Short story for radio by Lynne Truss, read by Will Keen

Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure of telling you the story of an adventure which befell a friend of mine by the name of Winterton, during his pursuit of objects for the museum of witchcraft in Cambridge.  You may remember the case. It concerned a strange and horrible mummified arm; an arm which may or may not have attempted to strangle  Winterton where he slept in accommodation on the North Norfolk Coast (the facts of that frenzied nocturnal assault are still unclear), but was indubitably later identified as the limb of a notorious female childkiller hanged for her crimes in the small coastal town of Sheringham in 1675. To Winterton’s character, it is not difficult to form some superficial opinion. He was a man intelligent and cultivated; his besetting fault was over-inquisitiveness. As you shall see, his curiosity was a weakness for which he -- and others -- paid dearly enough in the end.

It was in the December of 1907 that Winterton received a plain paper package at his rooms in the Fitzwilliam Museum. From preliminary examination, he deduced that it contained a manuscript of some short length, fifteen pages perhaps. He unwrapped it, discovered its contents, and called immediately for his assistant curator Mr Eldred (hesitation in reading, as if seeing new words inserted) who sent his apologies but refused to come. (Actor stops reading, becomes actor) Sorry, didn’t see that bit. I’ll go back. Sorry, everyone. (Resumes reading) He unwrapped it, discovered its interesting contents, and called immediately for his curator Mr Eldred, who sent his apologies but refused to come. (Pause, actor listens to something being said to him on headphones; says as actor) What? That’s what it says here, love. “Who sent his apologies and refused to come”. You haven’t got that in your script? Well, how have I got it in mine then? No, no, of course I don’t mind; no skin off my nose if  Mr Eldred refused to come! Ahem! (Goes again) He unwrapped it, discovered its interesting contents, and called for his curator Mr Eldred. (This is an end to the matter, as far as he is concerned. He presses on.)

The object in question was innocent enough on superficial inspection. It was a manuscript indeed of some fifteen pages, neatly typed, with the title “Oculos habent, et non videbunt -- They have eyes and shall not see”. No author was indicated, although attached to it was a note, evidently scribbled by a person in some state of agitation. “Middoth Priory, midnight, All Hallow’s Eve 1900.” There was no accompanying letter.

(Actor addresses producer again) How are we doing, is this all right? Oh good. It’s very odd, I’ll tell you, doing this with you two hundred miles away! Especially with it all completely dark in the other studios. (Pause) No, no, she left, you see. She was only paid to let me in and set up the line to London, and grumbled like anything about coming out so late. Sorry. I’ll try not to keep stopping, but it’s just it’s nice to hear your voice from time to time! Shall I go on? Right. (Finds place) Oh yes. (With mock fear and foreboding) Middoth Priory! All Hallow’s Eve! (Makes playful scary cackle, and cuts it off with great professionalism)

(Resumes reading)
“Middoth Priory?” said Mr Eldred. “Surely Middoth Priory was the home of the late Professor Karswell, sir? Did he not die on the stroke of midnight on All Hallow’s Eve some seven years ago?”
“He did,” agreed Winterton. “Karswell was a man of whose character it was not difficult to form a superficial opinion. His fault, like my own, was over-inquisitiveness. It was often said that he -- and others -- would pay the price. And you are right, Eldred. He died mysteriously enough on the date you mention. He was discovered lifeless on his Turkish rug next morning, wearing a look of inexpressible terror. But I would be deceiving you, and that to no good purpose, if I laid claim to possess any information whatsoever on the proceedings of that night.”

Winterton fell silent, lost in memory. His feelings were mixed. Karswell it was, of course, who had inspired and encouraged Winterton as a young and brilliant antiquary to pursue unconventional academic interests, and for that encouragement Winterton would always be grateful. On the other hand, it was likewise Karswell who had first located and purchased the dangerous mummified arm that would have dispatched Winterton to that bourne from which no traveller returns, had he not -- on that never to be forgotten night at Blakeney -- resourcefully smashed its elbow with a poker.

Eldred examined the story, turning each page. It was evidently a narrative. There were stretches of dialogue. Eldred was impressed by the neatness of its presentation, as Winterton had been. From a quick perusal it seemed there were no emendations of any kind.
“Do you think there is a possibility that this story holds the key to Karswell’s death?” he asked. “Did Karswell write it?”
“Our only course is to read it, Eldred. Tea will be laid in the library at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I suggest we convene there at that hour, before a roaring fire, and learn the matter of this narrative.”

