in his

genial flow of spirits, by the sight of his sister, seated, indeed, in

her usual place behind the tea-urn, but bowed forward and sobbing

unrestrainedly into her handkerchief. 'What--what is the matter? What bad

news?' he began. 'Oh, Johnny, you've not heard? The poor dear

archdeacon!' 'The archdeacon, yes? What is it--ill, is he?' 'No, no; they

found him on the staircase this morning; it is so shocking.' 'Is it

possible! Dear, dear, poor Pulteney! Had there been any seizure?' 'They

don't think so, and that is almost the worst thing about it. It seems to

have been all the fault of that stupid maid of theirs, Jane.' Dr Haynes

paused. 'I don't quite understand, Letitia. How was the maid at fault?'

'Why, as far as I can make out, there was a stair-rod missing, and she

never mentioned it, and the poor archdeacon set his foot quite on the

edge of the step--you know how slippery that oak is--and it seems he must

have fallen almost the whole flight and broken his neck. It _is_ so sad

for poor Miss Pulteney. Of course, they will get rid of the girl at once.

I never liked her.' Miss Haynes's grief resumed its sway, but eventually

relaxed so far as to permit of her taking some breakfast. Not so her

brother, who, after standing in silence before the window for some

minutes, left the room, and did not appear again that morning.

I need only add that the careless maid-servant was dismissed forthwith,

but that the missing stair-rod was very shortly afterwards found _under_

the stair-carpet--an additional proof, if any were needed, of extreme

stupidity and carelessness on her part.

For a good many years Dr Haynes had been marked out by his ability, which

seems to have been really considerable, as the likely successor of

Archdeacon Pulteney, and no disappointment was in store for him. He was

duly installed, and entered with zeal upon the discharge of those

functions which are appropriate to one in his position. A considerable

space in his journals is occupied with exclamations upon the confusion in

which Archdeacon Pulteney had left the business of his office and the

documents appertaining to it. Dues upon Wringham and Barnswood have been

uncollected for something like twelve years, and are largely

irrecoverable; no visitation has been held for seven years; four chancels

are almost past mending. The persons deputized by the archdeacon have

been nearly as incapable as himself. It was almost a matter for

thankfulness that this state of things had not been permitted to

continue, and a letter from a friend confirms this view. '[Greek: ho

katechôn],' it says (in rather cruel allusion to the Second Epistle to

the Thessalonians), 'is removed at last. My poor friend! Upon what a

scene of confusion will you be entering! I give you my word that, on the

last occasion of my crossing his threshold, there was no single paper

that he could lay hands upon, no syllable of mine that he could hear, and

no fact in connexion with my business that he could remember. But now,

thanks to a negligent maid and a loose stair-carpet, there is some

prospect that necessary business will be transacted without a complete

loss alike of voice and temper.' This letter was tucked into a pocket in

the cover of one of the diaries.

There can be no doubt of the new archdeacon's zeal and enthusiasm. 'Give

me but time to reduce to some semblance of order the innumerable errors

and complications with which I am confronted, and I shall gladly and

sincerely join with the aged Israelite in the canticle which too many, I

fear, pronounce but with their lips.' This reflection I find, not in a

diary, but a letter; the doctor's friends seem to have returned his

correspondence to his surviving sister. He does not confine himself,

however, to reflections. His investigation of the rights and duties of

his office are very searching and business-like, and there is a

calculation in one place that a period of three years will just suffice

to set the business of the Archdeaconry upon a proper footing. The

estimate appears to have been an exact one. For just three years he is

occupied in reforms; but I look in vain at the end of that time for the

promised _Nunc dimittis_. He has now found a new sphere of activity.

Hitherto his duties have precluded him from more than an occasional

attendance at the Cathedral services. Now he begins to take an interest

in the fabric and the music. Upon his struggles with the organist, an old

gentleman who had been in office since 1786, I have no time to dwell;

they were not attended with any marked success. More to the purpose is

his sudden growth of enthusiasm for the Cathedral itself and its

furniture. There is a draft of a letter to Sylvanus Urban (which I do not

think was ever sent) describing the stalls in the choir. As I have said,

these were of fairly late date--of about the year 1700, in fact.

