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Title: The Beast with Five Fingers
Author: W. F. Harvey
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0609231.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: December 2006
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Title: The Beast with Five Fingers
Author: W. F. Harvey





The story, I suppose, begins with Adrian Borlsover, whom I met when I
was a little boy and he an old man. My father had called to appeal for a
subscription, and before he left, Mr. Borlsover laid his right hand in
blessing on my head. I shall never forget the awe in which I gazed up at
his face and realized for the first time that eyes might be dark and
beautiful and shining and yet not able to see.

For Adrian Borlsover was blind.

He was an extraordinary man, who came of an eccentric stock. Borlsover
sons for some reason always seemed to marry very ordinary women, which
perhaps accounted for the fact that no Borlsover had been a genius and
only one Borlsover had been mad. But they were great champions of little
causes, generous patrons of odd sciences, founders of querulous sects,
trustworthy guides to the bypath meadows of erudition.

Adrian was an authority on the fertilization of orchids. He had held at
one time the family living at Borlsover Conyers, until a congenital
weakness of the lungs obliged him to seek a less rigorous climate in the
sunny south-west watering-place where I had seen him. Occasionally he
would relieve one or other of the local clergy. My father described him
as a fine preacher, who gave long and inspiring sermons from what many
men would have considered unprofitable texts. "An excellent proof," he
would add, "of the truth of the doctrine of direct verbal inspiration."

Adrian Borlsover was exceedingly clever with his hands. His penmanship
was exquisite. He illustrated all his scientific papers, made his own
woodcuts, and carved the reredos that is at present the chief feature of
interest in the church at Borlsover Conyers. He had an exceedingly
clever knack in cutting silhouettes for young ladies and paper pigs and
cows for little children, and made more than one complicated wind
instrument of his own devising.

When he was fifty years old Adrian Borlsover lost his sight. In a
wonderfully short time he adapted himself to the new conditions of life.
He quickly learn to read Braille. So marvellous indeed was his sense of
touch, that he was still able to maintain his interest in botany. The
mere passing of his long supple fingers over a flower was sufficient
means for its identification, though occasionally he would use his lips.
I have found several letters of his among my father's correspondence; in
no case was there anything to show that he was afflicted with blindness,
and this in spite of the fact that he exercised undue economy in the
spacing of lines. Towards the close of his life Adrian Borlsover was
credited with powers of touch that seemed almost uncanny. It has been
said that he could tell at once the colour of a ribbon placed between
his fingers. My father would neither confirm nor deny the story.

Adrian Borlsover was a bachelor. His elder brother, Charles, had married
late in life, leaving one son, Eustace, who lived in the gloomy Georgian
mansion at Borlsover Conyers, where he could work undisturbed in
collecting material for his great book on heredity.

Like his uncle, he was a remarkable man. The Borlsovers had always been
born naturalists, but Eustace possessed in a special degree the power of
systematizing his knowledge. He had received his university education in
Germany; and then, after post-graduate work in Vienna and Naples, had
travelled for four years in South America and the East, getting together
a huge store of material for a new study into the processes of
variation.

He lived alone at Borlsover Conyers with Saunders, his secretary, a man
who bore a somewhat dubious reputation in the district, but whose powers
as a mathematician, combined with his business abilities, were
invaluable to Eustace.

Uncle and nephew saw little of each other. The visits of Eustace were
confined to a week in the summer or autumn--tedious weeks, that dragged
almost as slowly as the bath-chair in which the old man was drawn along
the sunny sea-front. In their way the two men were fond of each other,
though their intimacy would, doubtless, have been greater had they
shared the same religious views. Adrian held to the old-fashioned
evangelical dogmas of his early manhood; his nephew for many years had
been thinking of embracing Buddhism. Both men possessed, too, the
reticence the Borlsovers had always shown, and which their enemies
sometimes called hypocrisy. With Adrian it was a reticence as to the
things he had left undone; but with Eustace it seemed that the curtain
which he was so careful to leave undrawn hid something more than a
half-empty chamber.

Two years before his death Adrian Borlsover developed, unknown to
himself, the not uncommon power of automatic writing. Eustace made the
discovery by accident, Adrian was sitting reading in bed, the forefinger
of his left hand tracing the Braille characters, when his nephew noticed
that a pencil the old man held in his right hand was moving slowly along
the opposite page. He left his seat in the window and sat down beside
the bed. The right had continued to move and now he could see plainly
that they were letters and words which it was forming.

"Adrian Borlsover," wrote the hand, "Eustace Borlsover, Charles
Borlsover, Francis Borlsover, Sigismund Borlsover, Adrian Borlsover,
Eustace Borlsover, Saville Borlsover. B for Borlsover. Honesty is the
Best Policy. Beautiful Belinda Borlsover."

"What curious nonsense!" said Eustace to himself.

"King George ascended the throne in 1760," wrote the hand. "Crowd, a
noun of multitude; a collection of individuals. Adrian Borlsover,
Eustace Borlsover."

"It seems to me," said his uncle, closing the book, "that you had much
better make the most of the afternoon sunshine and take your walk now."

"I think perhaps I will," Eustace answered as he picked up the volume.
"I won't go far, and when I come back I can read to you those articles
in _Nature_ about which we were speaking."

He went along the promenade, but stopped at the first shelter and,
seating himself in the corner best protected from the wind, he examined
the book at leisure. Nearly every page was scored with a meaningless
jumble of pencil-marks; rows of capital letters, short words, long
words, complete sentences, copy-book tags. The whole thing, in fact, had
the appearance of a copy-book, and, on a more careful scrutiny, Eustace
thought that there was ample evidence to show that the handwriting at
the beginning of the book, good though it was, was not nearly so good as
the handwriting at the end.

He left his uncle at the end of October with a promise to return early
in December. It seemed to him quite clear that the old man's power of
automatic writing was developing rapidly, and for the first time he
looked forward to a visit that would combine duty with interest.

But on his return he was at first disappointed. His uncle, he thought,
looked older. He was listless, too, preferring others to read to him and
dictating nearly all his letters. Not until the day before he left had
Eustace an opportunity of observing Adrian Borlsover's new-found
faculty.

