Nisbet was disengaged, and arrived about 9.30. His host was not quite dressed, I am sorry to say, even at this late hour. During breakfast nothing was said about the mezzotint by Williams, save that he had a picture on which he wished for Nisbet’s opinion. But those who are familiar with University life can picture for themselves the wide and delightful range of subjects over which the conversation of two Fellows of Canterbury College is likely to extend during a Sunday morning breakfast. Hardly a topic was left unchallenged, from golf to lawn-tennis. Yet I am bound to say that Williams was rather distraught; for his interest naturally centred in that very strange picture which was now reposing, face downwards, in the drawer in the room opposite.
The morning pipe was at last lighted, and the moment had arrived for which he looked. With very considerable – almost tremulous – excitement, he ran across, unlocked the drawer, and, extracting the picture – still face downwards – ran back, and put it into Nisbet’s hands.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘Nisbet, I want you to tell me exactly what you see in that picture. Describe it, if you don’t mind, rather minutely. I’ll tell you why afterwards.’
‘Well,’ said Nisbet, ‘I have here a view of a country-house – English, I presume – by moonlight.’
‘Moonlight? You’re sure of that?’
‘Certainly. The moon appears to be on the wane, if you wish for details, and there are clouds in the sky.’
‘All right. Go on. I’ll swear,’ added Williams in an aside, ‘there was no moon when I saw it first.’
‘Well, there’s not much more to be said,’ Nisbet continued. ‘The house has one – two – three rows of windows, five in each row, except at the bottom, where there’s a porch instead of the middle one, and —’
‘But what about figures?’ said Williams, with marked interest.
‘There aren’t any,’ said Nisbet; ‘but —’
‘What! No figure on the grass in front?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘You’ll swear to that?’
‘Certainly I will. But there’s just one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘Why, one of the windows on the ground floor – left of the door – is open.’
‘Is it really? My goodness! he must have got in,’ said Williams, with great excitement; and he hurried to the back of the sofa on which Nisbet was sitting, and, catching the picture from him, verified the matter for himself
It was quite true. There was no figure, and there was the open window. Williams, after a moment of speechless surprise, went to the writing-table and scribbled for a short time. Then he brought two papers to Nisbet, and asked him first to sign one – it was his own description of the picture, which you have just heard – and then to read the other which was Williams’s statement written the night before.
‘What can it all mean?’ said Nisbet.
‘Exactly,’ said Williams. ‘Well, one thing I must do – or three things, now I think of it. I must find out from Garwood’ – this was his last night’s visitor – ‘what he saw, and then I must get the thing photographed before it goes further, and then I must find out what the place is.’
‘I can do the photographing myself,’ said Nisbet, ‘and I will. But, you know, it looks very much as if we were assisting at the working out of a tragedy somewhere. The question is, Has it happened already, or is it going to come off? You must find out what the place is. Yes,’ he said, looking at the picture again, ‘I expect you’re right: he has got in. And if I don’t mistake there’ll be the devil to pay in one of the rooms upstairs.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Williams: ‘I’ll take the picture across to old Green’ (this was the senior Fellow of the College, who had been Bursar for many years). ‘It’s quite likely he’ll know it. We have property in Essex and Sussex, and he must have been over the two counties a lot in his time.’
‘Quite likely he will,’ said Nisbet; ‘but just let me take my photograph first. But look here, I rather think Green isn’t up today. He wasn’t in Hall last night, and I think I heard him say he was going down for the Sunday.’
‘That’s true, too,’ said Williams; ‘I know he’s gone to Brighton. Well, if you’ll photograph it now, I’ll go across to Garwood and get his statement, and you keep an eye on it while I’m gone. I’m beginning to think two guineas is not a very exorbitant price for it now.’
In a short time he had returned, and brought Mr Garwood with him. Garwood’s statement was to the effect that the figure, when he had seen it, was clear of the edge of the picture, but had not got far across the lawn. He remembered a white mark on the back of its drapery, but could not have been sure it was a cross. A document to this effect was then drawn up and signed, and Nisbet proceeded to photograph the picture.
‘Now what do you mean to do?’ he said. ‘Are you going to sit and watch it all day?’
‘Well, no, I think not,’ said Williams. ‘I rather imagine we’re meant to see the whole thing. You see, between the time I saw it last night and this morning there was time for lots of things to happen, but the creature only got into the house. It could easily have got through its business in the time and gone to its own place again; but the fact of the window being open, I think, must mean that it’s in there now. So I feel quite easy about leaving it. And, besides, I have a kind of idea that it wouldn’t change much, if at all, in the daytime. We might go out for a walk this afternoon, and come in to tea, or whenever it gets dark. I shall leave it out on the table here, and sport the door. My skip can get in, but no one else.’
The three agreed that this would be a good plan; and, further, that if they spent the afternoon together they would be less likely to talk about the business to other people; for any rumour of such a transaction as was going on would bring the whole of the Phasmatological Society about their ears.
We may give them a respite until five o’clock.
