The story of a disappearance and an appearance by m R James. The letters
which I will now publish were sent to me recently by a person who knows
me to be interested in ghost stories. There is no doubt about their authenticity.
The paper on which they are written, the ink, and the whole
external aspect put their date beyond the reach of question. The only point which
they do not make clear is the identity of the writer. He signs with
initials only, and as none of the envelopes of the letters are preserved,
the surname of his correspondent, obviously a married brother, is as obscure as
his own. No further preliminary explanation is needed. I think luckily the first
letter supplies all that could be expected. Letter one, Great Chrissol, December
twenty second, eighteen thirty seven. My dear Robert, it is with great
regret for the enjoyment I am losing, and for a reason which you will
deplore equally with myself, that I write to inform you that I am unable
to join your circle for this Christmas. But you will agree with me that
this is unavoidable when I say that I have within these few hours received a
letter from Miss Hunt at b to the effect of Uncle Henry has suddenly mysteriously
disappeared, and begging me to go down there immediately and join the search that
is being made for him. Little as I or you, either I think,
have ever seen of Uncle, I naturally feel that this is not a
request that can be regarded lightly. And accordingly I propose to go to be
by this afternoon's mail, reaching it in the late evening. I shall not
go to the rectory, but put up at the King's Head, and to
which you may address the letter. I enclose a small draft, which you
will please make use of for the benefit of the young people. I shall
write to you daily, supposing me to be tamed more than a single day
what goes on, and you may be sure should the business be cleared up
in time to permit of my coming to the manor after all I shall present
myself. I have but a few minutes at disposal, with cordial greetings to
you all and many regrets, believe me, your affectionate bro w R.
Letter two, King's Head, December twenty third thirty seven, My dear Robert.
In the first place, there is as yet no news of Uncle H.
And I think you may finally dismiss any idea. I won't say hope
that I might after all turn up for exmus. However, my thoughts will
be with you, and you have mess wishes for a really festive day.
Mind that none of my nephews or nieces expend any fraction of their guineas on
a present for me. Since I got here, I have been blaming myself
for taking this affair of Uncle H too easily. From what people here say,
I gather that there is very little hope that he can still be alive.
But whether it is accident or design that carried him off, I cannot
judge. The facts are these. On Friday the nineteenth, he went as
usual shortly before five o'clock to read evening prayers of the church, and when
they were over, the clerk brought him a message in response to which he
set up to pay a visit to a sick person in an outlying cottage the
better part of two miles away. He paid the visit and started on his
return journey about half past six. This is the last that is known of
him. The people here are very much grieved at is loss. He had
been here many years, as you know. Though as you also know,
he was not the most genial of men, and had more than a little
of the Martinette in his composition. He seems to have been active in good
works and unsparing of trouble to himself. Poor Missus Hunt, who has been
his housekeeper ever since she left Woodley, is quite overcome. It seems like
of the world to her. I'm glad that I did not entertain the idea
of taking quarters at the rectory, and I have declined several kind of the
offers of hospitality from people in this place, preferring as I do, to
be independent and find myself very comfortable here. You will, of course,
wish to know what has been done in the way of inquiry and search.
First, nothing was to be expected from investigation at the Rectory, and to
be brief, nothing has transpired. I asked missus Hunt, as others had
done before, whether there was either any unfavorable symptom in her master, such
as might important and a sudden stroke or attack of illness, or whether he
had ever had any reason to apprehend such a thing. But both she and
his medical man were clear that this was not the case. He was quite
in his usual health. In the second place, naturally, ponds and streams
have been dragged, and fields in the neighborhood which he has known to have
visited last have been searched without result. I have myself talked to the parish
clerk, and more important, have been to the house where he paid visit.
There can be no question of any foul play on these people's parts.
One man in the house is ill in bed and very weak. The wife
and children, of course, could do nothing themselves. Nor is they the
shadow of probability that they, or any of them, should have agreed to
decoy poor uncle h Out in the order that he might be attacked on the
way back. They had told what they knew to several other inquirers already,
but the woman repeated it to me. The rector was looking just as usual.
