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Title: Nine Ghosts
Author: R. H. Malden
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Language:  English
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NINE GHOSTS
R. H. MALDEN

First published 1943




PREFACE

The stories in this volume were written at irregular intervals between
the years 1909 and 1942. _A Collector's Company_ is the earliest; _The
Priest's Brass_ the latest.

Anyone familiar with _Ghost Stories of an Antiquary_ will have no
difficulty in recognizing their _provenance_. It was my good fortune to
know Dr. James for more than thirty years. Among my many debts to him is
an introduction to the work of Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, whom he always
regarded as The Master.

Sufficient time has now elapsed since Dr. James's death to make some
attempt to continue the tradition admissible or even welcome to his
friends and readers. It is as such that these stories have been collected
and revised now. They are in some sort a tribute to his memory, if not
comparable with his work.

It may perhaps be just worth while to mention that none of them stands in
any relation to anything which ever happened to me, or to anyone else of
whom I have heard. The documents and inscriptions quoted do not (with one
exception) exist, as far as I know.

Three of the stories--_The Sundial_, _Between Sunset_ and _Moonrise and
The Blank Leaves_--have been printed in a magazine which used to appear
at Christmas-time under the aegis of the Leeds Parish Church. I have to
thank Canon W. M. Askwith, Vicar of Leeds, for permission to reproduce
them.

R. H. M. Wells,
Michaelmas, 1942.



Contents

A Collector's Company
The Dining-room Fireplace
Stivinghoe Bank
The Sundial
Between Sunset and Moonrise
The Blank Leaves
The Thirteenth Tree
The Coxswain of the Lifeboat
The Priest's Brass




A COLLECTOR'S COMPANY


The story which follows was told to me rather more than thirty years ago.
The narrator was elderly then. He died very soon after the end of the
last war with Germany, so there can be no harm in repeating it now. His
name, if you want to know, was Arthur Harberton. As he was a young man
when it happened to him I suppose it must be dated not long after the
year 1870. I made notes of it at the time, and reproduce it now as nearly
as I can in his own words.

'Three years after my ordination I was offered a post as a college
lecturer at Cambridge. That was the kind of work which I had always
thought that I should like, at any rate for a few years, so I accepted
the offer very gladly. I have never regretted that I did so; nor that I
did not devote the rest of my life to academic work.

'I was not dean of the college, and as in those days the number of
Fellows in Holy Order was much larger than it is now it was very seldom
necessary for me to be in the Chapel on a Sunday. Accordingly I used to
go about the diocese a good deal, visiting the country churches. I don't
think that I was under any illusion as to my powers as a preacher, even
then. But I thought, without, I hope, undue vanity, that it might be good
for village congregations to hear a fresh voice occasionally, and even
for the incumbent if he were present. That was not always the case, for I
was always willing to take the whole duty of the day if I were asked, so
that the incumbent might secure a short holiday.

'As a rule I enjoyed these expeditions thoroughly. They began with a
short train journey, followed by a drive from the station, sometimes of
as much as ten miles. Country lanes were country lanes then. They had not
been blackened with tar macadam and motor-cars were, of course, unknown.
An occasional traction engine, preceded by a man on foot carrying a red
flag, was the only disagreeable object likely to be encountered. From a
dog-cart, which was usually the vehicle which came to meet me, it was
possible to see over the hedges and to get a very fair idea of the
country as you went along at eight to ten miles an hour.

'My hosts were generally interesting. For the most part they were
country-bred men who belonged naturally to their surroundings. Many of
them had a wide variety of interests (and sometimes a store of real
knowledge) on which they were ready to discourse to a stranger. When I
had the house to myself, it was amusing to try to deduce what manner of
man the owner might be from his books and pictures.

'Most of the churches and a good many of the houses presented features of
architectural interest, which appealed to me strongly. Besides, I used to
enjoy such conversations as I might have with rural churchwardens,
sextons and other parish officials. I remember one churchwarden (a
farmer, I think) who had heard that Huntingdon was a fine town.
Personally he had never penetrated farther than St. Neots. When I told
him that I lived at Cambridge I might as well have said Pekin, or
Timbuctoo.

'In another place the village school-master was opposed to elementary
education in the abstract: not merely to the particular form of it which
he was required to administer. He thought it unsettled children and took
them off the land. There was, no doubt, something to be said on behalf of
his views; but I couldn't help wondering whether he were _quite_ the right
man in the right place. Well--no doubt the countryside is more
sophisticated now, and I won't bore you with speculations as to whether
the gains outweigh the losses or not.

'So, as you see, I had good reason to look forward to these excursions.
In fact, I only once got to a place which I should not care to visit
again, and that is the one which I am going to tell you about now. All
the same, I don't entirely regret that I did go there. Anyhow, it was a
unique experience.

'Towards the end of one October term I got a letter from the bishop's
chaplain, asking me if I could preach twice on the following Sunday at a
village about twenty-five miles from Cambridge--I don't think I will tell
you in what direction. The incumbent, it appeared, was not very well, and
having no curate was doubtful of his ability to get through the day
single-handed. As it would be the second Sunday in Advent it would not be
difficult for me to preach at short notice. The collect and epistle for
the day provided me with a subject ready-made: a subject, moreover, which
I have always found particularly congenial.

'I discovered that there was a convenient train to the nearest station on
the Saturday afternoon and from it on the Monday morning, so I
telegraphed Yes, and wrote to my prospective host to say when I might be
expected.

'It was a little after three when I got out at a wayside station. I was
met by a groom with a dog-cart who brought a note from his master
apologizing for not having come in person. As I had understood that he
wasn't well I hadn't expected him. I will call him Melrose.

'As we drove away from the station I said to the groom, "I hope Mr.
Melrose has nothing serious the matter with him?"

'"No," he replied, "but he _du_ come over all queer-like at times--so he
du. When he have one of his turns--well, it's not for me to be explaining
of it, if you take my meaning, Sir."

'I was not at all sure that I did, but thought it would be ill-bred on my
part to ask for details. Also I was inclined to suspect that they might
be copious rather than enlightening. However, as my companion seemed
inclined to talk I did not feel bound to try to suppress him.

'I gathered that Mr. Melrose was wealthy and a bachelor. He had
"travelled furren," which was regarded locally as a hazardous proceeding,
on the ground that all foreigners are well known to be black, and that
they blackamoors might be up to anything. He was much took up with
reading: also in my companion's opinion a dubious proceeding. For if
there was good in some books there was bad in others, and how'd you know
which till arterwards, and then it was done.

'The general impression left on my mind was that while Mr. Melrose might
be loved by his parishioners he was certainly feared. I thought that I
might look forward to an unusually interesting week-end. As it turned out
this expectation was not unduly sanguine, as I think you will agree when
you have heard the rest of my story.

'After a drive of about seven miles we arrived. The light was failing,
but I could see that the house was an old one. It was rather larger than
the average, and I judged that there was probably a considerable garden
behind it. I looked forward to examining both more closely between
services on Sunday.

'Mr. Melrose made me very welcome. He was a tall man who stooped a
little. I set him down as about seventy; probably over rather than under.
He had abundant white hair and very prominent white eyebrows. His eyes
were dark and his nose aquiline. The general effect was scholarly and
striking. He would have been noticeable in any company, and once seen
would always be remembered. My first impression was that he was very
handsome.'

Here Mr. Harberton paused for a minute or two and then said rather
abruptly, 'Did you ever see Thompson (W. H. Thompson, 1866-86.), the
Master of Trinity?'

'No,' I said. 'He was some years before my time. But I know the portrait;
by Richmond, I think.'

'No, of course you didn't,' he went on. 'Stupid of me. But one forgets
how time passes. I don't think the portrait really does him justice.
However, if you know it you'll understand what I am going to say.

'I knew him very well by sight and he was one of the most
distinguished-looking men I have ever seen. He was handsome if you like,
and you couldn't doubt his ability or force of character. You had only to
look at him to see that he was a great man. Yet somehow I never could
think his face a pleasing one. It always seemed to me to contain great
possibilities of evil. I could believe him to be capable of absolutely
diabolical conduct.'

'Well,' I said, 'I believe that when Richmond painted Lightfoot he
declared that he had never had a sitter whose jaw was so obviously and
unmistakably that of a murderer. And I have been told by people who knew
the Bishop well that they could believe that he had a naturally violent
temper, and that his complete mastery of it was part of his greatness.
The same may have been true of Thompson.'

'Yes,' said Mr. Harberton, 'it may. Anyhow, this was the effect which Mr.
Melrose produced on me. However, I tried to dismiss it from my mind as
foolishness.

'After tea, which we had in a square hall by a log fire, Mr. Melrose
asked me to excuse him until dinner-time as he had some letters to write
and the post went out at six-thirty. He had a small study on the first
floor opening out of his bedroom to which he proposed to betake himself.
The library, which was on the ground floor and opened out of the hall,
was at my disposal and there were writing materials there if I wanted
them.

'The library was a large room, completely lined with bookcases. A cursory
inspection of these showed that my host was a man of wide and
miscellaneous reading. He seemed to be particularly interested in the
later Neoplatonists and to be well supplied with Orphic literature. On a
glass-topped table by the window was a collection of Gnostic gems. An
Egyptian mummy-case stood upright in a corner. On a table by the fire was
a book which he had presumably been reading when I arrived. I picked it
up and found that it was Philostratus' _Life_ of Apollonius of Tyana. It
had been interleaved and was copiously annotated. I should have liked to
read some of the notes, but thought that would be impertinent.

'Evidently I was in the house of a scholar whose interests were out of
the common run, and the possessor of means which enabled him to indulge
them freely.'

'At dinner he proved very good company. He had travelled widely and had
visited places which were then very much off the beaten track, such as
Sicily and Transylvania. He had spent some considerable time in the
latter country and had made a careful study of its grim folklore.

'The dinner was good, and my host exerted himself to be pleasant.
Interesting he undoubtedly was, but I was not at all sure how much I
liked him. I had a vague feeling that in some way he was playing a part.
But I could find no rational ground for my suspicion. And, after all, why
should he think it worth while to try to impress anyone so much younger
than himself?

'It struck me as curious that a man of his calibre should be content to
bury himself in so obscure a place. Of course the country was much more
prosperous then than it is now and rural life offered more interests than
I fear it does to-day. But this particular neighbourhood was not
specially attractive in any way. Most of the land had belonged to the see
of Ely and was now administered by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners. I
believe that they are always considered to be good landlords, but
naturally there are seldom any country-houses other than farms on their
estates. I could hardly see my host at ease in the society of farmers,
nor could I imagine that they would be able to make much of him. (I had
discovered that he did not shoot or hunt, and in those days a man who did
neither was very much out of it in the country.)

'When he told me that he had been rector of the parish for more than
thirty years I could not help expressing surprise--rather clumsily, I
fear, and perhaps not too politely, but I was very young then--and saying
something about the solitariness of the life which he led.

'"Yes," he said; "I don't wonder that it strikes you like that. The road
from the station is rather desolate. But I have plenty of occupation and
interests here; and do you know I find some of my neighbours more
companionable than you would expect."

'The last sentence struck me as rather odd, not only in itself but in the
way he said it. I felt that there was more behind the remark than I was
meant to understand, and did not like the feeling. I liked the laugh
which followed it even less. However, there was obviously no more to be
said about that. Perhaps he thought I had been rather impertinent, and
perhaps he was right.

'After dinner we went into the library for coffee, and somehow our talk
drifted to witchcraft, necromancy and kindred topics. I had always taken
an interest in such matters, if not a very serious one, and have often
wondered what foundation, if any, there is or was for the belief that the
powers to which witches lay claim have any real existence.

'At this distance of time I do not mind admitting that as an
undergraduate I had once made an essay in Invultuadon. The object was the
Vice-Chancellor of the day, whom I did not know by sight. He had annoyed
me by refusing to allow a play which I had written to be acted publicly
by the A.D.C., on the ground that it was disrespectful to authority. I
adopted the only method of retaliation which seemed to be open. I made a
waxen image and placed it on my mantelpiece. After some incantations
which I thought appropriate (_Flectere si nequeo superos Acheronta
movebo_ [Aeneid, vii. 12.] is the only line which I remember now) I
inserted a pin into one leg. The very next day I heard that the
Vice-Chancellor had slipped going downstairs in his lodge and had
sprained one of his ankles. I felt that my cause had been vindicated and
took no further steps. But, as you will understand, I had not been
serious in the matter. I never pretended to think that the accident had
been more than a coincidence for which I need not reproach myself. The
story leaked out somehow, and one comment on it which came to my ears was
"Whole religions have been founded upon less evidence." I will not name
the author, but I still think he ought to have known better.