At or near the hour the three were entering Williams’s staircase. They were at first slightly annoyed to see that the door of his rooms was unsported; but in a moment it was remembered that on Sunday the skips came for orders an hour or so earlier than on week-days. However, a surprise was awaiting them. The first thing they saw was the picture leaning up against a pile of books on the table, as it had been left, and the next thing was Williams’s skip, seated on a chair opposite, gazing at it with undisguised horror. How was this? Mr Filcher (the name is not my own invention) was a servant of considerable standing, and set the standard of etiquette to all his own college and to several neighbouring ones, and nothing could be more alien to his practice than to be found sitting on his master’s chair, or appearing to take any particular notice of his master’s furniture or pictures. Indeed, he seemed to feel this himself. He started violently when the three men came into the room, and got up with a marked effort. Then he said: ‘I ask your pardon, sir, for taking such a freedom as to set down.’
‘Not at all, Robert,’ interposed Mr Williams. ‘I was meaning to ask you some time what you thought of that picture.’
‘Well, sir, of course I don’t set up my opinion again yours, but it ain’t the pictur I should ‘ang where my little girl could see it, sir.’
‘Wouldn’t you, Robert? Why not?’
‘No, sir. Why, the pore child, I recollect once she see a Door Bible, with pictures not ‘alf what that is, and we ‘ad to set up with her three or four nights afterwards, if you’ll believe me; and if she was to ketch a sight of this skelinton here, or whatever it is, carrying off the pore baby, she would be in a taking. You know ‘ow it is with children; ‘ow nervish they git with a little thing and all. But what I should say, it don’t seem a right pictur to be laying about, sir, not where anyone that’s liable to be startled could come on it. Should you be wanting anything this evening, sir? Thank you, sir.’
With these words the excellent man went to continue the round of his masters, and you may be sure the gentlemen whom he left lost no time in gathering round the engraving. There was the
house, as before under the waning moon and the drifting clouds. The window that had been open was shut, and the figure was once more on the lawn: but not this time crawling cautiously on hands and knees. Now it was erect and stepping swiftly, with long strides, towards the front of the picture. The moon was behind it, and the black drapery hung down over its face so that only hints of that could be seen, and what was visible made the spectators profoundly thankful that they could see no more than a white dome-like forehead and a few straggling hairs. The head was bent down, and the arms were tightly clasped over an object which could be dimly seen and identified as a child, whether dead or living it was not possible to say. The legs of the appearance alone could be plainly discerned, and they were horribly thin.
From five to seven the three companions sat and watched the picture by turns. But it never changed. They agreed at last that it would be safe to leave it, and that they would return after Hall and await further developments.
When they assembled again, at the earliest possible moment, the engraving was there, but the figure was gone, and the house was quiet under the moonbeams. There was nothing for it but to spend the evening over gazetteers and guide-books. Williams was the lucky one at last, and perhaps he deserved it. At 11.30 p.m. he read from Murray’s Guide to Essex the following lines:
‘16½ miles, Anningley. The church has been an interesting building of Norman date, but was extensively classicised in the last century. It contains the tombs of the family of Francis, whose mansion, Anningley Hall, a solid Queen Anne house, stands immediately beyond the churchyard in a park of about 80 acres. The family is now extinct, the last heir having disappeared mysteriously in infancy in the year 1802. The father, Mr Arthur Francis, was locally known as a talented amateur engraver in mezzotint. After his son’s disappearance he lived in complete retirement at the Hall, and was found dead in his studio on the third anniversary of the disaster, having just completed an engraving of the house, impressions of which are of considerable rarity.’
This looked like business, and, indeed, Mr Green on his return at once identified the house as Anningley Hall.
‘Is there any kind of explanation of the figure, Green?’ was the question which Williams naturally asked.
‘I don’t know, I’m sure, Williams. What used to be said in the place when I first knew it, which was before I came up here, was just this: old Francis was always very much down on these poaching fellows, and whenever he got a chance he used to get a man whom he suspected of it turned off the estate, and by degrees he got rid of them all but one. Squires could do a lot of things then that they daren’t think of now. Well, this man that was left was what you find pretty often in that country – the last remains of a very old family. I believe they were Lords of the Manor at one time. I recollect just the same thing in my own parish.’
‘What, like the man in Tess of the D’Urbervilles?’ Williams put in.
‘Yes, I dare say; it’s not a book I could ever read myself. But this fellow could show a row of tombs in the church there that belonged to his ancestors, and all that went to sour him a bit; but Francis, they said, could never get at him – he always kept just on the right side of the law – until one night the keepers found him at it in a wood right at the end of the estate. I could show you the place now; it marches with some land that used to belong to an uncle of mine. And you can imagine there was a row; and this man Gawdy (that was the name, to be sure – Gawdy; I thought I should get it – Gawdy), he was unlucky enough, poor chap! to shoot a keeper. Well, that was what Francis wanted, and grand juries – you know what they would have been then – and poor Gawdy was strung up in double-quick time; and I’ve been shown the place he was buried in, on the north side of the church – you know the way in that part of the world: anyone that’s been hanged or made away with themselves, they bury them that side. And the idea was that some friend of Gawdy’s – not a relation, because he had none, poor devil! he was the last of his line: kind of spes ultima gentis – must have planned to get hold of Francis’s boy and put an end to his line, too. I don’t know – it s rather an out-of-the-way thing for an Essex poacher to think of – but, you know, I should say now it looks more as if old Gawdy had managed the job himself. Booh! I hate to think of it! Have some whisky, Williams!’
