Ghosts and Scholars: Ghost Stories in the Tradition of M. R. James

THE GRIMOIRE Montague Summers

The other Montague in the scholarly world of gothic literature was the Revd Montague Summers (1880–1948), authority on vampires, demonology and witchcraft, and an excellent anthologist of early ghost stories. He held M. R. James’s stories in very high repute, calling him ‘a skilled and profound master of the supernatural’. Summers tried his hand at writing fiction only twice: the story reprinted here, and (anonymously) ‘The Man on the Stairs’, which both appeared in 1936. His ideas on the construction of ghostly tales were carefully followed on both these tales, especially in ‘The Grimoire’, with the cathedral setting and the evil influence of a rare book: the grimoire of the title.

‘Anything in my line today, Merritt?’

The bookseller, a spare, spectacled old man, looked up quickly from The Clique which he was studying, blue pencil in hand, at his desk, and shot forward his scraggy neck not unlike the protruding head of some ancient tortoise, to peer hesitatingly through the half-gloom of his little shop. Even on this sunny afternoon it was not an over-light place, but shadowy and full of those dark nooks and mysterious corners stacked with bundles of dusty tomes such as the adventurer in old bookshops loves, where one hopes to find at last that uncut quarto play by D’Urfey, that elusive eighteenth-century pamphlet, or that novel of Eliza Haywood’s for which one has been searching so patiently and so long.

‘Good afternoon, sir. Why, yes, I have got something put aside for you. Only came in yesterday. I was posting you a card this evening about it.’

‘Lucky I looked in, for I shouldn’t have had time to call tomorrow as I’m off to Silchester for ten days or a fortnight. Let’s see it.’

Mr Merritt gingerly lowering himself from the high office-stool upon which he was perched, shambled towards a small glass-fronted Chippendale bookcase at the back of the shop. Taking a ring of labelled keys from his pocket he unlocked the door, and selected from among the array of morocco and calf-gilt bindings a podgy octavo vellum volume.

‘There you are, sir.’

‘Not another Bodin, I hope, or one of the later editions of the Malleus . . . ah, I see,’ and the speaker did indeed see that he was handling something altogether uncommon and rare, since in spite of the fact that he had been a collector of books on alchemy, witchcraft and the occult sciences generally for a good many years he could not recollect ever before having come across the treatise whose title-page he was now scanning with such eager attention. Nor was it a work he would have been likely to forget. Mysterium Arcanum, seu de daemonibus rite evocandis cum quibusdam aliis secretis abditissimis, Romae, sine permissu superiorum. ‘The Secret Mystery, or the Art of Evoking Evil Spirits with certain other Most Curious and Close Matters, printed at Rome—that’s fudge—no date, without the permission of the authorities. Well, whoever the writer was, and I can’t place him for the moment, he had a sense of humour at any rate. Early seventeenth-century printing I should guess. And the contents—they sound appetizing enough, but it may only be a hash-up of the Petit Albert and that wretched Pope Honorius.’

‘As you say, sir. You know more about that sort of thing than I do. Anyhow I think it’s a scarce item, and I’ve had a good many of these books through my hands in the past five-and-twenty years. Yet it’s the first time I’ve seen that one.’

‘What date do you give it, Merritt?’

The bookseller took up the Mysterium, and moving to the door for a better light, held it within a few inches of his nose, blinking uncertainly. ‘To tell the truth, sir, I haven’t examined it closely. As soon as I saw it, I said to myself, “Now that’s a bit for Dr Hodsoll. Dr Hodsoll will take that book.” And so I snapped it up sharp.’

‘And how much do you propose to stick Dr Hodsoll for it, eh?’

Mr Merritt, his head slightly inclined to one side, regarded the book for a minute in silence. ‘Ah, if you’re asking me for a figure, Doctor, I am telling you that I should catalogue this item at six guineas, not a penny less. But I am going to let you have it for five.’

Dr Hodsoll and Mr Merritt were old friends, but a little histrionic palaver seemed called for by the occasion.

‘Come, come,’ said Hodsoll, turning over the leaves carelessly, ‘here we have a book with no date and a sham imprint, which is very probably as I’ve just said not much more than an adaptation of Solomon’s Clavicule’—and as he spoke he lied and he knew that he lied, but such are the ways of collectors—‘and you are going to ask me five pounds for it. Pooh!’

‘Five guineas, sir, guineas.’

‘That’s worse. Hang it all, Merritt, it’s buying a pig in a poke.’

‘Well, sir, if you don’t think it’s worth that to you . . . but I made sure you’d like it for your collection, that is supposing you already haven’t a copy. I shan’t keep it long, anyhow. I expect Mr Spicer will be interested,’ and the wily old man made as if to return the little volume to its shelf.

At the mention of his rival’s name, Dr Hodsoll bristled like a porcupine, and quickly put out a restraining hand. ‘Here, not so quick, Merritt,’ he cried, ‘let’s have another peep at it first.’

