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Number 13
by M.R. James
Among the towns of Jutland, Viborg justly holds a high place. It is the seat of a bishopric;
it has a handsome but almost entirely new cathedral, a charming garden, a lake of great
beauty, and many storks. Near it is Hald, accounted one of the prettiest things in Denmark;
and hard by is Finderup, where Marsk Stig murdered King Erik Glipping on St. Cecilia's
Day, in the year 1286. Fifty-six blows of square-headed iron maces were traced on Erik's
skull when his tomb was opened in the seventeenth century. But I am not writing a guide-book.
There are good hotels in Viborg — Preisler's and the Phœnix are all that can be desired.
But my cousin, whose experiences I have to tell you now, went to the Golden Lion the
first time that he visited Viborg. He has not been there since, and the following pages
will perhaps explain the reason of his abstention.
The Golden Lion is one of the very few houses in the town that were not destroyed in the
great fire of 1716, which practically demolished the cathedral, the Sognekirke, the Raadhuus,
and so much else that was old and interesting. It is a great red-brick house — that is,
the front is of brick, with corbie steps on the gables and a tent over the door; but the
courtyard into which the omnibus drives is of black and white "cage-work" in wood and
plaster.
The sun was declining in the heavens when my cousin walked up to the door, and the light
smote full upon the imposing façade of the house. He was delighted with the old-fashioned
aspect of the place, and promised himself a thoroughly satisfactory and amusing stay
in an inn so typical of old Jutland.
It was not business in the ordinary sense of the word that had brought Mr. Anderson
to Viborg. He was engaged upon some researches into the Church history of Denmark, and it
had come to his. knowledge that in the Rigsarkiv of Viborg there were papers, saved from the
fire, relating to the last days of Roman Catholicism in the country. He proposed, therefore, to
spend a considerable time — perhaps as much as a fortnight or three weeks — in examining
and copying these, and he hoped that the Golden Lion would be able to give him a room of sufficient
size to serve alike as a bedroom and a study. His wishes were explained to the landlord,
and, after a certain amount of thought, the latter suggested that perhaps it might be
the best way for the gentleman to look at one or two of the larger rooms and pick one
for himself. It seemed a good idea.
The top floor was soon rejected as entailing too much getting upstairs after the day's
work; the second floor contained no room of exactly the dimensions required; but on the
first floor there was a choice of two or three rooms which would, so far as size went, suit
admirably.
The landlord was strongly in favour of Number 17, but Mr. Anderson pointed out that its
windows commanded only the blank wall of the next house, and that it would be very dark
in the afternoon. Either Number 12 or Number 14 would be better, for both of them looked
on the street, and the bright evening light and the pretty view would more than compensate
him for the additional amount of noise.
Eventually Number 12 was selected. Like its neighbours, it had three windows, all on one
side of the room; it was fairly high and unusually long. There was, of course, no fireplace,
but the stove was handsome and rather old — a cast-iron ***, on the side of which
was a representation of Abraham sacrificing Isaac, and the inscription, "1 Bog Mose, Cap.
22," above. Nothing else in the room was remarkable; the only interesting picture was an old coloured
print of the town, date about 1820.
Supper-time was approaching, but when Anderson, refreshed by the ordinary ablutions, descended
the staircase, there were still a few minutes before the bell rang. He devoted them to examining
the list of his fellow-lodgers. As is usual in Denmark, their names were displayed on
a large blackboard, divided into columns and lines, the numbers of the rooms being painted
in at the beginning of each line. The list was not exciting. There was an advocate, or
Sagförer, a German, and some bagmen from Copenhagen. The one and only point which suggested
any food for thought was the absence of any Number 13 from the tale of the rooms, and
even this was a thing which Anderson had already noticed half a dozen times in his experience
of Danish hotels. He could not help wondering whether the objection to that particular number,
common as it is, was so widespread and so strong as to make at difficult to let a room
so ticketed, and he resolved to ask the landlord if he and his colleagues in the profession
had actually met with many clients who refused to be accommodated in the thirteenth room.
