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Title: The Uncommon Prayer-book
Author: James, Montague Rhodes (1862-1936)
Date of first publication: 1921 (Atlantic Monthly); included in
   "A Warning to the Curious, and Other Ghost Stories" (1925)
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   "The Collected Ghost Stories of M. R. James"
   (New York: Longmans, Green;
   London: Edward Arnold, 1931)
   [first edition]
Date first posted: 28 February 2010
Date last updated: 28 February 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #493

This ebook was produced by:
David T. Jones, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




THE UNCOMMON PRAYER-BOOK




I


Mr. Davidson was spending the first week in January alone in a country
town. A combination of circumstances had driven him to that drastic
course: his nearest relations were enjoying winter sports abroad, and
the friends who had been kindly anxious to replace them had an
infectious complaint in the house. Doubtless he might have found
someone else to take pity on him. "But," he reflected, "most of them
have made up their parties, and, after all, it is only for three or
four days at most that I have to fend for myself, and it will be just
as well if I can get a move on with my introduction to the Leventhorp
Papers. I might use the time by going down as near as I can to
Gaulsford and making acquaintance with the neighbourhood. I ought to
see the remains of Leventhorp House, and the tombs in the church."

The first day after his arrival at the Swan Hotel at Longbridge was so
stormy that he got no farther than the tobacconist's. The next,
comparatively bright, he used for his visit to Gaulsford, which
interested him more than a little, but had no ulterior consequences.
The third, which was really a pearl of a day for early January, was
too fine to be spent indoors. He gathered from the landlord that a
favourite practice of visitors in the summer was to take a morning
train to a couple of stations westward, and walk back down the valley
of the Tent, through Stanford St. Thomas and Stanford Magdalene, both
of which were accounted highly picturesque villages. He closed with
this plan, and we now find him seated in a third-class carriage at
9.45 a.m., on his way to Kingsbourne Junction, and studying the map of
the district.

One old man was his only fellow-traveller, a piping old man, who
seemed inclined for conversation. So Mr. Davidson, after going through
the necessary versicles and responses about the weather, inquired
whether he was going far.

"No, sir, not far, not this morning, sir," said the old man. "I ain't
only goin' so far as what they call Kingsbourne Junction. There isn't
but two stations betwixt here and there. Yes, they calls it
Kingsbourne Junction."

"I'm going there, too," said Mr. Davidson.

"Oh, indeed, sir; do you know that part?"

"No, I'm only going for the sake of taking a walk back to Longbridge,
and seeing a bit of the country."

"Oh, indeed, sir! Well, 'tis a beautiful day for a gentleman as enjoys
a bit of a walk."

"Yes, to be sure. Have you got far to go when you get to Kingsbourne?"

"No, sir, I ain't got far to go, once I get to Kingsbourne Junction.
I'm agoin' to see my daughter, sir. She live at Brockstone. That's
about two mile across the fields from what they call Kingsbourne
Junction, that is. You've got that marked down on your map, I expect,
sir."

"I expect I have. Let me see, Brockstone, did you say? Here's
Kingsbourne, yes; and which way is Brockstone--toward the Stanfords?
Ah, I see it: Brockstone Court, in a park. I don't see the village,
though."

"No, sir, you wouldn't see no village of Brockstone. There ain't only
the Court and the Chapel at Brockstone."

"Chapel? Oh, yes, that's marked here, too. The Chapel; close by the
Court, it seems to be. Does it belong to the Court?"

"Yes, sir, that's close up to the Court, only a step. Yes, that belong
to the Court. My daughter, you see, sir, she's the keeper's wife now,
and she live at the Court and look after things now the family's
away."

"No one living there now, then?"

"No, sir, not for a number of years. The old gentleman, he lived there
when I was a lad; and the lady, she lived on after him to very near
upon ninety years of age. And then she died, and them that have it
now, they've got this other place, in Warwickshire I believe it is,
and they don't do nothin' about lettin' the Court out; but Colonel
Wildman, he have the shooting, and young Mr. Clark, he's the agent, he
come over once in so many weeks to see to things, and my daughter's
husband, he's the keeper."

"And who uses the Chapel? just the people round about, I suppose."

