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The Tractate Middoth
Towards the end of
an autumn afternoon an elderly man with a thin face
and grey Piccadilly weepers pushed open the swing-door leading into the
vestibule of a certain famous library, and addressing himself to an
attendant,
stated that he believed he was entitled to use the library, and
inquired if he
might take a book out. Yes, if he were on the list of those to whom
that
privilege was given. He produced his card — Mr John Eldred — and, the
register
being consulted, a favourable answer was given. ‘Now, another point,’
said he.
‘It is a long time since I was here, and I do not know my way about
your
building; besides, it is near closing-time, and it is bad for me to
hurry up
and down stairs. I have here the title of the book I want: is there
anyone at
liberty who could go and find it for me?’ After a moment’s thought the
doorkeeper beckoned to a young man who was passing. ‘Mr Garrett,’ he
said,
‘have you a minute to assist this gentleman?’ ‘With pleasure,’ was Mr
Garrett’s
answer. The slip with the title was handed to him. ‘I think I can put
my hand
on this; it happens to be in the class I inspected last quarter, but
I’ll just
look it up in the catalogue to make sure. I suppose it is that
particular
edition that you require, sir?’ ‘Yes, if you please; that, and no
other,’ said
Mr Eldred; ‘I am exceedingly obliged to you.’ ‘Don’t mention it I beg,
sir,’
said Mr Garrett, and hurried off. ‘I thought so,’ he
said to himself, when his finger, travelling down
the pages of the catalogue, stopped at a particular entry. ‘Talmud:
Tractate
Middoth, with the commentary of Nachmanides, Amsterdam, 1707. 11.3.34.
Hebrew
class, of course. Not a very difficult job this.’ Mr Eldred,
accommodated with a chair in the vestibule, awaited
anxiously the return of his messenger — and his disappointment at
seeing an
empty-handed Mr Garrett running down the staircase was very evident.
‘I’m sorry
to disappoint you, sir,’ said the young man, ‘but the book is out.’ ‘Oh
dear!’
said Mr Eldred, ‘is that so? You are sure there can be no mistake?’ ‘I
don’t
think there is much chance of it, sir: but it’s possible, if you like
to wait a
minute, that you might meet the very gentleman that’s got it. He must
be
leaving the library soon, and I think I saw him take that
particular
book out of the shelf.’ ‘Indeed! You didn’t recognize him, I suppose?
Would it
be one of the professors or one of the students?’ ‘I don’t think so:
certainly
not a professor. I should have known him; but the light isn’t very good
in that
part of the library at this time of day, and I didn’t see his face. I
should
have said he was a shortish old gentleman, perhaps a clergyman, in a
cloak. If
you could wait, I can easily find out whether he wants the book very
particularly.’ ‘No, no,’ said Mr
Eldred, ‘I won’t — I can’t wait now, thank you — no.
I must be off. But I’ll call again tomorrow if I may, and perhaps you
could
find out who has it.’ ‘Certainly, sir, and
I’ll have the book ready for you if we — ’ But Mr
Eldred was already off, and hurrying more than one would have thought
wholesome
for him. Garrett had a few
moments to spare; and, thought he, ‘I’ll go back to
that case and see if I can find the old man. Most likely he could put
off using
the book for a few days. I dare say the other one doesn’t want to keep
it for
long.’ So off with him to the Hebrew class. But when he got there it
was
unoccupied, and the volume marked 11.3.34 was in its place on the
shelf. It was
vexatious to Garrett’s self-respect to have disappointed an inquirer
with so
little reason: and he would have liked, had it not been against library
rules,
to take the book down to the vestibule then and there, so that it might
be
ready for Mr Eldred when he called. However, next morning he would be
on the
look out for him, and he begged the doorkeeper to send and let him know
when
the moment came. As a matter of fact, he was himself in the vestibule
when Mr
Eldred arrived, very soon after the library opened and when hardly
anyone
besides the staff were in the building. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he
said; ‘it’s not often that I make such a stupid
mistake, but I did feel sure that the old gentleman I saw took out that
very
book and kept it in his hand without opening it, just as people do, you
know,
sir, when they mean to take a book out of the library and not merely
refer to
it. But, however, I’ll run up now at once and get it for you this time.’ And here intervened
a pause. Mr Eldred paced the entry, read all the
notices, consulted his watch, sat and gazed up the staircase, did all
that a
very impatient man could, until some twenty minutes had run out. At
last he
addressed himself to the doorkeeper and inquired if it was a very long
way to
that part of the library to which Mr Garrett had gone. ‘Well, I was
thinking it was funny, sir: he’s a quick man as a rule,
but to be sure he might have been sent for by the librarian, but even
so I
think he’d have mentioned to him that you was waiting. I’ll just speak
him up
on the toob and see.’ And to the tube he addressed himself. As he
absorbed the
reply to his question his face changed, and he made one or two
supplementary
inquiries which were shortly answered. Then he came forward to his
counter and
spoke in a lower tone. ‘I’m sorry to hear, sir, that something seems to
have
‘appened a little awkward. Mr Garrett has been took poorly, it appears,
and the
librarian sent him ‘ome in a cab the other way. Something of an attack,
by what
I can hear.’ ‘What, really? Do you mean that someone has injured him?’