He had nothing to tell me (I am giving the story as I heard it from him) about what passed
at supper; and the evening, which was spent in unpacking and arranging his clothes, books,
and papers, was not more eventful. Towards eleven o'clock he resolved to go to bed, but
with him, as with a good many other people nowadays, an almost necessary preliminary
to bed, if he meant to sleep, was the, reading of a few pages of print; and he now remembered,
that the particular book which he had been reading in the train, and which alone would
satisfy him at that present moment, was in the pocket of his greatcoat, then hanging
on a peg outside the dining-room.
To run down and secure it was the work of a moment, and, as the passages were by no
means dark, it was not difficult for him to find his way back to his own door. So, at
least, he thought; but when he arrived there, and turned the handle; the door entirely refused
to open, and he caught the sound of a hasty movement towards it from within. He had tried
the wrong door, of course. Was his own room to the right or to the left? He glanced at
the number: it was 13. His room would be on the left; and so it was. And not before he
had been in bed for some minutes, had read his wonted three or four pages of his book,
blown out his light, and turned over to go to sleep, did it occur to him that, whereas
on the blackboard of the hotel there had been no Number 13, there was undoubtedly a room
numbered 13 in the hotel. He felt rather sorry he had not chosen it for his own. Perhaps
he might have done the landlord a little service by occupying it, and given him the chance
of saying that a well-born English gentleman had lived in it for three weeks and liked
it very much. But probably it was used as a servant's room or something of the kind.
After all, it was most likely not so large or good a room as his own. And he looked drowsily
about the room, which was fairly perceptible in the half-light from the street-lamp. It
was a curious effect, he thought. Rooms usually look larger in a dim light than a full one,
but this seemed to have contracted in length and grown proportionately higher. Well, well!
sleep was more important than these vague ruminations — and to sleep he went.
On the day after his arrival Anderson attacked the Rigsarkiv of Viborg. He was, as one might
expect in Denmark, kindly received, and access to all that he wished to see was made as easy
for him as possible. The documents laid before him were far more numerous and interesting
than he had at all anticipated. Besides official papers, there was a large bundle of correspondence
relating to Bishop Jörgen Friis, the last Roman Catholic who held the see, and in these
there cropped up many amusing and what are called "intimate" details of private life
and individual character. There was much talk of a house owned by the Bishop, but not inhabited
by him, in the town. Its tenant was apparently somewhat of a scandal and a stumbling-block
to the reforming party. He was a disgrace, they wrote, to the city; he practised secret
and wicked arts, and had sold his soul to the enemy. It was of a piece with the gross
corruption and superstition of the Babylonish Church that such a viper and bloodsucking
Troldmand should be patronized and harboured by the Bishop. The Bishop met these reproaches
boldly; he protested his own abhorrence of all such things as secret arts, and required,
his antagonists to bring the matter before the proper court — of course, the spiritual
court — and sift it to the bottom. No one could be more ready and willing, than himself
to condemn Mag. Nicolas Francken if the evidence showed him to have been guilty of any of the
crimes informally alleged against him.
Anderson had not time to do more than glance at the next letter of the Protestant leader,
Rasmus Nielsen, before the record office was closed for the day, but he gathered its general
tenor, which was to the effect that Christian men were now no longer bound by the decisions
of Bishops of Rome, and that the Bishop's Court was not, and could not be, a fit or
competent tribunal to judge so grave and weighty a cause.
On leaving the office, Mr. Anderson was accompanied by the old gentleman who presided over it,
and, as they walked, the conversation very naturally turned to the papers of which I
have just been speaking.
Herr Scavenius, the Archivist of Viborg, though very well informed as to the general run of
the documents under his charge, was not a specialist in those of the Reformation period.
He was much interested in what Anderson had to tell him about them. He looked forward
with great pleasure, he said, to seeing the publication in which Mr. Anderson spoke of
embodying their contents. "This house of the Bishop Friis," he added, "it is a great puzzle
to me where it can have stood. I have studied carefully the topography of old Viborg, but
it is most unlucky — of the old- terrier of the Bishop's property, which was made in
1560, and of which we have the greater part in the Arkiv, just the piece which had the
list of the town property is missing. Never mind. Perhaps I shall some day, succeed to
find him."