'The archdeacon's stall, situated at the south-east end, west of the

episcopal throne (now so worthily occupied by the truly excellent prelate

who adorns the See of Barchester), is distinguished by some curious

ornamentation. In addition to the arms of Dean West, by whose efforts the

whole of the internal furniture of the choir was completed, the

prayer-desk is terminated at the eastern extremity by three small but

remarkable statuettes in the grotesque manner. One is an exquisitely

modelled figure of a cat, whose crouching posture suggests with admirable

spirit the suppleness, vigilance, and craft of the redoubted adversary of

the genus _Mus_. Opposite to this is a figure seated upon a throne and

invested with the attributes of royalty; but it is no earthly monarch

whom the carver has sought to portray. His feet are studiously concealed

by the long robe in which he is draped: but neither the crown nor the cap

which he wears suffice to hide the prick-ears and curving horns which

betray his Tartarean origin; and the hand which rests upon his knee is

armed with talons of horrifying length and sharpness. Between these two

figures stands a shape muffled in a long mantle. This might at first

sight be mistaken for a monk or "friar of orders gray", for the head is

cowled and a knotted cord depends from somewhere about the waist. A

slight inspection, however, will lead to a very different conclusion. The

knotted cord is quickly seen to be a halter, held by a hand all but

concealed within the draperies; while the sunken features and, horrid to

relate, the rent flesh upon the cheek-bones, proclaim the King of

Terrors. These figures are evidently the production of no unskilled

chisel; and should it chance that any of your correspondents are able to

throw light upon their origin and significance, my obligations to your

valuable miscellany will be largely increased.'

There is more description in the paper, and, seeing that the woodwork in

question has now disappeared, it has a considerable interest. A paragraph

at the end is worth quoting:

'Some late researches among the Chapter accounts have shown me that the

carving of the stalls was not, as was very usually reported, the work of

Dutch artists, but was executed by a native of this city or district

named Austin. The timber was procured from an oak copse in the vicinity,

the property of the Dean and Chapter, known as Holywood. Upon a recent

visit to the parish within whose boundaries it is situated, I learned

from the aged and truly respectable incumbent that traditions still

lingered amongst the inhabitants of the great size and age of the oaks

employed to furnish the materials of the stately structure which has

been, however imperfectly, described in the above lines. Of one in

particular, which stood near the centre of the grove, it is remembered

that it was known as the Hanging Oak. The propriety of that title is

confirmed by the fact that a quantity of human bones was found in the

soil about its roots, and that at certain times of the year it was the

custom for those who wished to secure a successful issue to their

affairs, whether of love or the ordinary business of life, to suspend

from its boughs small images or puppets rudely fashioned of straw, twigs,

or the like rustic materials.'

So much for the archdeacon's archaeological investigations. To return to

his career as it is to be gathered from his diaries. Those of his first

three years of hard and careful work show him throughout in high spirits,

and, doubtless, during this time, that reputation for hospitality and

urbanity which is mentioned in his obituary notice was well deserved.

After that, as time goes on, I see a shadow coming over him--destined to

develop into utter blackness--which I cannot but think must have been

reflected in his outward demeanour. He commits a good deal of his fears

and troubles to his diary; there was no other outlet for them. He was

unmarried and his sister was not always with him. But I am much mistaken

if he has told all that he might have told. A series of extracts shall be

given:

_Aug. 30th 1816_--The days begin to draw in more perceptibly than

ever. Now that the Archdeaconry papers are reduced to order, I must

find some further employment for the evening hours of autumn and

winter. It is a great blow that Letitia's health will not allow her

to stay through these months. Why not go on with my _Defence of

Episcopacy_? It may be useful.

_Sept. 15._--Letitia has left me for Brighton.

_Oct. 11._--Candles lit in the choir for the first time at evening

prayers. It came as a shock: I find that I absolutely shrink from the

dark season.

