“No, indeed, sir, no such thing. Just caught away with a choking in his throat, Wickem says. It do make one feel—well, I’m sure I had to set down as much as a minute or more, I come over that queer when I heard the words—and by what I could understand they’ll be asking for the burial very quick. There’s some can’t bear the thought of the cold corpse laying in the house, and—”
“Yes. Well, I must find out from Madam Bowles herself or Mr. Joseph. Get me my cloak, will you? Ah, and could you let Wickem know that I desire to see him when the tolling is over?”
He hurried off.
In an hour’s time he was back and found Wickem waiting for him. “There is work for you, Wickem,” he said, as he threw off his cloak, “and not overmuch time to do it in.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wickem, “the vault to be opened to be sure—”
“No, no, that’s not the message I have. The poor Squire, they tell me, charged them before now not to lay him in the chancel. It was to be an earth grave in the yard, on the north side.”
He stopped at an inarticulate exclamation from the clerk. “Well?” he said.
“I ask pardon, sir,” said Wickem in a shocked voice, “but did I understand you right? No vault, you say, and on the north side? Tt-tt-! Why the poor gentleman must a been wandering.”
“Yes, it does seem strange to me, too,” said Dr. Hall, “but no, Mr. Joseph tells me it was his father’s—I should say stepfather’s—clear wish, expressed more than once, and when he was in good health. Clean earth and open air. You know, of course, the poor Squire had his fancies, though he never spoke of this one to me. And there’s another thing, Wickem. No coffin.”
“Oh dear, dear, sir,” said Wickem, yet more shocked. “Oh, but that’ll make sad talk, that will, and what a disappointment for Wright, too! I know he’d looked out some beautiful wood for the Squire, and had it by him years past.”
“Well, well, perhaps the family will make it up to Wright in some way,” said the Rector, rather impatiently, “but what you have to do is to get the grave dug and all things in a readiness—torches from Wright you must not forget—by ten o’clock tomorrow night. I don’t doubt but there will be somewhat coming to you for your pains and hurry.”
“Very well, sir, if those be the orders, I must do my best to carry them out. And should I call in on my way down and send the women up to the Hall to lay out the body, sir?”
“No. That, I think—I am sure—was not spoken of. Mr. Joseph will send, no doubt, if they are needed. No, you have enough without that. Goodnight, Wickem. I was making up the registers when this doleful news came. Little had I thought to add such an entry to them as I must now.”
All things had been done in decent order. The torchlighted cortège had passed from the Hall through the park, up the lime avenue to the top of the knoll on which the church stood. All the village had been there, and such neighbors as could be warned in the few hours available. There was no great surprise at the hurry.
Formalities of law there were none then, and no one blamed the stricken widow for hastening to lay her dead to rest. Nor did anyone look to see her following in the funeral train. Her son Joseph—only issue of her first marriage with a Calvert of Yorkshire—was the chief mourner.
There were, indeed, no kinsfolk on Squire Bowles’s side who could have been bidden. The will, executed at the time of the Squire’s second marriage, left everything to the widow.
And what was “everything”? Land, house, furniture, pictures, plate were all obvious. But there should have been accumulations in coin, and beyond a few hundreds in the hands of agents—honest men and no embezzlers—cash there was none.
Yet Francis Bowles had for years received good rents and paid little out. Nor was he a reputed miser; he kept a good table, and money was always forthcoming for the moderate spendings of his wife and stepson. Joseph Calvert had been maintained ungrudgingly at school and college.
What, then, had he done with it all? No ransacking of the house brought any secret hoard to light; no servant, old or young, had any tale to tell of meeting the Squire in unexpected places at strange hours.
No, Madam Bowles and her son were fairly nonplussed. As they sat one evening in the parlor discussing the problem for the twentieth time:
“You have been at his books and papers, Joseph, again today, haven’t you?”
“Yes, mother, and no forwarder.”
“What was it he would be writing at, and why was he always sending letters to Mr. Fowler at Gloucester?”