A very cursory glance sufficed. Five notes and two half-crowns exchanged hands, and whilst a neat parcel was being made, Dr Hodsoll queried: ‘Look here, Merritt, you said it only came in yesterday, didn’t you? Have you any objection to my asking where it came from?’

‘Not the slightest, sir, only I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. A young fellow, quite a stranger to me, brought it in just before closing time, and asked me what I’d give for it there and then. So I bought it over the counter, as you may say.’

‘Ah! Well, I only wondered. No question it’s an out-of-the-way book.’

‘Shall we send it round, sir? You shall have it within the next half-hour.’

‘No, I can carry it. I’m going straight home. I’ll take it with me.’

As a matter of fact Dr Hodsoll did not go straight home, for less than a couple of hundred yards from the book-shop he was buttonholed by a bore of the first water, from whom he could not escape without a promise of lunch at an early date. The delay caused him to fall straight into the arms of Miss Matty Davies, whom he must needs squire to her garden gate—it was not so very far out of his way, as she remarked, and she was sure he would be interested to know about the doings and misdoings of her new maid. ‘Ah, once servants were servants,’ she said, with a shake of her crisp, gray curls, ‘and now——!’

The result was that by the time he put his latch-key in his own front door the clock of St Matthew’s at the corner of the road had struck half-past six some minutes, and simultaneously with his entrance there appeared in the hall the excellent Burkitt, who ministered so admirably to his creature comforts and who was (be it whispered) a little bit of a tyrant in his way, to remind his master that he was dining at a house three miles distant and it behoved him not to loiter in the study over his letters and paper if he intended to be anything like punctual. In consequence the new purchase had to be put on the table, and Dr Hodsoll dared not trust himself to open it before he went up to dress. He left it, however, with a promise to do something more than dip into it on his return before he went to sleep, a promise that was never fulfilled since the dinner was longer and more formal, the company larger, and he got back considerably later than he had expected, feeling not a little tired and very ready for bed.

The next morning Dr Hodsoll proved quite unable to do such ample justice as his wont, in fact to do justice at all, to the tempting breakfast Mrs Burkitt sent up from her well-ordered kitchen. He turned aside from kidneys and bacon, York ham and new-laid eggs alike, only able to manage a little dry toast with his tea. He had passed a restless and disturbed night, which left him curiously inert and depressed. He was a sound sleeper—he used to boast that he fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow and that he never knew anything more until eight o’clock next morning—yet not only had he tossed and turned and counted numberless sheep quite unavailingly, but when he did doze off he dreamed, and his dreams were of a singularly unpleasant nature. True they partook of that seemingly incoherent nature which appears a general characteristic of dreams, and he had, as is not infrequent, a very vague and confused memory of them upon waking, but in each there was the recurrent figure of a man, the same man, who in some way persisted and returned quite clearly every time he had closed his eyes. The man was an ordinary figure enough—he had never been able to catch sight of his face—but in some way he realized that this visitant was evil and wished him ill. The curious part was that the man seemed to be loitering up and down the corridor outside his bedroom and on the landing beyond. He had even stood outside the door with his ear bent to the keyhole listening to what was going on within. In fact once this seemed so vivid that waking with a start Dr Hodsoll had switched on the light, and jumping out of bed unbolted the door and flung it wide open. Of course there was nobody there, and he got back again conscious that he was more than a trifle ashamed of himself.

As he drank his last cup of tea—he was feeling particularly thirsty—and gazed out on to his gay flower-beds and smooth green lawn, he passed in review his dietary of the day and particularly of the evening before, but he was unable to accuse himself of any especial indiscretion. A plain and careful liver, last night he had pointedly eschewed that rich-looking trifle with the avalanche of cream spangled with hundreds and thousands and chosen the more wholesome apples and rice. He had taken sole rather than the lobster cutlets, and avoided the mushroom savoury. No, he had nothing then with which to reproach himself. Perhaps he was ailing for something. If so Canon Spenlow wouldn’t want an invalid in his house. Dr Hodsoll crossed to a mirror and gravely examined his tongue. That looked all right at all events. Should he ring up little Dillon, and be overhauled before he went? (I should explain that Julian Hodsoll was a Doctor of Literature and not a physician.) Just because he had happened to have had a bad night! It would never do to get so old-womanish. What could it be but indigestion? He had no headache, and no temperature. It was only this stupid laziness. Perhaps he had been overdoing it a bit lately. Well, at Silchester he would take a regular holiday, and slack. It was a soothing, restful place. The Canon was a model host, too, he let one do just as one liked so long as one attended a couple of services on Sunday. Of course that always became rather a bore, but then the music at the Cathedral was invariably first-rate. Why, to please the old fellow he wouldn’t mind turning up two or three times on week-days during his visit. Ten o’clock or ten-thirty, he forgot which. It was worth it. Undoubtedly Silchester would do him all the good in the world.