_Nov. 17_--Much struck by the character of the carving on my desk: I

do not know that I had ever carefully noticed it before. My attention

was called to it by an accident. During the _Magnificat_ I was, I

regret to say, almost overcome with sleep. My hand was resting on the

back of the carved figure of a cat which is the nearest to me of the

three figures on the end of my stall. I was not aware of this, for I

was not looking in that direction, until I was startled by what

seemed a softness, a feeling as of rather rough and coarse fur, and a

sudden movement, as if the creature were twisting round its head to

bite me. I regained complete consciousness in an instant, and I have

some idea that I must have uttered a suppressed exclamation, for I

noticed that Mr Treasurer turned his head quickly in my direction.

The impression of the unpleasant feeling was so strong that I found

myself rubbing my hand upon my surplice. This accident led me to

examine the figures after prayers more carefully than I had done

before, and I realized for the first time with what skill they are

executed.

_Dec. 6_--I do indeed miss Letitia's company. The evenings, after I

have worked as long as I can at my _Defence_, are very trying. The

house is too large for a lonely man, and visitors of any kind are too

rare. I get an uncomfortable impression when going to my room that

there _is_ company of some kind. The fact is (I may as well formulate

it to myself) that I hear voices. This, I am well aware, is a common

symptom of incipient decay of the brain--and I believe that I should

be less disquieted than I am if I had any suspicion that this was the

cause. I have none--none whatever, nor is there anything in my family

history to give colour to such an idea. Work, diligent work, and a

punctual attention to the duties which fall to me is my best remedy,

and I have little doubt that it will prove efficacious.

_Jan. 1_--My trouble is, I must confess it, increasing upon me. Last

night, upon my return after midnight from the Deanery, I lit my

candle to go upstairs. I was nearly at the top when something

whispered to me, 'Let me wish you a happy New Year.' I could not be

mistaken: it spoke distinctly and with a peculiar emphasis. Had I

dropped my candle, as I all but did, I tremble to think what the

consequences must have been. As it was, I managed to get up the last

flight, and was quickly in my room with the door locked, and

experienced no other disturbance.

_Jan. 15_--I had occasion to come downstairs last night to my

workroom for my watch, which I had inadvertently left on my table

when I went up to bed. I think I was at the top of the last flight

when I had a sudden impression of a sharp whisper in my ear '_Take

care_.' I clutched the balusters and naturally looked round at once.

Of course, there was nothing. After a moment I went on--it was no

good turning back--but I had as nearly as possible fallen: a cat--a

large one by the feel of it--slipped between my feet, but again, of

course, I saw nothing. It _may_ have been the kitchen cat, but I do

not think it was.

_Feb. 27_--A curious thing last night, which I should like to forget.

Perhaps if I put it down here I may see it in its true proportion. I

worked in the library from about 9 to 10. The hall and staircase

seemed to be unusually full of what I can only call movement without

sound: by this I mean that there seemed to be continuous going and

coming, and that whenever I ceased writing to listen, or looked out

into the hall, the stillness was absolutely unbroken. Nor, in going

to my room at an earlier hour than usual--about half-past ten--was I

conscious of anything that I could call a noise. It so happened that

I had told John to come to my room for the letter to the bishop which

I wished to have delivered early in the morning at the Palace. He was

to sit up, therefore, and come for it when he heard me retire. This I

had for the moment forgotten, though I had remembered to carry the

letter with me to my room. But when, as I was winding up my watch, I

heard a light tap at the door, and a low voice saying, 'May I come

in?' (which I most undoubtedly did hear), I recollected the fact, and

took up the letter from my dressing-table, saying, 'Certainly: come

in.' No one, however, answered my summons, and it was now that, as I

strongly suspect, I committed an error: for I opened the door and

held the letter out. There was certainly no one at that moment in the

passage, but, in the instant of my standing there, the door at the

end opened and John appeared carrying a candle. I asked him whether

he had come to the door earlier; but am satisfied that he had not. I

do not like the situation; but although my senses were very much on

the alert, and though it was some time before I could sleep, I must

allow that I perceived nothing further of an untoward character.