The old man, propped up in bed with pillows, had sunk into a light
sleep. His two hands lay on the coverlet, his left hand tightly clasping
his right. Eustace took an empty manuscript-book and placed a pencil
within reach of the fingers of the right hand. They snatched at it
eagerly, then dropped the pencil to loose the left hand from its
restraining grasp.

"Perhaps to prevent interference I had better hold that hand," said
Eustace to himself, as he watched the pencil. Almost immediately it
began to write.

"Blundering Borlsovers, unnecessarily unnatural, extraordinarily
eccentric, culpably curious."

"Who are you?" asked Eustace in a low voice.

"Never you mind," wrote the hand of Adrian.

"Is it my uncle who is writing?"

"O my prophetic soul, mine uncle!"

"Is it anyone I know?"

"Silly Eustace, you'll see me very soon."

"When shall I see you?"

"When poor old Adrian's dead."

"Where shall I see you?"

"Where shall you not?"

Instead of speaking his next question, Eustace wrote it: "What is the
time?"

The fingers dropped the pencil and moved three or four times across the
paper. Then, picking up the pencil, they wrote: "Ten minutes before
four. Put your book away, Eustace. Adrian mustn't find us working at
this sort of thing. He doesn't know what to make of it, and I won't have
poor old Adrian disturbed. Au revoir!"

Adrian Borlsover awoke with a start.

"I've been dreaming again," he said; "such queer dreams of leaguered
cities and forgotten towns. You were mixed up in this one, Eustace,
though I can't remember how. Eustace, I want to warn you. Don't walk in
doubtful paths. Choose your friends well. Your poor grandfather..."

A fit of coughing put an end to what he was saying, but Eustace saw that
the hand was still writing. He managed unnoticed to draw the book
away. "I'll light the gas," he said, "and ring for tea." On the other
side of the bed-curtain he saw the last sentences that had been written.

"It's too late, Adrian," he read. "We're friends already, aren't we,
Eustace Borlsover?"

On the following day Eustace left. He thought his uncle looked ill when
he said goodbye, and the old man spoke despondently of the failure his
life had been.

"Nonsense, uncle," said his nephew. "You have got over your difficulties
in a way not one in a hundred thousand would have done. Everyone marvels
at your splendid perseverance in teaching your hands to take the place
of your lost sight. To me it's been a revelation of the possibilities of
education."

"Education," said his uncle dreamily, as if the word had started a new
train of thought. "Education is good so long as you know to whom and for
what purpose you give it. But with the lower orders of men, the baser
and more sordid spirits, I have grave doubts as to its results. Well,
good-bye, Eustace; I may not see you again. You are a true Borlsover,
with all the Borlsover faults. Marry, Eustace. Marry some good, sensible
girl. And if by any chance I don't see you again, my will is at my
solicitor's. I've not left you any legacy, because I know you're well
provided for; but I thought you might like to have my books. Oh, and
there's just one other thing. You know, before the end people often lose
control over themselves and make absurd requests. Don't pay any
attention to them, Eustace. Good-bye!" and he held out his hand. Eustace
took it. It remained in his a fraction of a second longer than he had
expected and gripped him with a virility that was surprising. There was,
too, in its touch a subtle sense of intimacy.

"Why, uncle," he said, "I shall see you alive and well for many long
years to come."

*****

Two months later Adrian Borlsover died.

Eustace Borlsover was in Naples at the time. He read the obituary notice
in the _Morning Post_ on the day announced for the funeral.

"Poor old fellow!" he said. "I wonder whether I shall find room for all
his books."

The question occurred to him again with greater force when, three days
later, he found himself standing in the library at Borlsover Conyers, a
huge room built for use and not for beauty in the year of Waterloo by a
Borlsover who was an ardent admirer of the great Napoleon. It was
arranged on the plan of many college libraries, with tall projecting
bookcases forming deep recesses of dusty silence, fit graves for the old
hates of forgotten controversy, the dead passions of forgotten lives. At
the end of the room, behind the bust of some unknown eighteenth-century
divine, an ugly iron corkscrew stair led to a shelf-lined gallery.
Nearly every shelf was full.

"I must talk to Saunders about it," said Eustace. "I suppose that we
shall have to have the billiard-room fitted up with bookcases."

The two men met for the first time after many weeks in the dining-room
that evening.

"Hallo!" said Eustace, standing before the fire with his hands in his
pockets. "How goes the world, Saunders? Why these dress togs?" He
himself was wearing an old shooting-jacket. He did not believe in
mourning, as he had told his uncle on his last visit; and, though he
usually went in for quiet-coloured ties, he wore this evening one of an
ugly red, in order to shock Morton, the butler, and to make them thrash
out the whole question of mourning for themselves in the servants' hall.
Eustace was a true Borlsover. "The world," said Saunders, "goes the same
as usual, confoundedly slow. The dress togs are accounted for by an
invitation from Captain Lockwood to bridge."

"How are you getting there?"

"There's something the matter with the car, so I've told Jackson to
drive me round in the dogcart. Any objection?"

"Oh, dear me, no! We've had all things in common for far too many years
for me to raise objections at this hour of the day."

"You'll find your correspondence in the library," went on Saunders.
"Most of it I've seen to. There are a few private letters I haven't
opened. There's also a box with a rat or something inside it that came
by the evening post. Very likely it's the six-toed beast Terry was
sending us to cross with the four-toed albino. I didn't look because I
didn't want to mess up my things; but I should gather from the way it's
jumping about that it's pretty hungry."

"Oh, I'll see to it," said Eustace, "while you and the captain earn an
honest penny."

Dinner over and Saunders gone, Eustace went into the library. Though the
fire had been lit, the room was by no means cheerful.

"We'll have all the lights on, at any rate," he said, as he turned the
switches. "And, Morton," he added, when the butler brought the coffee,
"get me a screwdriver or something to undo this box. Whatever the animal
is, he's kicking up the deuce of a row. What is it? Why are you
dawdling?"

"If you please, sir, when the postman brought it, he told me that they'd
bored the holes in the lid at the post office. There were no breathing
holes in the lid, sir, and they didn't want the animal to die. That is
all, sir."