"Oh, no, no one don't use the Chapel. Why, there ain't no one to go.
All the people about, they go to Stanford St. Thomas Church; but my
son-in-law, he go to Kingsbourne Church now, because the gentleman at
Stanford, he have this Gregory singin', and my son-in-law, he don't
like that; he say he can hear the old donkey brayin' any day of the
week, and he like something a little cheerful on the Sunday." The old
man drew his hand across his mouth and laughed. "That's what my
son-in-law say; he say he can hear the old donkey," etc., _da capo_.

Mr. Davidson also laughed as honestly as he could, thinking meanwhile
that Brockstone Court and Chapel would probably be worth including in
his walk; for the map showed that from Brockstone he could strike the
Tent Valley quite as easily as by following the main
Kingsbourne-Longbridge road. So, when the mirth excited by the
remembrance of the son-in-law's _bon mot_ had died down, he returned
to the charge, and ascertained that both the Court and the Chapel were
of the class known as "old-fashioned places," and that the old man
would be very willing to take him thither, and his daughter would be
happy to show him whatever she could.

"But that ain't a lot, sir, not as if the family was livin' there; all
the lookin'-glasses is covered up, and the paintin's, and the curtains
and carpets folded away; not but what I dare say she could show you a
pair just to look at, because she go over them to see as the morth
shouldn't get into 'em."

"I shan't mind about that, thank you; if she can show me the inside of
the Chapel, that's what I'd like best to see."

"Oh, she can show you that right enough, sir. She have the key of the
door, you see, and most weeks she go in and dust about. That's a nice
Chapel, that is. My son-in-law, he say he'll be bound they didn't have
none of this Gregory singin' there. Dear! I can't help but smile when
I think of him sayin' that about th' old donkey. 'I can hear him
bray,' he say, 'any day of the week'; and so he can, sir; that's true,
anyway."

The walk across the fields from Kingsbourne to Brockstone was very
pleasant. It lay for the most part on the top of the country, and
commanded wide views over a succession of ridges, plough and pasture,
or covered with dark-blue woods--all ending, more or less abruptly, on
the right, in headlands that overlooked the wide valley of a great
western river. The last field they crossed was bounded by a close
copse, and no sooner were they in it than the path turned downward
very sharply, and it became evident that Brockstone was neatly fitted
into a sudden and very narrow valley. It was not long before they had
glimpses of groups of smokeless stone chimneys, and stone-tiled roofs,
close beneath their feet; and, not many minutes after that, they were
wiping their shoes at the back-door of Brockstone Court, while the
keeper's dogs barked very loudly in unseen places, and Mrs. Porter, in
quick succession, screamed at them to be quiet, greeted her father,
and begged both her visitors to step in.




II


It was not to be expected that Mr. Davidson should escape being taken
through the principal rooms of the Court, in spite of the fact that
the house was entirely out of commission. Pictures, carpets, curtains,
furniture, were all covered up or put away, as old Mr. Avery had said;
and the admiration which our friend was very ready to bestow had to be
lavished on the proportions of the rooms, and on the one painted
ceiling, upon which an artist who had fled from London in the
plague-year had depicted the Triumph of Loyalty and Defeat of
Sedition. In this Mr. Davidson could show an unfeigned interest. The
portraits of Cromwell, Ireton, Bradshaw, Peters, and the rest,
writhing in carefully-devised torments, were evidently the part of the
design to which most pains had been devoted.

"That were the old Lady Sadleir had that paintin' done, same as the
one what put up the Chapel. They say she were the first that went up
to London to dance on Oliver Cromwell's grave." So said Mr. Avery, and
continued musingly, "Well, I suppose she got some satisfaction to her
mind, but I don't know as I should want to pay the fare to London and
back just for that; and my son-in-law, he say the same; he say he
don't know as he should have cared to pay all that money only for
that. I was tellin' the gentleman as we come along in the train, Mary,
what your 'Arry says about this Gregory singin' down at Stanford here.
We 'ad a bit of a laugh over that, sir, didn't us?"

"Yes, to be sure we did; ha! ha!" Once again Mr. Davidson strove to do
justice to the pleasantry of the keeper. "But," he said, "if Mrs.
Porter can show me the Chapel, I think it should be now, for the days
aren't long, and I want to get back to Longbridge before it falls
quite dark."