'Mr. Melrose's discourse seemed to me to be a very different story. I
could not help thinking that he knew more than he ought about a great
deal which was very undesirable. And he spoke with an air of inside
knowledge which I found disquieting. His tone was that of a lecturer on a
subject which he had really made his own, and he gave the impression of
having verified at least some of his knowledge by experiment. I felt that
there was something malign about him, as well as creepy.

'Finally, I came to the conclusion that he was like an evil caricature of
Dr. Hans Emmanuel Bryerley, the Swedenborgian teacher in _Uncle Silas_. (By
Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu.) Altogether I was extremely glad when he
suggested a move bedwards, and was at pains to lock the door of my room.
Perhaps that would not avail much if it came to the point. But the
illusion of security which it produced was comforting.

'I do not know how long I had been asleep when I awoke with the
impression which one sometimes has of having been disturbed by a loud and
sudden noise. Probably the church clock, I thought, though I had not
noticed its strike earlier in the evening. I was just disposing myself
for a renewed period of slumber when it struck me that although my fire
had burned low the room was curiously light; not with firelight either. I
had drawn back the window curtains before going to bed, as I usually did,
and the light was coming from the window.

'"Moonlight," you will say. 'But I knew that it was not. In the first
place, the moon was several days short of full, and in the second, the
light was not coming from a particular point. It was evenly diffused,
like daylight on a cloudy day; and no moon could have produced so much
light from behind clouds. It seemed to me to have a bluish tinge which
was unnatural and unpleasant. I went to the window and looked out. It
commanded a view of a good-sized lawn flanked by dark shrubberies of some
sort--rhododendrons, I found out subsequently.

'This lawn sloped slightly upwards away from the house, and at the
farther end was a low wall with a gateway in it leading to the
churchyard. This and the church itself were as plainly visible as if it
had been midday instead of just after midnight in December. But
everything to right and left was in darkness. I felt as if I were looking
down an illuminated tunnel, and it seemed obvious that something would
appear at the upper end. I took my courage in both hands and waited. I
did not have to wait long. Through the gate in the churchyard wall came
my host. He seemed to be wearing a cassock with a long black cloak over
it. On his head was a high-pointed cap, something like a mitre, and he
carried a short rod in his right hand. He came straight down the lawn
towards the house. I wondered whether I was as visible to him as he was
to me; and hoped not. Anyhow I felt bound to see the performance through.
He was followed by a number of figures: I think about twelve, but I could
not be sure.

'Although there seemed to be plenty of light they were somehow curiously
indistinct. They may have dodged behind each other from time to time in
some odd fashion. Anyhow I found that it was no use to try to count them.
They were dressed in long black cloaks with hoods, which prevented their
faces from being seen. On the whole I felt glad of that. They moved
rather stiffly, like marionettes. Of course their feet made no sound upon
the grass. But I was conscious of a faint creaking, the source of which
was not easy to determine. It might have been produced by the breeze in
the shrubbery; but I did not think that it was.

'The procession advanced until it had reached the middle of the lawn.
Then the leader stopped and the others formed a circle round him. Still I
could not be sure how many they were. Every time I tried to count them I
became confused and arrived at a different result.

'Then they began to dance while he beat time or conducted, however you
like to put it, with his wand. They moved more quickly than I should have
expected, though they still suggested marionettes. The faint creaking
which I had heard before was more audible. There could be no doubt now
that it came from the dancing figures.

'Do you remember a story told by one of the minor characters in
Stevenson's _Catriona_? About Tod Lapraik, the warlock weaver of Leith.
He used to fall into a dreamin his house and once while he was in that
state he, or something in his likeness, was seen dancing alone on the
Bass Rock "in the black glory of his heart." Those words rose in my mind
now. The performance which I was watching seemed to be inspired by an
unholy--well, _joie de vivre_ I suppose I must call it, though I don't
know how far the dancers could be considered to be alive. The whole
effect was abominably, indescribably evil. Yet, curiously enough, I did
not feel afraid. I have never considered myself a particularly courageous
person, and have not had many opportunities of discovering whether I am
or not. But anyhow I was not conscious of any fear then. Partly perhaps I
was too deeply interested in what I was watching to think of anything
else. Also, youth and a good digestion will carry their possessor
securely through many of the changes and chances of this mortal life.

'The dance grew faster, and the ring of dancers contracted. As it did so
the mysterious light contracted too. I could no longer see the church, or
the greater part of the lawn. Only the tall stationary figure with his
black-shrouded companions whirling--it had come to that now--whirling
round him. The group was illuminated as a particular figure sometimes is
upon the stage (spotlight, I think they call it), but as before the light
did not seem to be coming from any particular direction. Perhaps this was
why I could see no shadow upon the grass.

'In another minute the dancers seemed to have closed in and then (as was
perhaps to be expected) the light went out. I could neither see nor hear
anything. The garden seemed to be as dark and deserted as you might
expect between midnight and 1 a.m. on a moonless night in December. As I
turned away from the window I heard the discordant cry of a night-jar (at
least that was what I thought it sounded like) very loud and apparently
very close to my window. Immediately afterwards I heard a low chuckle. It
was not a pleasant one. I felt pretty sure that whatever the joke might
be I should prefer not to meet the author of it. I made certain that my
door was locked, made up my fire to last until daylight, got into bed and
rather to my surprise fell asleep almost immediately.

'It was getting light when I woke. I got out of bed and unlocked my door.
As I waited to be called I naturally thought of my experience of a few
hours earlier. The more I considered it the less confident did I become
that I had not dreamed the whole thing. I have always been an active and
vivid dreamer, but have never had a vision of my head upon my bed worth
taking seriously; even by the most nasty-minded psycho-analyst who ever
came out of Vienna or anywhere else.

'At eight o'clock the butler brought me tea and hot water. On the tray
was a note from Mr. Melrose saying that he regretted that he was unable
to leave his room. The clerk would show me where everything was in the
church. Would I make myself at home in the house and ask for anything I
wanted, etc. etc.'

'"Is your master seriously ill?" I asked the man. "Ought a doctor to be
sent for, or can you look after him?"

'"No, Sir, not serious. But he don't come down as a rule, after one of
his nights, not for a day or two."

'For a moment I thought he was going to say more, but he turned away and
began laying out my clothes. So I said something to the effect that old
people often slept badly and that no doubt a wakeful night was very
exhausting.

'To this he merely replied, "Yes, Sir," and left the room.

'While I was drinking my tea I thought I would look at the lessons for
the day, as I should probably have to read them myself. There was a Bible
beside my bed and I opened it at _Isaiah_ (the first lesson was Chapter
5, as you probably remember), and it so happened that the first words
which caught my eye were from Chapter 8, verse 19

_Seek unto them that have familiar spirits and unto the wizards that peep
and that mutter._

'No doubt a coincidence. But as I dressed I became more and more inclined
to think that I had not been dreaming.

'The day passed uneventfully. Evensong was at three, as was not unusual
in the country then during the winter months; I must confess that I was
glad of this as I did not relish the prospect of coming down the lawn
from the church in the dark. Of course it was getting dark by the time
service was over, and as I went through the gate leading from the
churchyard I had an uncomfortable feeling that my movements were being
watched by some person or persons whom I could not see--and not with any
amiable solicitude for my welfare.

'However, nothing untoward happened then or during the evening. I went to
bed early and slept soundly all night. Next morning the butler brought
another note from my host, expressing his regret that he would be unable
to see me before I left, the disappointment which he felt at having had
so little of my society, and a hope that I had been made comfortable.

'I replied to the first two heads of this communication as politely as
was consistent with the truth. As regards the third I could reassure him
honestly. I left the house soon after breakfast. The butler had not
seemed disposed to be communicative, nor was the groom who drove me to
the station. Three days later I went down for the Christmas vacation.'

'Mr. Harberton was silent for a minute or two, so I asked--I must admit
with a feeling of disappointment--'Is that all?'

'Not quite,' he replied. 'But for the conclusion of the story you had
better read this.'

He handed me a cutting from a newspaper, probably a local weekly, which
he took from a large old-fashioned pocket-book. I had seen the book
before, as it was his practice to carry it with him. The cutting was from
the bottom of a column, so no date was visible. I judged it to be about
thirty years old. It ran as follows:

'RECTOR'S STRANGE DEATH

'A painful sensation was produced at [the name of the place was carefully
erased] on Christmas morning.

'As soon as it was light the sexton (Mr. Jonas Day) had gone to the
church to make up the fire in the stove. As he approached the south door
he was horrified to observe the body of the rector lying face downwards
on a flight of four steps leading from the churchyard to the rectory
garden. He went at once to the house and summoned the butler (Mr. Thomas
Blogg) and the groom (Mr. Henry Meekin). They carried the rev. gentleman
to his room, but it was all too evident that the vital spark had ceased
to pulsate. Dr. Horridge was sent for and arrived a little before ten
o'clock. He reported that the neck of the deceased was broken and that
death must have intervened some hours before.

'It may be presumed that the unfortunate gentleman had gone to the church
at a late hour to satisfy himself that everything was in order for the
morrow. The steps were slippery with frost and he did not appear to have
taken a lantern.

'The Rev. [name erased] had held the rectory for thirty-two years and the
sad occurrence cast a deep aroma of gloom over the festivities naturally
incidental to the day.

'The inquest was held at the Fox and Grapes on the 30th ult., Dr.
Horridge presiding as Coroner. Mr. Blogg deposed that his master not
infrequently went to the church late at night. When asked by one of the
Jury if he knew for what purpose, he replied that he had never demeaned
himself to curiosity in his master's business. He was warmly commended by
the Coroner for his reply.

'Mr. Day deposed that when he approached the body he saw some curious
marks on the back of the coat. When pressed to describe them he said
"Like muddy claws." Neither Mr. Blogg nor Mr. Meekin had noticed these.
The coat was sent for, but it had been brushed. The Coroner thought that
they might easily have been made by an owl or some other bird of the
night perching upon the body after life was extinct, and by his direction
the Jury returned a verdict of _Death by Misadventure_.

'The funereal obsequies were celebrated on the and instant.'

'May I take a copy of this?' I asked.

'Yes, if you like,' said Mr. Harberton. And I did.



THE DINING-ROOM FIREPLACE

Anyone who knows the neighbourhood of Dublin will remember the good-sized
country-houses in which it abounds. Most of them date from the eighteenth
century, when Irish landowners were prosperous and labour was cheap. Some
of them incorporate bits of older buildings which may have begun life as
castles of the Pale. Most of them are now in a state of dilapidation
which is not unpicturesque, though it would be out of place in England.

Perhaps I ought to have used the past tense. I do not know how many of
them have survived the establishment of Eire--or whatever that part of
Ireland chooses to call itself nowadays--and I do not feel tempted to go
and see.

I am writing of things as they were during the closing years of the reign
of Queen Victoria.

It was during a visit to one of them in the autumn of the year 1899 that
the experience, I can hardly dignify it by the name of adventure, which I
am about to relate befell me.

It belonged to a family named Moore, who had inhabited it for several
generations. The present owner was a young man, unmarried and in the
army. Naturally he could not spend much of his time there and was glad to
let it when he could. It had been taken for one summer by some cousins of
mine who lived in Dublin, and it was on their invitation that I was
there.

I need not try your patience by attempting to describe it in detail.
There was nothing very noteworthy about it except an almost ruinous tower
at the north-west angle. This was obviously much older than the rest of
the house, and we young people thought it ought to contain a ghost. We
could not, however, hear of any story to that effect. We explored it
pretty thoroughly, but found nothing more exciting than a very large
quantity of dust and a few bats. We went there once late on a moonlight
evening, but even then could not pretend that we saw or heard anything
unusual.

The south side of the house consisted of three large rooms: a
drawing-room at the western end, then a dining-room opening out of it and
lastly a billiard-room which was also used as a gun-room. Probably, in
fact, it had been built as a gun-room and the billiard-table had been
added afterwards. It had a door leading into the garden, but there was no
access to it from the house except from the dining-room.

The dining-room was hung with portraits of bygone Moores, who had no
doubt played their several parts adequately in their generation. But none
of them had reached fame and the pictures were of no outstanding artistic
merit. The collection as a whole looked well enough, but was not likely
to be of much interest, except to members of the family.

One picture there was, however, which did arouse our curiosity. It
represented a man of about thirty. There was no name or date upon the
frame, but the dress was that of the closing years of the eighteenth
century. The most remarkable thing about it was the attitude which the
sitter had chosen to adopt. He was astride of a chair with his arms
folded and resting on the top rail. His back was towards the spectator,
so that his features would have been invisible if he had not been looking
over his left shoulder. His face, so far as it could be seen, did not
resemble a Moore. The upper part suggested considerable intellectual
power; the lower part was not pleasant. The whole effect was formidable
and bespoke a man who would be a very dangerous enemy.