‘No,
sir, not violence ’ere, but, as I should judge, attacked with an
attack, what
you might term it, of illness. Not a strong constitootion, Mr Garrett.
But as
to your book, sir, perhaps you might be able to find it for yourself.
It’s too
bad you should be disappointed this way twice over — ’ ‘Er — well, but
I’m so
sorry that Mr Garrett should have been taken ill in this way while he
was
obliging me. I think I must leave the book, and call and inquire after
him. You
can give me his address, I suppose.’ That was easily done: Mr Garrett,
it
appeared, lodged in rooms not far from the station. ‘And one other
question.
Did you happen to notice if an old gentleman, perhaps a clergyman, in a
— yes —
in a black cloak, left the library after I did yesterday. I think he
may have
been a — I think, that is, that he may be staying — or rather that I
may have
known him.’ ‘Not in a black
cloak, sir; no. There were only two gentlemen left later
than what you done, sir, both of them youngish men. There was Mr Carter
took
out a music-book and one of the prefessors with a couple o’ novels.
That’s the
lot, sir; and then I went off to me tea, and glad to get it. Thank you,
sir,
much obliged.’ Mr Eldred, still a
prey to anxiety, betook himself in a cab to Mr
Garrett’s address, but the young man was not yet in a condition to
receive
visitors. He was better, but his landlady considered that he must have
had a
severe shock. She thought most likely from what the doctor said that he
would
be able to see Mr Eldred tomorrow. Mr Eldred returned to his hotel at
dusk and
spent, I fear, but a dull evening. On the next day he
was able to see Mr Garrett. When in health Mr
Garrett was a cheerful and pleasant-looking young man. Now he was a
very white
and shaky being, propped up in an arm-chair by the fire, and inclined
to shiver
and keep an eye on the door. If however, there were visitors whom he
was not
prepared to welcome, Mr Eldred was not among them. ‘It really is I who
owe you
an apology, and I was despairing of being able to pay it, for I didn’t
know
your address. But I am very glad you have called. I do dislike and
regret
giving all this trouble, but you know I could not have foreseen this —
this
attack which I had.’ ‘Of course not; but
now, I am something of a doctor. You’ll excuse my
asking; you have had, I am sure, good advice. Was it a fall you had?’ ‘No. I did fall on
the floor — but not from any height. It was, really,
a shock.’ ‘You mean something
startled you. Was it anything you thought you saw?’ ‘Not much thinking
in the case, I’m afraid. Yes, it was
something I saw. You remember when you called the first time at the
library?’ ‘Yes, of course.