"It's culpably careless of the man, whoever he was," said Eustace, as he
removed the screws, "packing an animal like this in a wooden box with no
means of getting air. Confound it all! I meant to ask Morton to bring me
a cage to put it in. Now I suppose I shall have to get one myself."

He placed a heavy book on the lid from which the screws had been
removed, and went into the billiard-room. As he came back into the
library with an empty cage in his hand, he heard the sound of something
falling, and then of something scuttling along the floor.

"Bother it! The beast's got out. How in the world am I to find it again
in this library?"

To search for it did indeed seem hopeless. He tried to follow the sound
of the scuttling in one of the recesses, where the animal seemed to be
running behind the books in the shelves; but it was impossible to locate
it. Eustace resolved to go on quietly reading. Very likely the animal
might gain confidence and show itself. Saunders seemed to have dealt in
his usual methodical manner with most of the correspondence. There were
still the private letters.

What was that? Two sharp clicks and the lights in the hideous
candelabras that hung from the ceiling suddenly went out.

"I wonder if something has gone wrong with the fuse," said Eustace, as
he went to the switches by the door. Then he stopped. There was a noise
at the other end of the room, as if something was crawling up the iron
corkscrew stair. "If it's gone into the gallery," he said, "well and
good." He hastily turned on the lights, crossed the room, and climbed up
the stair. But he could see nothing. His grandfather had placed a little
gate at the top of the stair, so that children could run and romp in the
gallery without fear of accident. This Eustace closed, and, having
considerably narrowed the circle of his search, returned to his desk by
the fire.

How gloomy the library was! There was no sense of intimacy about the
room. The few busts that an eighteenth-century Borlsover had brought
back from the grand tour might have been in keeping in the old library.
Here they seemed out of place. They made the room feel cold in spite of
the heavy red damask curtain and great gilt cornices.

With a crash two heavy books fell from the gallery to the floor; then,
as Borlsover looked, another, and yet another.

"Very well. You'll starve for this, my beauty!" he said. "We'll do some
little experiments on the metabolism of rats deprived of water. Go on!
Chuck them down! I think I've got the upper hand." He turned once more
to his correspondence. The letter was from the family solicitor. It
spoke of his uncle's death, and of the valuable collection of books that
had been left to him in the will.


There was one request [he read] which certainly came as a
surprise to me. As you know, Mr. Adrian Borlsover had left instructions
that his body was to be buried in as simple a manner as possible at
Eastbourne. He expressed a desire that there should be neither wreaths
nor flowers of any kind, and hoped that his friends and relatives would
not consider it necessary to wear mourning. The day before his death we
received a letter cancelling these instructions. He wished the body to
be embalmed (he gave us the address of the man we were to
employ--Pennifer, Ludgate Hill), with orders that his right hand should
be sent to you stating that it was at your special request. The other
arrangements about the funeral remained unaltered.


"Good Lord," said Eustace, "what in the world was the old boy driving
at? And what in the name of all that's holy is that?"

Someone was in the gallery. Someone had pulled the cord attached to one
of the blinds, and it had rolled up with a snap. Someone must be in the
gallery, for a second blind did the same. Someone must be walking round
the gallery, for one after the other the blinds sprang up, letting in
the moonlight.

"I haven't got to the bottom of this yet," said Eustace, "but I will do,
before the night is very much older"; and he hurried up the corkscrew
stair. He had just got to the top, when the lights went out a second
time, and he heard again the scuttling along the floor. Quickly he stole
on tiptoe in the dim moonshine in the direction of the noise, feeling,
as he went, for one of the switches. His fingers touched the metal knob
at last. He turned on the electric light.

About ten yards in front of him, crawling along the floor, was a man's
hand. Eustace stared at it in utter amazement. It was moving quickly in
the manner of a geometer caterpillar, the fingers humped up one moment,
flattened out the next; the thumb appeared to give a crablike motion to
the whole. While he was looking, too surprised to stir, the hand
disappeared round the corner. Eustace ran forward. He no longer saw it,
but he could hear it, as it squeezed its way behind the books on one of
the shelves. A heavy volume had been displaced. There was a gap in the
row of books, where it had got in. In his fear lest it should escape him
again, he seized the first book that came to his hand and plugged it
into the hole. Then, emptying two shelves of their contents, he took the
wooden boards and propped them up in front to make his barrier doubly
sure.

"I wish Saunders was back," he said; "one can't tackle this sort of
thing alone." It was after eleven, and there seemed little likelihood of
Saunders returning before twelve. He did not dare to leave the shelf
unwatched, even to run downstairs to ring the bell. Morton, the butler,
often used to come round about eleven to see that the windows were
fastened, but he might not come. Eustace was thoroughly unstrung. At
last he heard steps down below.

"Morton!" he shouted. "Morton!"

"Sir?"

"Has Mr. Saunders got back yet?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Well, bring me some brandy, and hurry up about it. I'm up in the
gallery, you duffer."

"Thanks," said Eustace, as he emptied the glass. "Don't go to bed yet,
Morton. There are a lot of books that have fallen down by accident.
Bring them up and put them back in their shelves."

Morton had never seen Borlsover in so talkative a mood as on that night.
"Here," said Eustace, when the books had been put back and dusted, "you
might hold up these boards for me, Morton. That beast in the box got
out, and I've been chasing it all over the place."

"I think I can hear it clawing at the books, sir. They're not valuable,
I hope? I think that's the carriage, sir; I'll go and call Mr.
Saunders."

It seemed to Eustace that he was away for five minutes, but it could
hardly have been more than one, when he returned with Saunders. "All
right, Morton, you can go now. I'm up here, Saunders."

"What's all the row?" asked Saunders, as he lounged forward with his
hands in his pockets. The luck had been with him all the evening. He was
completely satisfied, both with himself and with Captain Lockwood's
taste in wines. "What's the matter? You look to me to be in an
absolutely blue funk."

"That old devil of an uncle of mine," began Eustace--"Oh, I can't
explain it all. It's his hand that's been playing Old Harry all the
evening. But I've got it cornered behind these books. You've got to help
me to catch it."