Canon Spenlow, the only son of a wealthy Birmingham manufacturer (long since deceased), although a bachelor, kept up a large and rather old-fashioned household. Of extremely conservative views, he belonged to what was once known as the ‘high and dry’ school of thought, and was altogether an entirely correct and proper old gentleman, who profoundly distrusted both innovations or enthusiasms of any kind. The narrowness of his intellectual outlook was to a large extent modified, it is true, by his love of books and a keen interest in ecclesiastical archaeology, and it was at a meeting of a learned Society some years before that he had first met Dr Hodsoll, to find that although he strongly disapproved of the laxity, not to say the scepticism, of his new friend’s opinions, they had many tastes and pursuits in common. An invitation to Silchester resulted; since when several visits had been exchanged. The acquaintanceship was in one sense perforce rather one-sided, for Dr Hodsoll could not very well enter into and indeed had small sympathy with the Canon’s most intimate convictions, but he was both tactful and shrewd, and with the interests they had in common, their talk of books, their cult of antiquity, they did very well.

It was rather late on an afternoon towards the end of April that Dr Hodsoll’s taxi turned into Silchester Close, and as he looked out of his window he saw with great satisfaction and content the large, square, red-brick house, built by some old churchman in the reign of the second James, and mellowed to an august beauty during the passage of years. The westering sun was brightly reflected in the many tall and narrow windows, whose little panes twinkled like very diamonds. The calm nobility and stateliness of the frontage pleased and soothed him, as did the gates of elaborate iron scroll work, the broad smooth path of yellow gravel beyond, sweeping round the velvety grass with its close and sombre shrubberies until it ended in a wide oval at the foot of the imposing flight of steps that led up to the great double door.

His friend welcomed him with evident pleasure, and after an elaborately planned and served dinner—for Canon Spenlow would bate no jot of his punctiliousness because they were only two at table, and both butler and footman were required to be in attendance—they settled down to a long and chatty evening in the library, a room of magnificent proportions lined from floor to ceiling with books. Here the latest treasures had to be exhibited and commented upon and admired. The bright fire blazing merrily away was grateful on the spring night; the armchairs were comfortable, neither too luxurious, nor too small; the port was of the finest vintage; the Canon had acquired some genuine rarities, including several incunabula; the topics of conversation were many and varied. Midnight struck as the host was taking down yet another recent treasure trove from his shelves. ‘Oh! Dear me!’ he exclaimed, ‘twelve o’clock already. Who would have thought it? But I mustn’t be inconsiderate, my dear Hodsoll, and keep you from your bed. Because I’m a late sitter it doesn’t follow that you are. One last glass of port? No? A brandy and soda, then? Nothing more? Ah, well, perhaps you are wise. And I think we’ll be turning in. If I may say so, you are not looking quite so robust as I’ve seen you, and perhaps I’ve been to blame in detaining you so late as it is.’

‘Not at all, Canon, not at all. Truth to tell I had rather a restless night last night, and I shouldn’t be speaking honestly if I were to say that I didn’t feel a trifle tired after my journey.’

‘Travel by train is always fatiguing, I think. And personally I’ve never found myself able to prefer a car. But if you are not thoroughly rested tomorrow morning, take your breakfast in bed, I beg. You only have to ring or tell the servant who calls you. Perhaps you would rather not be called until a somewhat later hour?’

‘No, no. I couldn’t think of disturbing your arrangements. Breakfast in bed I particularly dislike. If I’m not well enough to get up, I’m not well enough to eat any breakfast. It is like your kindness to suggest it, but believe me there’s not the slightest occasion for anything of the sort.’

‘You’ll join me at breakfast at nine-thirty then? Good. You shall be called at eight-thirty. Myself I am celebrating the eucharist at eight o’clock, and I hardly suppose I shall have returned from the Cathedral much before nine. Goodnight, and good sound sleep.’

‘Goodnight, Canon.’

When Canon Spenlow came back from the Cathedral after his celebration in the Lady Chapel he found Dr Hodsoll walking in the garden ‘to clear his pipes’ as Sir Roger has it, breathing the air in great lungs-full, and watching the rooks circling about the old grey towers that pierced the somewhat watery blue, across which raced a cavalcade of fleecy white clouds. After the usual matutinal greetings and inquiries the cleric congratulated his guest with ‘I declare the change has done you good already.’

‘I’m inclined to think it has,’ was the sanguine reply, ‘certainly your cloister air is an admirable sedative. I never felt better in my life.’

The morning post brought the Canon a budget of correspondence and several book-catalogues, and as Dr Hodsoll was indulging his bad habit of dipping into The Times at table, the two men exchanged only a few remarks during breakfast until towards the end of the meal when the Canon, who had been glancing through a letter with an Italian stamp and post-mark, looked up and said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, Hodsoll, beyond a dinner with the Dean, who wouldn’t take a refusal, I’ve not made any social engagements during your visit.’

‘Nothing could suit me better, Canon. I am looking forward for one thing to going through some of those books again which you showed me last night. I should like to make a note or two, for example, on that early edition of Condrochius, and I’m not so well acquainted with Pordage and Jane Lead as I hope to be after a day or two in your library, for I see you have the Mystic Divinitie and A Fountain of Gardens on your shelves.’