With the return of spring, when his sister came to live with him for some

months, Dr Haynes's entries become more cheerful, and, indeed, no symptom

of depression is discernible until the early part of September, when he

was again left alone. And now, indeed, there is evidence that he was

incommoded again, and that more pressingly. To this matter I will return

in a moment, but I digress to put in a document which, rightly or

wrongly, I believe to have a bearing on the thread of the story.

The account-books of Dr Haynes, preserved along with his other papers,

show, from a date but little later than that of his institution as

archdeacon, a quarterly payment of £25 to J. L. Nothing could have been

made of this, had it stood by itself. But I connect with it a very dirty

and ill-written letter, which, like another that I have quoted, was in a

pocket in the cover of a diary. Of date or postmark there is no vestige,

and the decipherment was not easy. It appears to run:

Dr Sr.

I have bin expctin to her off you theis last wicks, and not Haveing

done so must supose you have not got mine witch was saying how me and

my man had met in with bad times this season all seems to go cross

with us on the farm and which way to look for the rent we have no

knowledge of it this been the sad case with us if you would have the

great [liberality _probably, but the exact spelling defies

reproduction_] to send fourty pounds otherwise steps will have to be

took which I should not wish. Has you was the Means of me losing my

place with Dr Pulteney I think it is only just what I am asking and

you know best what I could say if I was Put to it but I do not wish

anything of that unpleasant Nature being one that always wish to have

everything Pleasant about me.

Your obedt Servt,

Jane Lee.

About the time at which I suppose this letter to have been written there

is, in fact, a payment of £40 to J.L.

We return to the diary:

_Oct. 22_--At evening prayers, during the Psalms, I had that same

experience which I recollect from last year. I was resting my hand on

one of the carved figures, as before (I usually avoid that of the cat

now), and--I was going to have said--a change came over it, but that

seems attributing too much importance to what must, after all, be due

to some physical affection in myself: at any rate, the wood seemed to

become chilly and soft as if made of wet linen. I can assign the

moment at which I became sensible of this. The choir were singing the

words (_Set thou an ungodly man to be ruler over him and let Satan

stand at his right hand_.)

The whispering in my house was more persistent tonight. I seemed not

to be rid of it in my room. I have not noticed this before. A nervous

man, which I am not, and hope I am not becoming, would have been much

annoyed, if not alarmed, by it. The cat was on the stairs tonight. I

think it sits there always. There _is_ no kitchen cat.

_Nov. 15_--Here again I must note a matter I do not understand. I am

much troubled in sleep. No definite image presented itself, but I was

pursued by the very vivid impression that wet lips were whispering

into my ear with great rapidity and emphasis for some time together.

After this, I suppose, I fell asleep, but was awakened with a start

by a feeling as if a hand were laid on my shoulder. To my intense

alarm I found myself standing at the top of the lowest flight of the

first staircase. The moon was shining brightly enough through the

large window to let me see that there was a large cat on the second

or third step. I can make no comment. I crept up to bed again, I do

not know how. Yes, mine is a heavy burden. [Then follows a line or

two which has been scratched out. I fancy I read something like

'acted for the best'.]

Not long after this it is evident to me that the archdeacon's firmness

began to give way under the pressure of these phenomena. I omit as

unnecessarily painful and distressing the ejaculations and prayers which,

in the months of December and January, appear for the first time and

become increasingly frequent. Throughout this time, however, he is

obstinate in clinging to his post. Why he did not plead ill-health and

take refuge at Bath or Brighton I cannot tell; my impression is that it

would have done him no good; that he was a man who, if he had confessed

himself beaten by the annoyances, would have succumbed at once, and that

he was conscious of this. He did seek to palliate them by inviting

visitors to his house. The result he has noted in this fashion:

_Jan. 7_--I have prevailed on my cousin Allen to give me a few days,

and he is to occupy the chamber next to mine.

_Jan. 8_--A still night. Allen slept well, but complained of the

wind. My own experiences were as before: still whispering and

whispering: what is it that he wants to say?

