The Tractate Middoth by M. R. James
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.