Even if Brockstone Court has not been illustrated in _Rural Life_ (and
I think it has not), I do not propose to point out its excellences
here; but of the Chapel a word must be said. It stands about a hundred
yards from the house, and has its own little graveyard and trees about
it. It is a stone building about seventy feet long, and in the Gothic
style, as that style was understood in the middle of the seventeenth
century. On the whole it resembles some of the Oxford college chapels
as much as anything, save that it has a distinct chancel, like a
parish church, and a fanciful domed bell-turret at the south-west
angle.

When the west door was thrown open, Mr. Davidson could not repress an
exclamation of pleased surprise at the completeness and richness of
the interior. Screen-work, pulpit, seating, and glass--all were of the
same period; and as he advanced into the nave and sighted the
organ-case with its gold embossed pipes in the western gallery, his
cup of satisfaction was filled. The glass in the nave windows was
chiefly armorial; and in the chancel were figure-subjects, of the kind
that may be seen at Abbey Dore, of Lord Scudamore's work.

But this is not an archological review.

While Mr. Davidson was still busy examining the remains of the organ
(attributed to one of the Dallams, I believe), old Mr. Avery had
stumped up into the chancel and was lifting the dust-cloths from the
blue-velvet cushions of the stall-desks. Evidently it was here that
the family sat.

Mr. Davidson heard him say in a rather hushed tone of surprise, "Why,
Mary, here's all the books open agin!"

The reply was in a voice that sounded peevish rather than surprised.
"Tt-tt-tt, well, there, I never!"

Mrs. Porter went over to where her father was standing, and they
continued talking in a lower key. Mr. Davidson saw plainly that
something not quite in the common run was under discussion; so he came
down the gallery stairs and joined them. There was no sign of disorder
in the chancel any more than in the rest of the Chapel, which was
beautifully clean; but the eight folio Prayer-Books on the cushions of
the stall-desks were indubitably open.

Mrs. Porter was inclined to be fretful over it. "Whoever can it be as
does it?" she said: "for there's no key but mine, nor yet door but the
one we come in by, and the winders is barred, every one of 'em; I
don't like it, father, that I don't."

"What is it, Mrs. Porter? Anything wrong?" said Mr. Davidson.

"No, sir, nothing reely wrong, only these books. Every time, pretty
near, that I come in to do up the place, I shuts 'em and spreads the
cloths over 'em to keep off the dust, ever since Mr. Clark spoke about
it, when I first come; and yet there they are again, and always the
same page--and as I says, whoever it can be as does it with the door
and winders shut; and as I says, it makes anyone feel queer comin' in
here alone, as I 'ave to do, not as I'm given that way myself, not to
be frightened easy, I mean to say; and there's not a rat in the
place--not as no rat wouldn't trouble to do a thing like that, do you
think, sir?"

"Hardly, I should say; but it sounds very queer. Are they always open
at the same place, did you say?"

"Always the same place, sir, one of the psalms it is, and I didn't
particular notice it the first time or two, till I see a little red
line of printing, and it's always caught my eye since."

Mr. Davidson walked along the stalls and looked at the open books.
Sure enough, they all stood at the same page: Psalm cix., and at the
head of it, just between the number and the _Deus laudum_, was a
rubric, "For the 25th day of April." Without pretending to minute
knowledge of the history of the Book of Common Prayer, he knew enough
to be sure that this was a very odd and wholly unauthorized addition
to its text; and though he remembered that April 25 is St. Mark's Day,
he could not imagine what appropriateness this very savage psalm could
have to that festival. With slight misgivings he ventured to turn over
the leaves to examine the title-page, and knowing the need for
particular accuracy in these matters, he devoted some ten minutes to
making a line-for-line transcript of it. The date was 1653; the
printer called himself Anthony Cadman. He turned to the list of proper
psalms for certain days; yes, added to it was that same inexplicable
entry: _For the 25th day of April: the 109th Psalm._ An expert would
no doubt have thought of many other points to inquire into, but this
antiquary, as I have said, was no expert. He took stock, however, of
the binding--a handsome one of tooled blue leather, bearing the arms
that figured in several of the nave windows in various combinations.

"How often," he said at last to Mrs. Porter, "have you found these
books lying open like this?"

"Reely I couldn't say, sir, but it's a great many times now. Do you
recollect, father, me telling you about it the first time I noticed
it?"