_Jan. 9_--Allen thinks this a very noisy house. He thinks, too, that

my cat is an unusually large and fine specimen, but very wild.

_Jan. 10_--Allen and I in the library until 11. He left me twice to

see what the maids were doing in the hall: returning the second time

he told me he had seen one of them passing through the door at the

end of the passage, and said if his wife were here she would soon get

them into better order. I asked him what coloured dress the maid

wore; he said grey or white. I supposed it would be so.

_Jan. 11_--Allen left me today. I must be firm.

These words, _I must be firm_, occur again and again on subsequent days;

sometimes they are the only entry. In these cases they are in an

unusually large hand, and dug into the paper in a way which must have

broken the pen that wrote them.

Apparently the archdeacon's friends did not remark any change in his

behaviour, and this gives me a high idea of his courage and

determination. The diary tells us nothing more than I have indicated of

the last days of his life. The end of it all must be told in the polished

language of the obituary notice:

The morning of the 26th of February was cold and tempestuous. At an

early hour the servants had occasion to go into the front hall of the

residence occupied by the lamented subject of these lines. What was

their horror upon observing the form of their beloved and respected

master lying upon the landing of the principal staircase in an

attitude which inspired the gravest fears. Assistance was procured,

and an universal consternation was experienced upon the discovery

that he had been the object of a brutal and a murderous attack. The

vertebral column was fractured in more than one place. This might

have been the result of a fall: it appeared that the stair-carpet was

loosened at one point. But, in addition to this, there were injuries

inflicted upon the eyes, nose and mouth, as if by the agency of some

savage animal, which, dreadful to relate, rendered those features

unrecognizable. The vital spark was, it is needless to add,

completely extinct, and had been so, upon the testimony of

respectable medical authorities, for several hours. The author or

authors of this mysterious outrage are alike buried in mystery, and

the most active conjecture has hitherto failed to suggest a solution

of the melancholy problem afforded by this appalling occurrence.

The writer goes on to reflect upon the probability that the writings of

Mr Shelley, Lord Byron, and M. Voltaire may have been instrumental in

bringing about the disaster, and concludes by hoping, somewhat vaguely,

that this event may 'operate as an example to the rising generation'; but

this portion of his remarks need not be quoted in full.

I had already formed the conclusion that Dr Haynes was responsible for

the death of Dr Pulteney. But the incident connected with the carved

figure of death upon the archdeacon's stall was a very perplexing

feature. The conjecture that it had been cut out of the wood of the

Hanging Oak was not difficult, but seemed impossible to substantiate.

However, I paid a visit to Barchester, partly with the view of finding

out whether there were any relics of the woodwork to be heard of. I was

introduced by one of the canons to the curator of the local museum, who

was, my friend said, more likely to be able to give me information on the

point than anyone else. I told this gentleman of the description of

certain carved figures and arms formerly on the stalls, and asked whether

any had survived. He was able to show me the arms of Dean West and some

other fragments. These, he said, had been got from an old resident, who

had also once owned a figure--perhaps one of those which I was inquiring

for. There was a very odd thing about that figure, he said. 'The old man

who had it told me that he picked it up in a woodyard, whence he had

obtained the still extant pieces, and had taken it home for his children.

On the way home he was fiddling about with it and it came in two in his

hands, and a bit of paper dropped out. This he picked up and, just

noticing that there was writing on it, put it into his pocket, and

subsequently into a vase on his mantelpiece. I was at his house not very

long ago, and happened to pick up the vase and turn it over to see

whether there were any marks on it, and the paper fell into my hand. The

old man, on my handing it to him, told me the story I have told you, and

said I might keep the paper. It was crumpled and rather torn, so I have

mounted it on a card, which I have here. If you can tell me what it means

I shall be very glad, and also, I may say, a good deal surprised.'

He gave me the card. The paper was quite legibly inscribed in an old

hand, and this is what was on it:

When I grew in the Wood

I was water'd w'th Blood

Now in the Church I stand

Who that touches me with his Hand

If a Bloody hand he bear

I councell him to be ware

Lest he be fetcht away

Whether by night or day,

But chiefly when the wind blows high

In a night of February.