Well, now, let me beg you not to try to describe it — it
will not be good for you to recall it, I’m sure.’ ‘But indeed it would
be a relief to me to tell anyone like yourself:
you might be able to explain it away. It was just when I was going into
the
class where your book is — ’ ‘Indeed, Mr Garrett,
I insist; besides, my watch tells me I have but
very little time left in which to get my things together and take the
train. No
— not another word — it would be more distressing to you than you
imagine,
perhaps. Now there is just one thing I want to say. I feel that I am
really
indirectly responsible for this illness of yours, and I think I ought
to defray
the expense which it has — eh?’ But this offer was
quite distinctly declined. Mr Eldred, not pressing
it, left almost at once: not, however, before Mr Garrett had insisted
upon his
taking a note of the class-mark of the Tractate Middoth, which, as he
said, Mr
Eldred could at leisure get for himself. But Mr Eldred did not reappear
at the
library. William Garrett had
another visitor that day in the person of a contemporary
and colleague from the library, one George Earle. Earle had been one of
those
who found Garrett lying insensible on the floor just inside the ‘class’
or
cubicle (opening upon the central alley of a spacious gallery) in which
the
Hebrew books were placed, and Earle had naturally been very anxious
about his
friend’s condition. So as soon as library hours were over he appeared
at the
lodgings. ‘Well,’ he said (after other conversation), ‘I’ve no notion
what it
was that put you wrong, but I’ve got the idea that there’s something
wrong in
the atmosphere of the library. I know this, that just before we found
you I was
coming along the gallery with Davis, and I said to him, “Did ever you
know such
a musty smell anywhere as there is about here? It can’t be wholesome.”
Well
now, if one goes on living a long time with a smell of that kind (I
tell you it
was worse than I ever knew it) it must get into the system and break
out some
time, don’t you think?’ Garrett shook his
head. ‘That’s all very well about the smell — but it
isn’t always there, though I’ve noticed it the last day or two — a sort
of
unnaturally strong smell of dust. But no — that’s not what did for me.
It was
something I saw. And I want to tell you about it. I went into
that
Hebrew class to get a book for a man that was inquiring for it down
below. Now
that same book I’d made a mistake about the day before. I’d been for
it, for
the same man, and made sure that I saw an old parson in a cloak taking
it out.
I told my man it was out: off he went, to call again next day. I went
back to
see if I could get it out of the parson: no parson there, and the book
on the
shelf. Well, yesterday, as I say, I went again. This time, if you
please — ten
o’clock in the morning, remember, and as much light as ever you get in
those
classes, and there was my parson again, back to me, looking at the
books on the
shelf I wanted. His hat was on the table, and he had a bald head. I
waited a
second or two looking at him rather particularly. I tell you, he had a
very
nasty bald head. It looked to me dry, and it looked dusty, and the
streaks of
hair across it were much less like hair than cobwebs. Well, I made a
bit of a
noise on purpose, coughed and moved my feet. He turned round and let me
see his
face — which I hadn’t seen before. I tell you again, I’m not mistaken.
Though,
for one reason or another I didn’t take in the lower part of his face,
I did
see the upper part; and it was perfectly dry, and the eyes were very
deep-sunk;
and over them, from the eyebrows to the cheek-bone, there were cobwebs
—
thick. Now that closed me up, as they say, and I can’t tell you
anything more.’ What explanations
were furnished by Earle of this phenomenon it does
not very much concern us to inquire; at all events they did not
convince
Garrett that he had not seen what he had seen. Before William
Garrett returned to work at the library, the librarian
insisted upon his taking a week’s rest and change of air. Within a few
days’
time, therefore, he was at the station with his bag, looking for a
desirable
smoking compartment in which to travel to Burnstow-on-Sea, which he had
not
previously visited. One compartment and one only seemed to be suitable.
But,
just as he approached it, he saw, standing in front of the door, a
figure so
like one bound up with recent unpleasant associations that, with a
sickening
qualm, and hardly knowing what he did, he tore open the door of the
next
compartment and pulled himself into it as quickly as if death were at
his
heels. The train moved off, and he must have turned quite faint, for he
was
next conscious of a smelling-bottle being put to his nose. His
physician was a
nice-looking old lady, who, with her daughter, was the only passenger
in the
carriage. But for this
incident it is not very likely that he would have made any
overtures to his fellow-travellers. As it was, thanks and inquiries and
general
conversation supervened inevitably; and Garrett found himself provided
before
the journey’s end not only with a physician, but with a landlady: for
Mrs
Simpson had apartments to let at Burnstow, which seemed in all ways
suitable.
The place was empty at that season, so that Garrett was thrown a good
deal into
the society of the mother and daughter. He found them very acceptable
company.
On the third evening of his stay he was on such terms with them as to
be asked
to spend the evening in their private sitting-room. During their talk it
transpired that Garrett’s work lay in a library.