‘Quaint old mystics both,’ the Canon smiled. ‘But it all fits in very well, because most mornings when I get back from Mattins, I am generally busy in the library until lunch, and I know that’s the time you prefer for a stroll round Silchester. I take my constitutional in the afternoon, and you can have the library entirely to yourself and browse among your visionaries as long as you please. However I was going to say that one reason why I have declined invitations during the next few days is owing to another guest of mine who will join us on Monday. I have just had a letter,’ holding up the thin foreign envelope, ‘from him to that effect.’

‘Indeed? Is it anyone whom I know?’

‘Not as yet. But it is someone whom, if I mistake not, you will be very interested to meet. A Dominican friar. You are surprised,’ for Dr Hodsoll had indeed looked up wonderingly, ‘but when I was in Rome last year Father Raphael Grant showed me several kindnesses, and opened doors for me which would otherwise most certainly have remained shut. He is a very able historian, and naturally he is keenly interested in the annals of his own particular order. When I told him of the cartularies and the manuscript missal which at the Dissolution passed from the Blackfriars here to the Cathedral Library—you will remember, no doubt, that they were only discovered, or to speak more precisely, recognized a few years ago, I had an article upon them, which you may have read, in the Ecclesiastical Review—he expressed himself as extremely desirous of examining them in detail, and then of course there are the other codices and registers. I can be of some assistance to him there, I am glad to say, and although he is only able to spare a very few days it will be far more convenient for him to be staying here than it would be if he had to go among strangers.

‘I am sure I shall very much look forward to meeting him,’ rejoined Hodsoll, ‘when do you expect your guest?’

‘On Monday, so his letter says,’ answered the Canon. ‘You will find him a very intellectual, and I think I may quite safely add a very charming, companion.’

The morning passed pleasantly enough, but without incident. Dr Hodsoll strolled rather aimlessly through the narrow streets and cobbled winds (as they are locally called) of the city; he renewed his acquaintance with the old Buttermarket and Sorrowing Cross; drew blank at a couple of book-shops; peeped into St Bennet Eastgate and St Mildred’s, shuddering at the garish magenta and gamboge window with which some pious mayor of the late Victorian seventies had outraged the latter; exchanged a word or two with the curator of the Museum; and made his way through the shadowy aisles of the Cathedral back to lunch.

Then followed two hours of unalloyed bliss in the library, where about four o’clock the Canon joined him for a cup of tea. The conversation, as we may suppose, was of books, and books, and books again.

‘Yes, I acknowledge I have had one or two quite lucky finds lately,’ said Canon Spenlow, ‘but on the other hand I had to give its full price for that Tacitus, and a good deal more than its full price for the Don Quixote. But what of yourself, Hodsoll, haven’t you come across anything special recently? I always say I never knew a man who had the knack of picking up what he wanted in the same way as you manage to hunt your quarry down. And while the rest of us are giving preposterous figures and rummaging and ferreting you just go round the corner, and hey presto! there it is.’

Dr Hodsoll laughed as he knocked out his pipe, and replied: ‘I’m afraid you exaggerate, Canon. Whatever may have been the case years ago, it’s all different today. Not a bargain to be had! Even Merritt’s prices are soaring. Only a couple of days ago he asked me five guineas for a book—and got it. By the way, I should like to show it to you, and perhaps you could help me to trace it. It’s something of an oddity. I’ve brought it with me, and it won’t take a minute to fetch it.’

No sooner said than done, and Hodsoll handed the Canon the little parcel intact just as he had received it over Merritt’s counter. ‘There you are,’ he said, ‘I haven’t even had time to look through it carefully. Open it, and see if you can tell me anything about the book.’

The Canon unknotted the string with some precision and tidily folded the paper before he turned to the title-page of the podgy vellum octavo. He stared, took off he glasses and carefully wiped them before proceeding to a second inspection. ‘Extraordinary!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s highly interesting. Can it be some sort of a joke? A polemic? A burlesque?’

‘Oh, no. I hardly think so. At any rate, it doesn’t extend farther than the imprint. The writer was in deadly earnest, I feel sure.’

‘Ah! so it seems.’ As Canon Spenlow turned the pages, scanning a paragraph here and there a heavy frown gathered upon his brow. ‘God bless my soul! Why, wherever did you get this thing?’

‘From Merritt, as I told you. He bought it from a casual seller, and I bought it from him the very next day. Have you ever seen a copy before?’

‘No, and God forbid I should ever see a copy again.’ The old man shut the book sharply, and slapped it down on a table with the utmost distaste. ‘Have you examined it, have you read it, Hodsoll?’

‘No, not yet. I am looking forward——’

‘Then take my advice and forgive me for speaking frankly. Put it behind the fire. Nay, I am certain you will do so when you read it.’

Dr Hodsoll stood petrified. ‘Put it behind the fire! Why, it may be unique. At any rate, I’m sure it’s of the last rarity.’

‘Thank God for that. I am quite serious. Never have I seen in print such filth, such appalling blasphemy.’