He wasn't very long with the sick man. He ain't, she said,
like someone has a gift in prayer. But there if we was all
that way, however would the chapel people get their living. He left some
money when he went away, and one of the children saw him cross the
style into the next field. He was dressed as he always was, wore
his bands. I gather he is nearly the last man remaining who does so
at any rate in this district. You see, I am putting down everything.
The fact is that I have nothing else to do, having brought no
business papers with me, and moreover, it serves to clear my own mind
and may suggest points which have been overlooked. So I shall continue to write
all that passes, even to conversation. If need be. You may read
or not as you please, but pray keep the letters. I have another
reason for writing so fully, but it is not a very tangible one.
You may ask if I have made myself any search in the fields near the
cottage something A good deal has been done by others, as I mentioned,
But I hope to go over the ground tomorrow. Bow Street has now been
informed and will send down by tonight's coach, but I do not think they
will make much of the job. There is no snow which might have helped
us. The fields are all grass. Of course, I was on the
kivive for any indication to day, both going and returning, but there was
a thick mist on the way back, and I was not in trim for
wandering any unknown pastures, especially on an evening when bushes looked like men and
a cow lowing in the distance might have been the last trump. I assure
you, if Uncle Henry had stepped out from among the trees in a little
copse which borders the path at one place, carrying his head under his arm,
I should have been very little more uncomfortable than I was, to tell
you the truth. I rather was expecting something of the kind. But I
must drop my pen for the moment mister Lucas the curate is announced. Later,
mister Lucas has been and gone, and there is not much beyond the
decencies of ordinary sentiment to be got from him. I can see that he
has given up any idea that the Rector can be alive, and that,
so far as he can be, is truly sorry. I can also discern
that, even in a more emotional person than mister Lucas, Uncle Henry was
not likely to inspire strong attachment. Besides mister Lucas, I have another visitor
in the shape of my bonoclass, mine host of the King's head, who
came to see whether I had everything I wished, and who really requires the
pen of a boss to do him justice. He was very solemn and weighty
at first. Well, sir, he said, I suppose we must bow
our head beneath the blow, as to my poor wife used to say,
so far as I can gather, there's been neither hide nor yet hair of
our late respected incumbent sent it out as yet not that he was what the
scripture terms as a hairy man in any sense of the word. I said
as well as I could that I suppose not, but could not help in
aiding that I heard he was sometimes a little difficult to deal with. Mister
Bowman looked at me sharply for a moment, and then passed in a flash
from solemn sympathy to impassioned declamation. When I think he said, of the
language, that man see fit to employ me here in his parlor over no
more of a matter than a cask of beer. Such a thing, as
I told him, might happen any day of the week to a man with
a fiance. Though as it turned out, he was quite under a mistake,
and that I knew at the time only that I was shocked to hear
him. I couldn't lay my tongue to the right expression. He stopped abruptly
and i'd be with some embarrassment. I only said, dear me, I'm
sorry to hear that you've had any little differences. I suppose my uncle will
be a good deal missed in the parish. Mister Bogan drew a long breath.
Ah, yes, he said, your uncle. You'll understand me when
I say that. For the moment it hit sliped my remembrance that he was
a relative and natural enough, I must say, as it should for you
bearing any resemblance to him. The notion of any such thing is clean ridiculous.
All the same, had I have borded my mind, you'd be among
the first to feel, I'm sure, as it should have stained my lips,
or rather, I should not have distained my lips with no such reflections.
I assured him that I quite understood, and was going to have asked
for some further questions, but he called away to see after some business.
By the way, you need not take it in your head that he had
anything to fear from the inquiry into poor uncle Henry's disappearance. Though no doubt
in the watches of the night it will occur to him that I think he
has I may expect to expl nations tomorrow I must close this letter. It
has to go by the late Coach letter three December twenty fifth thirty seven.