‘Ah, libraries are fine places,’ said Mrs Simpson, putting down her
work with a
sigh; ‘but for all that, books have played me a sad turn, or rather a
book has.’ ‘Well, books give me
my living, Mrs Simpson, and I should be sorry to
say a word against them: I don’t like to hear that they have been bad
for you.’ ‘Perhaps Mr Garrett
could help us to solve our puzzle, mother,’ said
Miss Simpson. ‘I don’t want to set
Mr Garrett off on a hunt that might waste a
lifetime, my dear, nor yet to trouble him with our private affairs.’ ‘But if you think it
in the least likely that I could be of use, I do
beg you to tell me what the puzzle is, Mrs Simpson. If it is finding
out
anything about a book, you see, I am in rather a good position to do
it.’ ‘Yes, I do see that,
but the worst of it is that we don’t know the name
of the book.’ ‘Nor what it is
about?’ ‘No, nor that
either.’ ‘Except that we
don’t think it’s in English, mother — and that is not
much of a clue.’ ‘Well, Mr Garrett,’
said Mrs Simpson, who had not yet resumed her work,
and was looking at the fire thoughtfully, ‘I shall tell you the story.
You will
please keep it to yourself, if you don’t mind? Thank you. Now it is
just this.
I had an old uncle, a Dr Rant. Perhaps you may have heard of him. Not
that he
was a distinguished man, but from the odd way he chose to be buried.’ ‘I rather think I
have seen the name in some guidebook.’ ‘That would be it,’
said Miss Simpson. ‘He left directions — horrid old
man! — that he was to be put, sitting at a table in his ordinary
clothes, in a
brick room that he’d had made underground in a field near his house. Of
course
the country people say he’s been seen about there in his old black
cloak.’ ‘Well, dear, I don’t
know much about such things,’ Mrs Simpson went on,
‘but anyhow he is dead, these twenty years and more. He was a
clergyman, though
I’m sure I can’t imagine how he got to be one: but he did no duty for
the last
part of his life, which I think was a good thing; and he lived on his
own
property: a very nice estate not a great way from here. He had no wife
or
family; only one niece, who was myself, and one nephew, and he had no
particular liking for either of us — nor for anyone else, as far as
that goes.
If anything, he liked my cousin better than he did me — for John was
much more
like him in his temper, and, I’m afraid I must say, his very mean sharp
ways.
It might have been different if I had not married; but I did, and that
he very
much resented. Very well: here he was with this estate and a good deal
of
money, as it turned out, of which he had the absolute disposal, and it
was
understood that we — my cousin and I — would share it equally at his
death. In
a certain winter, over twenty years back, as I said, he was taken ill,
and I
was sent for to nurse him. My husband was alive then, but the old man
would not
hear of his coming. As I drove up to the house I saw my cousin
John
driving away from it in an open fly and looking, I noticed, in very
good
spirits. I went up and did what I could for my uncle, but I was very
soon sure
that this would be his last illness; and he was convinced of it too.
During the
day before he died he got me to sit by him all the time, and I could
see there
was something, and probably something unpleasant, that he was saving up
to tell
me, and putting it off as long as he felt he could afford the strength
— I’m
afraid purposely in order to keep me on the stretch. But, at last, out
it came.
“Mary,” he said — “Mary, I’ve made my will in John’s favour: he has
everything,
Mary.” Well, of course that came as a bitter shock to me, for we — my
husband
and I — were not rich people, and if he could have managed to live a
little
easier than he was obliged to do, I felt it might be the prolonging of
his
life. But I said little or nothing to my uncle, except that he had a
right to
do what he pleased: partly because I couldn’t think of anything to say,
and
partly because I was sure there was more to come: and so there was.
“But,
Mary,” he said, “I’m not very fond of John, and I’ve made another will
in your
favour. You can have everything. Only you’ve got to find the
will, you
see: and I don’t mean to tell you where it is.” Then he chuckled to
himself,
and I waited, for again I was sure he hadn’t finished. “That’s a good
girl,” he
said after a time — “you wait, and I’ll tell you as much as I told
John. But
just let me remind you, you can’t go into court with what I’m saying to
you,
for you won’t be able to produce any collateral evidence beyond
your own
word, and John’s a man that can do a little hard swearing if necessary.
