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

“When I grew in the Wood
I was water’d wth Blood
Now in the Church I stand
Who that touches me with his Hand
If a Bloody hand he bear
I councell him to be ware
Lest he be fetcht away
Whether by night or day,
But chiefly when the wind blows high
In a night of February.”

“This I drempt, 26 Febr. Anno 1699. John Austin.”

“I suppose it is a charm or a spell: wouldn’t you call it something of that kind?” said the curator.

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose one might. What became of the figure in which it was concealed?”

“Oh, I forgot,” said he. “The old man told me it was so ugly and frightened his children so much that he burnt it.”

Some few years back I was staying with the rector of a parish in the West, where the society to which I belong owns property. I was to go over some of this land: and, on the first morning of my visit, soon after breakfast, the estate carpenter and general handy man, John Hill, was announced as in readiness to accompany us. The rector asked which part of the parish we were to visit that morning. The estate map was produced, and when we had showed him our round, he put his finger on a particular spot. “Don’t forget,” he said, “to ask John Hill about Martin’s Close when you get there. I should like to hear what he tells you.” “What ought he to tell us?” I said. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the rector, “or, if that is not exactly true, it will do till lunchtime.” And here he was called away.

We set out; John Hill is not a man to withhold such information as he possesses on any point, and you may gather from him much that is of interest about the people of the place and their talk. An unfamiliar word, or one that he thinks ought to be unfamiliar to you, he will usually spell⁠—as c-o-b cob, and the like. It is not, however, relevant to my purpose to record his conversation before the moment when we reached Martin’s Close. The bit of land is noticeable, for it is one of the smallest enclosures you are likely to see⁠—a very few square yards, hedged in with quickset on all sides, and without any gate or gap leading into it. You might take it for a small cottage garden long deserted, but that it lies away from the village and bears no trace of cultivation. It is at no great distance from the road, and is part of what is there called a moor, in other words, a rough upland pasture cut up into largish fields.

“Why is this little bit hedged off so?” I asked, and John Hill (whose answer I cannot represent as perfectly as I should like) was not at fault. “That’s what we call Martin’s Close, sir: ’tes a curious thing ’bout that bit of land, sir: goes by the name of Martin’s Close, sir. M-a-r-t-i-n Martin. Beg pardon, sir, did Rector tell you to make inquiry of me ’bout that, sir?” “Yes, he did.” “Ah, I thought so much, sir. I was tell’n Rector ’bout that last week, and he was very much interested. It ’pears there’s a murderer buried there, sir, by the name of Martin. Old Samuel Saunders, that formerly lived yurr at what we call South-town, sir, he had a long tale ’bout that, sir: terrible murder done ’pon a young woman, sir. Cut her throat and cast her in the water down yurr.” “Was he hung for it?” “Yes, sir, he was hung just up yurr on the roadway, by what I’ve ’eard, on the Holy Innocents’ Day, many ’undred years ago, by the man that went by the name of the bloody judge: terrible red and bloody, I’ve ’eard.” “Was his name Jeffreys, do you think?” “Might be possible ’twas⁠—Jeffreys⁠—J-e-f⁠—Jeffreys. I reckon ’twas, and the tale I’ve ’eard many times from Mr. Saunders⁠—how this young man Martin⁠—George Martin⁠—was troubled before his crule action come to light by the young woman’s sperit.” “How was that, do you know?” “No, sir, I don’t exactly know how ’twas with it: but by what I’ve ’eard he was fairly tormented; and rightly tu. Old Mr. Saunders, he told a history regarding a cupboard down