"What's up with you, Eustace? What's the game?"

"It's no game, you silly idiot! If you don't believe me, take out one of
those books and put your hand in and feel."

"All right," said Saunders; "but wait till I've rolled up my sleeve. The
accumulated dust of centuries, eh?" He took off his coat, knelt down,
and thrust his arm along the shelf.

"There's something there right enough," he said. "It's got a funny,
stumpy end to it, whatever it is, and nips like a crab. Ah! No, you
don't!" He pulled his hand out in a flash. "Shove in a book quickly. Now
it can't get out."

"What was it?" asked Eustace.

"Something that wanted very much to get hold of me. I felt what seemed
like a thumb and forefinger. Give me some brandy."

"How are we to get it out of there?"

"What about a landing-net?"

"No good. It would be too smart for us. I tell you, Saunders, it can
cover the ground far faster than I can walk. But I think I see how we
can manage it. The two books at the ends of the shelf are big ones, that
go right back against the wall. The others are very thin. I'll take out
one at a time, and you slide the rest along, until we have it squashed
between the end two."

It certainly seemed to be the best plan. One by one as they took out the
books, the space behind grew smaller and smaller. There was something in
it that was certainly very much alive. Once they caught sight of fingers
feeling for a way of escape. At last they had it pressed between the two
big books.

"There's muscle there, if there isn't warm flesh and blood," said
Saunders, as he held them together. "It seems to be a hand right enough,
too. I suppose this is a sort of infectious hallucination. I've read
about such cases before."

"Infectious fiddlesticks!" said Eustace, his face white with anger;
"bring the thing downstairs. We'll get it back into the box."

It was not altogether easy, but they were successful at last. "Drive in
the screws," said Eustace; "we won't run any risks. Put the box in this
old desk of mine. There's nothing in it that I want. Here's the key.
Thank goodness there's nothing wrong with the lock."

"Quite a lively evening," said Saunders. "Now let's hear more about your
uncle."

They sat up together until early morning. Saunders had no desire for
sleep. Eustace was trying to explain and to forget; to conceal from
himself a fear that he had never felt before--the fear of walking alone
down the long corridor to his bedroom.

* * * * *

"Whatever it was," said Eustace to Saunders on the following morning, "I
propose that we drop the subject. There's nothing to keep us here for
the next ten days. We'll motor up to the Lakes and get some climbing."

"And see nobody all day, and sit bored to death with each other every
night. Not for me, thanks. Why not run up to town? Run's the exact word
in this case, isn't it? We're both in such a blessed funk. Pull yourself
together, Eustace, and let's have another look at the hand."

"As you like," said Eustace; "there's the key."

They went into the library and opened the desk. The box was as they had
left it on the previous night.

"What are you waiting for?" asked Eustace.

"I am waiting for you to volunteer to open the lid. However, since you
seem to funk it, allow me. There doesn't seem to be the likelihood of
any rumpus this morning at all events." He opened the lid and picked out
the hand.

"Cold?" asked Eustace.

"Tepid. A bit below blood heat by the feel. Soft and supple too. If it's
the embalming, it's a sort of embalming I've never seen before. Is it
your uncle's hand?"

"Oh yes, it's his all right," said Eustace. "I should know those long
thin fingers anywhere. Put it back in the box, Saunders. Never mind
about the screws. I'll lock the desk, so that there'll be no chance of
its getting out. We'll compromise by motoring up to town for a week. If
we can get off soon after lunch, we ought to be at Grantham or Stamford
by night."

"Right," said Saunders, "and tomorrow--oh, well, by tomorrow we shall
have forgotten all about this beastly thing."

If, when the morrow came, they had not forgotten, it was certainly true
that at the end of the week they were able to tell a very vivid
ghost-story at the little supper Eustace gave on Hallow E'en.

"You don't want us to believe that it's true, Mr. Borlsover? How
perfectly awful!"

"I'll take my oath on it, and so would Saunders here; wouldn't you, old
chap?"

"Any number of oaths," said Saunders. "It was a long thin hand, you
know, and it gripped me just like that."

"Don't, Mr. Saunders! Don't! How perfectly horrid! Now tell us another
one, do! Only a really creepy one, please."

"Here's a pretty mess!" said Eustace on the following day, as he threw a
letter across the table to Saunders. "It's your affair, though. Mrs.
Merrit, if I understand it, gives a month's notice."

"Oh, that's quite absurd on Mrs. Merrit's part," replied Saunders. "She
doesn't know what she's talking about. Let's see what she says."


Dear Sir [he read]. This is to let you know that I must give you a
month's notice as from Tuesday, the 13th. For a long time I've felt the
place too big for me; but when Jane Parfit and Emma Laidlaw go off with
scarcely as much as an "If you please", after frightening the wits out
of the other girls, so that they can't turn out a room by themselves or
walk alone down the stairs for fear of treading on half-frozen toads or
hearing it run along the passages at night, all I can say is that it's
no place for me. So I must ask you, Mr. Borlsover, sir, to find a new
housekeeper, that has no objection to large and lonely houses, which
some people do say, not that I believe them for a minute, my poor mother
always having been a Wesleyan, are haunted.
                     Yours faithfully,
                              ELIZABETH MERRIT

P.S.--I should be obliged if you would give my respects to Mr. Saunders.
I hope that he won't run any risks with his cold.


"Saunders," said Eustace, "you've always had a wonderful way with you in
dealing with servants. You mustn't let poor old Merrit go."

"Of course she shan't go," said Saunders. "She's probably only angling
for a rise in salary. I'll write to her this morning."

"No. There's nothing like a personal interview. We've had enough of
town. We'll go back to-morrow, and you must work your cold for all its
worth. Don't forget that it's got on to the chest, and will require
weeks of feeding up and nursing."

"All right, I think I can manage Mrs. Merrit."

But Mrs. Merrit was more obstinate than he had thought. She was very
sorry to hear of Mr. Saunder's cold, and how he lay awake all night in
London coughing; very sorry indeed. She'd change his room for him gladly
and get the south room aired, and wouldn't he have a hot basin of bread
and milk last thing at night? But she was afraid that she would have to
leave at the end of the month.