After taking some exercise — I forget exactly how or where — Anderson went back to the
Golden Lion, his supper, his game of patience, and his bed. On the way to his room it occurred
to him that he had forgotten to talk to the landlord about the omission of Number 13 from
the hotel, and also that he might as well make sure that Number 13 did actually exist
before he made any reference to the matter.
The decision was not difficult to arrive at. There was the door with its number as plain
as could be, and work of some kind was evidently going on inside it, for as he neared the door
he could hear footsteps and voices, or a voice, within. During the few seconds in which he
halted to make sure of the number, the footsteps ceased, seemingly very near the door, and
he was a little startled at hearing a quick hissing breathing as of a person in strong
excitement. He west on to his own room, and again he was surprised to find how much smaller
it seemed now than it had when he selected it. It was a slight disappointment, but only
slight. If he found it really not large enough, he could very easily shift to another. In
the meantime he wanted something — as far as I remember it was a pocket-handkerchief
— out of his portmanteau, which had been placed by the porter on a very inadequate
trestle or stool against the wall at the farthest end of the room from his bed. Here was a very
curious thing: the portmanteau was not to be seen. It had been moved by officious servants;
doubtless the contents had been put in the wardrobe. No, none of them were there. This
was vexatious. The idea of a theft he dismissed at once. Such things rarely happen in Denmark,
but some piece of stupidity had certainly been performed (which is not so un- common),
and the stuepige must be severely spoken to. Whatever it was that he wanted, it was not
so necessary to his comfort that he could not wait till the morning for it, and he therefore
settled not to ring the bell and disturb the servants. He went to the window — the right-hand
window it was — and looked out on the quiet street. There was a tall building opposite,
with large spaces of dead wall; no passersby; a dark night; and very little to be seen of
any kind.
The light was behind him, and he could see his own shadow clearly cast on the wall opposite.
Also the shadow of the bearded man in Number 11 on the left, who passed to and fro in shirtsleeves
once or twice, and was seen first brushing his hair, and later on in a nightgown. Also
the shadow of the occupant of Number 13 on the right. This might be more interesting.
Number 13 was, like himself, leaning on his elbows on the window-sill looking out into
the street. He seemed to be a tall thin man — or was it by any chance a woman? — at
least, it was someone who covered his or her head with some kind of drapery before going
to bed, and, he thought, must be possessed of a red lamp-shade — and the lamp must
be flickering very much. There was a distinct playing up and down of a dull red light on
the opposite wall. He craned out a little to see if he could make any more of the figure,
but beyond a fold of some light, perhaps white, material on the window-sill he could see nothing.
Now came a distant step in the street, and its approach seemed to recall Number 13 to
a sense of his exposed position, for very swiftly and suddenly he swept aside from the
window, and his red light went out. Anderson, who had been smoking a cigarette, laid the
end of it on the window-sill and went to bed.
Next morning he was woke by the stuepige with hot water, etc. He roused himself, and after
thinking out the correct Danish words, said as distinctly, as he could:
"You mast not move my portmanteau. Where is it?"
As is not uncommon, the maid laughed, and went away without making any distinct answer.
Anderson, rather irritated, sat up in bed, intending to call her back, but he remained
sitting up, staring straight in front of him. There was his portmanteau on its trestle,
exactly where he had seen the porter put it when he first arrived. This was a rude shock
for a man who prided himself on his accuracy of observation. How it could possibly have
escaped him the night before he did not pretend to understand; at any rate, there it was now.
The daylight showed more than the portmanteau; it let the true proportions of the room with
its three windows appear, and satisfied its tenant that his choice after all had not been
a bad one. When he was almost dressed he walked to the middle one of the three windows to
look out at the weather. Another shock awaited him. Strangely unobservant he must have been
last night. He could have sworn ten times over that he had been smoking at the right-hand
window the last thing before he went to bed, and here was his cigarette-end on the sill
of the middle window.