The execution was not particularly good; in fact the technique suggested
an amateur. But it was impossible not to feel that the artist had caught
the likeness of his original well; and difficult not to regret that he
had done so. We wondered why such a curious picture, which did not look
like a family portrait, should be displayed so conspicuously. It looked
as if there must be a story of some sort about it.

A few days later Captain Moore called. He was stationed at the Curragh,
and having some business to transact in Dublin very civilly looked in to
ask after his tenants' comfort. We ventured to put a question about the
curious portrait.

'Yes,' he said, 'it's a fantastic thing, isn't it? Clever in a way
though, and I should think a good likeness. But I don't know who it is
any more than you do. It isn't one of the family--you'd guess
that, I hope, by looking at it. All I know about it is that my
great-grandfather--the old boy over there (here he pointed to a portrait
of the same period which hung exactly opposite on the other side of the
room)--stuck it up about the time of the Union. I rather think he painted
it himself. Anyhow he was so keen about it that he left directions in his
will that it was never to be moved. So there it's been ever since. I
expect there is a story, if I knew what it was. I believe my
great-grandfather had been pretty wild in his young days. A lot of his
generation were dazzled by the French Revolution, y'know. I dare say it
looked better at a distance than at close quarters. But while he was
still pretty young--about the turn of the century, I think--he turned
over a new leaf, Model Country Gentleman, Magistrate, Churchwarden, all
that sort of thing, y'know, and I believe a really good man into the
bargain. Very charitable and so on. Not very hospitable though, by all
accounts. In fact during the last years of his life when he was a widower
he would hardly see anybody, and I believe was nicknamed The Hermit. I
remember once when I was a little chap, about six, I think, I was playing
in the dining-room on a winter afternoon. I think the nursery chimney was
being swept; anyhow I had been sent downstairs for some reason. It was
getting dark--and something gave me a terrible fright. The funny thing
was that I couldn't say what it was and I don't know now. But I think it
was something to do with that picture. I ran screaming into the
drawing-room where my mother was and though I couldn't tell her what was
the matter, I am sure that she thought it was that. When I had been
comforted my father came in (he had been out shooting, I think) and she
began to talk to him very earnestly. I wasn't meant to hear and don't
suppose I should have understood much if I had, but I do recollect that
she said something to the effect that it couldn't go on and that it
wasn't as if this were the first time. And he said that he couldn't
do--whatever it was she wanted him to do. I suppose now she was asking
him to have the picture moved, or perhaps to get rid of it outright and
he was reminding her of the clause in his grandfather's will. Of course
ninety-nine women out of a hundred would see no reason why the wishes of
someone who had been dead for more than fifty years should be allowed to
interfere with their own. Anyhow, that was the nearest approach to a
quarrel which my father and mother ever had, that I can remember. And the
picture stopped in its place, as you see.

'I once asked him about it. He looked very grave and was silent for a
minute or two, as if he were making up his mind about something. Then he
said, "I'll tell you what I know about it some day, but not just now. You
must wait until you are older," and I had to be content with that.

'Both he and my mother died soon afterwards, and I went to live with an
uncle on her side (my father had been an only son), and the house was
shut up for several years. So I never heard the story, whatever it may
be. I expect old Barton at the lodge knows something about it. He's been
on the place all his life, and his father and grandfather before him. But
I'm pretty sure he wouldn't tell anybody if he did know.'

After Captain Moore had gone I went and examined the picture more closely
than I had ever done before. I came to the conclusion that it was a
cleverer thing, and a more repulsive subject, than I had thought at
first. One thing perplexed me very much. I tried to put myself into the
position of the sitter and found that I could not twist my head round as
far as his. His chin was almost on his left shoulder. Why had he chosen
to be painted in such an unnatural and indeed, as it seemed, impossible
attitude? And how had he contrived to sit for it?

I don't think the expression Rubber-neck (which I believe to be American
for Sightseer) had been coined then. Or if it had it hadn't crossed the
Atlantic. But I can think of no one to whom it would be more appropriate.

A day or two afterwards I happened to see Barton in his garden and
thought I would try whether there was anything to be got out of him. Like
all his kind his conversational powers were remarkable and he was never
unwilling to exercise them. Eventually, I got him on to the pictures in
the house, and I thought that he seemed to feel that he was being drawn
towards thin ice. How would the like of him know anything about them, or
photygrafts either? Sure, I must ask the young master about them, and
wasn't he in the house only last week?

I recognized that Captain Moore's estimate of him as a source of
information on this point had been accurate. A few nights afterwards when
we were all in the drawing-room after dinner I had occasion to go to the
billiard-room to fetch a book which I had left there. Dinner had been
cleared away, so I took a candle to light me through the deserted
dining-room. Just as I was passing the fireplace I was conscious of so
strong a draught that my candle guttered and was nearly blown out. I
supposed it was a down-draught, due to the large size of the chimney and
to the fact that there was no fire in the grate, and rather wondered that
we had never noticed it before. It was not a windy night, so that if
there were a strong draught now one would suppose that it was a permanent
feature of the room, and that whoever sat on that side of the table would
want a screen behind his chair. But hitherto no one had made any
complaint.

On my way back I was surprised to find the draught equally strong in the
opposite direction. It was now sucking inwards towards the fireplace. I
held my candle high, shielding it with the other hand, and looked round
to see if there were an open window. But the windows were all securely
shuttered, and the doors at each end of the room were shut. I could not
account for any draught, much less for one which apparently changed its
direction, almost as if it were due to the slow breathing of some
gigantic creature crouching in the fireplace. While I stood there the
inward draught suddenly ceased. After a moment's stillness there came an
outward puff--really strong enough to be called a gust--which blew my
candle out. This was too much. I groped my way to the end of the room as
quickly as I could without stopping to light a match. Once out of the
room I felt rather ashamed of myself for having been so easily scared. I
suppose that was why I did not feel inclined to say anything about what
had happened. Probably I said to myself there was really more wind
outside than I had imagined, and of course a rambling old house was
likely to be full of unaccountable draughts. Most likely this one
depended upon the wind being exactly in one quarter, which was why we had
not noticed it before, and more to the same effect, But I did not find
this cogent reasoning convincing.

When I went to bed I looked out and everything seemed to be perfectly
still. This, I was bound to admit, was as I had expected. Three nights
later I had a curious dream. I dreamed that I was in the dining-room, and
that the figure over the mantelpiece had come down from his frame. He was
seated astride of a chair as he was painted, almost in the fireplace. His
back was turned to the room, but instead of having his head upon his
shoulder, it was turned away so that nothing could be seen of his
features. He appeared to be speaking with great earnestness to an
invisible personage who must have been stationed a few feet up the
chimney. I could not catch what he was saying, for he spoke very rapidly.
But his tones were those of a person in deep distress.

When he had finished speaking, there came a rumbling, moaning noise in the
chimney, such as is made by the wind on stormy nights. This presently
began to shape itself into words. At first they were not at all distinct,
but gradually they became clearer, though they seemed to be in a language
unknown to me. I wondered whether it could be Irish. The voice spoke very
deliberately with a cold malignity of tone which made me feel very
thankful that I could not follow what it was saying. There was something
indescribably evil about it. It was the most unpleasant sound to which I
have ever listened, asleep or awake. If fear can make the hair stand on
end I must have resembled a clothes-brush.

At this point I woke, and it was more in obedience to some automatic
instinct than to any reasoned courage that I decided to visit the
dining-room. I do not know what, if anything, I expected to see. As I
opened the door there was a grating sound, as if a chair were being
hastily dragged across the uncarpeted part of the floor. But I told
myself that that was caused by rats. The house abounded in them and
everyone knows that they can make extraordinary noises. I suspect that
they are at the bottom of a great many ghost stories.

I advanced to the fireplace, but beyond the fact that the hearthrug was
curiously bundled up into a heap--a circumstance which did not for some
reason strike me at the moment, though I wondered about it
afterwards--there was nothing in the least unusual to be seen. My candle
burned quite steadily as I held it high and looked round the silent empty
room. I stared up at the odd, forbidding picture above the mantelpiece,
but there did not seem to be anything to be got out of him. Upon the
whole I was glad of that, for he did not look like the sort of person I
should have chosen for a midnight _tête-à-tête_.

'Well,' I said aloud, addressing the portrait, 'I wish I knew rather more
about you. But as you aren't in a position to explain yourself, I shall
go back to bed.'

I did so; and slept soundly for the rest of the night.

Next morning I did not mention my dream to anyone else. Perhaps I was a
little ashamed of it. Also the walls of Irish houses have even acuter
ears than those elsewhere and I did not wish to be responsible for an
outbreak of hysteria among the servants.

It so happened that I had no occasion to be in the dining-room alone
after dark during the next day or two. Perhaps I was at pains not to be.
No one commented upon the curious draught which I had noticed. Indeed I
do not think it was perceptible in the daytime. My dreams, when I had
any, were, as usual, entirely commonplace.

One evening, when my visit was nearly at an end, one of my cousins and I
were sitting talking in the billiard-room after the rest of the family
had gone to bed. Our conversation turned on ghosts and apparitions of
various kinds; a subject in which we both took a keen if sceptical
interest. Dreams and their value (this was before the days of
psychoanalysis) and the possibility of their coming true were also
discussed and it was past midnight when we got up to go to bed. We then
found that there were no bedroom candles for us. Presumably they had been
left in the dining-room or in the hall beyond it. The oil lamp by which
we were sitting was too big and heavy to take with us. As it was past the
middle of September and the day had been wet we had had fires in the
sitting-rooms. The dining-room fire had been burning brightly when we
finished dinner, so that it was probable that there would still be enough
of it left to prevent our passage through the room from offering any
insurmountable obstacles. So we put the lamp out and prepared to go.

As soon as we opened the door we saw that our surmise had been correct.
There was a sufficient glow in the fireplace to light us down the room.
But we had hardly taken a step before we were startled by a rapid
thudding sound, such as might be produced by a big dog beating his tail
upon the floor. There was a dog about the place, but at night he had his
own quarters in the stable-yard. Even if he had not been put to bed then
properly--as might very well be the case in a household of Irish
servants--he had certainly not been in the dining-room during dinner and
could hardly have got there since.

The thudding ceased as suddenly as it had begun. But next moment we were
even more startled by seeing the fire beginning to disappear. I
remembered a story which I had once read--by H. G. Wells, I think. In it
the lights in a haunted room go out one by one and, as the occupant rushes
to the fire to rekindle them, that too dies away into absolute blackness.

But we soon saw that our fire was not going out like that. It was being
obscured by some large dark object which was rising from the ground
between ourselves and it. It was as if the hearthrug were slowly humping
itself into the form of an animal of some kind. It rose and rose without
a sound. Soon it was larger than any dog and its movement had somehow an
uncanny suggestion of deliberate and malign purpose. Its bulk and
outline, so far as we could make them out, suggested a bear more than
anything else. But the head was not shaped like that of a bear. There was
something more than half-human about the outline which made it peculiarly
horrible. There seemed to be a nose not in the least like the snout of
any animal. Presently no vestige of the fire was to be seen. Then it
suddenly reappeared. The creature, whatever it was, had gone up the
chimney.

We felt that the longer we waited there the less we should like it, so as
soon as the coast was clear we ran down the room as hard as we could go,
keeping as close as possible to the side away from the fireplace.

There was plenty of firelight in the drawing-room and we soon laid hands
on our candles and made our way upstairs. Our bedrooms opened into each
other and we left the door standing wide. I do not think either of us
slept well, but there was nothing to disturb us except the owls, who (we
both thought) were noisier than usual.

Next day we told our story to the rest of the family and I added what I
had to say about the mysterious draught and my dream. Of course there was
only one thing to be done. The whole thing must be laid before Captain
Moore as soon as possible.

Meanwhile the doors of the dining-room must be kept locked and meals
served in another room, which a house-agent would probably have called
The Breakfast Parlour. I was obliged to return to England on the
following day, so it was some weeks before I heard the sequel.

In response to an urgent if guarded letter Captain Moore came over from
the Curragh as soon as he could get a few days' leave. He soon knew all
that there was to tell. His first step was to pay a visit to the lodge,
but unfortunately the day before his arrival Barton had had a stroke from
which he never recovered. He seemed to recognize his master and to be
glad to see him. But he was in no state to be questioned. He died that
night. Next day his daughter, who lived with him, told us that after
Captain Moore's visit her father seemed to have something on his mind.
Just after midnight he sat up and made an effort to say something. The
only words she could make out sounded like 'trouble' and 'back of the
picture.' Immediately afterwards he fell back on his pillow and expired.