"Try her with an increase of salary," was the advice of Eustace.

It was no use. Mrs. Merrit was obdurate, though she knew of a Mrs.
Goddard, who had been housekeeper to Lord Gargrave, who might be glad to
come at the salary mentioned.

"What's the matter with the servants, Morton?" asked Eustace that
evening, when he brought the coffee into the library. "What's all this
about Mrs. Merrit wanting to leave?"

"If you please, sir, I was going to mention it myself. I have a
confession to make, sir. When I found your note, asking me to open that
desk and take out the box with the rat, I broke the lock as you told me,
and was glad to do it, because I could hear the animal in the box making
a great noise, and I thought it wanted food. So I took out the box, sir,
and got a cage, and was going to transfer it, when the animal got away."

"What in the world are you talking about? I never wrote any such note."

"Excuse me, sir; it was the note I picked up here on the floor on the
day you and Mr. Saunders left. I have it in my pocket now."

It certainly seemed to be in Eustace's handwriting. It was written in
pencil, and began somewhat abruptly.


"Get a hammer, Morton," he read "or some other tool and break open the
lock in the old desk in the library. Take out the box that is inside.
You need not do anything else. The lid is already open.
        Eustace Borlsover."


"And you opened the desk?"

"Yes, sir; and, as I was getting the cage ready, the animal hopped out."

"What animal?"

"The animal inside the box, sir."

"What did it look like?"

"Well, sir, I couldn't tell you," said Morton, nervously. "My back was
turned, and it was half way down the room when I looked up."

"What was its colour?" asked Saunders. "Black?"

"Oh no, sir; a greyish white. It crept along in a very funny way, sir. I
don't think it had a tail."

"What did you do then?"

"I tried to catch it; but it was no use. So I set the rat-traps and kept
the library shut. Then that girl, Emma Laidlaw, left the door open when
she was cleaning, and I think it must have escaped."

"And you think it is the animal that's been frightening the maids?"

"Well, no, sir, not quite. They said it was--you'll excuse me, sir--a
hand that they saw. Emma trod on it once at the bottom of the stairs.
She thought then it was a half-frozen toad, only white. And then Parfit
was washing up the dishes in the scullery. She wasn't thinking about
anything in particular. It was close on dusk. She took her hands out of
the water and was drying them absent-minded like on the roller towel,
when she found she was drying someone else's hand as well, only colder
than hers."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Saunders.

"Exactly, sir; that's what I told her; but we couldn't get her to stop."

"You don't believe all this?" said Eustace, turning suddenly towards the
butler.

"Me, sir? Oh no, sir! I've not seen anything."

"Nor heard anything?"

"Well, sir, if you must know, the bells do ring at odd times, and
there's nobody there when we go; and when we go round to draw the blinds
of a night, as often as not somebody's been there before us. But, as I
says to Mrs. Merrit, a young monkey might do wonderful things, and we
all know that Mr. Borlsover has had some strange animals about the
place."

"Very well, Morton, that will do."

"What do you make of it?" asked Saunders, when they were alone. "I mean
of the letter he said you wrote."

"Oh, that's simple enough," said Eustace. "See the paper it's written
on? I stopped using that paper years ago, but there were a few odd
sheets and envelopes left in the old desk. We never fastened up the lid
of the box before locking it in. The hand got out, found a pencil, wrote
this note, and shoved it through the crack on to the floor, where Morton
found it. That's plain as daylight."

"But the hand couldn't write!"

"Couldn't it? You've not seen it do the things I've seen." And he told
Saunders more of what had happened at Eastbourne.

"Well," said Saunders, "in that case we have at least an explanation of
the legacy. It was the hand which wrote, unknown to your uncle, that
letter to your solicitor bequeathing itself to you. Your uncle had no
more to do with that request than I. In fact, it would seem that he had
some idea of his automatic writing and feared it."

"Then if it's not my uncle, what is it?"

"I suppose some people might say that a disembodied spirit had got your
uncle to educate and prepare a little body for it. Now it's got into
that little body and is off on its own."

"Well, what are we to do?"

"We'll keep our eyes open," said Saunders, "and try to catch it. If we
can't do that, we shall have to wait till the bally clockwork runs down.
After all, if it's flesh and blood, it can't live for ever."

For two days nothing happened. Then Saunders saw it sliding down the
banister in the hall. He was taken unawares and lost a full second
before he started in pursuit, only to find that the thing had escaped
him. Three days later Eustace, writing alone in the library at night,
saw it sitting on an open book at the other end of the room. The fingers
crept over the page, as if it were reading; but before he had time to
get up from his seat, it had taken the alarm, and was pulling itself up
the curtains. Eustace watched it grimly, as it hung on to the cornice
with three fingers and flicked thumb and forefinger at him in an
expression of scornful derision.

"I know what I'll do," he said. "If I only get it into the open, I'll
set the dogs on to it." He spoke to Saunders of the suggestion.

"It's a jolly good idea," he said; "only we won't wait till we find it
out of doors. We'll get the dogs. There are the two terriers and the
under-keeper's Irish mongrel, that's on to rats like a flash. Your
spaniel has not got spirit enough for this sort of game."

They brought the dogs into the house, and the keeper's Irish mongrel
chewed up the slippers, and the terriers tripped up Morton, as he waited
at table; but all three were welcome. Even false security is better than
no security at all.

For a fortnight nothing happened. Then the hand was caught, not by the
dogs, but by Mrs. Merrit's grey parrot. The bird was in the habit of
periodically removing the pins that kept its seed- and water-tin in
place, and of escaping through the holes in the side of the cage. When
once at liberty, Peter would show no inclination to return, and would
often be about the house for days. Now, after six consecutive weeks of
captivity, Peter had again discovered a new way of unloosing his bolts
and was at large, exploring the tapestried forests of the curtains and
singing songs in praise of liberty from cornice and picture-rail.

"It's no use your trying to catch him," said Eustace to Mrs. Merrit, as
she came into the study one afternoon towards dusk with a step-ladder.
"You'd much better leave Peter alone. Starve him into surrender, Mrs.
Merrit; and don't leave bananas and seed about for him to peck at when
he fancies he's hungry. You're far too soft-hearted."

