(Thunderclap)
(Chimes)
(Howling wind)
(Thunderclap)
(Wind howls plaintively)
It was in February when the catalogue from the art dealer J.W. Britnell
appeared on the desk of my friend Williams.
Accompanying it was a type-written communication which ran as follows:
'Dear sir, we beg to call your attention
to number 978 in our accompanying catalogue
which we shall be glad to send you on approval.
Yours faithfully, J.W. Britnell.'
To turn to number 978 in the catalogue was the work of a moment,
and in the place indicated Mr Williams found the following entry:
'978. Unknown. Interesting mezzotint.
View of a manor house. Early part of the century.
Fifteen by ten inches. Black frame. Two guineas.'
It was not especially exciting and the price seemed high.
However, Mr Williams wrote a postcard
asking for the article to be sent on approval
along with some other engravings and sketches
which appeared in the same catalogue.
A parcel of any kind always arrives a day later than you expect it,
and the mezzotint was delivered to his rooms in college
by the afternoon post of Saturday.
It was here that he found it,
when he came into tea with his friend, Professor Binks.
The mezzotint, in a large black frame, turned out to be rather indifferent.
It presented a full-face view of a not very large manor house of the last century,
with three rows of plain sashed windows with rusticated masonry about them,
a parapet with balls or vases at the angles
and a small portico in the centre.
On either side were trees, and in front a considerable expanse of lawn.
The legend AWF sculpsit was engraved on the narrow margin,
and on the back was a paper label, the left hand of which had been torn off.
All that remained were the ends of two lines of writing.
The first had the letters: -NGLEY Hall
the second: Essex.
'What is this place, Williams?' said Binks.
'Just what I'm going to try to find out,' said Williams,
searching in vain through a gazetteer.
'I can't conceive why Britnell should want two guineas
for such a wretched engraving.
There aren't even any figures to give it life.'
'Oh, it's not so badly done.
And I should've thought there were figures,
or at least a figure, just on the edge in front.'
And indeed there was.
Hardly more than a black blot on the extreme edge of the engraving.
The head of a man or woman, a good deal muffled up,
the back turned to the spectator and looking towards the house.
Williams had not noticed it before.
Later that evening, after dinner and an hour in the common room,
Williams and a few of his colleagues retired to his rooms,
and during a lull, Williams picked up the mezzotint from the table
without looking at it and handed it to one of them.
The gentleman took it carelessly, but then said in a tone of some interest,
'It's really a very good piece of work, Williams,
and the figure, though it's rather too grotesque,
is somehow very impressive.'
'Yes, isn't it?' said Williams, busy giving whiskey and soda to the company.
So it was not until some time past midnight
that, on lighting his bedroom candle, the picture again caught his eye.
It was face upwards on the table.
And what Williams saw made him very nearly drop the candle on the floor.
In the middle of the lawn, in front of the unknown house,
there was a figure where no figure had been at five o'clock that afternoon.
It was crawling on all fours towards the house,
and it was muffled in a strange black garment with a white cross on the back.
I don't know what is the ideal course to pursue in a situation of this kind,
I can only tell you what Mr Williams did, which was to lock it up in a drawer.
But not before he had Mitten out and signed an account
of the extraordinary change which the picture had undergone
since it had come into his possession.
By now, in need of a further witness,
he had decided to invite his neighbour, Nisbet, to breakfast on the following day.
Nisbet arrived at about 09:30,
and during the meal nothing was said about the mezzotint,
save that he had a picture on which he wished Nisbet's opinion.
But at last the moment arrived for which he had waited.
With considerable excitement, he unlocked the drawer,
and placed the picture face downwards into Nisbet's hands.
'Now,' he said, 'I want you to describe exactly what you see in that picture.'
'Well,' said Nisbet, 'I have here a view of a country house,
English, I presume, by moonlight.
The moon appears to be on the wane and there are clouds in the sky.
There's not much more to be said.
The house has one, two, three rows of windows,
five in each row except at the bottom,
where there's a porch instead of the middle one, and erm...'
'But what about figures?' said Williams.
'There aren't any, but erm...'
'What? No figure on the grass in front?'