This was something to go upon. The queer portrait must be meant. A
step-ladder was procured and Captain Moore and my cousins set to work. It
took them longer than they had expected, as the picture was not hung in
the usual way. A number of long screws had been driven through the frame,
which was very solid, into the panelling of the wall behind. At last they
were all got out; not without difficulty, though they did not seem to be
particularly rusty. The immediate result was disappointing. There was
nothing to be seen either on the back of the picture or the surface of
the wall.

Then somebody noticed what looked like a fine crack running across the
top of one panel just below the raised frame containing it. Closer
examination showed that the wood had been cut through on all four sides
with a very sharp knife. A little picking at the top and out it came,
disclosing a cavity, obviously the work of an amateur mason, in the
thickness of the wall. In it reposed a small book, about nine inches long
by five broad. At the top of the title-page were the two words

THE CLUB

and underneath was a list of twelve names; presumably those of the
members. Several of them belonged to families still represented in the
neighbourhood. The last was Robert Moore, Captain Moore's
great-grandfather.

By this time lunch was ready, so further research was postponed.

When the party returned reinvigorated to their task they discovered, as
was not unexpected, that what they had found was an informal minute-book.

It was apparently the custom of the Club to dine once each month with one
of the members and discuss topics of general interest. The first dinner
was held on 14 July 1778. There were notes as to the amount of wine
consumed, which need not be recorded here. One would imagine that the
members of the Club must have acted on the principle which was adopted
subsequently by Mr. Jorrocks--'Where I dines I sleeps and where I sleeps
I breakfasts.'

There were also notes of the discussions. These were more interesting. At
first they were principally political. The recent revolt of the American
colonies appeared more than once, and though no formal vote was ever
taken, it was obvious that opinion was divided as to the character of
George Washington. Some members regarded him as a high-minded patriot;
others as a sordid tobacco-planter who did not want to make any
contribution to the cost of the campaigns to which he and his like owed
their security and prosperity.

The revolution in France also aroused much interest. General opinion
seemed to have been more favourable to it than most people--at any rate
in England--would have approved. But the members of the Club were
probably all young enough to feel it their duty as well as their pleasure
to ventilate opinions which would have shocked their elders could they
have heard them.

As time went on the tone of the meetings became less innocent. A certain
amount of profanity began to appear, and once or twice some rather vague
entries suggested some dabbling in black magic. At one dinner, held in
the year 1797, there was a note--'The President's Health was drunk in
bumpers with [probably] acclamation,' but the fact that the writer had
changed his mind more than once as to the proper spelling of the word,
added to two considerable blots, had made it indecipherable]. On the next
page was a plan of the table with the name of each member against his
place. There were six on each side; no one at top or bottom. The top was,
however, marked with a X. From this time onwards there were frequent
references to the President, but curiously his name was never given. The
minutes were usually initialled J.B. James Butler was the first name in
the original list, so was presumably that of the senior member. It was
not, however, clear whether he was to be identified with the President.
Near the end of the book was an entry in a different hand. It ran:

'The Club is dissolved. Lord have mercy upon us.'

It was signed Robt. Moore and dated 23 September, 1799. My odd
experiences had culminated on 23 September, 1899. There was nothing else
in the cavity in the wall except two small scraps of paper. They had
obviously been part of a larger sheet which had been torn up. What had
become of the rest it was impossible to say. On one appeared the words
_like a bear_, on the other _clean broak_. That was all.

Despite his ancestor's wishes Captain Moore felt justified in destroying
the portrait. It was soon hacked to pieces and the bonfire which it made
in the garden consumed the minute-book of the Club as well. The panel was
replaced and another picture hung over it. As far as I know there were no
further disturbances. Perhaps a century is a kind of statute of
limitations in such matters. We do not understand them sufficiently to be
able to speak positively about them.

It seems pretty clear that at its last meeting the Club somehow got more
than it had bargained for. But it is impossible to reconstruct exactly
what had happened. Who was the President, and was the last meeting the
first at which he was actually present? Was the queer portrait, which was
presumably Robert Moore's work, intended to operate as a warning, like
the public executions which were then in vogue?

Some years afterwards I happened to find myself sitting next to an Irish
clergyman at a public dinner. He was incumbent of a parish near Dublin,
he told me. As the evening wore on, and the tide of speech-making flowed
strongly, our talk, in the intervals, turned on superstitions.

'It's queer,' he said, 'the way they lay hold of people for no reason
that anyone can see. Now there is one grave in my churchyard that the
people won't go near. And when we turn in sheep to keep the grass down
the farmer always sends a boy to see that they don't graze by it. It's a
nuisance, because we always have to scythe that bit--and the sexton
doesn't like doing it either. It's an ugly, pompous thing to a member of
a family that used to be well known there, I believe, though there's not
been any of them about these fifty years. But why there should be
anything unlucky or wrong about it I don't know. I'm not sure that the
people do. Anyhow, if they do you won't get it out of them.'

'I wonder,' I said, 'whether the occupant is named James Butler and
whether he died on 23 September, 1799?'

'Why, yes,' he said. 'But how in the world do you know anything about it?'

'Oh, I used to have relations with whom I sometimes stayed in that
neighbourhood.'

I thought that was as much as I need tell him.




STIVINGHOE BANK

The coast-line of Norfolk is one of those which have altered considerably
in historic times. Along some stretches the sea has encroached. At low
water traces of lost villages can still be seen, and in stormy weather
pieces of wood from drowned forests are sometimes washed ashore. At
Cromer a lighthouse which I remember has disappeared long since, though
it was not very near the edge of the cliff when I knew it. A new one has
been built at some distance inland.

Along other stretches the sea has receded and towns which were once
thriving ports are separated from it by a wide expanse of marsh, where
cattle graze and abundant mushrooms can be found in early autumn. These
marshes are intersected by deep and muddy channels up which the tide
creeps sluggishly. But even at high water nothing larger than an open
boat can use them. The harbours whence the cloth was shipped in the great
days of East Anglia, when Norwich was the third city in the kingdom and
nearly wrested the second place from Bristol, are almost useless now. The
towns which lived by them have dwindled to small villages. Here and there
a fine old house may still be seen on the water-front. But for the most
part the large and magnificent churches are all that remain of their
former glories.

Melancholy as these villages are they have a beauty and dignity of their
own. The wide horizon of marsh, beach and sea beyond gives a sense of
spaciousness which can hardly be found elsewhere. Anyone who knows them
will understand why a Norfolk nurserymaid when taken to Grasmere
complained that she felt unable to breathe and that the mountains spoilt
the view.

They have always been well known to sportsmen as the marshes teem with
wild-fowl in winter.

Of late years artists have begun to discover them. But I must admit that
I hope they will never become popular resorts.

It was at one of them, which I will call Stivinghoe, that the experience
(it hardly deserves to be called an adventure) which is set down here,
befell me some years ago. If, when you have heard the story, you think it
rather pointless, that is not my fault. I do not think that I should have
admired Mr. Chadband (See Bleak House.) had I met him. But his insistence
on what he called _The Terewth_ always seemed to me worthy of imitation.
And I could not make the story more exciting without departing from the
standard set by that eloquent divine.

Stivinghoe differs from its neighbours in the possession of a bank; that
is to say a causeway some eight feet high running across the marsh land
and projecting beyond it into the sea. I suppose it is natural, as it is
not easy to see why anyone should have taken the trouble to construct it.
There is a rough track along the top. At the shoreward end the sides are
clothed with coarse grass where sea-pinks and yellow horned poppies grow.
The last half-mile is sand and shingle. At high water the sea comes up to
it on both sides. When the tide is out it is flanked by a wide expanse of
wet sand. At the far end there is a little hillock on which are the
remains of a ruined chapel. It is as lonely and desolate a spot as can
well be imagined. I suppose the chapel had escaped demolition because it
had never been worth anyone's while to pull the walls down and cart the
material away. It was a cell of the great house of Walsingham and had
been established as a place where prayer might be offered continually for
fishermen along the coast and all who got their living from the sea.

After the dissolution of the monasteries a large part of the lands of
Walsingham had gone to the Earl of W., whose descendant is still one of
the magnates of Norfolk. I had reason to believe that some books from the
library had made their way to his great house at Folkham. There was no
adequate catalogue of them and as I had known Lord W.'s son at Cambridge
I ventured to write and ask whether I might come and look at them. His
reply was very cordial. He regretted that he could not ask me to stay as
the family was away and the house shut up. He had written to the
housekeeper telling her to let me see anything I wanted, and added that
while the only inn in the village was not to be recommended I should be
sufficiently comfortable at the _Fishmongers' Arms_ at Stivinghoe.

The map showed me that the distance from Stivinghoe to Folkham House was
only about three miles. A bicycle would solve the question of transport.
I had never slept at the _Fishmongers' Arms_, but had had tea there more
than once when exploring the neighbourhood, and my recollection of it
confirmed Lord W.'s opinion.

Accordingly I wrote engaging a bedroom (if possible with a table at which
I could write) for a week and established myself there one fine afternoon
in the middle of September.

The greater part of the next three days was spent in the library at
Folkham. The result was, however, rather disappointing. The manuscripts
were not many. Neither contents nor workmanship were of outstanding
interest. I thought I had got to the end of them when I came upon a
bundle of papers tied up with tape and docketed, in a modern hand,
_Stivinghoe Chapel_.

The housekeeper had just come into the room with some tea and I noticed
that she seemed to be disconcerted when she saw the bundle in my hand.

'Are these private papers, do you suppose?' I said. 'They were on the
same shelf as the other manuscripts. Is there any, reason why I shouldn't
read them? I see that somebody had them out not very long ago.'

'Yes, Sir,' she said. 'That were his lordship's father, that were. The
day before the great storm, not that that had anything to do with it, I
do suppose. No, I don't see there'd be no harm--if so be as you're
careful, Sir.'

Of course I told her that I would take great care of them, that I was
accustomed to handling old books and papers and so forth. But I couldn't
help thinking that that was not quite what she meant.

It was too late to do any more that day. So I said I would come back and
go through them to-morrow morning.

I mounted my bicycle at the front door expecting to enjoy the ride home
as it was a beautiful evening. But somehow I did not. For some reason I
felt uncomfortable and could not get rid of the idea that there was
someone following me. Though after all why shouldn't there be on a public
highroad? And what harm could he do me in broad daylight if he were
evilly disposed? All the same so strong was the feeling that I looked
behind me more than once. But I had the road to myself. All the same I
rode faster than usual and was glad when I found myself at the
_Fishmongers' Arms_.

After dinner I went into the bar-parlour as usual and got into
conversation with its frequenters. The talk was of the usual description
in such places. Interesting enough to anyone who, like myself, can find
pleasure in listening to reminiscences of past harvests, speculations as
to quality of the next one, the market prices of beasts and local affairs
generally. But not worth attempting to set down here.

The company broke up early and I went early to bed. Contrary to my usual
custom I did not sleep very well. I was troubled by a recurrent dream,
the details of which eluded me, try as I would to recall them. The
general sense was that I was going somewhere where I expected to meet, or
at least feared that I might meet, somebody whom I did not want to see,
Just as I was on the point of coming face to face with him I always woke
up. This performance was repeated with monotonous regularity four or five
times between midnight (which I heard on the church clock) and dawn. As
soon as it was light I gave up trying to go to sleep and read until it
was time to get up.

After breakfast I bicycled to Folkham House as usual and got out the
bundle of papers.

They proved more interesting than I had expected. They belonged to the
years 1531-2 and appeared to relate to the incumbent of the chapel at the
end of the bank. John of Costessey was his name.

The first document was brief. It was addressed to the Prior and Convent
of Walsingham and was a request bearing about a dozen signatures, of
which three seemed to be those of the rectors of Stivinghoe and two
neighbouring villages, that John might be recalled to Walsingham and
someone else despatched to take his place.

Presumably the Prior wrote, as he was bound to do, to ask the reason for
this request, for the next letter was considerably longer. It appeared
that John was suspected of having entered into a compact with the powers
of evil. He was a man of violent and vindictive temper and it was
noticeable that those who offended him were dogged by persistent and
inexplicable misfortune. Next time they went to sea they met with no
fish; or nets broke mysteriously as a catch was being brought on board.
Unaccountable accidents, some fatal, occurred on board their boats. More
than once a boat had been lost with all hands in a sudden and very
violent storm, which had not been foreseen by the most weather-wise
seamen along the coast.

More than once he had been seen from boats rounding the end of the bank
close inshore to make the harbour, standing at the water's edge with an
imp seated on his shoulder. The said imp had screamed and waved its arms
[here followed an illegible word which I guessed to be meant for
_devilishly_].