The facts were communicated by Williams to Dennistoun, and by him to a mixed company, of which I was one, and the Sadducean Professor of Ophiology another. I am sorry to say that the latter, when asked what he thought of it, only remarked: ‘Oh, those Bridgeford people will say anything’ – a sentiment which met with the reception it deserved.
I have only to add that the picture is now in the Ashleian Museum; that it has been treated with a view to discovering whether sympathetic ink has been used in it, but without effect; that Mr Britnell knew nothing of it save that he was sure it was uncommon; and that, though carefully watched, it has never been known to change again.
‘HONEYSUCKLE COTTAGE’
P. G. WODEHOUSE (SIR PELHAM GRENVILLE WODEHOUSE, BRITISH, 1881–1975)
First published in the 24 January 1925 issue of the Saturday Evening Post.
P. G. Wodehouse is best known for his stories featuring Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, which feature many formidable aunts and intransigent nephews. However, according to his memoir, the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein thought ‘Honeysuckle Cottage’ was the funniest thing he had ever read, and I am obliged to agree.
HONEYSUCKLE COTTAGE
P. G. Wodehouse
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ asked Mr Mulliner abruptly.
I weighed the question thoughtfully. I was a little surprised, for nothing in our previous conversation had suggested the topic.
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I don’t like them, if that’s what you mean. I was once butted by one as a child.’
‘Ghosts. Not goats.’
‘Oh, ghosts? Do I believe in ghosts?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, yes – and no.’
‘Let me put it another way,’ said Mr Mulliner, patiently. ‘Do you believe in haunted houses? Do you believe that it is possible for a malign influence to envelop a place and work a spell on all who come within its radius?’
I hesitated.
‘Well, no – and yes.’
Mr Mulliner sighed a little. He seemed to be wondering if I was always as bright as this.
‘Of course,’ I went on, ‘one has read stories. Henry James’s Turn of the Screw …’
‘I am not talking about fiction.’
‘Well, in real life— Well, look here, I once, as a matter of fact, did meet a man who knew a fellow—’
‘My distant cousin James Rodman spent some weeks in a haunted house,’ said Mr Mulliner, who, if he has a fault, is not a very good listener. ‘It cost him five thousand pounds. That is to say, he sacrificed five thousand pounds by not remaining there. Did you ever,’ he asked, wandering, it seemed to me, from the subject, ‘hear of Leila J. Pinckney?’
Naturally I had heard of Leila J. Pinckney. Her death some years ago has diminished her vogue, but at one time it was impossible to pass a book-shop or a railway bookstall without seeing a long row of her novels. I had never myself actually read any of them, but I knew that in her particular line of literature, the Squashily Sentimental, she had always been regarded by those entitled to judge as pre-eminent. The critics usually headed their reviews of her stories with the words:–
ANOTHER PINCKNEY
or sometimes, more offensively:–
ANOTHER PINCKNEY!!!
And once, dealing with, I think, The Love Which Prevails, the literary expert of the Scrutinizer had compressed his entire critique into the single phrase ‘Oh, God!’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But what about her?’
‘She was James Rodman’s aunt.’
‘Yes?’
‘And when she died James found that she had left him five thousand pounds and the house in the country where she had lived for the last twenty years of her life.
’
‘A very nice little legacy.’
‘Twenty years,’ repeated Mr Mulliner. ‘Grasp that, for it has a vital bearing on what follows. Twenty years, mind you, and Miss Pinckney turned out two novels and twelve short stories regularly every year, besides a monthly page of Advice to Young Girls in one of the magazines. That is to say, forty of her novels and no fewer than two hundred and forty of her short stories were written under the roof of Honeysuckle Cottage.’
‘A pretty name.’
‘A nasty, sloppy name,’ said Mr Mulliner severely, ‘which should have warned my distant cousin James from the start. Have you a pencil and a piece of paper?’ He scribbled for a while, poring frowningly over columns of figures. ‘Yes,’ he said, looking up, ‘if my calculations are correct, Leila J. Pinckney wrote in all a matter of nine million one hundred and forty thousand words of glutinous sentimentality at Honeysuckle Cottage, and it was a condition of her will that James should reside there for six months in every year. Failing to do this, he was to forfeit the five thousand pounds.’
‘It must be great fun making a freak will,’ I mused. ‘I often wish I was rich enough to do it.’
‘This was not a freak will. The conditions are perfectly understandable. James Rodman was a writer of sensational mystery stories, and his aunt Leila had always disapproved of his work. She was a great believer in the influence of environment, and the reason why she inserted that clause in her will was that she wished to compel James to move from London to the country. She considered that living in London hardened him and made his outlook on life sordid. She often asked him if he thought it quite nice to harp so much on sudden death and blackmailers with squints. Surely, she said, there were enough squinting blackmailers in the world without writing about them.