"Well, sir, I see he's right out of reach now on that picture-rail; so,
if you wouldn't mind closing the door, sir, when you leave the room,
I'll bring his cage in tonight and put some meat inside it. He's that
fond of meat, though it does make him pull out his feathers to suck the
quills. They _do_ say that if you cook----"

"Never mind, Mrs. Merrit," said Eustace, who was busy writing; "that
will do; I'll keep an eye on the bird."

For a short time there was silence in the room.

"Scratch poor Peter," said the bird. "Scratch poor old Peter!"

"Be quiet, you beastly bird!"

"Poor old Peter! Scratch poor Peter; do!"

"I'm more likely to wring your neck, if I get hold of you." He looked up
at the picture-rail, and there was the hand, holding on to a hook with
three fingers, and slowly scratching the head of the parrot with the
fourth. Eustace ran to the bell and pressed it hard; then across to the
window, which he closed with a bang. Frightened by the noise, the parrot
shook its wings preparatory to flight, and, as it did so, the fingers of
the hand got hold of it by the throat. There was a shrill scream, from
Peter, as he fluttered across the room, wheeling round in circles that
ever descended, borne down under the weight that clung to him. The bird
dropped at last quite suddenly, and Eustace saw fingers and feathers
rolled into an inextricable mass on the floor. The struggle abruptly
ceased, as finger and thumb squeezed the neck; the bird's eyes rolled up
to show the whites, and there was a faint, half-choked gurgle. But,
before the fingers had time to loose their hold, Eustace had them in his
own.

"Send Mr. Saunders here at once," he said to the maid who came in answer
to the bell. "Tell him I want him immediately."

Then he went with the hand to the fire. There was a ragged gash across
the back, where the bird's beak had torn it, but no blood oozed from the
wound. He noted with disgust that the nails had grown long and
discoloured.

"I'll burn the beastly thing," he said. But he could not burn it. He
tried to throw it into the flames, but his own hands, as if impelled by
some old primitive feeling, would not let him. And so Saunders found
him, pale and irresolute, with the hand still clasped tightly in his
fingers.

"I've got it at last," he said, in a tone of triumph.

"Good, let's have a look at it."

"Not when it's loose. Get me some nails and a hammer and a board of some
sort."

"Can you hold it all right?"

"Yes, the thing's quite limp; tired out with throttling poor old Peter,
I should say."

"And now," said Saunders, when he returned with the things, "what are we
going to do?"

"Drive a nail through it first, so that it can't get away. Then we can
take our time over examining it."

"Do it yourself," said Saunders. "I don't mind helping you with
guinea-pigs occasionally, when there's something to be learned, partly
because I don't fear a guinea-pig's revenge. This thing's different."

"Oh, my aunt!" he giggled hysterically, "look at it now." For the hand
was writhing in agonized contortions, squirming and wriggling upon the
nail like a worm upon the hook.

"Well," said Saunders, "you've done it now. I'll leave you to examine
it."

"Don't go, in heaven's name! Cover it up, man; cover it up! Shove a
cloth over it! Here!" and he pulled off the antimacassar from the back
of a chair and wrapped the board in it. "Now get the keys from my pocket
and open the safe. Chuck the other things out. Oh, Lord, it's getting
itself into frightful knots! Open it quick!" He threw the thing in and
banged the door.

"We'll keep it there till it dies," he said. "May I burn in hell, if I
ever open the door of that safe again."

* * * * *

Mrs. Merrit departed at the end of the month. Her successor, Mrs.
Handyside, certainly was more successful in the management of the
servants. Early in her rule she declared that she would stand no
nonsense, and gossip soon withered and died.

"I shouldn't be surprised if Eustace married one of these days," said
Saunders. "Well, I'm in no hurry for such an event. I know him far too
well for the future Mrs. Borlsover to like me. It will be the same old
story again; a long friendship slowly made--marriage--and a long
friendship quickly forgotten."

But Eustace did not follow the advice of his uncle and marry. Old habits
crept over and covered his new experience. He was, if anything, less
morose, and showed a greater inclination to take his natural part in
country society.

Then came the burglary. The men, it was said, broke into the house by
way of the conservatory. It was really little more than an attempt, for
they only succeeded in carrying away a few pieces of plate from the
pantry. The safe in the study was certainly found open and empty, but,
as Mr. Borlsover informed the police inspector, he had kept nothing of
value in it during the last six months.

"Then you're lucky in getting off so easily, sir," the man replied. "By
the way they have gone about their business I should say they were
experienced cracksmen. They must have caught the alarm when they were
just beginning their evening's work."

"Yes," said Eustace, "I suppose I am lucky."

"I've no doubt," said the inspector, "that we shall be able to trace the
men. I've said that they must have been old hands at the game. The way
they got in and opened the safe shows that. But there's one little thing
that puzzles me. One of them was careless enough not to wear gloves, and
I'm bothered if I know what he was trying to do. I've traced his
finger-marks on the new varnish on the window-sashes in every one of the
downstairs rooms. They are very distinctive ones too."

"Right hand or left or both?" asked Eustace.

"Oh, right every time. That's the funny thing. He must have been a
foolhardy fellow, and I rather think it was him that wrote that." He
took out a slip of paper from his pocket. "That's what he wrote, sir:
'I've got out, Eustace Borlsover, but I'll be back before long.' Some
jailbird just escaped, I suppose. It will make it all the easier for us
to trace him. Do you know the writing, sir?"

"No," said Eustace. "It's not the writing of any one I know."

"I'm not going to stay here any longer," said Eustace to Saunders at
luncheon. "I've got on far better during the last six months than I
expected, but I'm not going to run the risk of seeing that thing again.
I shall go up to town this afternoon. Get Morton to put my things
together, and join me with the car at Brighton on the day after
tomorrow. And bring the proofs of those two papers with you. We'll run
over them together."

"How long are you going to be away?"

