Short Fiction M. R. James (good book recommendations TXT) 📖

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