More than once at night-time the window of the Chapel had been seen, to
be brightly lighted, and bursts of song were heard proceeding from it.
These melodies did not suggest the familiar offices of the Church and
more than one voice seemed to be taking part.

Next came a letter from John himself, obviously in answer to a
communication from the Prior. He protested that he could not be expected
to reply in detail to such malicious and unfounded charges (_crimina tam
perfida ac dolosa et omnino nugatoria_) and hinted that if his nocturnal
vigils had been solaced by celestial company no fault could be found with
him on that score (_quid in hoc improperii vel quae increpationis
causa_?).

The Prior's answer to this may be inferred to have been a summons to
repair to Walsingham forthwith. John's next letter was to the effect that
his austerities, which it was his delight to practise, had made him too
feeble to undertake the journey on foot, while the hard-heartedness and
irreligion of the countryside, of which the Prior had had ample proof
(_litteris supradictis satis probatum_), made it unlikely that any
attempt to borrow so much as an ass would be successful.

The Prior could hardly be expected to put up with this, nor did he. He
must have told John that he proposed to visit him in person, for the last
letter was as follows:

_Quamquam in rebus humus vitae delectari non fas, attamen cum hic viderim
oculis meis sanctissimum Priorem una cum duo bus fratribus dilectissimis
libenter dicam Domine nunc dimittis servum tuum, etc._

(Although we are forbidden to take pleasure in the things of this life,
yet when I have seen here with my eyes the most holy Prior together with
two of my dearly beloved brethren I shall gladly say, 'Lord, now lettest
thou Thy servant depart,' etc.)

'Well,' I said to myself, 'he may have been an impudent rascal if
nothing worse. But he seems to have had a sense of humour and to have
been pretty sure of his ground. I wonder how the story ended?'

Next moment I gave a violent start, for I heard what sounded like a laugh
close behind me. I whipped round in my chair. But there was no one there.
The library was a large room and I was some distance from the door.
Although the carpet was thick I did not think anyone could have come in
without my knowledge. However, I got up, and went all round the room and
even looked behind the window curtains. Of course I found nobody, and sat
down again feeling rather ashamed of myself for being so fanciful.

There was only one more paper to be examined. Unfortunately the top had
been torn off and the first words remaining were _nusquan inveniri
potuit_ (could not be found anywhere).

Then followed an inventory of the contents of the Chapel and cell. The
only unusual item was _Duae cerae nigrae_ (Two candles of black wax).

I concluded that the Prior had paid his visit, but that John's nerve had
failed him at the last moment and he had disappeared. He could have made
his way to Lynn without much difficulty and got on board a ship bound for
the Low Countries.

No doubt the Prior was not sorry to be rid of him, and as the inventory
was dated Festo S. Edithae MDXXXII (16 September 1532) the convent soon
had other things to think about.

On my way home I speculated, not for the first time, upon the question
whether there is or can be any foundation for any of the stories of
compacts between human beings and evil spirits. In the abstract the
possibility seems difficult to dispute. The belief is ancient and widely
diffused. The real point seems to be whether the game could be worth the
candle.

As I had finished all I meant to do at Folkham House I decided that I
would spend to-morrow on a visit to the Chapel and perhaps sketch it. The
day after I would return home.

When I imparted my plan to the landlord he naturally expressed a civil
regret that my stay at Stivinghoe was coming to an end. He seemed
doubtful whether the ruins (as I had learned the Chapel was called
locally) were worth visiting, seeing as it were a dull trudge along the
bank to get there. I thought from his manner that that was not his only
reason for trying to discourage me. But he was summoned elsewhere before
he had time to say more. While I was at dinner he looked in to see if I
had everything I wanted. This was an unusual piece of condescension and I
suspected an ulterior motive of some sort. I was not mistaken. After a
moment or two he made an obvious effort.

'You'll excuse me, Sir. But the ruins is a queer place. Rare goings on
there in those ancient times--by what I've heard.'

This was interesting as it suggested that some reminiscence of John of
Costessey lingered on the scene of his activities. But before I could ask
for details he went on rapidly, 'Not that I've any call to listen to the
fishermen's talk--no more than what you 'ave.'

After this there was obviously no more to be got out of him. But I
thought I would try a cast among the company in the parlour later on.
After some miscellaneous conversation I mentioned that I thought of
spending my last day in walking out along the bank and making a sketch of
the ruins. For some reason the company seemed to find this proposal
disturbing. No one made any comment but there was an awkward pause. Then
two ancients near the fireplace held a short muttered conversation. The
only words I could catch sounded like 'not lately, have he?'

Plainly they knew more than they meant to tell. Presently someone
introduced some ordinary topic, and conversation flowed easily as before.

I went to bed about eleven and slept soundly.

Next morning I started soon after breakfast. I had ascertained that the
tide would be low between 1 and 2 p.m. so that I should be able to find a
position from which to make a sketch. I could hardly do this if I were
confined to the bank itself. Also the day, though fine, was windy; windy
enough, I thought, to make the top of the bank a wet place at high water.

I asked for some sandwiches to take with me and said that I should be
back in time for dinner as usual, probably for tea. I thought the
landlord looked at me rather reproachfully, but he said nothing When I
had gone a few steps on my way I found that I had not filled my tobacco
pouch that morning. I turned back to make the omission good and my eye
was caught by a horseshoe nailed over the front door. Nothing remarkable
in that, you may say, but I wondered that I had not noticed it before, as
it now seemed to be unusually conspicuous.

The walk along the bank was pleasant enough. I could see over miles of
marsh on either hand. Inland there were groups of red-roofed cottages to
be seen, with occasional windmills and church towers. In front of me lay
the sea. At the moment no fishing-boats were visible, but the smoke of
one or two large ships could be seen on the horizon.

Altogether an exhilarating prospect. But somehow or other I did not feel
at all exhilarated. On the contrary I had to admit that I was nervous and
depressed.

Certainly I had had some odd little experiences since I had touched the
Stivinghoe papers, First there was the feeling that I was being followed
on the way home. Then my uncomfortable and inconclusive dream. Then the
laugh which I thought (no, _knew_) that I had heard in the library; and
last of all the obvious conviction of the neighbourhood that the ruins
were better left alone. What should I do if I saw a figure emerge from
the Chapel and come along the bank to meet me? Should I enter into
conversation or should I get down on to the sand and hope that he would
pass me by? Or should I run for it? Or could I recall on the spur of the
moment any form of exorcism which might prove effective? Fortunately I
did not have to answer any of these questions.

The Chapel was a small building, roughly built of grey flint. It measured
about twenty-two feet by ten and was lighted by a single lancet in the
east wall. There was a door at the west end, I put its date at a little
before 1350. Of course the roof was gone, but the walls looked fairly
sound. The altar was still in place. But I noticed that the usual
consecration crosses (one in the middle and one at each corner) had been
deliberately obliterated. The chisel marks could be seen clearly. Such
reforming zeal seemed to be almost excessive.

On the south (that is on the landward) side of the Chapel there were some
small mounds which presumably indicated the site of the priest's
dwelling. The superstructure had disappeared so completely that I
wondered whether it had been of wood; also whether it could possibly be
worth while to return with a spade.

I sat down on one of the mounds and ate my sandwiches. Then I thought it
time to set about my sketch. I went down on to the sand and decided that
the best position was a few yards to seaward. (In this part of Norfolk
the coast runs east and west, so that the sea is to the north. The
natives are fond of assuring visitors that there is nothing between them
and the North Pole. No one who has been there in winter is likely to wish
to dispute this statement.) The tide was still ebbing, so I should have
plenty of time to do what I wanted.

I settled myself and my sketching materials, but somehow I did not make
very good progress. I had an uncomfortable feeling, as if there was
somebody behind me, and caught myself wondering what I should do if a
hand (probably a large and bony one) were suddenly laid upon my shoulder.
I said aloud 'ridiculous' and as I did so a gull passed very close above
my head and gave a derisive squawk, which seemed to indicate his complete
concurrence.

The gulls were very many; which was not surprising. But they were so tame
(or impudent, whichever you like to call it) that they were a positive
nuisance. They flapped their wings almost in my face and one actually
perched on my easel. I suppose they had never seen enough of men to be
afraid of them. I had a sandwich or two left which I threw as far as I
could towards the water's edge. This drew them off for a little, but they
were soon as bad as ever. However, I got a sketch of some sort finished.
I thought I would take one more look inside the Chapel before I started
to walk home in case there were any detail of interest which I had
missed. The floor was covered with coarse turf. Probably it had never
been paved; if it had, the paving had been covered long since. But just
in front of the altar I noticed a patch which somehow looked different
from the rest. I had in my knife one of those curious implements said to
be intended for taking stones out of horses' feet, and it seemed that at
last I had a chance of using it. I scratched at the turf and very soon my
hook grated upon a stone. A little scraping disclosed a small rectangular
slab about twenty inches long by eight broad. A pentacle had been
scratched upon it rather roughly. It was obviously the lid of something,
if it were too small for any kind of coffin. A little more scraping of
the earth round its edges and I got it up with less difficulty than I had
expected. It was the lid of a coffin of sorts after all and in the coffin
were some bones; clearly those of a small monkey. Its forepaws were
crossed upon its breast and from some fragments of stuff which lay about
I came to the conclusion that it had been buried in some sort of monastic
habit.

This discovery explained the stories of the imp. Perhaps John had been
really fond of his pet who must have been his only companion. Burial
before the altar might perhaps be condoned. But the monastic habit looked
like a profane jest. Or was it more than a jest? Taken in conjunction
with the pentacle on the lid, the candles of black wax found by the Prior
and the erasure of the consecration crosses (which I now began to think
was John's handiwork and not the doing of any zealous follower of
Dowsing) there was a definite suggestion of serious and sinister purpose.
What unhallowed rites had been celebrated there, with what evil intent?
And (I could not repress the, further question) in what company?

However, there seemed to be nothing for me to do but to leave things as I
had found them. Which I did. The afternoon was wearing on, so I started
for home. The tide had probably turned but was still very low. At the
seaward end the line of the bank was curved, so I saw that I could
shorten my walk considerably if I took to the sands and struck the bank
again in about a mile. When I had gone a little way I turned to take a
final look at the Chapel. It was a sunny day with big white clouds
driving before the wind. As I looked the shadow of one passed across the
Chapel, and by some odd trick of light made it seem as if a dark figure
had emerged from the door and dropped down the far side of the bank. For
a moment I was really startled.

I turned and went on with my walk. I have never considered myself a
fanciful person, but it was borne in upon me very forcibly that the
sooner I was sitting down to tea at the _Fishmongers' Arms_ the happier I
should be.

Presently I reached the point at which I must take to the bank again.
Just as I got to the edge of the sand I saw the print of a naked human
foot, pointing towards the bank. It was very recent and could
(apparently) only have been made by someone who had passed me quite
close, having come across the sand as I had, and gone up the bank before
me. This was frankly impossible. Had there been anyone else about I could
not have failed to see him. The sand was too wet to hold impressions for
long. Most of my own tracks had disappeared already. Yet there was the
footprint, unmistakably. I stooped and looked at it (there was only one,
which made it odder still) closely. It struck me as unusually bony, that
is to say, the bones showed more plainly than I should have expected. I
thought of the shadow which I had seen pass across the end of the Chapel.
Had it, after all, emerged from the inside? If I went on, should I find
someone waiting for me, and with what intent? However, there was nothing
for it but to go on. I was within sight of the village now and there were
people about who would see if any attack were made upon me, though what
help they would be able to give was another matter. So on I went, and in
a few minutes had reached my inn safely.

I turned on the doorstep to take a look over the marshes. Very lonely and
solemn they were and very dark was the little Chapel. There was no one to
be seen; I had not expected that there would be. By this time the wind
had freshened and there was a hard brightness on the northeastern horizon
which foretold a full gale before morning. There was an old barometer
just inside the front door which had fallen so low that I wondered
whether it were trustworthy and hoped not. The landlord emerged and
appeared ill at ease, and at the same time glad to see me--possibly by
reason of the weather; possibly not. He murmured something to the effect
of no harm done, as he returned to his occupations. I felt curiously
tired, and when I had had tea, after a poor pretence of reading some book
(I forget now what) dozed in an armchair by the fire.

I was roused by a clap of thunder and the storm broke with a roar like a
train. The thunder was unusual, I thought, for the time of year,
especially as the last few days had not been particularly hot. Also, the
wind was off the sea, and I knew that there was a belief along the coast
that when a thunderstorm comes up from the sea, that will be the
beginning of the end of the world.