"That I do, my dear; you was in a rare taking, and I don't so much
wonder at it; that was five year ago I was paying you a visit at
Michaelmas time, and you come in at tea-time, and says you, 'Father,
there's the books laying open under the cloths agin'; and I didn't
know what my daughter was speakin' about, you see, sir, and I says,
'Books?' just like that, I says; and then it all came out. But as
Harry says,--that's my son-in-law, sir,--'whoever it can be,' he says,
'as does it, because there ain't only the one door, and we keeps the
key locked up,' he says, 'and the winders is barred, every one on 'em.
Well,' he says, 'I lay once I could catch 'em at it, they wouldn't do
it a second time,' he says. And no more they wouldn't, I don't
believe, sir. Well, that was five year ago, and it's been happenin'
constant ever since by your account, my dear. Young Mr. Clark, he
don't seem to think much to it; but then he don't live here, you see,
and 'tisn't his business to come and clean up here of a dark
afternoon, is it?"

"I suppose you never notice anything else odd when you are at work
here, Mrs. Porter?" said Mr. Davidson.

"No, sir, I do not," said Mrs. Porter, "and it's a funny thing to me I
don't, with the feeling I have as there's someone settin' here--no,
it's the other side, just within the screen--and lookin' at me all the
time I'm dustin' in the gallery and pews. But I never yet see nothin'
worse than myself, as the sayin' goes, and I kindly hope I never may."




III


In the conversation that followed (there was not much of it), nothing
was added to the statement of the case. Having parted on good terms
with Mr. Avery and his daughter, Mr. Davidson addressed himself to
his eight-mile walk. The little valley of Brockstone soon led him down
into the broader one of the Tent, and on to Stanford St. Thomas, where
he found refreshment.

We need not accompany him all the way to Longbridge. But as he was
changing his socks before dinner, he suddenly paused and said
half-aloud, "By Jove, that is a rum thing!" It had not occurred to him
before how strange it was that any edition of the Prayer-Book should
have been issued in 1653, seven years before the Restoration, five
years before Cromwell's death, and when the use of the book, let alone
the printing of it, was penal. He must have been a bold man who put
his name and a date on that title-page. Only, Mr. Davidson reflected,
it probably was not his name at all, for the ways of printers in
difficult times were devious.

As he was in the front hall of the Swan that evening, making some
investigations about trains, a small motor stopped in front of the
door, and out of it came a small man in a fur coat, who stood on the
steps and gave directions in a rather yapping foreign accent to his
chauffeur. When he came into the hotel, he was seen to be black-haired
and pale-faced, with a little pointed beard, and gold pince-nez;
altogether, very neatly turned out.

He went to his room, and Mr. Davidson saw no more of him till
dinner-time. As they were the only two dining that night, it was not
difficult for the newcomer to find an excuse for falling into talk; he
was evidently wishing to make out what brought Mr. Davidson into that
neighbourhood at that season.

"Can you tell me how far it is from here to Arlingworth?" was one of
his early questions; and it was one which threw some light on his own
plans; for Mr. Davidson recollected having seen at the station an
advertisement of a sale at Arlingworth Hall, comprising old furniture,
pictures, and books. This, then, was a London dealer.

"No," he said, "I've never been there. I believe it lies out by
Kingsbourne--it can't be less than twelve miles. I see there's a sale
there shortly."

The other looked at him inquisitively, and he laughed. "No," he said,
as if answering a question, "you needn't be afraid of my competing;
I'm leaving this place to-morrow."

This cleared the air, and the dealer, whose name was Homberger,
admitted that he was interested in books, and thought there might be
in these old country-house libraries something to repay a journey.
"For," said he, "we English have always this marvellous talent for
accumulating rarities in the most unexpected places, ain't it?"

And in the course of the evening he was most interesting on the
subject of finds made by himself and others. "I shall take the
occasion after this sale to look round the district a bit; perhaps you
could inform me of some likely spots, Mr. Davidson?"

But Mr. Davidson, though he had seen some very tempting locked-up
book-cases at Brockstone Court, kept his counsel. He did not really
like Mr. Homberger.

Next day, as he sat in the train, a little ray of light came to
illuminate one of yesterday's puzzles. He happened to take out an
almanac-diary that he had bought for the new year, and it occurred to
him to look at the remarkable events for April 25. There it was: "St.
Mark. Oliver Cromwell born, 1599."