‘Oh, I know some of these demonologists are a trifle strong, but——’

‘It’s not a question of being a trifle strong. Read, man, read for yourself.’ The Canon was deeply moved.

In some surprise Hodsoll took up the offending volume to discover the cause of so unexpected an outburst. Nor had he long to search. The very page to which he turned seemed to be some kind of liturgical ceremony, there were prayers addressed to the powers of darkness in terms of hideous profanity and rubrics of the most crapulous obscenity.

What a blunder to have shown that to Canon Spenlow! He must be diplomatic and smooth the old fellow down.

‘Whew!’ he ejaculated, ‘that’s pretty bad. I assure you, Canon, I had no idea there was anything like this. I’m sorry. Yet as a matter of curiosity, or rather from a bibliographical point of view, I think one ought to set on record a full description of this fellow, lewd and degraded as he is.’

‘Personally I should burn it here and now,’ retorted the Canon. ‘But, of course, it’s not my property. It’s an evil book.’

‘I shall certainly follow your advice. Yet I think it would be a mistake not to have a memorandum of it, and perhaps a photograph of the title-page which, you must admit, is singular.’

Canon Spenlow made an impatient noise, and, pointing a long lean finger, quoted vigorously: ‘Many of them also which used curious arts brought their books together, and burned them before all men: and they counted the price of them, and found it fifty thousand pieces of silver.’ These were regions into which Dr Hodsoll was quite unable to follow his friend, and he therefore contented himself with a murmured ‘Quite,’ which he felt none the less to be inappropriate and inconclusive.

At that moment there came a not unwelcome interruption in the shape of the butler with a note for his master, a missive which required an immediate answer, and Hodsoll hastily gathering up his book lest it should be seized for a holocaust was glad to escape to the fastness of his bedroom where, bolting the door behind him, he sank into an arm-chair, feeling breathless and flurried.

‘Phew!’ he exclaimed, mopping his brow with his handkerchief, ‘whoever could have supposed that the old chap would flare up like that! It’s just it, you never know with these religious folk where you are going to have ’em. And now let’s see what all the bother’s about.’

He was soon obliged to confess that the contents of the Mysterium Arcanum were sufficiently startling. There were a number of charms, a few to constrain love, others to compel hate, and some with a yet more definitely atrocious aim, ‘capitis damnatio’, the ‘death warrants’ they were termed. There were receipts for poison, and philters of the foulest ingredients. Next followed evocations of demons, cantrips and spells, and three sections entitled respectively, ‘the way of Cain’, ‘the error of Balaam’, and ‘the gainsaying of Core’. There were litanies addressed to the fallen archangel as the patron of every licence and abomination. There were prayers to the powers of the pit ante et post missam, and a rubric which set Hodsoll wondering, missam autem quaere apud Missale Nigrum (the Mass itself will be found in the Black Missal).

Could it be that the mysterious book of the witches had fallen into his hands, that volume which was mentioned in more than one trial of the seventeenth century, but which apparently had never been seen by any who was not a member of that horrid society? The Mysterium Arcanum showed at any rate the signs of constant use. In the margins, here and there, an old hand had jotted various notes and drawn strange cabalistic signs. And to his delight he saw that a blank page at the end was covered with fine close writing headed Evocatio efficacissima, A most Powerful and Efficacious Evocation. ‘Crabbed, contracted Latin! Well, I suppose I shall have to transcribe this at length, and the sooner I do it the better.’ Uncapping his fountain pen, and taking a quire of quarto paper from his case, Dr Hodsoll set to work, and before long had written out in full the impious and unhallowed charm. In order to check it carefully and make sure he had omitted no word nor syllable, he then read it through sentence by sentence softly to himself.

There came a light tap at the door, and he actually started. ‘The servant with hot water. How time flies! I must change at once.’ Hastily shuffling the book and his manuscript under a sheet of blotting-paper, he called over his shoulder, ‘Come in.’

‘You wanted me, sir,’ said a low voice.

Dr Hodsoll turned and saw that there had entered the room and was standing waiting his orders a tall young man with the impassive features and formal bearing of the well-trained servant. He was dressed, not in livery, but in a smartly-cut black suit, and seemed the very pattern of a gentleman’s valet. At the same time there was something foreign in his appearance, which was perhaps due to his large dark eyes, full of infinite sadness and a yearning regret, and the extreme pallor of his countenance.

‘Another valet of the Canon’s,’ thought Hodsoll. ‘Really he has more servants just to look after himself than would be needed to wait on a family. But I suppose he entertains a good deal in this large house.’ Then aloud, ‘No, thanks, I didn’t ring. I need nothing until my hot water comes.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir, I thought you wanted me,’ and the servant withdrew.

Dr Hodsoll, reflecting that the Canon would not care for the Mysterium to be left about, although certainly none of the household could read Latin, and the book was quite safe unless indeed from a conscientious scruple his host purloined and destroyed it, locked it away in a suit-case. He was glad he had done so, for as he went downstairs he noticed the valet loitering in the passage not far from his door, and in these days of universal education who knows, he asked himself, whether this chap hasn’t taken a course in classics and reads Horace or Livy in the servants’ hall.