This I drempt, 26 Febr. Anno 1699. JOHN AUSTIN.

'I suppose it is a charm or a spell: wouldn't you call it something of

that kind?' said the curator.

'Yes,' I said, 'I suppose one might. What became of the figure in which

it was concealed?'

'Oh, I forgot,' said he. 'The old man told me it was so ugly and

frightened his children so much that he burnt it.'

MARTIN'S CLOSE

Some few years back I was staying with the rector of a parish in the

West, where the society to which I belong owns property. I was to go over

some of this land: and, on the first morning of my visit, soon after

breakfast, the estate carpenter and general handyman, John Hill, was

announced as in readiness to accompany us. The rector asked which part of

the parish we were to visit that morning. The estate map was produced,

and when we had showed him our round, he put his finger on a particular

spot. 'Don't forget,' he said, 'to ask John Hill about Martin's Close

when you get there. I should like to hear what he tells you.' 'What ought

he to tell us?' I said. 'I haven't the slightest idea,' said the rector,

'or, if that is not exactly true, it will do till lunch-time.' And here

he was called away.

We set out; John Hill is not a man to withhold such information as he

possesses on any point, and you may gather from him much that is of

interest about the people of the place and their talk. An unfamiliar

word, or one that he thinks ought to be unfamiliar to you, he will

usually spell--as c-o-b cob, and the like. It is not, however, relevant

to my purpose to record his conversation before the moment when we

reached Martin's Close. The bit of land is noticeable, for it is one of

the smallest enclosures you are likely to see--a very few square yards,

hedged in with quickset on all sides, and without any gate or gap leading

into it. You might take it for a small cottage garden long deserted, but

that it lies away from the village and bears no trace of cultivation. It

is at no great distance from the road, and is part of what is there

called a moor, in other words, a rough upland pasture cut up into largish

fields.

'Why is this little bit hedged off so?' I asked, and John Hill (whose

answer I cannot represent as perfectly as I should like) was not at

fault. 'That's what we call Martin's Close, sir: 'tes a curious thing

'bout that bit of land, sir: goes by the name of Martin's Close, sir.

M-a-r-t-i-n Martin. Beg pardon, sir, did Rector tell you to make inquiry

of me 'bout that, sir?' 'Yes, he did.' 'Ah, I thought so much, sir. I was

tell'n Rector 'bout that last week, and he was very much interested. It

'pears there's a murderer buried there, sir, by the name of Martin. Old

Samuel Saunders, that formerly lived yurr at what we call South-town,

sir, he had a long tale 'bout that, sir: terrible murder done 'pon a

young woman, sir. Cut her throat and cast her in the water down yurr.'

'Was he hung for it?' 'Yes, sir, he was hung just up yurr on the roadway,

by what I've 'eard, on the Holy Innocents' Day, many 'undred years ago,

by the man that went by the name of the bloody judge: terrible red and

bloody, I've 'eard.' 'Was his name Jeffreys, do you think?' 'Might be

possible 'twas--Jeffreys--J-e-f--Jeffreys. I reckon 'twas, and the tale

I've 'eard many times from Mr Saunders,--how this young man

Martin--George Martin--was troubled before his crule action come to light

by the young woman's sperit.' 'How was that, do you know?' 'No, sir, I

don't exactly know how 'twas with it: but by what I've 'eard he was

fairly tormented; and rightly tu. Old Mr Saunders, he told a history

regarding a cupboard down yurr in the New Inn. According to what he

related, this young woman's sperit come out of this cupboard: but I don't

racollact the matter.'

This was the sum of John Hill's information. We passed on, and in due

time I reported what I had heard to the Rector. He was able to show me

from the parish account-books that a gibbet had been paid for in 1684,

and a grave dug in the following year, both for the benefit of George

Martin; but he was unable to suggest anyone in the parish, Saunders being

now gone, who was likely to throw any further light on the story.