Very
well then, that’s understood. Now, I had the fancy that I wouldn’t
write this
will quite in the common way, so I wrote it in a book, Mary, a printed
book.
And there’s several thousand books in this house. But there! you
needn’t
trouble yourself with them, for it isn’t one of them. It’s in safe
keeping
elsewhere: in a place where John can go and find it any day, if he only
knew,
and you can’t. A good will it is: properly signed and witnessed, but I
don’t
think you’ll find the witnesses in a hurry.” ‘Still I said
nothing: if I had moved at all I must have taken hold of
the old wretch and shaken him. He lay there laughing to himself, and at
last he
said: ‘“Well, well, you’ve
taken it very quietly, and as I want to start you
both on equal terms, and John has a bit of a purchase in being able to
go where
the book is, I’ll tell you just two other things which I didn’t tell
him. The
will’s in English, but you won’t know that if ever you see it. That’s
one
thing, and another is that when I’m gone you’ll find an envelope in my
desk
directed to you, and inside it something that would help you to find
it, if
only you have the wits to use it.” ‘In a few hours from
that he was gone, and though I made an appeal to
John Eldred about it — ’ ‘John Eldred? I beg
your pardon, Mrs Simpson — I think I’ve seen a Mr
John Eldred. What is he like to look at?’ ‘It must be ten
years since I saw him: he would be a thin elderly man
now, and unless he has shaved them off, he has that sort of whiskers
which
people used to call Dundreary or Piccadilly something.’ ‘ — weepers. Yes,
that is the man.’ ‘Where did you come
across him, Mr Garrett?’ ‘I don’t know if I
could tell you,’ said Garrett mendaciously, ‘in some
public place. But you hadn’t finished.’ ‘Really I had
nothing much to add, only that John Eldred, of course,
paid no attention whatever to my letters, and has enjoyed the estate
ever
since, while my daughter and I have had to take to the lodging-house
business
here, which I must say has not turned out by any means so unpleasant as
I
feared it might.’ ‘But about the
envelope.’ ‘To be sure! Why,
the puzzle turns on that. Give Mr Garrett the paper
out of my desk.’ It was a small slip,
with nothing whatever on it but five numerals, not
divided or punctuated in any way: 11334. Mr Garrett pondered,
but there was a light in his eye. Suddenly he
‘made a face’, and then asked, ‘Do you suppose that Mr Eldred can have
any more
clue than you have to the title of the book?’ ‘I have sometimes
thought he must,’ said Mrs Simpson, ‘and in this way:
that my uncle must have made the will not very long before he died
(that, I
think, he said himself), and got rid of the book immediately
afterwards. But
all his books were very carefully catalogued: and John has the
catalogue: and
John was most particular that no books whatever should be sold out of
the
house. And I’m told that he is always journeying about to booksellers
and
libraries; so I fancy that he must have found out just which books are
missing
from my uncle’s library of those which are entered in the catalogue,
and must
be hunting for them.’ ‘Just so, just so,’
said Mr Garrett, and relapsed into thought. No later than next
day he received a letter which, as he told Mrs
Simpson with great regret, made it absolutely necessary for him to cut
short
his stay at Burnstow. Sorry as he was to
leave them (and they were at least as sorry to part
with him), he had begun to feel that a crisis, all-important to Mrs
(and shall
we add, Miss?) Simpson, was very possibly supervening. In the train Garrett
was uneasy and excited. He racked his brains to
think whether the press mark of the book which Mr Eldred had been
inquiring
after was one in any way corresponding to the numbers on Mrs Simpson’s
little
bit of paper. But he found to his dismay that the shock of the previous
week
had really so upset him that he could neither remember any vestige of
the title
or nature of the book, or even of the locality to which he had gone to
seek it.
And yet all other parts of library topography and work were clear as
ever in
his mind. And another thing —
he stamped with annoyance as he thought of it — he
had at first hesitated, and then had forgotten, to ask Mrs Simpson for
the name
of the place where Eldred lived. That, however, he could write about. At least he had his
clue in the figures on the paper. If they referred
to a press mark in his library, they were only susceptible of a limited
number
of interpretations. They might be divided into 1.13.34, 11.33.4, or
11.3.34. He
could try all these in the space of a few minutes, and if any one were
missing
he had every means of tracing it. He got very quickly to work, though a
few
minutes had to be spent in explaining his early return to his landlady
and his
colleagues. 1.13.34. was in place and contained no extraneous writing.