The Canon, he was relieved to find, made no allusion either covert or direct to the Mysterium, and the evening passed tranquilly, closing however at a rather earlier hour in view of the morrow being a Sunday. Upon entering his bedroom and switching on the light Hodsoll was surprised and a little annoyed to find the valet awaiting him.

‘What do you want?’ he asked rather abruptly.

‘I was waiting for you, sir,’ was the reply in perfectly courteous and even deferential tones, ‘what can I do for you?’

‘Nothing at all,’ answered Hodsoll. ‘I will ring if I require anything more.’

The man bowed, and left the room quietly, yet Hodsoll had the curious impression that he caught an extremely ugly look just as he was going out. ‘What on earth’s the matter with the fellow?’ he asked himself. ‘Is he afraid he won’t get a tip when I leave. And he certainly won’t if he bothers me like this. Ugh! I’m beginning to hate the sight of him,’ and he unbuttoned his waistcoat impatiently. ‘Why, he must have been up here in the dark, because the light certainly wasn’t burning until I turned it on. Well, that’s odd.’

The next morning Canon Spenlow noticed that his guest was looking far from well, but an inquiry only elicited the information that he had passed a restless night, and as he saw that further questioning began to irritate he refrained from pressing the matter. He was somewhat agreeably surprised, however, to find that Dr Hodsoll would not listen to his suggestion of staying away from the Morning Service at the Cathedral. In fact he showed himself eager to attend, and at the luncheon table he spoke with a show of sympathy and understanding which he had never expressed before of the comfort and consolation those who hold the Christian faith derive from common worship and the beauty of an ordered liturgy.

That afternoon, the Canon being otherwise engaged, Dr Hodsoll, when Evensong was over, decided to take a stroll through the meadows which lined the river’s bank. Although unenclosed, these had for the extent of nearly half a mile been turned into a public garden from which one passed almost insensibly into the open country and lanes which lay beyond. There were seats, and thick hedges which formed a kind of natural wall, and howbeit just about tea-time on a Sunday afternoon the meadows were almost empty, later in the evening when dusk began to fall and the stars crept out they would be dotted with trysting couples, since the Meads had for generations been the recognized rendezvous of every Silchester lass who was ‘walking out’ with her young man.

Feeling tired, after a few turns Dr Hodsoll sat down upon a bench which had been placed in a natural arbour, facing the view which for all its familiarity never lost its charm—the old huddled roofs of the city, the Cathedral towers, the sedgy banks with the stream gently flowing between. He had not been seated many minutes when he felt a sense of extreme uneasiness and disquiet; he shuddered violently as though some horrible thing was near and, as he afterwards declared, he was filled with the apprehension that a wild beast lurked in ambush ready to leap out and tear him piecemeal. In vain he tried to concentrate his thoughts on other things, books, a monograph he was contemplating, a forthcoming visit to Buxton, to call commonsense to his aid. At last unable to endure the tension longer he jumped to his feet almost to ward off a blow, and as he half-turned he saw staring at him through the bushes with an expression so evil and malevolent that even now the very memory has cost him more than one sleepless night, a dead-white face in which the great dark eyes blazed like hot coals of fire. The face was instantly withdrawn. In fact it vanished so swiftly that if he had not recognized it he might have believed it was mere imagination, a trick and play of light and shadow among the leaves. He returned to the house considerably shaken and then, I think, that he must first have suspected who the servant was.

The next incident which seems worthy of record took place about ten o’clock that same evening when without so much as a preliminary knock or a word of warning the door of the housekeeper’s room burst open, and Lucy Parkins, the Canon’s upper housemaid, rushed in and almost collapsed at Mrs Bailey’s feet. That extremely correct and punctilious lady, who was reading her Chapter before the fire and sipping a glass of mulled claret preparatory to retiring to bed, arose stately from her chair, every fold of her black satin dress rustling in stern displeasure. ‘What can be the meaning of this, Parkins?’ she began in freezing tones. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ and then, for she saw that the girl was white with terror and sobbing hysterically, she added more quickly, ‘What is it, you stupid girl, what has happened?’

‘Oh, Mrs Bailey, ma’am,’ exclaimed Parkins, ‘I am so frightened. I don’t know what to do. Indeed I don’t.’

‘Frightened? Shut that door at once, and tell me all about it.’ Then seeing the girl was shaking and shivering, Mrs Bailey closed the door, and pushed her into a chair. From her own private cupboard she administered a small glass of brandy, and when she saw the colour coming back into her cheeks, she sharply commanded: ‘Stop that yammering now and tell me what’s frightened you.’

The upshot of Parkins’ story was that she had come in at ten o’clock as usual after her Sunday evening out, and in the passage leading to the kitchen a strange man had brushed by her and looked at her horribly, he was just horrible, as she expressed it, and she had felt so terrified that she made for the shelter of Mrs Bailey’s room as a haven of safety. No amount of questioning and cross-examining on the housekeeper’s part could shake her story.