The _Fishmongers' Arms_ was built to stand weather. But I doubt whether
it ever had a worse buffeting than it got that night. There was no more
thunder, but the rain came down in sheets and the wind tore at the house
till I could almost imagine I felt it swaying to and fro. It was obvious
that there would be no customers at the bar, so after dinner I invited
the landlord to come to my sitting-room to smoke a cigar and drink a
whisky and soda with me. I was really glad of his company, and he seemed
to be of mine. We tried to talk of indifferent subjects, but could not do
much save listen to the wind. We went to bed about eleven, though there
was not much prospect of sleep. I wished that I had not remembered at
that moment that Richard Kidder, Bishop of Bath and Wells, had been
killed in his bed, together with his wife, by the fall of a chimney-stack
through the roof of the palace during the terrible storm of 26-7
November, 1703.

Soon after midnight there was a screech (I can call it nothing else) like
that of an animal in pain. I could hardly have believed that the wind
could have made such a sound. This seemed to be its last effort, and the
storm died away almost as quickly as it had arisen.

When I looked out next morning the Chapel was gone. The whole end of the
bank had been washed away. The gale had coincided with a spring tide and
I suspect that most of the marsh had been under water for some hours. Of
course the tip of the bank had caught the full force of the sea.

I must confess that I felt relieved At first I was glad that I had made a
sketch of the Chapel. But after a little reflection I burned it. Somehow
I felt safer as I saw it turn to ashes.



THE SUNDIAL

The following story came into my hands by pure chance. I had wandered
into a second-hand book-shop in the neighbourhood of the Charing Cross
Road and was about to leave it empty-handed. On a shelf near the door my
eye fell upon a copy of Hacket's _Scrinia Reserata_ solidly bound in
leather, which I thought well worth the few shillings which the
proprietor was willing to accept for it. It is not an easy book to come
by, and is of real value to anyone who wants to understand certain
aspects of English Church History during the first half of the
seventeenth century.

When I opened the book at home a thickish wad of paper fell out. It
proved to consist of several sheets of foolscap covered with writing. I
have reproduced the contents word for word.

From the look of the paper I judged that it had been there for at least
thirty years. The author had not signed it, and there was nothing to
indicate to whom the book had belonged. I think I could make a guess at
the neighbourhood to which the story relates, and if I am right it should
not be difficult to identify the house and discover the name of the
tenant. But as he seems to have wished to remain anonymous he shall do
so, as far as I am concerned.

The form of the story suggests that he intended to publish it; probably
in some magazine. As far as I know it has not been printed before.

* * * * *

I belong to one of the numerous middle-class English families which for
several generations have followed various professions, with credit, but
without ever attaining any very special distinction. In our own case
India could almost claim us as hereditary bondsmen. For more than a
century most of our men had made their way there, and had served John
Company or the Crown in various capacities. One of my uncles had risen to
be Legal Member of the Viceroy's Council. So when my own time came, to
India I went--in the Civil Service--and there I lived for five and twenty
years.

My career was neither more nor less adventurous than the average. The
routine of my work was occasionally broken by experiences which would
sound incredible to an English reader, and therefore need not be set down
here. Just before the time came for my retirement, a legacy made me a good
deal better off than I had had any reason to expect to be. So upon my
return to England I found that it would be possible for me to adopt the
life of a country gentleman, upon a modest scale, but with the prospect
of finding sufficient occupation and amusement.

I was never married, and had been too long out of England to have any
very strong ties remaining. I was free to establish myself where I
pleased, and the advertisements in the _Field_ and _Country Life_ offered
houses of every description in every part of the kingdom. After much
correspondence, and some fruitless journeys, I came upon one which seemed
to satisfy my requirements. It lay about sixty miles north of London upon
a main line of railway. That was an important point, as I was a Fellow of
both the Asiatic and Historical Societies, and had long looked forward to
attending their meetings regularly. As a boy I had known the
neighbourhood slightly and had liked it, though it is not generally
considered beautiful. There were two packs of hounds within reach, which
could be followed with such a stable as I should be able to afford.

The house was an old one. It had been a good deal larger, but part had
been battered down during the Civil War, when it was besieged by the
Parliamentary troops, and never rebuilt. It belonged to one of the
largest landowners in the county, whom I will call Lord Rye. It generally
served as the dower-house of the family, but as there was at that moment
no dowager Countess, and as Lord Rye himself was a young man, and both
his sisters were married, it was not likely to be wanted for some time to
come. It had been unoccupied for nearly two years. The last tenant, a
retired doctor, had been found dead on the lawn at the bottom of the
steps leading up to the garden door. His heart had been in a bad
condition for some time past, so that his sudden death was not
surprising; but the neighbouring village viewed the incident with some
suspicion. One or two of the older people professed to remember
traditions of 'trouble' there in former years.

This had made it difficult to get a caretaker, and as Lord Rye was
anxious to let again he was willing to take an almost nominal rent. In
fact his whole attitude suggested that I was doing him a favour by
becoming his tenant. About five hundred acres of shooting generally went
with the house, and I was glad to find that I could have them very
cheaply.

I moved in at midsummer, and each day made me more and more pleased with
my new surroundings.

After my years in India the garden was a particular source of delight to
me; but I will not describe it more minutely than is necessary to make
what follows intelligible. Behind the house was a good-sized lawn,
flanked by shrubbery. On the far side, parallel with the house, ran a
splendid yew hedge, nearly fifteen feet high and very thick. It came up
to the shrubbery at either end, but was pierced by two archways about
thirty yards apart, giving access to the flower-garden beyond. Almost in
the middle of the lawn was an old tree stump, or what looked like one,
some three feet high. Though covered with ivy it was not picturesque, and
I told Lord Rye that I should like to take it up. 'Do by all means,' he
said, 'I certainly should if I lived here. I believe poor Riley (the
last tenant) intended to put a sundial there. I think it would look
rather nice, don't you?'

This struck me as a good idea. I ordered a sundial from a well-known firm
of heliological experts in Cockspur Street, and ordered the stump to be
grubbed up as soon as it arrived.

One morning towards the end of September I woke unrefreshed after a night
of troubled dreams. I could not recall them very distinctly, but I had
seemed to be trying to lift a very heavy weight of some kind from the
ground. But, before I could raise it, an overwhelming terror had taken
hold of me--though I could not remember why--and I woke to find my
forehead wet with perspiration. Each time I fell asleep again the dream
repeated itself with mechanical regularity, though the details did not
become any more distinct. So I was heartily glad it had become late
enough to get up. The day was wet and chilly. I felt tired and unwell,
and was, moreover, depressed by a vague sense of impending disaster. This
was accentuated by a feeling that it lay within my power to avert the
catastrophe, if only I could discover what it was.

In the afternoon the weather cleared, and I thought that a ride would do
me good. I rode fairly hard for some distance, and it was past five
o'clock before I had reached my own bounds'-ditch on my way home. At that
particular place a small wood ran along the edge of my property for about
a quarter of a mile. I was riding slowly down the outside, and was
perhaps a hundred yards from the angle where I meant to turn it, when I
noticed a man standing at the corner. The light was beginning to fail,
and he was so close to the edge of the wood that at first I could not be
sure whether it was a human figure, or only an oddly shaped tree stump
which I had never noticed before. But when I got a little nearer I saw
that my first impression had been correct, and that it was a man. He
seemed to be dressed like an ordinary agricultural labourer. He was
standing absolutely still and seemed to be looking very intently in my
direction. But he was shading his eyes with his hand, so that I could not
make out his face. Before I had got close enough to make him out more
definitely he turned suddenly and vanished round the corner of the wood.
His movements were rapid: but he somehow gave the impression of being
deformed, though in what precise respect I could not tell. Naturally my
suspicions were stirred, so I put my horse to a canter. But when we had
reached the corner he shied violently, and I had some difficulty in
getting him to pass it. When we had got round, the mysterious man was
nowhere to be seen. In front and on the left hand lay a very large
stubble field, without a vestige of cover of any kind. I could see that
he was not crossing it, and unless he had flown he could not have reached
the other side.

On the right hand lay the ditch bounding the wood. As is usual in that
country it was both wide and deep, and had some two or three feet of mud
and water at the bottom. If the man had gone that way he had some very
pressing reason for wishing to avoid me: and I could detect no trace of
his passage at any point.

So there was nothing to be done but go home, and tell the policeman next
day to keep his eyes open for any suspicious strangers. However, no
attempts were made upon any of my belongings, and when October came my
pheasants did not seem to have been unlawfully diminished.

October that year was stormy, and one Saturday night about the middle of
the month it blew a regular gale. I lay awake long listening to the wind,
and to all the confused sounds which fill an old house in stormy weather.
Twice I seemed to hear footsteps in the passage. Once I could have almost
sworn my door was cautiously opened and closed again. When at last I
dropped off I was disturbed by a repetition of my former dream. But this
time the details were rather more distinct. Again I was trying to lift a
heavy weight from the ground: but now I knew that there was something
hidden under it. What the concealed object might be I could not tell, but
as I worked to bring it to light a feeling began to creep over me that I
did not want to see it. This soon deepened into horror at the bare idea
of seeing it: though I had still no notion what manner of thing it might
be. Yet I could not abandon my task. So presently I found myself in the
position of working hard to accomplish what I would have given the world
to have left undone. At this point I woke, to find myself shaking with
fright, and repeating aloud the apparently meaningless sentence--'If
you'll pull, I'll push.'

I did not sleep for the rest of that night. Beside the noise of the storm
the prospect of a repetition of that dream was quite enough to keep me
awake. To add to my discomfort a verse from Ecclesiastes ran in my head
with dismal persistence--'But if a man live many years and rejoice in
them all, yet let him remember the days of darkness, for they shall be
many.' Days of darkness seemed to be coming upon me now, and my mind was
filled with vague alarm.

The next day was fine, and after Church I thought I would see how my
fruit trees had fared during the night. The kitchen-garden was enclosed
by a high brick wall. On the side nearest the house there were two doors,
which were always kept locked on Sunday. In the wall opposite was a
trap-door, about three feet square, giving on to a rather untidy piece of
ground, partly orchard and partly waste. When I had unlocked the door I
saw standing by the opposite wall the figure which I had seen at the
corner of the wood. His neck was abnormally long, and so malformed that
his head lolled sideways on to his right shoulder in a disgusting and
almost inhuman fashion. He was bent almost double; and I think he was
misshapen in some other respect as well. But of that I could not be
certain. He raised his hand with what seemed to be a threatening gesture,
then turned, and slipped through the trap-door with remarkable quickness.
I was after him immediately, but on reaching the opposite wall received a
shock which stopped me like a physical blow. The trap-door was shut and
bolted on the inside. I tried to persuade myself that a violent slam
might make the bolts shoot, but I knew that that was really impossible. I
had to choose between two explanations. Either my visitor was a complete
hallucination, or else he possessed the unusual power of being able to
bolt a door upon the side on which he himself was not. The latter was
upon the whole the more comforting, and--in view of some of my Indian
experiences--the more probable, supposition.

After a little hesitation I opened the trap and, as there was nothing to
be seen, got through it and went up to the top of the orchard, where the
kennels lay. But neither of my dogs would follow the scent. When brought
to the spot where his feet must have touched the ground they whined and
showed every symptom of alarm. When I let go of their collars they
hurried home in a way which showed plainly what they thought of the
matter.

This seemed to dispose of the idea of hallucination, and, as before,
there was nothing else to be done but await developments as patiently as
I could. For the next fortnight nothing remarkable took place. I had my
usual health and as near an approach to my usual spirits as could
reasonably be expected. I had visitors for part of the time, but no one
to whom I should have cared to confide the story at this stage. I was not
molested further by day, and my dreams, though varied, were not alarming.

On the morning of the 31st I received a letter announcing that my sundial
had been despatched, and it duly arrived in the course of the afternoon.
It was heavy, so by the time we had got it out of the railway van and on
to the lawn it was too late to place it in position that day. The men
departed to drink my health, and I turned towards the house. Just as I
reached the door I paused. A sensation--familiar to all men who are much
alone--had come over me, and I felt as if I were being watched from
behind. Usually the feeling can be dispelled by turning round. I did so,
but on this occasion the sense that I was not alone merely increased. Of
course the lawn was deserted, but I stood looking across it for a few
moments, telling myself that I must not let my nerves play me tricks.
Then I saw a face detach itself slowly from the darkness of the hedge at
one side of the left-hand arch. For a few seconds it hung, horribly
poised, in the middle of the opening like a mask suspended by an
invisible thread. Then the body to which it belonged slid into the clear
space, and I saw my acquaintance of the wood and kitchen-garden, this
time sharply outlined against a saffron sky. There could be no mistaking
his bowed form and distorted neck, but now his appearance was made
additionally abominable by his expression. The yellow sunset light seemed
to stream all round him, and showed me features convulsed with fury. He
gnashed his teeth and clawed the air with both hands. I have never seen
such a picture of impotent rage.