As he
drew near to Class 11 in the same gallery, its association struck him
like a
chill. But he must go on. After a cursory glance at 11.33.4
(which first
confronted him, and was a perfectly new book) he ran his eye along the
line of
quartos which fills 11.3. The gap he feared was there: 34 was out. A
moment was
spent in making sure that it had not been misplaced, and then he was
off to the
vestibule. ‘Has 11.3.34 gone
out? Do you recollect noticing that number?’ ‘Notice the number?
What do you take me for, Mr Garrett? There, take
and look over the tickets for yourself, if you’ve got a free day before
you.’ ‘Well then, has a Mr
Eldred called again? — the old gentleman who came
the day I was taken ill. Come! you’d remember him.’ ‘What do you
suppose? Of course I recollect of him: no, he haven’t been
in again, not since you went off for your ‘oliday. And yet I seem to —
there
now. Roberts’ll know. Roberts, do you recollect of the name of Heldred?’ ‘Not arf,’ said
Roberts. ‘You mean the man that sent a bob over the
price for the parcel, and I wish they all did.’ ‘Do you mean to say
you’ve been sending books to Mr Eldred? Come, do
speak up! Have you?’ ‘Well now, Mr
Garrett, if a gentleman sends the ticket all wrote
correct and the secketry says this book may go and the box ready
addressed sent
with the note, and a sum of money sufficient to deefray the railway
charges,
what would be your action in the matter, Mr Garrett, if I may
take the
liberty to ask such a question? Would you or would you not have taken
the
trouble to oblige, or would you have chucked the ‘ole thing under the
counter
and — ’ ‘You were perfectly
right, of course, Hodgson — perfectly right: only,
would you kindly oblige me by showing me the ticket Mr Eldred sent, and
letting
me know his address?’ ‘To be sure, Mr
Garrett; so long as I’m not ‘ectored about and informed
that I don’t know my duty, I’m willing to oblige in every way feasible
to my
power. There is the ticket on the file. J. Eldred, 11.3.34. Title of
work:
T-a-l-m — well, there, you can make what you like of it — not a novel,
I should
‘azard the guess. And here is Mr Heldred’s note applying for the book
in
question, which I see he terms it a track.’ ‘Thanks, thanks: but
the address? There’s none on the note.’ ‘Ah, indeed; well,
now . . . stay now, Mr Garrett, I ‘ave it.
Why, that note come inside of the parcel, which was directed very
thoughtful to
save all trouble, ready to be sent back with the book inside; and if I have
made any mistake in this ‘ole transaction, it lays just in the one
point that I
neglected to enter the address in my little book here what I keep. Not
but what
I dare say there was good reasons for me not entering of it: but there,
I
haven’t the time, neither have you, I dare say, to go into ’em just
now. And — no,
Mr Garrett, I do not carry it in my ‘ed, else what would be the
use of
me keeping this little book here — just a ordinary common notebook, you
see,
which I make a practice of entering all such names and addresses in it
as I see
fit to do?’ ‘Admirable
arrangement, to be sure — but — all right, thank you. When
did the parcel go off?’ ‘Half-past ten, this
morning.’ ‘Oh, good; and it’s
just one now.’ Garrett went
upstairs in deep thought. How was he to get the address? A
telegram to Mrs Simpson: he might miss a train by waiting for the
answer. Yes,
there was one other way. She had said that Eldred lived on his uncle’s
estate.
If this were so, he might find that place entered in the donation-book.
That he
could run through quickly, now that he knew the title of the book. The
register
was soon before him, and, knowing that the old man had died more than
twenty
years ago, he gave him a good margin, and turned back to 1870. There
was but
one entry possible. 1875, August 14th. Talmud: Tractatus Middoth
cum comm.
R. Nachmanidae. Amstelod. 1707. Given by J. Rant, D.D., of
Bretfield Manor. A gazetteer showed
Bretfield to be three miles from a small station on
the main line. Now to ask the doorkeeper whether he recollected if the
name on
the parcel had been anything like Bretfield. ‘No, nothing like.