He started to go down to breakfast. Rather late; but. Number 13 was later: here were
his boots still outside his door — a gentleman's boots. So then Number 13 was a man, not a
woman. Just then he caught, sight of the number on the door. It was 14. He thought he must
have passed Number 15 without noticing it. Three stupid mistakes in twelve hours were
too much for a methodical, accurate-minded man, so he turned back to make sure. The next
number to 14 was number 12, his own room. There was no Number 13 at all.
After some minutes, devoted to a careful consideration of everything he had had to eat and drink
during the last twenty-four hours, Anderson decided to give the question up. If his sight
or his brain were giving way he would have plenty of opportunities for ascertaining that
fact; if not, then he was evidently being treated to a very interesting experience.
In either case the development of events would certainly be worth watching.
During the day he continued his examination of the episcopal correspondence which I have
already summarized. To his disappointment, it was incomplete. Only one other letter could
be found which referred to the affair of Mag. Nicolas Francken. It was from the Bishop Jörgen
Friis to Rasmus Nielsen. He said:
"Although we are not in the least degree inclined to assent to your judgment concerning our
court, and shall be prepared if need be to withstand you to the uttermost in that behalf,
yet forasmuch as our trusty, and well-beloved Mag. Nicolas Francken, against whom you have
dared to allege certain false and malicious charges, hath been suddenly removed from among
us, it is apparent that the question for this time falls. But forasmuch as you further allege
that the Apostle and Evangelist St. John in his heavenly Apocalypse describes the Holy
Roman Church under the guise and symbol of the Scarlet Woman, be it known to you," etc.
Search as he might, Anderson could find no sequel to this letter nor any clue to the
cause or manner of the "removal" of the casus belli. He could only suppose that Francken
had died suddenly; and as there were only two days between the date of Nielsen's last
letter — when Francken was evidently still in being — and that of the Bishop's letter,
the death must have been completely unexpected.
In the afternoon he paid a short visit to Hald, and took his tea at Baekkelund; nor
could he notice, though he was in a somewhat nervous frame of mind, that there was any
indication of such a failure of eye or brain as his experiences of the morning had led
him to fear.
At supper he found himself next to the landlord.
"What," he asked him, after some indifferent conversation, "is the reason why in most of
the hotels one visits in this country the number thirteen is left out of the list of
roams? I see you have none here."
The landlord seemed amused.
"To think that you should have noticed a thing like that! I've thought about it once or twice
myself, to tell the truth. An educated man, I've said, has no business with these superstitious
notions. I was brought up myself here in the High School of Viborg, and our old master
was always a man to set his face against anything of that kind. He's been dead now this many
years — a fine upstanding man he was, and ready with his hands as well as his head.
I recollect us boys, one snowy day ——"
Here he plunged into reminiscence.
"Then you don't think there is any particular objection to having a Number 13?" said Anderson.
"Ah! to be sure. Well, you understand, I was brought up to the business by my poor old
father. He kept an hotel in Aarhuus first, and then, when we were born, he moved to Viborg
here, which was his native place, and had the Phœnix here until he died. That was in
1876. Then I started business in Silkeborg, and only the year before last I moved into
this house."
Then followed more details as to the state of the house and business when first taken
over.
"And when you came here, was there a Number 13?"
"No, no. I was going to tell you about that. You see, in a place like this, the commercial
class — the travellers — are what we have to provide for in general. And put them in
Number 13? Why, they'd as soon sleep in the street, or sooner. As far as I'm concerned
myself, it wouldn't make a penny difference to me what the number of my room was, and
so I've often said to them; but they stick, to it that it brings them bad luck. Quantities
of stories they have among them of men that have slept in a Number 13, and never been
the same again, or lost their best customers, or — one thing and another," said the landlord,
after searching for a more graphic phrase.