Naturally, upon my return to the neighbourhood of libraries, I made

search in the more obvious places. The trial seemed to be nowhere

reported. A newspaper of the time, and one or more news-letters, however,

had some short notices, from which I learnt that, on the ground of local

prejudice against the prisoner (he was described as a young gentleman of

a good estate), the venue had been moved from Exeter to London; that

Jeffreys had been the judge, and death the sentence, and that there had

been some 'singular passages' in the evidence. Nothing further transpired

till September of this year. A friend who knew me to be interested in

Jeffreys then sent me a leaf torn out of a second-hand bookseller's

catalogue with the entry: JEFFREYS, JUDGE: _Interesting old MS. trial for

murder_, and so forth, from which I gathered, to my delight, that I could

become possessed, for a very few shillings, of what seemed to be a

verbatim report, in shorthand, of the Martin trial. I telegraphed for the

manuscript and got it. It was a thin bound volume, provided with a title

written in longhand by someone in the eighteenth century, who had also

added this note: 'My father, who took these notes in court, told me that

the prisoner's friends had made interest with Judge Jeffreys that no

report should be put out: he had intended doing this himself when times

were better, and had shew'd it to the Revd Mr Glanvil, who incourag'd his

design very warmly, but death surpriz'd them both before it could be

brought to an accomplishment.'

The initials W. G. are appended; I am advised that the original reporter

may have been T. Gurney, who appears in that capacity in more than one

State trial.

This was all that I could read for myself. After no long delay I heard of

someone who was capable of deciphering the shorthand of the seventeenth

century, and a little time ago the typewritten copy of the whole

manuscript was laid before me. The portions which I shall communicate

here help to fill in the very imperfect outline which subsists in the

memories of John Hill and, I suppose, one or two others who live on the

scene of the events.

The report begins with a species of preface, the general effect of which

is that the copy is not that actually taken in court, though it is a true

copy in regard to the notes of what was said; but that the writer has

added to it some 'remarkable passages' that took place during the trial,

and has made this present fair copy of the whole, intending at some

favourable time to publish it; but has not put it into longhand, lest it

should fall into the possession of unauthorized persons, and he or his

family be deprived of the profit.

The report then begins:

This case came on to be tried on Wednesday, the 19th of November, between

our sovereign lord the King, and George Martin Esquire, of (I take leave

to omit some of the place-names), at a sessions of oyer and terminer and

gaol delivery, at the Old Bailey, and the prisoner, being in Newgate, was

brought to the bar.

_Clerk of the Crown._ George Martin, hold up thy hand (which he did).

Then the indictment was read, which set forth that the prisoner, 'not

having the fear of God before his eyes, but being moved and seduced by

the instigation of the devil, upon the 15th day of May, in the 36th year

of our sovereign lord King Charles the Second, with force and arms in the

parish aforesaid, in and upon Ann Clark, spinster, of the same place, in

the peace of God and of our said sovereign lord the King then and there

being, feloniously, wilfully, and of your malice aforethought did make an

assault and with a certain knife value a penny the throat of the said Ann

Clark then and there did cut, of the which wound the said Ann Clark then

and there did die, and the body of the said Ann Clark did cast into a

certain pond of water situate in the same parish (with more that is not

material to our purpose) against the peace of our sovereign lord the

King, his crown and dignity.'

Then the prisoner prayed a copy of the indictment.

_L.C.J._ (Sir George Jeffreys). What is this? Sure you know that is never

allowed. Besides, here is a plain indictment as ever I heard; you have

nothing to do but to plead to it.

_Pris._ My lord, I apprehend there may be matter of law arising out of

the indictment, and I would humbly beg the court to assign me counsel to

consider of it. Besides, my lord, I believe it was done in another case:

copy of the indictment was allowed.

_L.C.J._ What case was that?

_Pris._ Truly, my lord, I have been kept close prisoner ever since I came

up from Exeter Castle, and no one allowed to come at me and no one to

advise with.

_L.C.J._ But I say, what was that case you allege?