It was, now you mention it, Mr Garrett, either
Bredfield or Britfield, but nothing like that other name what you
coated.’ So far well. Next, a
time-table. A train could be got in twenty minutes
— taking two hours over the journey. The only chance, but one not to be
missed;
and the train was taken. If he had been
fidgety on the journey up, he was almost distracted on
the journey down. If he found Eldred, what could he say? That it had
been
discovered that the book was a rarity and must be recalled? An obvious
untruth.
Or that it was believed to contain important manuscript notes? Eldred
would of
course show him the book, from which the leaf would already have been
removed.
He might, perhaps, find traces of the removal — a torn edge of a
fly-leaf
probably — and who could disprove, what Eldred was certain to say, that
he too
had noticed and regretted the mutilation? Altogether the chase seemed
very
hopeless. The one chance was this. The book had left the library at
10.30: it
might not have been put into the first possible train, at 11.20.
Granted that,
then he might be lucky enough to arrive simultaneously with it and
patch up
some story which would induce Eldred to give it up. It was drawing
towards evening when he got out upon the platform of his
station, and, like most country stations, this one seemed unnaturally
quiet. He
waited about till the one or two passengers who got out with him had
drifted
off, and then inquired of the station-master whether Mr Eldred was in
the
neighbourhood. ‘Yes, and pretty
near too, I believe. I fancy he means calling here for
a parcel he expects. Called for it once today already, didn’t he, Bob?’
(to the
porter). ‘Yes, sir, he did;
and appeared to think it was all along of me that it
didn’t come by the two o’clock. Anyhow, I’ve got it for him now,’ and
the
porter flourished a square parcel, which — a glance assured Garrett —
contained
all that was of any importance to him at that particular moment. ‘Bretfield, sir? Yes
— three miles just about. Short cut across these
three fields brings it down by half a mile. There: there’s Mr Eldred’s
trap.’ A dog-cart drove up
with two men in it, of whom Garrett, gazing back as
he crossed the little station yard, easily recognized one. The fact
that Eldred
was driving was slightly in his favour — for most likely he would not
open the
parcel in the presence of his servant. On the other hand, he would get
home
quickly, and unless Garrett were there within a very few minutes of his
arrival, all would be over. He must hurry; and that he did. His short
cut took
him along one side of a triangle, while the cart had two sides to
traverse; and
it was delayed a little at the station, so that Garrett was in the
third of the
three fields when he heard the wheels fairly near. He had made the best
progress possible, but the pace at which the cart was coming made him
despair.
At this rate it must reach home ten minutes before him, and ten
minutes
would more than suffice for the fulfilment of Mr Eldred’s project. It was just at this
time that the luck fairly turned. The evening was
still, and sounds came clearly. Seldom has any sound given greater
relief than
that which he now heard: that of the cart pulling up. A few words were
exchanged, and it drove on. Garrett, halting in the utmost anxiety, was
able to
see as it drove past the stile (near which he now stood) that it
contained only
the servant and not Eldred; further, he made out that Eldred was
following on
foot. From behind the tall hedge by the stile leading into the road he
watched
the thin wiry figure pass quickly by with the parcel beneath its arm,
and
feeling in its pockets. Just as he passed the stile something fell out
of a
pocket upon the grass, but with so little sound that Eldred was not
conscious
of it. In a moment more it was safe for Garrett to cross the stile into
the
road and pick up — a box of matches. Eldred went on, and, as he went,
his arms
made hasty movements, difficult to interpret in the shadow of the trees
that
overhung the road. But, as Garrett followed cautiously, he found at
various
points the key to them — a piece of string, and then the wrapper of the
parcel
— meant to be thrown over the hedge, but sticking in it. Now Eldred was
walking slower, and it could just be made out that he
had opened the book and was turning over the leaves. He stopped,
evidently
troubled by the failing light. Garrett slipped into a gate-opening, but
still
watched. Eldred, hastily looking around, sat down on a felled
tree-trunk by the
roadside and held the open book up close to his eyes. Suddenly he laid
it,
still open, on his knee, and felt in all his pockets: clearly in vain,
and
clearly to his annoyance. ‘You would be glad of your matches now,’
thought
Garrett. Then he took hold of a leaf, and was carefully tearing it out,
when
two things happened. First, something black seemed to drop upon the
white leaf
and run down it, and then as Eldred started and was turning to look
behind him,
a little dark form appeared to rise out of the shadow behind the
tree-trunk and
from it two arms enclosing a mass of blackness came before Eldred’s
face and
covered his head and neck. His legs and arms were wildly flourished,
but no
sound came. Then, there was no more movement. Eldred was alone. He had
fallen
back into the grass behind the tree-trunk. The book was cast into the
roadway.