"I can't say for certain, but be prepared to stay for some time. We've
stuck to work pretty closely through summer, and I for one need a
holiday. I'll engage the rooms at Brighton. You'll find it best to break
the journey at Hitchin. I'll wire to you there at the 'Crown' to tell
you the Brighton address."

The house he chose at Brighton was in a terrace. He had been there
before. It was kept by his old college gyp, a man of discreet silence,
who was admirably partnered by an excellent cook. The rooms were on the
first floor. The two bedrooms were at the back, and opened out of each
other. "Mr. Saunders can have the smaller one, though it is the only one
with a fire-place," he said. "I'll stick to the larger of the two, since
it's got a bath-room adjoining. I wonder what time he'll arrive with the
car."

Saunders came about seven, cold and cross and dirty.

"We'll light the fire in the dining-room," said Eustace, "and get Prince
to unpack some of the things while we are at dinner. What were the roads
like?"

"Rotten. Swimming with mud, and a beastly cold wind against us all day.
And this is July. Dear Old England!"

"Yes," said Eustace, "I think we might do worse than leave Old England
for a few months."

They turned in soon after twelve.

"You oughtn't to feel cold, Saunders," said Eustace, "when you can
afford to sport a great fur-lined coat like this. You do yourself very
well, all things considered. Look at those gloves, for instance. Who
could possibly feel cold when wearing them?"

"They are far too clumsy, though, for driving. Try them on and see"; and
he tossed them through the door on to Eustace's bed and went on with his
unpacking. A minute later he heard a shrill cry of terror.

"Oh, Lord," he heard, "it's in the glove! Quick, Saunders, quick!" Then
came a smacking thud. Eustace had thrown it from him.

"I've chucked it into the bath-room," he gasped; "it's hit the wall and
fallen into the bath. Come now, if you want to help."

Saunders, with a lighted candle in his hand, looked over the edge of the
bath. There it was, old and maimed, dumb and blind, with a ragged hole
in the middle, crawling, staggering, trying to creep up the slippery
sides, only to fall back helpless.

"Stay there," said Saunders, "I'll empty a collar-box or something, and
we'll jam it in. It can't get out while I'm away."

"Yes, it can," shouted Eustace. "It's getting out now; it's climbing up
the plug-chain.--No, you brute, you filthy brute, you don't!--Come back,
Saunders; it's getting away from me. I can't hold it; it's all slippery.
Curse its claws! Shut the window, you idiot! It's got out!" There was
the sound of something dropping on to the hard flagstones below, and
Eustace fell back fainting.

* * * * *

For a fortnight he was ill.

"I don't know what to make of it," the doctor said to Saunders. "I can
only suppose that Mr. Borlsover has suffered some great emotional shock.
You had better let me send someone to help you nurse him. And by all
means indulge that whim of his never to be left alone in the dark. I
would keep a light burning all night, if I were you. But he _must_ have
more fresh air. It's perfectly absurd, this hatred of open windows."

Eustace would have no one with him but Saunders. "I don't want the other
man," he said. "They'd smuggle it in somehow. I know they would."

"Don't worry about it, old chap. This sort of thing can't go on
indefinitely. You know I saw it this time as well as you. It wasn't half
so active. It won't go on living much longer, especially after that
fall. I heard it hit the flags myself. As soon as you're a bit stronger,
we'll leave this place, not bag and baggage, but with only the clothes
on our back, so that it won't be able to hide anywhere. We'll escape it
that way. We won't give any address, and we won't have any parcels sent
after us. Cheer up, Eustace! You'll be well enough to leave in a day or
two. The doctor says I can take you out in a chair tomorrow."

"What have I done?" asked Eustace. "Why does it come after me? I'm no
worse than other men. I'm no worse than you, Saunders; you know I'm not.
It was you who was at the bottom of that dirty business in San Diego,
and that was fifteen years ago."

"It's not that, of course," said Saunders. "We are in the twentieth
century, and even the parsons have dropped the idea of your old sins
finding you out. Before you caught the hand in the library, it was
filled with pure malevolence--to you and all mankind. After you spiked
it through with that nail, it naturally forgot about other people and
concentrated its attention on you. It was shut up in that safe, you
know, for nearly six months. That gives plenty of time for thinking of
revenge."

Eustace Borlsover would not leave his room, but he thought there might
be something in Saunders's suggestion of a sudden departure from
Brighton. He began rapidly to regain his strength.

"We'll go on the first of September," he said.

The evening of the thirty-first of August was oppressively warm. Though
at midday the windows had been wide open, they had been shut an hour or
so before dusk. Mrs. Prince had long since ceased to wonder at the
strange habits of the gentlemen on the first floor. Soon after their
arrival she had been told to take down the heavy window curtains in the
two bedrooms, and day by day the rooms had seemed to grow more bare.
Nothing was left lying about.

"Mr. Borlsover doesn't like to have any place where dirt can collect,"
Saunders had said as an excuse. "He likes to see into all the corners of
the room."

"Couldn't I open the window just a little?" he said to Eustace that
evening. "We're simply roasting in here, you know."

"No, leave well alone. We're not a couple of boarding-school misses
fresh from a course of hygiene lectures. Get the chess-board out."

They sat down and played. At ten o'clock Mrs. Prince came to the door
with a note. "I am sorry I didn't bring it before," she said, "but it
was left in the letter-box."

"Open it, Saunders, and see if it wants answering."

It was very brief. There was neither address nor signature.

"Will eleven o'clock tonight be suitable for our last appointment?"

"Who is it from?" asked Borlsover.

"It was meant for me," said Saunders. "There's no answer, Mrs. Prince,"
and he put the paper into his pocket.

"A dunning letter from a tailor; I suppose he must have got wind of our
leaving."

It was a clever lie, and Eustace asked no more questions. They went on
with their game.

On the landing outside Saunders could hear the grandfather's clock
whispering the seconds, blurting out the quarter-hours.

"Check," said Eustace. The clock struck eleven. At the same time there
was a gentle knocking on the door; it seemed to come from the bottom
panel.

"Who's there?" asked Eustace. There was no answer. "Mrs. Prince, is that
you?"

"She is up above," said Saunders; "I can hear her walking about the
room."