It was more by instinct than by any deliberate courage that I ran
straight across the lawn towards him. He was gone in a flash, and when I
came through the archway where he had stood he was hurrying down the side
of the hedge towards the other. He moved with an odd shuffling gait, and
I made sure that I should soon overtake him. But to my surprise I found
that I did not gain much. His limping shuffle took him over the ground as
fast as I could cover it. In fact, when I reached the point from which I
had started I thought I had actually lost a little. When we came round
for the second time there was no doubt about it. This was humiliating,
but I persevered, relying now on superior stamina. But during the third
circuit it suddenly flashed upon me that our positions had become
reversed. I was no longer the pursuer. He--it----whatever the creature
was, was now chasing me, and the distance between us was diminishing
rapidly.

I am not ashamed to admit that my nerve failed completely. I believe I
screamed aloud. I ran on stumblingly, helplessly, as one runs in a dream,
knowing now that the creature behind was gaining at every stride. How
long the chase lasted I do not know, but presently I could hear his
irregular footstep close behind me, and a horrible dank breath played
about the back of my neck. We were on the side towards the house when I
looked up and saw my butler standing at the garden door, with a note in
his hand. The sight of his prosaic form seemed to break the spell which
had kept me running blindly round and round the hedge. I was almost
exhausted, but I tore across the lawn, and fell in a heap at the bottom
of the steps.

Parker was an ex-sergeant of Marines, which amounts to saying that he was
incapable of surprise and qualified to cope with any practical emergency
which could arise. He picked me up, helped me into the house, gave me a
tumbler of brandy diluted with soda-water, and fortified himself with
another, without saying a word. How much he saw, or what he thought of
it, I could never learn, for all subsequent approaches to the question
were parried with the evasive skill which seems to be the birthright of
all them that go down to the sea in ships. But his general view of the
situation is indicated by the fact that he sent for the Rector, not the
doctor, and--as I learned afterwards--had a private conference with him
before he left the house. Soon afterwards he joined the choir--or in his
own phrase 'assisted with the singing in the chancel'--and for many
months the village church had no more regular or vocal attendant.

The Rector heard my story gravely, and was by no means disposed to make
light of it. Something similar had come his way once before, when he had
had the charge of a parish on the Northumbrian Border. He was confident,
he said, that no harm could come to me that night, if I remained indoors,
and departed to look up some of his authorities on such subjects.

That night was noisy with wind, so the insistent knocking which I seemed
to hear during the small hours at the garden-door and ground-floor
windows, which were secured with outside shutters, may have had no
existence outside my imagination. I had asked Parker to occupy a
dressing-room opening out of my bedroom for the night. He seemed very
ready to do so, but I do not think that he slept very much either. Early
next morning the Rector reappeared, saying that he thought he had got a
clue, though it was impossible to say yet how much it might be worth. He
had brought with him the first volume of the parish register, and showed
me the following note on the inside of the cover:

'October 31st, 1578. On this day Jn. Croxton a Poore Man hanged himself
from a Beame within his House. He was a very stubborn Popish Recusant and
ye manner of his Death was in accord with his whole Life. He was buried
that evening at ye Cross Roades.'

'It is unfortunate,' continued the Rector, 'that we have no
sixteenth-century map of the parish. But there is a map of 1759 which
marks a hamlet at the cross-roads just outside your gate. The hamlet
doesn't exist now--you know that the population hereabouts is much less
than it used to be--but it used to be called New Cross. I think that must
mean that these particular cross-roads are comparatively recent. Now this
house is known to have been built between 1596 and 1602. The straight way
from Farley to Abbotsholme would lie nearly across its site. I think,
therefore, that the Elizabethan Lord Rye diverted the old road when he
laid out his grounds. That would also account for the loop which the
present road makes'--here he traced its course with his finger on the
map which he had brought.

'Now I strongly suspect that your visitor was Mr. Croxton, and that he is
buried somewhere in your grounds. If we could find the place I think we
could keep him quiet for the future. But I am afraid that there is
nothing to guide us.'

At this point Parker came in. 'Beg your pardon, Sir, but Hardman is
wishful to speak to you. About that there bollard on the quarter-deck,
Sir--stump on the lawn, I should have said, Sir--what you told him to put
over the side.'

We went out, and found Hardman and the boy looking at a large hole in the
lawn. By the side of it lay what we had taken for a tree stump. But it
had never struck root there. It was a very solid wooden stake, some nine
feet in length over all, with a sharp point. It had been driven some six
feet into the ground, passing through a layer of rubble about three feet
from the surface. At the bottom the hole widened, forming a large, and
plainly artificial, cavity. The earth here looked as if it had been
recently disturbed, but the condition of the stake showed that that was
impossible. It was obvious to both of us that we had come upon Mr.
Croxton's grave, at the original cross-roads, and that what had appeared
to be a natural stump was really the stake which had been driven through
it to keep him there. We did not, of course, take the gardeners into our
confidence, but told them to leave the place for the present as it might
contain some interesting antiques--presumably Roman--which we would get
out carefully with our own hands.

We soon enlarged the shaft sufficiently to explore the cavity at the
bottom. We had naturally expected to find a skeleton, or something of the
sort, there, but we were disappointed. We could not discover the
slightest vestige of bones or body, or of any dust except that of natural
soil. Once while we were working we were startled by a harsh sound like
the cry of a night-jar, apparently very close at hand. But whatever it
was passed away very quickly, as if the creature which had made it was on
the wing, and it was not repeated.

By the Rector's advice we went to the churchyard and brought away
sufficient consecrated earth to fill up the cavity. The shaft was filled
up, and the sundial securely planted on top of it. The pious mottoes with
which it was adorned, according to custom, assumed for the first time a
practical significance.

'It not infrequently happens,' said the Rector, 'that those who for any
reason have not received full Christian Burial are unable, or unwilling,
to remain quiet in their graves, particularly if the interment has been
at all carelessly carried out in the first instance. They seem to be
particularly active on or about the anniversary of their death in any
year. The range of their activities is varied, and it would be difficult
to define the nature of the power which animates them, or the source from
which it is derived. But I incline to think that it is less their own
personality than some force inherent in the earth itself, of which they
become the vehicle. With the exception of Vampires (who are altogether
_sui generis_ and virtually unknown in this country), they can seldom do
much direct physical harm. They operate indirectly by terrifying, but are
commonly compelled to stop there. But it is always necessary for them to
have free access to their graves. If that is obstructed in any way their
power seems to lapse. That is why I think that their vitality is in some
way bred of the earth: and I am sure that you won't be troubled with any
more visits now.

'Our friend was afraid that your sundial would interfere with his
convenience, and I think he was trying to frighten you into leaving the
house. Of course, if your heart had been weak he might have disposed of
you as he did of your unfortunate predecessor. His projection of himself
into your dreams was part of his general plan: I incline to think,
however, that it was an error of judgment, as it might have put you on
your guard. But I very much doubt whether he could have inflicted any
physical injury on you if he had caught you yesterday afternoon.'

'H'm,' said I, 'you might be right there. But I am very glad that I shall
never know.'

Next day Parker asked for leave to go to London. He returned with a large
picture representing King Solomon issuing directions to a corvée of
demons of repellent aspect whom he had (according to a well-known Jewish
legend) compelled to labour at the building of the Temple. This he
proceeded to affix with drawing-pins to the inside of the pantry door. He
called my attention to it particularly, and said that he had got it from
a Jew whom he had known in Malta, who had recently opened a branch
establishment in the Whitechapel Road. I ventured to make some comment on
the singularity of the subject, but Parker was, as usual, impenetrable.
'Beggin' your pardon, Sir,' he said, 'there's some things what a civilian
don't never 'ave no chance of learnin', not even if 'e 'ad the brains for
it. I done my twenty-one years in the Service--_in puris naturalibus_ all
the time as the saying is--and' (pointing to the figure of the King) you
may lay to it that that there man knew 'is business.'



BETWEEN SUNSET AND MOONRISE

During the early part of last year it fell to me to act as executor for
an old friend. We had not seen much of each other of late, as he had been
living in the west of England, and my own time had been fully occupied
elsewhere. The time of our intimacy had been when he was vicar of a large
parish not very far from Cambridge. I will call it Yaxholme, though that
is not its name.

The place had seemed to suit him thoroughly. He had been on the best of
terms with his parishioners, and with the few gentry of the
neighbourhood. The church demanded a custodian of antiquarian knowledge
and artistic perception, and in these respects too my friend was
particularly well qualified for his position. But a sudden nervous
breakdown had compelled him to resign. The cause of it had always been a
mystery to his friends, for he was barely middle-aged when it took place,
and had been a man of robust health. His parish was neither particularly
laborious nor harassing; and, as far as was known, he had no special
private anxieties of any kind. But the collapse came with startling
suddenness, and was so severe that, for a time, his reason seemed to be
in danger. Two years of rest and travel enabled him to lead a normal life
again, but he was never the man he had been. He never revisited his old
parish, or any of his friends in the county; and seemed to be ill at ease
if conversation turned upon the part of England in which it lay. It was
perhaps not unnatural that he should dislike the place which had cost him
so much. But his friends could not but regard as childish the length to
which he carried his aversion.

He had had a distinguished career at the University, and had kept up his
intellectual interests in later life. But, except for an occasional
_succès d'estime_ in a learned periodical, he had published nothing. I
was not without hope of finding something completed among his papers
which would secure for him a permanent place in the world of learning. But
in this I was disappointed. His literary remains were copious, and a
striking testimony to the vigour and range of his intellect. But they
were very fragmentary. There was nothing which could be made fit for
publication, except one document which I should have preferred to
suppress. But he had left particular instructions in his will that it was
to be published when he had been dead for a year. Accordingly I subjoin
it exactly as it left his hand. It was dated two years after he had left
Yaxholme, and nearly five before his death. For reasons which will be
apparent to the reader I make no comment of any kind upon it.

* * * * *

The solicitude which my friends have displayed during my illness has
placed me under obligations which I cannot hope to repay. But I feel that
I owe it to them to explain the real cause of my breakdown. I have never
spoken of it to anyone, for, had I done so, it would have been impossible
to avoid questions which I should not wish to be able to answer. Though I
have only just reached middle-age I am sure that I have not many more
years to live. And I am therefore confident that most of my friends will
survive me, and be able to hear my explanation after my death. Nothing
but a lively sense of what I owe to them could have enabled me to undergo
the pain of recalling the experience which I am now about to set down.

Yaxholme lies, as they will remember, upon the extreme edge of the Fen
district. In shape it is a long oval, with a main line of railway cutting
one end. The church and vicarage were close to the station, and round
them lay a village containing nearly five-sixths of the entire population
of the parish. On the other side of the line the Fen proper began, and
stretched for many miles. Though it is now fertile corn land, much of it
had been permanently under water within living memory, and would soon
revert to its original condition if it were not for the pumping stations.
In spite of these it is not unusual to see several hundred acres flooded
in winter.

My own parish ran for nearly six miles, and I had therefore several
scattered farms and cottages so far from the village that a visit to one
of them took up the whole of a long afternoon. Most of them were not on
any road, and could only be reached by means of droves. For the benefit
of those who are not acquainted with the Fen I may explain that a drove
is a very imperfect sketch of the idea of a road. It is bounded by hedges
or dykes, so that the traveller cannot actually lose his way, but it
offers no further assistance to his progress. The middle is simply a
grass track, and as cattle have to be driven along it the mud is
sometimes literally knee-deep in winter. In summer the light peaty soil
rises in clouds of sable dust. In fact I seldom went down one without
recalling Hesiod's unpatriotic description of his native village in
Boeotia. 'Bad in winter; intolerable in summer; good at no time.'

At the far end of one of these lay a straggling group of half a dozen
cottages, of which the most remote was inhabited by an old woman whom I
will call Mrs. Vries. In some ways she was the most interesting of all my
parishioners, and she was certainly the most perplexing. She was not a
native, but had come to live there some twenty years before, and it was
hard to see what had tempted a stranger to so unattractive a spot. It was
the last house in the parish: her nearest neighbour was a quarter of a
mile away, and she was fully three miles from a hard road or a shop. The
house itself was not at all a good one. It had been unoccupied, I was
told, for some years before she came to it, and she had found it in a
semi-ruinous condition. Yet she had not been driven to seek a very cheap
dwelling by poverty, as she had a good supply of furniture of very good
quality, and, apparently, as much money as she required. She never gave
the slightest hint as to where she had come from, or what her previous
history had been. As far as was known she never wrote or received any
letters. She must have been between fifty and sixty when she came. Her
appearance was striking, as she was tall and thin, with an aquiline nose,
and a pair of very brilliant dark eyes, and a quantity of hair--snowwhite
by the time I knew her. At one time she must have been handsome; but she
had grown rather forbidding, and I used to think that, a couple of
centuries before, she might have had some difficulty in proving that she
was not a witch. Though her neighbours, not unnaturally, fought rather
shy of her, her conversation showed that she was a clever woman who had
at some time received a good deal of education, and had lived in
cultivated surroundings. I used to think that she must have been an upper
servant--most probably lady's maid--in a good house, and, despite the
ring on her finger, suspected that the 'Mrs.' was brevet rank.