My dear Robert, this is a curious letter to be writing on Christmas Day,
and yet after all there is nothing much in it, or there may
be. You shall be the judge at least nothing decisive. The Bow Street
men practically say they have no clue. The length of time and the weather
conditions have made all tracks so faint as to be useless. Nothing that belonged
to the dead man. I'm afraid no other world will do has been picked
up. As I expected. Mister Bauman was an easy in his mind this
morning. Quite early I heard him holding forth in the distinct voice. Purposely
so, I thought to the Bow Street officers in the bar, as to
the loss of the town has sustained in their rector, and as to the
necessity of leaving no stone unturned. He was very great on this phrase,
in order to come at the truth. I suspect him of being an orator
of repute at convivial meetings. When I was at breakfast, he came to
wait on me and took an opportunity when handing a muffin to say, in
a low tone, I hope, sir, that you recognize my feelings towards
your relative is not actually by any taint of what you may call malignity.
You can leave the room, Eliza. I will see the gentleman as only
requires, with my own hands. I ask your pardon, sir. But
you must be well aware a man is not always a master of himself.
And when that man has been hurt in his mind by the application of expressions
which I will go so far as to say, had not ought to have
been made use of, his voice was rising this whole time, and his
face growing better. No, sir, an here, if you will permit
of it, I should like to explain to you, in very few words,
the exact state of the bone contention this cask, I might make more
truly call it a furkin of beer. I felt it was time to interpose,
and I said that I did not see that it would help us very
much to go into that matter in detail. Mister Bowman acquiesced and resumed more
calmly. Well, sir, I bow to your ruling, And as you
say, be it here or be it there, It don't contribute a great
deal, perhaps to the present question. All I wish to you is to
understand is that I am prepared, as you are to yourself, to lend
every hand to the business we have before us, and as I took the
opportunity to say much to the author not three quarters of an hour ago,
to leave no stone unturned, as may throw even a spark of light on
this painful matter. In fact, mister Bowman did accompany us on our exploration,
but though I am sure his genuine wish was to be helpful, I
am afraid he did not contribute to the serious side of it. He appeared
to be under the impression that we were likely to meet either Uncle Henry or
the person responsible for his disappearance, walking around the fields, and did a
great deal of shading his eyes with his hand and calling our attention, but
pointing with his stick to the distant cattle and laborers. He had several long
conversations with old women whom we met, and was very strict and severe in
his manner, but on each occasion returned to our party saying, well,
I find she didn't seem to have no connection with that sad affair. I
think you may take it from me, sir, that there is little or
no light to be looked on from that quarter, not without she's keeping something
back intentionally. We gained no appreciable results. As I told you at starting,
the Bowman Street had left the town. Whether for London or not,
I am not sure. This evening I had company in the shape of a
bagman, a smartish fellow. He knew what was going on forward, but
though he had not been on the roads for some days about here, he
had nothing to tell of suspicious characters, tramps, wandering sailors or gypsies.
He was very full of Capital Punch and Judy's show, and he had seen
the same day at you. And he asked if he had been hearing yet,
and advised me by no means to miss it if he does come,
the best punch and the best Toby dog, he said he had ever come
across. Toby dogs, you know, are the last new thing in shows.
I have only seen one myself, but before long all the men will
have them. Now, why will you want to know? Do I trouble
write this all of you? I am obliged to do so because it has
something to do with another absurd trifle, as you will inevitably say in which
my present state of rather unquiet fancy nothing more, perhaps I have to put
down. It is a dream, sir, which I am going to record,
and I must say it is one of the oddest I've ever had.
Is there anything in it beyond what the bagman's talk and Uncle Henry's disappearance could
have suggested you? I repeat, shall judge, I am not in sufficient
cool and judicial frame to do so. It began with what I can only
describe as a pulling the side of curtains, and I found myself seated in
a place I don't know whether indoors or out. There were people, only
a few on either side of me, but I did not recognize them,
or indeed think much about them. They never spoke, but so far as
I remember, we were all grave and pale faced and looked fixedly before them.
