Short Fiction by M. R. James (inspirational books for women TXT) 📕

The money spent upon the curtains might as well have been thrown into the fire, as they were. Mr. Cattell’s comment upon what he heard of the story took the form of a quotation from Shakespeare. You may guess it without difficulty. It began with the words “There are more things.”

There was once a learned gentleman who was deputed to examine and report upon the archives of the Cathedral of Southminster. The examination of these records demanded a very considerable expenditure of time: hence it became advisable for him to engage lodgings in the city: for though the Cathedral body were profuse in their offers of hospitality, Mr. Lake felt that he would prefer to be master of his day. This was recognized as reasonable. The Dean eventually wrote advising Mr. Lake, if he were not already suited, to communicate with Mr. Worby, the principal Verger, who occupied a house convenient to the church and was prepared to take in a quiet lodger for three or four weeks. Such an arrangement was precisely what Mr. Lake desired. Terms were easily agreed upon, and early in December, like another Mr. Datchery (as he remarked to himself), the investigator found himself in the occupation of a very comfortable room in an ancient and “cathedraly” house.

One so familiar with the customs of Cathedral churches, and treated with such obvious consideration by the Dean and Chapter of this Cathedral in particular, could not fail to command the respect of the Head Verger. Mr. Worby even acquiesced in certain modifications of statements he had been accustomed to offer for years to parties of visitors. Mr. Lake, on his part, found the Verger a very cheery companion, and took advantage of any occasion that presented itself for enjoying his conversation when the day’s work was over.

One evening, about nine o’clock, Mr. Worby knocked at his lodger’s door. “I’ve occasion,” he said, “to go across to the Cathedral, Mr. Lake, and I think I made you a promise when I did so next I would give you the opportunity to see what it looks like at night time. It is quite fine and dry outside, if you care to come.”

“To be sure I will; very much obliged to you, Mr. Worby, for thinking of it, but let me get my coat.”

“Here it is, sir, and I’ve another lantern here that you’ll find advisable for the steps, as there’s no moon.”

“Anyone might think we were Jasper and Durdles, over again, mightn’t they?” said Lake, as they crossed the close, for he had ascertained that the Verger had read Edwin Drood.

“Well, so they might,” said Mr. Worby, with a short laugh, “though I don’t know whether we ought to take it as a compliment. Odd ways, I often think, they had at that Cathedral, don’t it seem so to you, sir? Full choral matins at seven o’clock in the morning all the year round. Wouldn’t suit our boys’ voices nowadays, and I think there’s one or two of the men would be applying for a rise if the Chapter was to bring it in⁠—particular the alltoes.”

They were now at the southwest door. As Mr. Worby was unlocking it, Lake said, “Did you ever find anybody locked in here by accident?”

“Twice I did. One was a drunk sailor; however he got in I don’t know. I s’pose he went to sleep in the service, but by the time I got to him he was praying fit to bring the roof in. Lor’! what a noise that man did make! said it was the first time he’d been inside a church for ten years, and blest if ever he’d try it again. The other was an old sheep: them boys it was, up to their games. That was the last time they tried it on, though. There, sir, now you see what we look like; our late Dean used now and again to bring parties in, but he preferred a moonlight night, and there was a piece of verse he’d coat to ’em, relating to a Scotch cathedral, I understand; but I don’t know; I almost think the effect’s better when it’s all dark-like. Seems to add to the size and height. Now if you won’t mind stopping somewhere in the nave while I go up into the choir where my business lays, you’ll see what I mean.”

Accordingly Lake waited, leaning against a pillar, and watched the light wavering along the length of the church, and up the steps into the choir, until it was intercepted by some screen or other furniture, which only allowed the reflection to be seen on the piers and roof. Not many minutes had passed before Worby reappeared at the door of the choir and by waving his lantern signalled to Lake to rejoin him.

“I suppose it is Worby, and not a substitute,” thought Lake to himself, as he walked up the nave. There was, in fact, nothing untoward. Worby showed him the papers which he had come to fetch out of the Dean’s stall, and asked him what he thought of the spectacle: Lake agreed that it was well worth seeing. “I suppose,” he said, as they walked towards the altar-steps together, “that you’re too much used to going about here at night to feel nervous⁠—but you must get a start every now and then, don’t you, when a book falls down or a door swings to.”

“No, Mr. Lake, I can’t say I think much about noises, not nowadays: I’m much more afraid of finding an escape of gas or a burst in the stove pipes than anything else. Still there have been times, years ago. Did you notice that plain altar-tomb there⁠—fifteenth century we say it is, I don’t know if you agree to that? Well, if you didn’t look at it, just come back and give it a glance, if you’d be so good.” It was on the north side of the choir, and rather awkwardly placed: only about three feet from the