‘It’s all those silly films. Wicked, I call it, allowing those places to be open on a Sunday night and filling the girls’ and the young men’s heads with trash, as though there wasn’t enough badness in the world already,’ indignantly declared the ruffled matron, somewhat more perturbed and puzzled than she cared to admit, for Lucy Parkins had always been a most staid and sensible worker. It transpired too that so far from having spent the evening at the cinema, she had been to supper at the house of her uncle, a small shopkeeper of eminent respectability. Eventually Mr Watson the butler was summoned from his pantry to hear the tale, and although evidently not believing in Parkins’ strange man, he undertook to go round the lower regions of the house to make sure all windows were closed and that no burglar was lurking in a cupboard or behind a door to issue forth in the night and cut all their throats. A clean bill of safety being returned, Parkins was dismissed to her bedroom, which was fortunately shared by the second maid, ‘for sleep in the room alone tonight, I would not, no, not if anyone was to pay me thousands,’ she pathetically declared.

‘Now, stop that nonsense, and get to bed, you want a good night’s rest, Lucy,’ was Mr Watson’s unsympathetic reply.

‘All the same it’s funny, I must say, Mr Watson,’ remarked Mrs Bailey, gazing after the departing Parkins, ‘I’ve never known her took like this before, and she’s a good worker too.’

‘Bilious, Mrs Bailey, bilious. That’s what it is, depend upon it.’

‘Well, I hope to goodness we’re not going to have her in bed tomorrow, with this new gentleman coming, and all. I half wish I’d made her take a dose of salts or a pill.’

Had Dr Hodsoll confided his suspicions to Canon Spenlow I am of opinion that his story would have been received with a far greater understanding and sympathy than he imagined, but the fact remains that fearing to look a fool; he chose rather to suffer, and there can be no doubt that he suffered very acutely on that Sunday night. Although actually the servant did not reappear—he believed he caught a glimpse of him once, a shadowy figure, at the end of a corridor—he felt that he was being closely watched and that if he was off his guard for a moment, there would come a pounce. That the Canon guessed something was amiss is evident from the reluctance with which Hodsoll said goodnight, and the earnestness with which he asked for his friend’s prayers.

The next morning in the course of his walk round Silchester, Dr Hodsoll turned into the Adam and Eve, the oldest hostelry in the city and one much frequented and admired by tourists. He drank no less than four glasses of their famous brown sherry, but the waiter remarked that although at first he seemed inclined to loiter he left very abruptly upon the entrance of another customer, and what was more curious the newcomer seemed to have followed him out immediately. Perhaps he had come there to seek him, at any rate he did not wait to be served.

The rest of the morning Dr Hodsoll spent in the Cathedral.

Father Raphael Grant to whom he was introduced at the luncheon-table did not at all fulfil his idea of a Dominican. True he was dressed in a white habit with leathern girdle and black scapular, and a rosary hung at his side. But he had neither the commanding stature nor proud port of an Inquisitor. His face was not emaciated and thin, burning with the fanatic fires of Savonarola. It was in fact rather round and fresh-coloured, whilst his eyes twinkled humorously behind his gold-rimmed glasses. He was merely a courtly, extremely well-informed English gentleman who for some reason of his own chose to wear a picturesque and medieval attire.

The talk which at first naturally turned upon the treasures of Silchester Cathedral and the manuscripts Father Raphael particularly wished to collate, soon began to range over the whole field of literature and it was evident that the friar had worked in most of the big European libraries.

‘By the way, Hodsoll,’ remarked Canon Spenlow, towards the end of the meal, ‘I took the liberty of mentioning to Father Raphael that very extraordinary little book you picked up recently and which you showed me the other day. He is very anxious to see it, and I’m sure you will have no objection to letting us examine it.’

‘Oh, no, naturally, not at all,’ Hodsoll was conscious that he had blushed guiltily and was almost betrayed into a stammer, ‘I shall be most pleased to show it to you. Certainly, yes. Only . . . or . . . I ought perhaps to warn Father Raphael . . . to say . . . that is, I . . .’

‘You are afraid, Dr Hodsoll, that it will be something of a shock?’ asked Father Raphael. ‘Please make yourself perfectly easy on that account. After all,’ with a smile, ‘you didn’t write it, and you can’t be held responsible for the contents, however unpleasant they may be.’

‘Father Raphael may be able to tell you something of its origin,’ interpolated the Canon, ‘he has a knowledge of these things, and I think you would be very well advised to let him see it. Nay, I make the request as a personal favour to myself.’

‘Oh, of course, Canon, of course. If you put it that way. And I am sure that Father Raphael quite understands . . .’

The Dominican bowed courteously without speaking.

‘Then, if you will excuse me, I’ll fetch it for you now.’

‘Bring it into the library, Hodsoll, where we are going to have coffee,’ said the Canon.

Dr Hodsoll was coming downstairs, a little quickly perhaps, the Mysterium in one hand, when from an angle of a landing, a rather dark spot even on the sunniest day, there seemed to leap out at him a black shapeless shadow, and it was only by fast clutching the balusters that he avoided an abrupt and dangerous fall. When he had steadied himself, and turned to look, he saw nothing.