_Pris._ My lord, I cannot tell your lordship precisely the name of the

case, but it is in my mind that there was such an one, and I would humbly

desire--

_L.C.J._ All this is nothing. Name your case, and we will tell you

whether there be any matter for you in it. God forbid but you should have

anything that may be allowed you by law: but this is against law, and we

must keep the course of the court.

_Att.-Gen._ (Sir Robert Sawyer). My lord, we pray for the King that he

may be asked to plead.

_Cl. of Ct._ Are you guilty of the murder whereof you stand indicted, or

not guilty?

_Pris._ My lord, I would humbly offer this to the court. If I plead now,

shall I have an opportunity after to except against the indictment?

_L.C.J._ Yes, yes, that comes after verdict: that will be saved to you,

and counsel assigned if there be matter of law: but that which you have

now to do is to plead.

Then after some little parleying with the court (which seemed strange

upon such a plain indictment) the prisoner pleaded _Not Guilty_.

_Cl. of Ct._ Culprit. How wilt thou be tried?

_Pris._ By God and my country.

_Cl. of Ct._ God send thee a good deliverance.

_L.C.J._ Why, how is this? Here has been a great to-do that you should

not be tried at Exeter by your country, but be brought here to London,

and now you ask to be tried by your country. Must we send you to Exeter

again?

_Pris._ My lord, I understood it was the form.

_L.C.J._ So it is, man: we spoke only in the way of pleasantness. Well,

go on and swear the jury.

So they were sworn. I omit the names. There was no challenging on the

prisoner's part, for, as he said, he did not know any of the persons

called. Thereupon the prisoner asked for the use of pen, ink, and paper,

to which the L. C. J. replied: 'Ay, ay, in God's name let him have it.'

Then the usual charge was delivered to the jury, and the case opened by

the junior counsel for the King, Mr Dolben.

The Attorney-General followed:

May it please your lordship, and you gentlemen of the jury, I am of

counsel for the King against the prisoner at the bar. You have heard that

he stands indicted for a murder done upon the person of a young girl.

Such crimes as this you may perhaps reckon to be not uncommon, and,

indeed, in these times, I am sorry to say it, there is scarce any fact so

barbarous and unnatural but what we may hear almost daily instances of

it. But I must confess that in this murder that is charged upon the

prisoner there are some particular features that mark it out to be such

as I hope has but seldom if ever been perpetrated upon English ground.

For as we shall make it appear, the person murdered was a poor country

girl (whereas the prisoner is a gentleman of a proper estate) and,

besides that, was one to whom Providence had not given the full use of

her intellects, but was what is termed among us commonly an innocent or

natural: such an one, therefore, as one would have supposed a gentleman

of the prisoner's quality more likely to overlook, or, if he did notice

her, to be moved to compassion for her unhappy condition, than to lift up

his hand against her in the very horrid and barbarous manner which we

shall show you he used.

Now to begin at the beginning and open the matter to you orderly: About

Christmas of last year, that is the year 1683, this gentleman, Mr Martin,

having newly come back into his own country from the University of

Cambridge, some of his neighbours, to show him what civility they could

(for his family is one that stands in very good repute all over that

country), entertained him here and there at their Christmas merrymakings,

so that he was constantly riding to and fro, from one house to another,

and sometimes, when the place of his destination was distant, or for

other reason, as the unsafeness of the roads, he would be constrained to

lie the night at an inn. In this way it happened that he came, a day or

two after the Christmas, to the place where this young girl lived with

her parents, and put up at the inn there, called the New Inn, which is,

as I am informed, a house of good repute. Here was some dancing going on

among the people of the place, and Ann Clark had been brought in, it

seems, by her elder sister to look on; but being, as I have said, of weak

understanding, and, besides that, very uncomely in her appearance, it was

not likely she should take much part in the merriment; and accordingly

was but standing by in a corner of the room. The prisoner at the bar,

seeing her, one must suppose by way of a jest, asked her would she dance

with him. And in spite of what her sister and others could say to prevent

it and to dissuade her--