"Then lock the door; bolt it too. Your move, Saunders." While Saunders
sat with his eyes on the chess-board, Eustace walked over to the window
and examined the fastenings. He did the same in Saunders's room, and the
bathroom. There were no doors between the three rooms, or he would have
shut and locked them too.

"Now, Saunders," he said, "don't stay all night over your move. I've had
time to smoke one cigarette already. It's bad to keep an invalid
waiting. There's only one possible thing for you to do. What was that?"

"The ivy blowing against the window. There, it's your move now,
Eustace."

"It wasn't the ivy, you idiot! It was someone tapping at the window";
and he pulled up the blind. On the outer side of the window, clinging to
the sash, was the hand.

"What is it that it's holding?"

"It's a pocket-knife. It's going to try to open the window by pushing
back the fastener with the blade."

"Well, let it try," said Eustace. "Those fasteners screw down; they
can't be opened that way. Anyhow, we'll close the shutters. It's your
move, Saunders. I've played."

But Saunders found it impossible to fix his attention on the game. He
could not understand Eustace, who seemed all at once to have lost his
fear.

"What do you say to some wine?" he asked. "You seem to be taking things
coolly, but I don't mind confessing that I'm in a blessed funk."

"You've no need to be. There's nothing supernatural about that hand,
Saunders. I mean, it seems to be governed by the laws of time and space.
It's not the sort of thing that vanishes into thin air or slides through
oaken doors. And since that's so, I defy it to get in here. We'll leave
the place in the morning. I for one have bottomed the depths of fear.
Fill your glass, man! The windows are all shuttered; the door is locked
and bolted. Pledge me my Uncle Adrian! Drink, man! What are you waiting
for?"

Saunders was standing with his glass half raised. "It can get in," he
said hoarsely; "it can get in. We've forgotten. There's the fire-place
in my bed-room. It will come down the chimney."

"Quick!" said Eustace, as he rushed into the other room; "we haven't a
minute to lose. What can we do? Light the fire, Saunders. Give me a
match, quick!"

"They must be all in the other room. I'll get them."

"Hurry, man, for goodness' sake! Look in the bookcase! Look in the
bath-room! Here, come and stand here; I'll look."

"Be quick!" shouted Saunders. "I can hear something!"

"Then plug a sheet from your bed up the chimney. No, here's a match!" He
had found one at last, that had slipped into a crack in the floor.

"Is the fire laid? Good, but it may not burn. I know--the oil from that
old reading-lamp and this cotton-wool. Now the match, quick! Pull the
sheet away, you fool! We don't want it now."

There was a great roar from the grate, as the flames shot up. Saunders
had been a fraction of a second too late with the sheet. The oil had
fallen on to it. It, too, was burning.

"The whole place will be on fire!" cried Eustace, as he tried to beat
out the flames with a blanket. "It's no good! I can't manage it. You
must open the door, Saunders, and get help."

Saunders ran to the door and fumbled with the bolts. The key was stiff
in the lock.

"Hurry," shouted Eustace, "or the heat will be too much for me." The key
turned in the lock at last. For half a second Saunders stopped to look
back. Afterwards he could never be quite sure as to what he had seen,
but at the time he thought that something black and charred was creeping
slowly, very slowly, from the mass of flames towards Eustace Borlsover.
For a moment he thought of returning to his friend; but the noise and
the smell of the burning sent him running down the passage, crying:
"Fire! Fire!" He rushed to the telephone to summon help, and then back
to the bath-room--he should have thought of that before--for water. As
he burst into the bedroom there came a scream of terror which ended
suddenly, and then the sound of a heavy fall.

* * * * *

This is the story which I heard on successive Saturday evenings from the
senior mathematical master at a second-rate suburban school. For
Saunders has had to earn a living in a way which other men might reckon
less congenial than his old manner of life. I had mentioned by chance
the name of Adrian Borlsover, and wondered at the time why he changed
the conversation with such unusual abruptness. A week later Saunders
began to tell me something of his own history; sordid enough, though
shielded with a reserve I could well understand, for it had to cover not
only his failings, but those of a dead friend. Of the final tragedy he
was at first especially loath to speak; and it was only gradually that I
was able to piece together the narrative of the preceding pages.
Saunders was reluctant to draw any conclusions. At one time he thought
that the fingered beast had been animated by the spirit of Sigismund
Borlsover, a sinister eighteenth-century ancestor, who, according to
legend, built and worshipped in the ugly pagan temple that overlooked
the lake. At another time Saunders believed the spirit to belong to a
man whom Eustace had once employed as a laboratory assistant, "a
black-haired, spiteful little brute", he said, "who died cursing his
doctor, because the fellow couldn't help him to live to settle some
paltry score with Borlsover".

From the point of view of direct contemporary evidence, Saunders's story
is practically uncorroborated. All the letters mentioned in the
narrative were destroyed, with the exception of the last note which
Eustace received, or rather which he would have received, had not
Saunders intercepted it. That I have seen myself. The handwriting was
thin and shaky, the handwriting of an old man. I remember the Greek "e"
was used in "appointment". A little thing that amused me at the time was
that Saunders seemed to keep the note pressed between the pages of his
Bible.

I had seen Adrian Borlsover once. Saunders I learnt to know well. It was
by chance, however, and not by design, that I met a third person of the
story, Morton, the butler. Saunders and I were walking in the Zoological
Gardens one Sunday afternoon, when he called my attention to an old man
who was standing before the door of the Reptile House.

"Why, Morton," he said, clapping him on the back, "how is the world
treating you?"

"Poorly, Mr. Saunders," said the old fellow, though his face lighted up
at the greeting. "The winters drag terribly nowadays. There don't seem
no summers or springs."

"You haven't found what you were looking for, I suppose?"

"No, sir, not yet; but I shall some day. I always told them that Mr.
Borlsover kept some queer animals."

"And what is he looking for?" I asked, when we had parted from him.

"A beast with five fingers," said Saunders. "This afternoon, since he
has been in the Reptile House, I suppose it will be a reptile with a
hand. Next week it will be a monkey with practically no body. The poor
old chap is a born materialist."



THE END





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