"Then, what do you use your Number 13 for?" said Anderson, conscious as he said the words
of a curious anxiety quite disproportionate to the importance of the question.
"My Number 13? Why, don't I tell you that there isn't such a thing in the house? I thought
you might have noticed that. If there was it would be next door to your own room."
"Well, yes; only I happened to think — that is, I fancied last night that I had seen a
door numbered thirteen in that passage; and, really, I am almost certain I must have been
right, for I saw it the night before as well."
Of course, Herr Kristensen laughed this notion to scorn, as Anderson had expected, and emphasized
with much iteration the fact that no Number 13 existed or had existed before him in that
hotel.
Anderson was in some ways relieved by his certainty but still puzzled, and he began
to think that the best way to make sure whether he had indeed been subject to an illusion
or not was to invite the landlord to his room to smoke a cigar later on in the evening.
Some photographs of English towns which he had with him formed a sufficiently good excuse.
Herr Kristensen was flattered by the invitation, and most willingly accepted it. At about ten
o'clock he was to make his appearance, but before that Anderson had some letters to write,
and retired for the purpose of writing them. He almost blushed to himself, at confessing
it, but he could not deny that it was the fact that he was becoming quite nervous about
the question of the existence of Number 13; so much so that he approached his room by
way of Number 11, in order that he might not be obliged to pass the door, or the place
where the door ought to be. He looked quickly and suspiciously about the room when he entered
it, but there was nothing, beyond that indefinable air of being smaller than usual, to warrant
any misgivings. There was no question of the presence or absence of his portmanteau to-night.
He had himself emptied it of its contents and lodged it under his bed. With a certain
effort, he dismissed the thought of Number 13 from his mind, and sat down to his writing.
His neighbours were quiet enough. Occasionally a door opened in the passage and a pair of
boots was thrown out, or a bagman walked past humming to himself, and outside, from time
to time a cart thundered over the atrocious cobble-stones, or a quick step hurried along
the flags.
Anderson finished his letters, ordered whisky and soda, and then went to the window studied
the dead wall opposite and the shadows upon it.
As far as he could remember, Number 14 had been occupied by the lawyer, a staid man,
who said little at meals, being generally engaged in studying a small bundle of papers
beside his plate. Apparently, however, he was in the habit of giving vent to his animal
spirits when alone. Why else should he be dancing? The shadow from the next room evidently
showed that he was. Again and again his thin form crossed the window, his arms waved, and
a gaunt leg was kicked up with surprising agility. He seemed to be barefooted, and the
floor must be well laid, for no sound betrayed his movements: Sagförer Herr Anders Jensen,
dancing at ten o'clock at night in a hotel bedroom, seemed a fitting subject for a historical
painting in the grand style; and Anderson's thoughts, like those of Emily in the Mysteries
of Udolpho, began to "arrange themselves in the following lines":
When I return to my hotel, At ten o'clock p.m.,
The waiters think I am unwell; I do not care for them.
But when I've locked my chamber door, And put my boots outside,
I dance all night upon the floor. And even if my neighbours swore,
I'd go on dancing all the more, For I'm acquainted with the law,
And in despite of all their jaw, Their protests I deride."
Had not the landlord at this moment knocked at the door, it is probable that quite a long
poem might have been laid before the reader. To judge from his look of surprise when he
found himself in the room, Herr Kristensen was struck, as Anderson had been, by something
unusual in its aspect. But he made no remark. Anderson's photographs interested him mightily,
and formed the text of many autobiographical discourses. Nor is it quite clear how the
conversation could have been diverted into the desired channel of Number 13, had not
the lawyer at this moment begun to sing, and to sing in a manner which could leave no doubt
in anyone's mind that he was either exceedingly drunk or raving mad. It was a high, thin voice
that they heard, and it seemed dry, as if from long disuse. Of words or tune there was
no question. It went sailing up to a surprising height, and was carried down with a despairing
moan as of a winter wind in a hollow chimney, or an organ whose wind fails suddenly. It
was a really horrible sound, and Anderson felt that if he had been alone he must have
fled for refuge and society to some neighbour bagman's room.