“Why, you know he had a maggot about the Middle State of the Soul. ’Twas over that he and that other were always busy. The last thing he wrote would be a letter that he never finished. I’ll fetch it … Yes, the same song over again.
“‘Honored friend, I make some slow advance in our studies, but I know not well how far to trust our authors. Here is one lately come my way who will have it that for a time after death the soul is under control of certain spirits, as Raphael, and another whom I doubtfully read as Nares; but still so near this state of life that on prayer to them he may be free to come disclose matters to the living.
“‘Come, indeed, he must, if he be rightly called, the manner of which is set forth in an experiment. But having come, and once opened his mouth, it may chance that his summoner shall see and hear more than of the hid treasure which it is likely he bargained for; since the experiment puts this in the forefront of things to be inquired.
“‘But the eftest way is to send you the whole, which herewith I do; copied from a book of recipes which I had of good Bishop Moore.’”
Here Joseph stopped, and made no comment, gazing on the paper. For more than a minute nothing was said, then Madam Bowles, drawing her needle through her work and looking at it, coughed and said, “There was no more written?”
“No, nothing, mother.”
“No? Well, it is strange stuff. Did ever you meet this Mr. Fowler?”
“Yes, it might be once or twice, in Oxford, a civil gentleman enough.”
“Now I think of it,” said she, “it would be but right to acquaint him with—with what has happened: they were close friends. Yes, Joseph, you should do that. You will know what should be said. And the letter is his, after all.”
“You are in the right, mother, and I’ll not delay it.” And forthwith he sat down to write.
From Norfolk to Gloucester was no quick transit. But a letter went, and a larger packet came in answer; and there were more evening talks in the paneled parlor at the Hall.
At the close of one, these words were said: “Tonight, then, if you are certain of yourself, go round by the field path. Ay, and here is a cloth will serve.”
“What cloth is that, mother? A napkin?”
“Yes, of a kind: what matter?” So he went out by the way of the garden, and she stood in the door, musing, with her hand on her mouth. Then the hand dropped and she said half-aloud: “If only I had not been so hurried! But it was the face cloth, sure enough.”
It was a very dark night, and the spring wind blew loud over the black fields—loud enough to drown all sounds of shouting or calling. If calling there was, there was no voice, nor any that answered, nor any that regarded—yet.
Next morning, Joseph’s mother was early in his chamber. “Give me the cloth,” she said, “the maids must not find it. And tell me, tell me, quick!”
Joseph, seated on the side of the bed with his head in his hands, looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. “We have opened his mouth,” he said. “Why in God’s name did you leave his face bare?”
“How could I help it? You know how I was hurried that day? But do you mean you saw it?”
Joseph only groaned and sunk his head in his hands again. Then, in a low voice, “He said you should see it, too.”
With a dreadful gasp she clutched at the bedpost and clung to it.
“Oh, but he’s angry,” Joseph went on. “He was only biding his time, I’m sure. The words were scarce out of my mouth when I heard like th
e snarl of a dog in under there.” He got up and paced the room. “And what can we do? He’s free! And I daren’t meet him! I daren’t take the drink and go where he is! I daren’t lie here another night. Oh, why did you do it? We could have waited.”
“Hush,” said his mother. Her lips were dry. “’Twas you, you know it, as much as I. Besides, what use in talking? Listen to me: ’tis but six o’clock. There’s money to cross the water: such as they can’t follow. Yarmouth’s not so far, and most night boats sail for Holland, I’ve heard. See you to the horses. I can be ready.”
Joseph stared at her. “What will they say here?”
“What? Why, cannot you tell the parson we have wind of property lying in Amsterdam which we must claim or lose? Go, go; or if you are not man enough for that, lie here again tonight.”
He shivered and went.
That evening after dark a boatman lumbered into an inn on Yarmouth Quay, where a man and a woman sat, with saddle-bags on the floor by them.