That, coupled with the painted ceiling, seemed to explain a good deal.
The figure of old Lady Sadleir became more substantial to his
imagination, as of one in whom love for Church and King had gradually
given place to intense hate of the power that had silenced the one and
slaughtered the other. What curious evil service was that which she
and a few like her had been wont to celebrate year by year in that
remote valley? and how in the world had she managed to elude
authority? And again, did not this persistent opening of the books
agree oddly with the other traits of her portrait known to him? It
would be interesting for anyone who chanced to be near Brockstone on
the twenty-fifth of April to look in at the Chapel and see if anything
exceptional happened. When he came to think of it, there seemed to be
no reason why he should not be that person himself; he, and if
possible, some congenial friend. He resolved that so it should be.

Knowing that he knew really nothing about the printing of
Prayer-Books, he realized that he must make it his business to get the
best light on the matter without divulging his reasons. I may say at
once that his search was entirely fruitless. One writer of the early
part of the nineteenth century, a writer of rather windy and
rhapsodical chat about books, professed to have heard of a special
anti-Cromwellian issue of the Prayer-Book in the very midst of the
Commonwealth period. But he did not claim to have seen a copy, and no
one had believed him. Looking into this matter, Mr. Davidson found
that the statement was based on letters from a correspondent who had
lived near Longbridge; so he was inclined to think that the Brockstone
Prayer-Books were at the bottom of it, and had excited a momentary
interest.

Months went on, and St. Mark's Day came near. Nothing interfered with
Mr. Davidson's plans of visiting Brockstone, or with those of the
friend whom he had persuaded to go with him, and to whom alone he had
confided the puzzle. The same 9.45 train which had taken him in
January took them now to Kingsbourne; the same field-path led them to
Brockstone. But to-day they stopped more than once to pick a cowslip;
the distant woods and ploughed uplands were of another colour, and in
the copse there was, as Mrs. Porter said, "a regular charm of birds;
why you couldn't hardly collect your mind sometimes with it."

She recognized Mr. Davidson at once, and was very ready to do the
honours of the Chapel. The new visitor, Mr. Witham, was as much struck
by the completeness of it as Mr. Davidson had been. "There can't be
such another in England," he said.

"Books open again, Mrs. Porter?" said Davidson, as they walked up to
the chancel.

"Dear, yes, I expect so, sir," said Mrs. Porter, as she drew off the
cloths. "Well, there!" she exclaimed the next moment, "if they ain't
shut! That's the first time ever I've found 'em so. But it's not for
want of care on my part, I do assure you, gentlemen, if they wasn't,
for I felt the cloths the last thing before I shut up last week, when
the gentleman had done photografting the heast winder, and every one
was shut, and where there was ribbons left, I tied 'em. Now I think of
it, I don't remember ever to 'ave done that before, and per'aps,
whoever it is, it just made the difference to 'em. Well, it only
shows, don't it? if at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again."

Meanwhile the two men had been examining the books, and now Davidson
spoke.

"I'm sorry to say I'm afraid there's something wrong here, Mrs.
Porter. These are not the same books."

It would make too long a business to detail all Mrs. Porter's
outcries, and the questionings that followed. The upshot was this.
Early in January the gentleman had come to see over the Chapel, and
thought a great deal of it, and said he must come back in the spring
weather and take some photografts. And only a week ago he had drove up
in his motoring car, and a very 'eavy box with the slides in it, and
she had locked him in because he said something about a long
explosion, and she was afraid of some damage happening; and he says,
no, not explosion, but it appeared the lantern what they take the
slides with worked very slow; and so he was in there the best part of
an hour and she come and let him out, and he drove off with his box
and all and gave her his visiting-card, and oh, dear, dear, to think
of such a thing! he must have changed the books and took the old ones
away with him in his box.

"What sort of man was he?"

"Oh, dear, he was a small-made gentleman, if you can call him so after
the way he've behaved, with black hair, that is if it was hair, and
gold eye-glasses, if they was gold; reely, one don't know what to
believe. Sometimes I doubt he weren't a reel Englishman at all, and
yet he seemed to know the language, and had the name on his
visiting-card like anybody else might."