Facing me, there was a punch and judy show, perhaps rather larger
than the ordinary ones, painted with black figures on reddish yellow ground behind it,
and on each side was only darkness, but in front there was a
sufficiency of light. I was strung up to a high degree of expectation and
listened every moment to hear the pan pipes and the routu to it. Instead
of that, there came suddenly an enormous I can use no other word,
an enormous, single toll of a bell. I don't know from how far
off somewhere behind the little curtain flew up and the drama began. I believe
someone once tried to rewrite Punch as a series tragedy. But whoever he may
have been, this performance would have suited him exactly. There was something satanic
about the hero. He varied his methods of attack. For some of his
victims, he lay in wait to see his horrible face. It was yellowish
white, I may remark, peering round the wings. That made me think
of a vampire in Fossili's foul sketch. To others, he was polite and
carneying, particularly to the unfortunate alien, who can only say, shallabalda?
Though what Punch said I could never catch. But with all of them I
came to dread the moment of death. The crack of the stick on their
skulls, which in ordinary ways delights me, here had a crushing sound,
as if the bone was giving way, and the victims quivered and kicked as
they lay the baby it sounds more ridiculous as I go on. The baby
I am sure was alive, Punch wrung its neck, and if the choke
or squeak which it gave were not real, I know nothing of reality.
The stage got perceptibly darker as each crime was consummated, and at last there
was one murder, which was done quite in the dark, so that I
could see nothing of the victim. But it took some time to effect.
It was accompanied by hard breathing and horrid muffled sounds. After it, Punch
came out and sat on the footboard and fanned himself and looked at his shoes,
which were bloody, and hung his head on one side and sniggered in
so deadly a fashion that I saw some of those beside me cover their face,
and I would have gladly done the same. But in the meantime the
scene behind Punch was clearing and showed not the usual house front, but something
more ambitious, a grove of trees on the gentle slope of a hill,
with a very natural, in fact, I should say, real moonshining on
it. Over this there rose slowly an object which I soon perceived to be
a human figure. Was something peculiar about the head what I was unable to
at first see. It did not stand on its feet, but began creeping
or dragging itself across the middle distance towards Punch, who still sat back to
it. And by this time, I may remark, though it did not
occur to me at the moment that all pretense of this being a puppet show
had vanished. Punch was still Punch, it is true, but unlike the
others, it was in some sense a live creature, and both themselves moved
at their own will. When I next glanced at him, he was sitting
in malignant reflection. But in another instant something seemed to attract his attention,
and he first sat up sharply, and then turned round and evidently caught sight
of the person that was approaching him, and was in fact now very near.
Then indeed, he his unmistakable signs of terror. Catching up his stick,
he rushed towards the wood, only just eluding the arm of his pursuer,
which was suddenly flung out to intercept him. It was with a revulsion
which I cannot easily express, that I now saw more or less clearly what
this pursuer looked like he was a sturdy figure clad in black, and as
I thought, wearing bands. His head was covered with a whitish bag.
The chase which now began lasted I do not know how long, and now
among the trees now along the slope of the field, sometimes both figures disappearing
wholly for a few seconds, and only some uncertain sounds letting one know that
they were still afoot at length. There came a moment when Punch, evidently
exhausted, staggered in from the left and threw himself down amongst the trees.