“Ready, are you, mistress and gentleman?” he said. “She sails before the hour, and my other passenger he’s waitin’ on the quay. Be there all your baggage?” and he picked up the bags.
“Yes, we travel light,” said Joseph. “And you have more company bound for Holland?”
“Just the one,” said the boatman, “and he seem to travel lighter yet.”
“Do you know him?” said Madam Bowles. She laid her hand on Joseph’s arm, and they both paused in the doorway.
“Why no, but for all he’s hooded I’d know him again fast enough, he have such a cur’ous way of speakin’, and I doubt you’ll find he know you, by what he said. ‘Goo you and fetch ’em out,’ he say, ‘and I’ll wait on ’em here,’ he say, and sure enough he’s a-comin’ this way now.”
Poisoning of a husband was petty treason then, and women guilty of it were strangled at the stake and burned.
The Assize records of Norwich tell of a woman so dealt with and of her son hanged thereafter, convict on their own confession, made before the Rector of their parish, the name of which I withhold, for there is still hid treasure to be found there.
Bishop Moore’s book of recipes is now in the University Library at Cambridge, marked Dd 11, 45, and on the leaf numbered 144 this is written:
An experiment most often proved true, to find out tresure hidden in the ground, theft, manslaughter, or anie other thynge. Go to the grave of a ded man, and three tymes call hym by his nam at the hed of the grave, and say. Thou, N., N., N., I coniure the, I require the, and I charge the, by thi Christendome that thou takest leave of the Lord Raffael and Nares and then askest leave this night to come tell me trewlie of the tresure that lyith hid in such a place. Then take of the earth of the grave at the dead bodyes hed and knitt it in a lynnen clothe and put itt under thi right eare and sleape theruppon: and wheresoever thou lyest or slepest, that night he will com and tell thee trewlie in waking or sleping.
The Malice of Inanimate Objects
THE MALICE OF INANIMATE OBJECTS is a subject upon which an old friend of mine was fond of dilating, and not without justification.
In the lives of all of us, short or long, there have been days, dreadful days, on which we have had to acknowledge with gloomy resignation that our world has turned against us.
I do not mean the human world of our relations and friends: to enlarge on that is the province of nearly every modern novelist. In their books it is called “Life” and an odd enough hash it is as they portray it.
No, it is the world of things that do not speak or work or hold congresses and conferences. It includes such beings as the collar stud, the inkstand, the fire, the razor, and, as age increases, the extra step on the staircase which leads you either to expect or not to expect it.
By these and such as these (for I have named but the merest fraction of them) the word is passed around, and the day of misery arranged.
Is the tale still remembered of how the Cock and Hen went to pay a visit to Squire Korbes? How on the journey they met with and picked up a number of associates, encouraging each with the announcement:
“To Squire Korbes we are going
For a visit is owing.”
Thus they secured the company of the Needle, the Egg, the Duck, the Cat, possibly—for memory is a little treacherous here—and finally the Millstone.
And when it was discovered that Squire Korbes was for the moment out, they took up positions in his mansion and awaited his return.
He did return, wearied no doubt by a day’s work among his extensive properties. His nerves were first jarred by the raucous cry of the Cock. He threw himself into his armchair and was lacerated by the Needle. He went to the sink for a refreshing wash and was splashed all over by the Duck. Attempting to dry himself with the towel he broke the Egg upon his face.
He suffered other indignities from the Hen and her accomplices, which I cannot now recollect, and finally, maddened with pain and fear, rushed out by the back door and had his brains dashed out by the Millstone that had perched itself in the appropriate place.
“Truly,” in the concluding words of the story, “this Squire Korbes must have been either a very wicked or a very unfortunate man.”
It is the latter alternative which I incline to accept.
There is nothing in the preliminaries to show that any slur rested on his name, or that his visitors had any injury to avenge. And will not this narrative serve as a striking example of that Malice of which I have taken upon me to treat?
It is, I know, the fact that Squire Korbes’s visitors were not all of them, strictly speaking, inanimate. But are we sure that the perpetrators of this Malice are really inanimate either? There are tales which seem to justify a doubt.