"Just so; might we see the card? Yes; T. W. Henderson, and an address
somewhere near Bristol. Well, Mrs. Porter, it's quite plain this Mr.
Henderson, as he calls himself, has walked off with your eight
Prayer-Books and put eight others about the same size in place of
them. Now listen to me. I suppose you must tell your husband about
this, but neither you nor he must say one word about it to anyone
else. If you'll give me the address of the agent,--Mr. Clark, isn't
it?--I will write to him and tell him exactly what has happened, and
that it really is no fault of yours. But, you understand, we must keep
it very quiet; and why? Because this man who has stolen the books
will of course try to sell them one at a time--for I may tell you they
are worth a good deal of money--and the only way we can bring it home
to him is by keeping a sharp look out and saying nothing."

By dint of repeating the same advice in various forms, they succeeded
in impressing Mrs. Porter with the real need for silence, and were
forced to make a concession only in the case of Mr. Avery, who was
expected on a visit shortly. "But you may be safe with father, sir,"
said Mrs. Porter. "Father ain't a talkin' man."

It was not quite Mr. Davidson's experience of him; still, there were
no neighbours at Brockstone, and even Mr. Avery must be aware that
gossip with anybody on such a subject would be likely to end in the
Porters having to look out for another situation.

A last question was whether Mr. Henderson, so-called, had anyone with
him.

"No, sir, not when he come he hadn't; he was working his own motoring
car himself, and what luggage he had, let me see: there was his
lantern and this box of slides inside the carriage, which I helped him
into the Chapel and out of it myself with it, if only I'd knowed! And
as he drove away under the big yew tree by the monument, I see the
long white bundle laying on the top of the coach, what I didn't notice
when he drove up. But he set in front, sir, and only the boxes inside
behind him. And do you reely think, sir, as his name weren't
Henderson at all? Oh, dear me, what a dreadful thing! Why, fancy what
trouble it might bring to a innocent person that might never have set
foot in the place but for that!"

They left Mrs. Porter in tears. On the way home there was much
discussion as to the best means of keeping watch upon possible sales.
What Henderson-Homberger (for there could be no real doubt of the
identity) had done was, obviously, to bring down the requisite number
of folio Prayer-Books--disused copies from college chapels and the
like, bought ostensibly for the sake of the bindings, which were
superficially like enough to the old ones--and to substitute them at
his leisure for the genuine articles. A week had now passed without
any public notice being taken of the theft. He would take a little
time himself to find out about the rarity of the books, and would
ultimately, no doubt, "place" them cautiously. Between them, Davidson
and Witham were in a position to know a good deal of what was passing
in the book-world, and they could map out the ground pretty
completely. A weak point with them at the moment was that neither of
them knew under what other name or names Henderson-Homberger carried
on business. But there are ways of solving these problems.

And yet all this planning proved unnecessary.




IV


We are transported to a London office on this same 25th of April. We
find there, within closed doors, late in the day, two police
inspectors, a commissionaire, and a youthful clerk. The two latter,
both rather pale and agitated in appearance, are sitting on chairs and
being questioned.

"How long do you say you've been in this Mr. Poschwitz's employment?
Six months? And what was his business? Attended sales in various parts
and brought home parcels of books. Did he keep a shop anywhere? No?
Disposed of 'em here and there, and sometimes to private collectors.
Right. Now then, when did he go out last? Rather better than a week
ago? Tell you where he was going? No? Said he was going to start next
day from his private residence, and shouldn't be at the office--that's
here, eh?--before two days; you was to attend as usual. Where is his
private residence? Oh, that's the address, Norwood way; I see. Any
family? Not in this country? Now, then, what account do you give of
what's happened since he came back? Came back on the Tuesday, did he?
and this is the Saturday. Bring any books? One package; where is it?
In the safe? You got the key? No, to be sure, it's open, of course.
How did he seem when he got back--cheerful? Well, but how do you
mean--curious? Thought he might be in for an illness: he said that,
did he? Odd smell got in his nose, couldn't get rid of it; told you to
let him know who wanted to see him before you let 'em in? That wasn't
usual with him? Much the same all Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Out a
good deal; said he was going to the British Museum. Often went there
to make inquiries in the way of his business. Walked up and down a lot
in the office when he was in. Anyone call in on those days? Mostly
when he was out. Anyone find him in? Oh, Mr. Collinson? Who's Mr.
Collinson? An old customer; know his address? All right, give it us
afterwards. Well, now, what about this morning? You left Mr.
Poschwitz's here at twelve and went home. Anybody see you?
Commissionaire, you did? Remained at home till summoned here. Very
well.

"Now, commissionaire; we have your name--Watkins, eh? Very well, make
your statement; don't go too quick, so as we can get it down."