The Dominican attentively scanned the pages of the vellum octavo Hodsoll had handed him. His expression did not alter in any degree of astonishment or distaste. It was merely the calm, careful scrutiny of a scholar examining a rare and curious work. Once he nodded to himself as he came across some phrase or passage which seemed not unfamiliar.

‘Yes, Dr Hodsoll,’ he said at length, as he closed the Mysterium, and placed it on the table, ‘you certainly have there a most scarce and uncommon book. It will perhaps seem to you an impertinence on my part if I proffer any comment on the nature and purpose of this treatise, and yet I must risk your displeasure. I cannot see anyone standing in such deadly peril without a word of warning on my part, a word I trust you will not take amiss. Believe me when I say in all seriousness that I had rather put a lighted match to a train of gunpowder than pronounce certain of these incantations. The very possession of the book is apt to bring you into most undesirable company.’

My impression is that Dr Hodsoll was a good deal upset as well as not a little perplexed by the friar’s words. On the one hand he shuddered to think that already he might, however unwittingly, have attracted attentions on the part of those whom he would certainly be most desirous to avoid, yet of whose existence philosophically he was far from resting assured. The incidents he had observed were (he argued) in themselves quite capable of a natural explanation and possibly merely subjective. A man who had always prided himself upon his mental poise and balance, who boasted in religious matters a ‘healthy agnosticism’ to use his own pet phrase, he was loath to confess his fears to another. Ridicule or polite incredulity he would beyond anything have resented. There was also the powerful motive of the book, which as a bibliophile he could hardly bring himself to destroy. It might be cased in morocco, yes; and kept in a locked bookcase, certainly; but to burn these pages which were not impossibly unique, was unthinkable.

Begging to be excused on account of certain duties, Father Raphael Grant retired early to his room that evening, fortunately not to sleep.

Dr Hodsoll and the Canon parted company somewhere past eleven o’clock, and it was with a sensation of relief that the former as he switched on his electric light saw there was no intruder in his bedchamber. A small but cheerful fire was burning in his grate, and after undressing somewhat slowly he slipped a dressing-gown over his sleeping-suit, and sat down to review the situation. It was only natural that two clerics such as Canon Spenlow and the friar, each in his own line of extremely orthodox views, should regard such a book as the Mysterium with abhorrence, and speak out pretty freely concerning it. No doubt he himself had been a little off-colour lately and fanciful, and he had allowed himself first to be vexed by and then to weave a regular romance around the officiousness of a new and over-zealous valet, who doubtless had been specially ordered to look after guests in the house. Add to that the mere accident of an ugly tramp having peered round a bush at him when he was tired and half-asleep, and—why he was yawning already. It was striking twelve.

As he turned towards the bed he saw standing but a few paces behind him the servant, and at that moment his heart chilled with deadly paralyzing terror, for in a flash he knew who he was and whence he came. Only a few seconds can have passed before the stranger spoke in low tones of horrid menace, but those seconds seemed to Hodsoll a fearful eternity, and it is fairly clear that he came as near to madness as a man may and not wholly lose his reason.

‘You wanted me, sir.’

‘No . . . no . . .no . . . go away!’

‘You called me, fool. And do you think I am to be dismissed so lightly?’ His eyes blazing furiously with exulting hate, and crooking his lithe white hands which to his horror Hodsoll saw were armed with great sharp horny nails that curved like the cruel talons of a vulture or some foul beast of prey, the demon suddenly and silently leaped upon the unfortunate wretch, who, frantic with physical fear and an even intenser mental loathing, reeled backwards uttering a hoarse stifled cry.

In that moment the door was flung wide open and the Dominican friar advanced stern and unflinching into the room. Around his neck hung a purple stole, as with upraised hand he marked swift sacred sigils in the air and spoke certain Latin words of might in a tone of imperious command. Hodsoll, who extremely dislikes being questioned about the incident, on one occasion acknowledged that he really remembers nothing of what transpired. He can only recall that he heard the Most Holy Name, and that with a moan of brute agony his assailant seemed to slip away—as he expressed it—into nothingness.

As may be supposed the struggle aroused the house, and the Canon followed by Watson and a footman in a state of déshabillé very shortly appeared on the scene. Father Raphael, however, was able completely to re-assure them by briefly stating that Dr Hodsoll had been taken ill, but that he was better, and since he himself intended to pass the night in his room no further assistance would be necessary or required.

If I am not much mistaken, on the following day the Canon was privately enlightened as to the correct state of affairs by the Dominican, to whom Hodsoll confided the whole story. At any rate, the Mysterium Arcanum was burnt to ashes that morning, a cremation at which the Canon expressed highest satisfaction.

It does not require a very active imagination to appreciate why Julian Hodsoll, the cultured and intellectual agnostic, fasts much and prays, and a Tertiary of the Order wears around his neck against his skin the brown scapulary of Carmel.