Two men of mature years were seated in a pleasant garden after breakfast. One was reading the day’s paper, the other sat with folded arms, plunged in thought, and on his face were a piece of sticking plaster and lines of care.
His companion lowered his paper. “What,” said he, “is the matter with you? The morning is bright, the birds are singing, I can hear no airplanes or motor bikes.”
“No,” replied Mr. Burton, “it is nice enough, I agree, but I have a bad day before me. I cut myself shaving and spilled my tooth powder.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Manners, “some people have all the luck,” and with this expression of sympathy he reverted to his paper. “Hullo,” he exclaimed, after a moment, “here’s George Wilkins dead! You won’t have any more bother with him, anyhow.”
“George Wilkins?” said Mr. Burton, more than a little excitedly, “Why, I didn’t even know he was ill.”
“No more he was, poor chap. Seems to have thrown up the sponge and put an end to himself. Yes,” he went on, “it’s some days back: this is the inquest. Seemed very much worried and depressed, they say. What about, I wonder? Could it have been that will you and he were having a row about?”
“Row?” said Mr. Burton angrily, “there was no row. He hadn’t a leg to stand on: he couldn’t bring a scrap of evidence. No, it may have been half-a-dozen things, but Lord! I never imagined he’d take anything so hard as that.”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Manners, “he was a man, I thought, who did take things hard: they rankled. Well, I’m sorry, though I never saw much of him. He must have gone through a lot to make him cut his throat. Not the way I should choose, by a long sight. Ugh! Lucky he hadn’t a family, anyhow. Look here, what about a walk around before lunch? I’ve an errand in the village.”
Mr. Burton assented rather heavily. He was perhaps reluctant to give the inanimate objects of the district a chance of getting at him. If so, he was right.
He just escaped a nasty purl over the scraper at the top of the steps; a thorny branch swept off his hat and scratched his fingers, and as they climbed a grassy slope he fairly leapt into the air with a cry and came down flat on his face.
“What in the world?” said his friend coming up. “A great string, of all things! What business—Oh, I see—belongs to t
hat kite” (which lay on the grass a little farther up). “Now if I can find out what little beast has left that kicking about, I’ll let him have it—or rather I won’t, for he won’t see his kite again. It’s rather a good one, too.”
As they approached, a puff of wind raised the kite and it seemed to sit up on its end and look at them with two large round eyes painted red, and, below them, three large printed red letters: I.C.U.
Mr. Manners was amused and scanned the device with care. “Ingenious,” he said, “it’s a bit of a poster, of course: I see! Full Particulars, the word was.”
Mr. Burton on the other hand was not amused, but thrust his stick through the kite.
Mr. Manners was inclined to regret this. “I dare say it serves him right,” he said, “but he’d taken a lot of trouble to make it.”
“Who had?” said Mr. Burton sharply. “Oh, I see, you mean the boy.”
“Yes, to be sure, who else? But come on down now: I want to leave a message before lunch.”
As they turned a corner into the main street, a rather muffled and choky voice was heard to say, “Look out! I’m coming.”
They both stopped as if they had been shot.
“Who was that?” said Manners. “Blest if I didn’t think I knew—” Then, with almost a yell of laughter he pointed with his stick.
A cage with a gray parrot in it was hanging in an open window across the way.
“I was startled, by George. It gave you a bit of a turn, too, didn’t it?” Burton was inaudible. “Well, I won’t be a minute: you can go and make friends with the bird.”
But when he rejoined Burton, that unfortunate was not, it seemed, in trim for talking with either birds or men. He was some way ahead and going rather quickly.
Manners paused for an instant at the parrot window and then hurried on laughing more than ever. “Have a good talk with Polly?” said he, as he came up.
“No, of course not,” said Burton, testily. “I didn’t bother about the beastly thing.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have got much out of her if you’d tried,” said Manners. “I remembered after a bit: they’ve had her in the window for years. She’s stuffed.”