"I was on duty 'ere later than usual, Mr. Potwitch 'aving asked me to
remain on, and ordered his lunching to be sent in, which came as
ordered. I was in the lobby from eleven-thirty on, and see Mr. Bligh
[the clerk] leave at about twelve. After that no one come in at all
except Mr. Potwitch's lunching come at one o'clock and the man left in
five minutes' time. Towards the afternoon I became tired of waitin'
and I come upstairs to this first floor. The outer door what lead to
the orfice stood open, and I come up to the plate-glass door here. Mr.
Potwitch he was standing behind the table smoking a cigar, and he laid
it down on the mantelpiece and felt in his trouser pockets and took
out a key and went across to the safe. And I knocked on the glass,
thinkin' to see if he wanted me to come and take away his tray; but
he didn't take no notice, bein' engaged with the safe door. Then he
got it open and stooped down and seemed to be lifting up a package off
of the floor of the safe. And then, sir, I see what looked to be like
a great roll of old shabby white flannel, about four to five feet
high, fall for'ards out of the inside of the safe right against Mr.
Potwitch's shoulder as he was stooping over; and Mr. Potwitch, he
raised himself up as it were, resting his hands on the package, and
gave a exclamation. And I can't hardly expect you should take what I
says, but as true as I stand here I see this roll had a kind of a face
in the upper end of it, sir. You can't be more surprised than what I
was, I can assure you, and I've seen a lot in me time. Yes, I can
describe it if you wish it, sir; it was very much the same as this
wall here in colour [the wall had an earth-coloured distemper] and it
had a bit of a band tied round underneath. And the eyes, well they was
dry-like, and much as if there was two big spiders' bodies in the
holes. Hair? no, I don't know as there was much hair to be seen; the
flannel-stuff was over the top of the 'ead. I'm very sure it warn't
what it should have been. No, I only see it in a flash, but I took it
in like a photograft--wish I hadn't. Yes, sir, it fell right over on
to Mr. Potwitch's shoulder, and this face hid in his neck,--yes, sir,
about where the injury was,--more like a ferret going for a rabbit
than anythink else; and he rolled over, and of course I tried to get
in at the door; but as you know, sir, it were locked on the inside,
and all I could do, I rung up everyone, and the surgeon come, and the
police and you gentlemen, and you know as much as what I do. If you
won't be requirin' me any more to-day I'd be glad to be getting off
home; it's shook me up more than I thought for."

"Well," said one of the inspectors, when they were left alone; and
"Well?" said the other inspector; and, after a pause, "What's the
surgeon's report again? You've got it there. Yes. Effect on the blood
like the worst kind of snake-bite; death almost instantaneous. I'm
glad of that, for his sake; he was a nasty sight. No case for
detaining this man Watkins, anyway; we know all about him. And what
about this safe, now? We'd better go over it again; and, by the way,
we haven't opened that package he was busy with when he died."

"Well, handle it careful," said the other; "there might be this snake
in it, for what you know. Get a light into the corners of the place,
too. Well, there's room for a shortish person to stand up in; but what
about ventilation?"

"Perhaps," said the other slowly, as he explored the safe with an
electric torch, "perhaps they didn't require much of that. My word! it
strikes warm coming out of that place! like a vault, it is. But here,
what's this bank-like of dust all spread out into the room? That must
have come there since the door was opened; it would sweep it all away
if you moved it--see? Now what do you make of that?"

"Make of it? About as much as I make of anything else in this case.
One of London's mysteries this is going to be, by what I can see. And
I don't believe a photographer's box full of large-size old-fashioned
Prayer-Books is going to take us much further. For that's just what
your package is."

It was a natural but hasty utterance. The preceding narrative shows
that there was, in fact, plenty of material for constructing a case;
and when once Messrs. Davidson and Witham had brought their end to
Scotland Yard, the join-up was soon made, and the circle completed.

To the relief of Mrs. Porter, the owners of Brockstone decided not to
replace the books in the Chapel; they repose, I believe, in a
safe-deposit in town. The police have their own methods of keeping
certain matters out of the newspapers; otherwise, it can hardly be
supposed that Watkins's evidence about Mr. Poschwitz's death could
have failed to furnish a good many head-lines of a startling character
to the press.




[End of _The Uncommon Prayer-book_ by M. R. James]