The landlord sat open-mouthed.
"I don't understand it," he said at last; wiping his forehead. "It is dreadful. I have
heard it once before, but I made sure it was a cat."
"Is he mad?" said Anderson.
"He must be; and what a sad thing! Such a good customer, too, and so successful in his
business; by what I hear, and a young family, to bring up."
Just then came an impatient knock at the door, and the knocker entered, without waiting to
be asked. It was the lawyer, in deshabille and very rough-haired; and very angry he looked.
"I beg pardon, sir," he said, "but I should be much obliged if you would kindly desist.
desist ——"
Here he stopped, for it was evident that neither of the persons before him was responsible
for the disturbance; and after a moment's lull it swelled forth again more wildly than
before.
"But what in the name of Heaven does it mean?" broke out the lawyer. "Where is it? Who is
it? Am I going out of my mind?"
"Surely, Herr, Jensen, it comes from your room next door? Isn't there a cat or something
stuck in the chimney?"
This was the best that occurred to Anderson to say, and he realized its futility as he
spoke; but anything was better than to stand and listen to that horrible voice, and look
at the broad, white face of the landlord, all perspiring and quivering as he clutched
the arms of his chair.
"Impossible," said the lawyer, "impossible. There is no chimney. I came here because I
was convinced the noise was going on here. It was certainly in the next room to mine."
"Was there no door between yours and mine?" said Anderson eagerly.
"No," sir," said Herr Jensen, rather sharply. "At least, not this morning."
"Ah!" said Anderson. "Nor to-night?"
"I am not sure," said the lawyer, with some hesitation.
Suddenly the crying or singing voice in the nest room died away, and the singer was heard
seemingly to laugh to himself in a crooning manner. The three men actually shivered at
the sound. Then there was a silence.
"Come," said the lawyer, "what have you to say; Herr Kristensen? What does this mean?"
"Good Heaven!" said Kristensen. "How should I tell! I know no more than you, gentlemen.
I pray I may never hear such a noise again."
"So do I," said Herr Jensen, and he added something under his breath. Anderson thought
it sounded like the last words of the Psalter, "omnis spiritus laudet Dominum," but he could
not be sure.
"But we must do something," said Anderson — "the three of us. Shall we go and investigate
in the next room?"
"But that is Herr Jensen's room," wailed the landlord. "It is no use; he has come from
there himself."
"I am not so sure," said Jensen. "I think this gentleman is right: we must go and see."
The only weapons of defence that could be mustered on the spot were a stick and umbrella.
The expedition went out into the passage, not without quakings. There was a deadly quiet
outside, but a light shone from under the next door. Anderson and Jensen approached
it. The latter turned the handle, and gave a sudden vigorous push. No use. The door stood
fast.
"Herr Kristensen," said Jensen, "will you go and fetch the strongest servant you have
in the place? We must see this through."
The landlord nodded, and hurried off, glad to be away from the scene of action. Jensen
and Anderson remained outside looking at the door.
"It is Number 13, you see," said the latter.
"Yes; there is your door; and there is mine," said Jensen.
"My room has three windows in the daytime," said Anderson, with difficulty suppressing
a nervous laugh.
"By George, so has mine!" said the lawyer, turning and looking at Anderson. His back
was now to the door. In that moment the door opened, and an arm came out and clawed at
his shoulder. It was clad in ragged, yellowish linen, and the bare skin, where it could be
seen, had long grey hair upon it.
Anderson was just in time to pull Jensen out of its reach with a cry of disgust and fright,
when the door shut again, and a low laugh was heard.
Jensen had seen nothing, but when Anderson hurriedly told him what a risk he had run,
he fell into a great state of agitation, and suggested that they should retire from the
enterprise and lock themselves up in one or other of their rooms.
However, while he was developing this plan, the landlord and two able-bodied men arrived
on the scene, all looking rather serious and alarmed. Jensen met them with a torrent of
description and explanation, which did not at all tend to encourage them for the fray.