One New Year's Eve I thought it my duty to visit her. I had not seen her
for some months, and a few days of frost had made the drove more passable
than it had been for several weeks. But, in spite of her interesting
personality, I always found that it required a considerable moral effort
to call at her cottage. She was always civil, and expressed herself
pleased to see me. But I could never get rid of the idea that she
regarded civility to me in the light of an insurance, which might be
claimed elsewhere. I always told myself that such thoughts were unfounded
and unworthy, but I could never repress them altogether, and whenever I
left her cottage it was with a strong feeling that I had no desire to see
her again. I used, however, to say to myself that that was really due to
personal pique (because I could never discover that she had any religion,
nor could I instil any into her), and that the fault was therefore more
mine than hers.

On this particular afternoon the prospect of seeing her seemed more than
usually distasteful, and my disinclination increased curiously as I made
my way along the drove. So strong did it become that if any reasonable
excuse for turning back had presented itself I am afraid I should have
seized it. However, none did: so I held on, comforting myself with the
thought that I should begin the New Year with a comfortable sense of
having discharged the most unpleasant of my regular duties in a
conscientious fashion.

When I reached the cottage I was a little surprised at having to knock
three times, and by hearing the sound of bolts cautiously drawn back.
Presently the door opened and Mrs. Vries peered out. As soon as she saw
who it was she made me very welcome as usual. But it was impossible not
to feel that she had been more or less expecting some other visitor, whom
she was not anxious to see. However, she volunteered no statement, and I
thought it better to pretend to have noticed nothing unusual. On a table
in the middle of the room lay a large book in which she had obviously
been reading. I was surprised to see that it was a Bible, and that it lay
open at the Book of Tobit. Seeing that I had noticed it Mrs. Vries told
me--with a little hesitation, I thought--that she had been reading the
story of Sarah and the fiend Asmodeus. Then--the ice once broken--she
plied me almost fiercely with questions. 'To what cause did I attribute
Sarah's obsession, in the first instance?' 'Did the efficacy of Tobias'
remedy depend upon the fact that it had been prescribed by an angel?'
and much more to the same effect. Naturally my answers were rather vague,
and her good manners could not conceal her disappointment. She sat silent
for a minute or two, while I looked at her--not, I must confess, without
some alarm, for her manner had been very strange--and then said
abruptly, 'Well, will you have a cup of tea with me?' I assented
gladly, for it was nearly half-past four, and it would take me nearly an
hour and a half to get home. She took some time over the preparations and
during the meal talked with even more fluency than usual. I could not
help thinking that she was trying to make it last as long as possible.

Finally, at about half-past five, I got up and said that I must go, as I
had a good many odds and ends awaiting me at home. I held out my hand,
and as she took it said, 'You must let me wish you a very happy New
Year.'


She stared at me for a moment, and then broke into a harsh laugh, and
said, 'If wishes were horses beggars might ride. Still, I thank you for
your good will. Goodbye.' About thirty yards from her house there was an
elbow in the drove. When I reached it I looked back and saw that she was
still standing in her doorway, with her figure sharply silhouetted
against the red glow of the kitchen fire. For one instant the play of
shadow made it look as if there were another, taller, figure behind her,
but the illusion passed directly. I waved my hand to her and turned the
corner.

It was a fine, still, starlight night. I reflected that the moon would be
up before I reached home, and my walk would not be unpleasant. I had
naturally been rather puzzled by Mrs. Vries' behaviour, and decided that
I must see her again before long, to ascertain whether, as seemed
possible, her mind were giving way.

When I had passed the other cottages of the group I noticed that the
stars were disappearing, and a thick white mist was rolling up. This did
not trouble me. The drove now ran straight until it joined the high-road,
and there was no turn into it on either side. I had therefore no chance
of losing my way, and anyone who lives in the Fens is accustomed to fogs.
It soon grew very thick, and I was conscious of the slightly creepy
feeling which a thick fog very commonly inspires. I had been thinking of
a variety of things, in somewhat desultory fashion, when suddenly--almost
as if it had been whispered into my ear--a passage from the Book of
Wisdom came into my mind and refused to be dislodged. My nerves were good
then, and I had often walked up a lonely drove in a fog before; but still
just at that moment I should have preferred to have recalled almost
anything else. For this was the extract with which my memory was pleased
to present me. 'For neither did the dark recesses that held them guard
them from fears, but sounds rushing down rang around them; and phantoms
appeared, cheerless with unsmiling faces. And no force of fire prevailed
to give them light, neither were the brightest flames of the stars strong
enough to illumine that gloomy night. And in terror they deemed the
things which they saw to be worse than that sight on which they could not
gaze. And they lay helpless, made the sport of magic art.' (_Wisdom_ xvii.
4-6).

Suddenly I heard a loud snort, as of a beast, apparently at my elbow.
Naturally I jumped and stood still for a moment to avoid blundering into
a stray cow, but there was nothing there. The next moment I heard what
sounded exactly like a low chuckle. This was more disconcerting: but
common sense soon came to my aid. I told myself that the cow must have
been on the other side of the hedge and not really so close as it had
seemed to be. What I had taken for a chuckle must have been the
squelching of her feet in a soft place. But I must confess that I did not
find this explanation as convincing as I could have wished.

I plodded on, but soon began to feel unaccountably tired. I say
'unaccountably' because I was a good walker and often covered much more
ground than I had done that day.

I slackened my pace, but, as I was not out of breath, that did not
relieve me. I felt as if I were wading through water up to my middle, or
through very deep soft snow, and at last was fairly compelled to stop. By
this time I was thoroughly uneasy, wondering what could be the matter
with me. But as I had still nearly two miles to go there was nothing for
it but to push on as best I might.

When I started again I saw that the fog seemed to be beginning to clear,
though I could not feel a breath of air. But instead of thinning in the
ordinary way it merely rolled back a little on either hand, producing an
effect which I had never seen before. Along the sides of the drove lay
two solid banks of white, with a narrow passage clear between them. This
passage seemed to stretch for an interminable distance, and at the far
end I 'perceived' a number of figures. I say advisedly 'perceived,' rather
than 'saw,' for I do not know whether I saw them in the ordinary sense of
the word or not. That is to say--I did not know then, and have never been
able to determine since, whether it was still dark. I only know that my
power of vision seemed to be independent of light or darkness. I
perceived the figures, as one sees the creatures of a dream, or the
mental pictures which sometimes come when one is neither quite asleep nor
awake.

They were advancing rapidly in orderly fashion, almost like a body of
troops. The scene recalled very vividly a picture of the Israelites
marching across the Red Sea between two perpendicular walls of water, in
a set of Bible pictures which I had had as a child. I suppose that I had
not thought of that picture for more than thirty years, but now it leapt
into my mind, and I found myself saying aloud, 'Yes: of course it must
have been exactly like that. How glad I am to have seen it.'

I suppose it was the interest of making the comparison that kept me from
feeling the surprise which would otherwise have been occasioned by
meeting a large number of people marching down a lonely drove after dark
on a raw December evening.

At first I should have said there were thirty or forty in the party, but
when they had drawn a little nearer they seemed to be not more than ten
or a dozen strong. A moment later I saw to my surprise that they were
reduced to five or six. The advancing figures seemed to be melting into
one another, something after the fashion of dissolving views. Their speed
and stature increased as their numbers diminished, suggesting that the
survivors had, in some horrible fashion, absorbed the personality of
their companions. Now there appeared to be only three, then one solitary
figure of gigantic stature rushing down the drove towards me at a fearful
pace, without a sound. As he came the mist closed behind him, so that his
dark figure was thrown up against a solid background of white: much as
mountain climbers are said sometimes to see their own shadows upon a bank
of cloud. On and on he came, until at last he towered above me and I saw
his face. It has come to me once or twice since in troubled dreams, and
may come again. But I am thankful that I have never had any clear picture
of it in my waking moments. If I had I should be afraid for my reason. I
know that the impression which it produced upon me was that of intense
malignity long baffled, and now at last within reach of its desire. I
believe I screamed aloud. Then after a pause, which seemed to last for
hours, he broke over me like a wave. There was a rushing and a streaming
all round me, and I struck out with my hands as if I were swimming. The
sensation was not unlike that of rising from a deep dive: there was the
same feeling of pressure and suffocation, but in this case coupled with
the most intense physical loathing. The only comparison which I can
suggest is that I felt as a man might feel if he were buried under a heap
of worms or toads.

Suddenly I seemed to be clear, and fell forward on my face. I am not sure
whether I fainted or not, but I must have lain there for some minutes.
When I picked myself up, I felt a light breeze upon my forehead and the
mist was clearing away as quickly as it had come. I saw the rim of the
moon above the horizon, and my mysterious fatigue had disappeared. I
hurried forward as quickly as I could without venturing to look behind
me. I only wanted to get out of that abominable drove on to the
high-road, where there were lights and other human beings. For I knew
that what I had seen was a creature of darkness and waste places, and
that among my fellows I should be safe. When I reached home my
housekeeper looked at me oddly. Of course my clothes were muddy and
disarranged, but I suspect that there was something else unusual in my
appearance. I merely said that I had had a fall coming up a drove in the
dark, and was not feeling particularly well. I avoided the looking-glass
when I went to my room to change.

Coming downstairs I heard through the open kitchen door some scraps of
conversation--or rather of a monologue delivered by my housekeeper--to
the effect that no one ought to be about the droves after dark as much as
I was, and that it was a providence that things were no worse. Her own
mother's uncle had--it appeared--been down just such another drove on
just such another night, forty-two years ago come next Christmas Eve.
'They brought 'im 'ome on a barrow with both 'is eyes drawed down, and
every drop of blood in 'is body turned. But 'e never would speak to what
'e see, and wild cats couldn't ha' scratched it out of him.'

An inaudible remark from one of the maids was met with a long sniff, and
the statement: 'Girls seem to think they know everything nowadays.' I
spent the next day in bed, as besides the shock which I had received I
had caught a bad cold. When I got up on the second I was not surprised to
hear that Mrs. Vries had been found dead on the previous afternoon. I had
hardly finished breakfast when I was told that the policeman, whose name
was Winter, would be glad to see me.

It appeared that on New Year's morning a half-witted boy of seventeen,
who lived at one of the other cottages down the drove, had come to him
and said that Mrs. Vries was dead, and that he must come and enter her
house. He declined to explain how he had come by the information: so at
first Mr. Winter contented himself with pointing out that it was the
first of January not of April. But the boy was so insistent that finally
he went. When repeated knockings at Mrs. Vries' cottage produced no
result he had felt justified in forcing the back-door. She was sitting in
a large wooden armchair quite dead. She was leaning forward a little and
her hands were clasping the arms so tightly that it proved to be a matter
of some difficulty to unloose her fingers. In front of her was another
chair, so close that if anyone had been sitting in it his knees must have
touched those of the dead woman. The seat cushions were flattened down as
if it had been occupied recently by a solid personage. The tea-things had
not been cleared away, but the kitchen was perfectly clean and tidy.
There was no suspicion of foul play, as all the doors and windows were
securely fastened on the inside. Winter added that her face made him feel
'quite sickish like,' and that the house smelt very bad for all that it
was so clean.

A post-mortem examination of the body showed that her heart was in a
very bad state, and enabled the coroner's jury to return a verdict of
'Death from Natural Causes.' But the doctor told me privately that she
must have had a shock of some kind. ' In fact,' he said, if anyone ever
died of fright, she did. But goodness knows what can have frightened her
in her own kitchen unless it was her own conscience. But that is more in
your line than mine.'

He added that he had found the examination of the body peculiarly trying:
though he could not, or would not, say why.

As I was the last person who had seen her alive, I attended the inquest,
but gave only formal evidence of an unimportant character. I did not
mention that the second armchair had stood in a corner of the room during
my visit, and that I had not occupied it.

The boy was of course called and asked how he knew she was dead. But
nothing satisfactory could be got from him. He said that there was right
houses and there was wrong houses--not to say persons--and that 'they 'had
been after her for a long time. When asked whom he meant by 'they' he
declined to explain, merely adding as a general statement that he could
see further into a milestone than what some people could, for all they
thought themselves so clever. His own family deposed that he had been
absolutely silent, contrary to his usual custom, from tea-time