Garrett, his anger and suspicion gone for the moment at the sight of
this
horrid struggle, rushed up with loud cries of ‘Help!’ and so too, to
his
enormous relief, did a labourer who had just emerged from a field
opposite.
Together they bent over and supported Eldred, but to no purpose. The
conclusion
that he was dead was inevitable. ‘Poor gentleman!’ said Garrett to the
labourer, when they had laid him down, ‘what happened to him, do you
think?’ ‘I
wasn’t two hundred yards away,’ said the man, ‘when I see Squire Eldred
setting
reading in his book, and to my thinking he was took with one of these
fits — face
seemed to go all over black.’ ‘Just so,’ said Garrett. ‘You didn’t see
anyone
near him? It couldn’t have been an assault?’ ‘Not possible — no one
couldn’t
have got away without you or me seeing them.’ ‘So I thought. Well, we
must get
some help, and the doctor and the policeman; and perhaps I had better
give them
this book.’ It was obviously a
case for an inquest, and obvious also that Garrett
must stay at Bretfield and give his evidence. The medical inspection
showed
that, though some black dust was found on the face and in the mouth of
the
deceased, the cause of death was a shock to a weak heart, and not
asphyxiation.
The fateful book was produced, a respectable quarto printed wholly in
Hebrew,
and not of an aspect likely to excite even the most sensitive. ‘You say, Mr
Garrett, that the deceased gentleman appeared at the
moment before his attack to be tearing a leaf out of this book?’ ‘Yes; I think one of
the fly-leaves.’ ‘There is here a
fly-leaf partially torn through. It has Hebrew writing
on it. Will you kindly inspect it?’ ‘There are three
names in English, sir, also, and a date. But I am
sorry to say I cannot read Hebrew writing.’ ‘Thank you. The
names have the appearance of being signatures. They are
John Rant, Walter Gibson, and James Frost, and the date is 20 July,
1875. Does
anyone here know any of these names?’ The Rector, who was
present, volunteered a statement that the uncle of
the deceased, from whom he inherited, had been named Rant. The book being
handed to him, he shook a puzzled head. ‘This is not
like any Hebrew I ever learnt.’ ‘You are sure that
it is Hebrew?’ ‘What? Yes — I
suppose. . . . No — my dear sir, you are
perfectly right — that is, your suggestion is exactly to the point. Of
course —
it is not Hebrew at all. It is English, and it is a will.’ It did not take many
minutes to show that here was indeed a will of Dr
John Rant, bequeathing the whole of the property lately held by John
Eldred to
Mrs Mary Simpson. Clearly the discovery of such a document would amply
justify
Mr Eldred’s agitation. As to the partial tearing of the leaf, the
coroner
pointed out that no useful purpose could be attained by speculations
whose
correctness it would never be possible to establish. The Tractate Middoth
was naturally taken in charge by the coroner for
further investigation, and Mr Garrett explained privately to him the
history of
it, and the position of events so far as he knew or guessed them. He returned to his
work next day, and on his walk to the station passed
the scene of Mr Eldred’s catastrophe. He could hardly leave it without
another
look, though the recollection of what he had seen there made him
shiver, even
on that bright morning. He walked round, with some misgivings, behind
the
felled tree. Something dark that still lay there made him start back
for a
moment: but it hardly stirred. Looking closer, he saw that it was a
thick black
mass of cobwebs; and, as he stirred it gingerly with his stick, several
large
spiders ran out of it into the grass. There is no great
difficulty in imagining the steps by which William
Garrett, from being an assistant in a great library, attained to his
present
position of prospective owner of Bretfield Manor, now in the occupation
of his
mother-inlaw, Mrs Mary Simpson. |