The men dropped the crowbars they had brought, and said flatly that they were not going to
risk their throats in that devil's den. The landlord was miserably nervous and undecided,
conscious that if the danger were not faced his hotel was ruined, and very loth to face
it himself. Luckily Anderson hit upon a way of rallying the demoralized force.
"Is this," he said, "the Danish courage I have heard so much of? It isn't a German in
there; and if it was, we are five to one."
The two servants and Jensen were stung into action by this, and made a dash at the door.
"Stop!" laid Anderson. "Don't lose your heads. You stay out here with the light, landlord,
and one of you two men break in the door, and don't go in when it gives way."
The men nodded, and the younger stepped forward, raised his crowbar, and dealt a tremendous
blow on the upper panel. The result was not in the least what any of them anticipated.
There was no cracking or rending of wood — only a dull sound, as if the solid wall had been
struck. The man dropped his tool with a shout, and began rubbing his elbow. His cry drew
their eyes upon him for a moment; then Anderson looked at the door again. It was gone; the
plaster wall of the passage stared him in the face, with a considerable gash in it where
the crowbar had struck it. Number 13 had passed out of existence.
For a brief space they stood perfectly still, gazing at the blank wall. An early *** in
the yard beneath was heard to crow; and as Anderson glanced in the direction of the sound,
he saw through the window at tie end of the long passage that the eastern sky was paling
to the dawn.
"Perhaps," said the landlord, with hesitation, "you gentlemen would like another room for
to-night — a double-bedded one?"
Neither Jensen nor Anderson was averse to the suggestion. They felt inclined to hunt
in couples after their late experience. It was found convenient, when each of them went
to his room to collect the articles he wanted for the night, that the other should go with
him and hold the candle. They noticed that both Number 12 and Number 14 had three windows.
Next morning the same party reassembled in Number 12. The landlord was naturally anxious
to avoid engaging outside help, and yet it was imperative that the mystery attaching
to that part of the house should be cleared up. Accordingly the two servants had been
induced to take upon them the function of carpenters. The furniture was cleared away,
and, at the cost of a good many irretrievably damaged planks, that portion of the floor
was taken up which lay nearest to Number 14.
You will naturally suppose that a skeleton — say that of Mag. Nicolas Francken — was
discovered. That was not so. What they did find lying between the beams which supported
the flooring was a small copper box. In it was a neatly-folded vellum document, with
about twenty lines of writing. Both Anderson and Jensen (who proved to be something of
a palæographer) were much excited by this discovery, which promised to afford the key
to these extraordinary phenomena.
I possess a copy of an astrological work which I have never read. It has by way of frontispiece,
a woodcut by Hans Sebald Beham, representing a number of sages seated round a table. This
detail may enable connoisseurs to identify the book. I cannot myself recollect its title,
and it is not at this moment within reach; but the fly-leaves of it are covered with
writing, and, during the ten years in which I have owned the volume, I have not been able
to determine which way up this writing ought to be read, much less in what language it
is. Not dissimilar was the position of Anderson and Jensen after the protracted examination
to which they submitted the document in the copper box.
After two days' contemplation of it, Jensen, who was the bolder, spirit of the two, hazarded
the conjecture that the language was either Latin or Old Danish.
Anderson ventured upon no surmises, and was very willing to surrender the box and the
parchment to the Historical Society of Viborg to be placed in their museum.
I had the whole story from him a few months later, as we sat in a wood near Upsala, after
a visit to the library there, where we — or, rather, I — had laughed over the contract
by which Daniel Salthenius (in later life Professor of Hebrew at Königsberg) sold himself
to Satan. Anderson was not really amused.
"Young idiot!" he said, meaning Salthenius, who was only an undergraduate when he committed
that indiscretion, "how did he know what company he was courting?"
And when I suggested the usual considerations he only grunted. That same afternoon he told
me what you have read; but he refused to draw any inferences from it, and to assent to any
that I drew for him.
End of Number 13 from Ghost Stories of an Antiquary
by M.R. James �