His pursuer was not long after him, and came looking uncertainly from side to
side. Then, catching sight of the figure on the ground, he too
threw himself down. His back was turned to the audience, with a swift
motion, twitched the covering from his head, and thrust his face into that
of Punch. Everything on the instant grew dark. There was one loud,
long, shuddering scream, and I awoke to fire myself, looking straight into
the face of What in all the world do you think but a large owl
which was seated on my windowsill, immediately opposite my bed foot, holding up
its wings like two shrouded arms. I caught the fierce glance of its yellow
eyes, and then it was gone. I heard the single enormous bell again,
very likely, as you are saying to yourself, the church clock,
but I do not think so. And then I was brought awake. All
this, I may say, happened within the last half hour. There's no
probability of my getting to sleep again. So I got up, put on
clothes enough to keep me warm, and I'm riding this rigam roll in the
first hours of Christmas Day. Have I left out anything? Yes, there
was no Toby Dog, and the names over the front of the punch and
Judy booth were Kidman and Gallop, which were certainly not what the bagman told
me to look out for. By this time, I feel a little more
as if I could sleep. So this shall be sealed and Wayford letter four
December twenty sixth thirty seven, My dear Robert, all is over. The
body has been found. I do not make excuses for not having sent off
my news by last night's mail, for the simple reason that I was incapable
of putting pen to paper. The events that attended the discovery bewildered me so
completely that I needed what I could get of a night's rest to enable me
to face the situation at all. Now I can give you my journal of
the day, certainly the strangest Christmas Day that I ever spent, or am
likely to spend. The first incident was not very serious. Mister Bowman had,
I think, been keeping Christmas Eve and was little inclined to be captuous.
But at least he was not on foot very early, and to judge
from what I could hear, neither men nor maids could do anything to please
him. The latter were certainly reduced to tears. Nor am I sure that
mister Bowman succeeded in preserving a manly composure at any rate. When I came
downstairs, it was in a broken voice that he wished me the compliments of
the season, And a little later on, when he paid his visit of
ceremony at breakfast, he was far from cheerful, even by ronic, I
might say, in his outlook on life. I don't know, he said,
if you think with me, sir, but every Christmas as comes round
the world seems a horrible thing to me. Why I take an example now
from what lays under my own eye. There's my servant, Eliza, been
with me now going on fifteen years. I thought I could have placed my
confidance in Eliza. And yet this very morning, Christmas morning too, of
all the blessed days in the year, with bells are ringing and all like
that. I say, this very morning, had it not been so providence
watching over us, that girl would have put in d I may go as
far to say, had put the cheese on your breakfast table? He saw
I was about to speak, and waved his hand at me. It is
all very well for you to say, yes, mister Bowman, you took
away the cheese and locked it up in the cupboard, which I did,
and have the key here, or if not, the actual cue went very
much about the same size. That is true enough, sir. But what
do you think is the effect of that action on me? Well, it's
no exaggeration for me to say that the ground is cut from under my feet.
And yet when I say as much to Eliza, not nasty, mind
you, but just firm like. What was my return? Oh? She
says, well, she says there was no bones broke. I suppose,
well, sir, it hurt me, that's all I can say it hurt
me. I don't like to think of it now. There was an ominous
pause here in which I ventured to say something like yes, very trying.
Then asked at what hour the church service was to be eleven o'clock. Mister
Bowman said, with a heavy sigh, Ah, you won't have no such
discourse from for mister Lucas as to what you would have done from our late
rector. Him and me may have had our little differences, and did do
More's the pity. I could see that a powerful effort was needed to keep
him off the vexed question of the cask of beer. But he made it.
But I will say this that a better preacher nor yet want to stand
faster by his rights, or what he considered to be his rights. However,
that is not the question for now, I, for one, never
set under. Some might say was he an eloquent man? And to that
my answer would be, well, there you've a better right, perhaps to
speak of your own uncle than what I have. Others might ask did he
keep a hold of his congregation? And there I should reply that depends.
But as I say, yes, Eliza, my girl, I'm coming eleven
o'clock sir, and you inquire for King's head pew. I believe Eliza had
been very near the door, and shall consider it in my veil. The
next episode was church. I felt mister Lucas had a difficult task in doing
justice to the Chris Smith's sentiments and also to the feeling of disquiet and regret,
which whatever mister Bowman might say, was clearly prevalent. I do not
think he rose to the occasion. I was uncomfortable. The organ wolved,
you know what I mean. The wind died twice in the Christmas Hymn,
and the tenor bell, I suppose, owing to some negligence on the part
of the ringers, kept sounding faintly about once in a minute during the sermon.