'Not a thing, I'll swear to it. But there's just one other thing...
One of the windows on the ground floor, left of the door, is open.'
'My goodness,' said Williams, with great excitement.
'He must've got in.'
It was quite true. There was no figure.
And there was the open window.
After a moment of speechless surprise, Williams went to the writing table,
and, after scribbling for a short time, brought two papers to Nisbet,
asking him to sign one, his own description of the picture,
and then to read the other,
which was Williams' statement written the night before.
'It looks,' said Nisbet, 'as if we were assisting
at the working out of a tragedy somewhere.
The question is, has it happened already,
or is it going to come off?'
'I must get the thing photographed before it goes further,' said Williams.
'And I'll go and fetch Garwood who saw the picture last night
and get him to sign a statement that the figure, when he saw it,
hadn't got far across the lawn.
And I must show it to Old Green. It's quite likely he'll know the place.
I'm beginning to think that two guineas is not a very exorbitant price for it now.'
'Are you going to sit and watch it all day?' asked Nisbet.
'Well, no. I rather imagine we're meant to see the whole thing.
Besides, I have an idea that it wouldn't change much, if at all, in the daytime.
We might go out for a walk. I shall leave the picture out on the table here,
and sport the door. My Skip can get in, but no one else can.'
At five o'clock, they returned to find Williams' Skip
seated on a chair, gazing at the picture with undisguised horror.
He was a servant of considerable standing,
and nothing could've been more alien to his practice
than to be found sitting in his master's chair.
'Begging your pardon, sir, but it ain't a picture I should 'ang
where my little girl could see it, sir.
If she was to catch a sight of this skeleton 'ere, or whatever it is,
carryin' off the poor baby, she'd be in a taking, and no mistake.'
And with these words, the excellent man went to continue on his rounds.
You may be sure that the gentlemen lost no time in gathering round the engraving.
There was the house, as before.
The window, that had been open, was shut,
and the figure was once more on the lawn.
But now it was erect and stepping swiftly with long strides
towards the front of the picture.
The black drapery hung down over its face
revealing only a glimpse of a white dome-like forehead
and a few straggling hairs.
The head was bent down and the arms were tightly clasped
over an object which could dimly be identified
as a child.
From five until seven,
the three companions sat and watched the picture by turns.
But it never changed,
and eventually they agreed to leave it and to return again later.
When they assembled again, the figure was gone,
and the house was quiet under the moonbeams.
There seemed nothing for it but to spend the evening
over gazetteers and guidebooks.
At 11:30pm,
Williams read out the following lines from Murray's Guide To Essex.
'Sixteen and a half miles, Anningley.
The church has been an interesting building of Norman date,
but was extensively classicised in the last century.
It contains the tomb of the family of Francis,
whose mansion, Anningley Hall, a solid Queen Anne house,
stands immediately beyond the churchyard
in a park of about 80 acres.
The family is now extinct,
the last heir having disappeared mysteriously in infancy in the year 1802.
The father, Mr Arthur Francis, was locally known
as a talented amateur engraver in mezzotint.
After his son's disappearance,
he lived in complete retirement at the hall,
and was found dead in his studio on the third anniversary of the disaster,
having just completed an engraving of the house,
impressions of which are of considerable rarity.'
When, on his return,
Green the college bursar identified the house as Anningley Hall,
Williams asked him for a possible explanation of the figure in the picture.
'I don't know I'm sure, Williams.
What used to be said when I first knew the place
was that Old Francis was always very much down on these poaching fellows,
and by degrees he got rid of them all but one,
who was the last surviving member of a very old family.
I believe they were lords of the manor at one time.
Anyway, this man always managed to keep on the right side of the law
until one night the keepers found him at it.
You can imagine there was a row, and the man, his name was Gawdy,
was unlucky enough to shoot one of the keepers.
He was strung up in double quick time.
And I've been shown the place where he was buried
on the north side of the church.
It was always said that some friend of Gawdy's must've planned
to get hold of Francis' boy and put an end to his line too.
I must say, it looks now as if Old Gawdy had managed the job himself.'
I've only to add that the picture is now in the Ashleian Museum,
and that though carefully watched,
it has never been known to change again.