The clerk sent a man up to see it, but he seemed unable
to do much. I was glad when it was over. There was an
odd incident too, before the service. I went in rather early and came
upon two men carrying a parish beer back to its place under the tower.
From what I overheard them saying, it appeared that it had been put out
by a mistake by someone who was not there. I also saw the clerk
busy folding up a moth eaten velvet. Paul, not a sight for Christmas
Day. I dined soon after this, and then, feeling disinclined to go
out, took my seat by the fire in the parlor with the last number
of pickwick, which I had been saving up for some days. I thought
I could be sure of keeping awake over this, but I turned out as
bad as our friend's smith, I suppose. So it was half past two
when I was rousing by a piercing whistle and the laughing talking voices outside in
the marketplace. It was a punch and duty. I had no doubt that
the one the bagman had seen at w I was half delighted, half not
the latter, because my unpleasant dream came back to me so vividly. But
anyhow, I determined to see it through, and I sent Eliza out with
a crown piece to the performers, and a requested they would face my window
if they could manage it. The show was a very smart new one.
The names of the proper teers I need hardly tell you were Italian, Forresta
and Cawpiggy the Toby dog was there, as I had been led to expect
all be turned out and did not obstruct my view, for I was at
the large first floor window and not ten yards away. The play began on
the stroke of a quarter to three by the church clock. Certainly it was
very good, and I was soon relieved to find that the disgust my dream
had given me for punches onslaughts on his ill starred visitors was only transient.
I laughed the demise of the turncock, the foreigner, and the beetle,
and even the baby. The only drawback was the Toby Dog was developing a
tendency to how in the wrong place something has occurred, I suppose to upset
him, and something considerable, for I forgot exactly at what point he gave
the most lamentable cry, and left off the footboard and shot away from the
marketplace down a side street. There was a stage weight, but only a
brief one. I suppose the men decided that it was no good going after
him, and that he was likely to turn up again at night. We
went on, punched out faithfully with Judy, and in fact with all comers.
And then it came the moment when the gallows was erected, and the
greatest scene with mister Ketch was to be enacted. It was now that something
happened of which I can certainly not yet see. The import Fully, you
have witnessed an execution and know what the criminal's head looks like with the cap
on. If you are like me, you never wish to think of it
again, and I do not willingly remind you of it. It was just
such a hot as that that I, from my somewhat higher posts, saw
inside of the show box, but at first the audience did not see it.
I expected it to emerge into their view, but instead of that,
there slowly rose for a few seconds and uncovered face which the expression of terror
upon it, of which I have never imagined the like. It seemed as
if the man, whoever he was, was being forcibly lifted with his arms
somehow pinioned or held back towards the little gibbot on stage. I could just
see the nightcapped head behind him. And then there was a cry and a
crash. The whole show box fell over backwards. Kicking legs were seen amongst
the ruins, and then two figures, as some said I can only answer
for one, were visible running at top speed across the square and disappearing into
the lanes which leads to the fields. Of course, everybody gave chase.
I followed, but the pace was killing, and very few were in Literally
at the death. It happened in the chalkpit. The man went over the
edge quite blindly and broke his neck. They searched everywhere for the other until
it occurred to me to ask whether he had ever left the marketplace. At
first everyone was sure that he had, but when we came back to look,
he was there under the show box, dead too. But in the
chalkpit it was that poor Uncle Henry's body was found with a sack over the
head, throat horribly mangled. It was peeked in the corner of the sack
sticking out of the soil that attracted attention. I cannot bring myself to write
in greater detail. I forgot to say. The men's real names were Kidman
and Gallop. I felt sure that I have heard them, but no one
else here seems to know anything about them. I am coming to you as
soon as I can after the funeral. I must tell you when we meet
what I think of it all, and of the story of a disappearance and
an appearance by m R James,