“An excellent suggestion, sir,” said Eldred. “But on the other hand, have you considered how a sub-plot would leaven proceedings at this point, as well as introduce an element of surprise? I have appeared in stories of this nature before, sir, you may recall the M.R. James one about the library where I was found unconscious in the Talmud section, and I have a sinking feeling, sir. There is something about the narrative structure here that is worryingly familiar. Let us pause to inspect the evidence. Karswell died after reading this story. Which means, as I need hardly point out, sir, there is a strong narrative probability that you and I will expire after reading it, too. Whereas if we took this opportunity, sir, to catch the 5.47 to Paddington and procure tickets to Drury Lane, we might ensure a quite different and benign outcome --” (This paragraph has all been new material; the actor reads until interrupted by confused producer; he is pulled up short) What? You haven’t got that bit either? Which bit haven’t you got? What, all of it? From where? (He is starting to be less happy about the discrepancies in the two versions of this script. He is quite an important actor who doesn’t do short stories as a rule; his patience is is being tried.) Well, I’m sorry, love, but how am I supposed to know? No, it’s not written in! I’m reading the text! And rather well, I might add, since no one has bothered to say so at your end yet. (Producer gives praise, but actor is on a roll) Well, all right, thank you for that, love, but I come out here, all on my own, no car laid on, peculiar time of night, pitch-dark studios all round; and now I’ve got a dodgy script as well --  well never again, that’s all I’m saying. (Pause as he is placated a bit; he pulls himself together) All right, just tell me, what’s your next line? If you want me to start from there, of course I will, I’m a professional even if nobody else is. (Searches script) “And thus it was on the following afternoon --”, following afternoon, following afternoon, got it. (Under breath) I bet Martin Jarvis never had to put up with rubbish like this.

(Resumes reading)
It was on the following night that Eldred met Winterton at his rooms in college. He had eagerly awaited the appointed hour, having uncovered in the course of the intervening day some highly interesting information.
“It seems that before he died,” Eldred said, “Professor Karswell investigated a succession of inexplicable events. Each centred on an artefact of a cultural nature -- a book, a picture, a piece of music -- which, strange as it may sound, sir, changed under scrutiny to reveal or precipitate events of some inexpressibly horrific variety. Did he never mention the mezzotint to you, sir?”
“The mezzotint?”
“Its subject was a large Jacobean house in moonlight, sir. When first observed by Professor Karslake, the picture showed a plain, wide and empty lawn in front of the house. When the picture was next examined, however, a figure had appeared in the foreground. Subsequently, the figure was found to be coped like a monk, skinny as a wraith, and crawling on all fours towards the house!
“Another case involved a recorded cylinder of the Edison manufacture that seemed at first to contain only a minute’s hissing, crackling silence -- or possibly, distantly, fearfully, the faintest tapping at a casement, as if made by a claw. But when he listened to it again, sir, the tapping grew louder and more insistent, and culminated in the unmistakeable sound of broken glass and a scream of terror.
“And finally there is mention, sir, of a story. A story which keeps itself alive, despite every effort to suppress it. A story which, despite even the strenuous efforts of its own unwillingly recruited characters, cannot be prevented from having the most evil conclusion! Karslake realised just before he died that he had become part of that story, sir. He found himself saying the words “I would be deceiving you, however, and that to no good purpose, if I laid claim to possess any information whatsoever on the proceedings of that night” -- and he recognised at once that he was in thrall to an omniscient narrator! I fear, Mr Winterton, that ever since that package arrived at your office yesterday, you and I have become part of the story too! You said those words yourself, not four pages ago!”

Winterton stared at the fire. He wrestled momentarily with the over-inquisitiveness which -- as may have been mentioned before -- was destined to be the downfall of himself and others.
He made up his mind.
“What did you say was on at Drury Lane?” he inquired. “Get your stuff. I have an aunt in Peckham. We can hide there.”
“I fear it is too late, sir,” said Eldred. “We have been part of the story for some time.”
They waited. By the light of the library fire, they waited and waited (actor a bit uncomfortable) and waited and waited for someone to steer them back to the strong M.R. James-y central narrative with long unsensational sentences of an omniscient nature which, though ostensibly dry and academic in vocabulary and syntax were nevertheless cleverly suggestive of unspeakable horrors.

(As actor, interrupts himself) Very strange this, isn’t it? Is it post-modern? - I must say I was expecting something more traditional for an afternoon reading. (Flicks through script) Hello? Lisa, love? Are you still there? Hello? Oh, don’t tell me the line’s gone. (Calls) Lisa! (He sighs) Look, if you can hear me, love, I’ll go through to the end, because it’s getting late, and I just heard a tap on the glass, so someone obviously wants me out of here. Look, if the line’s gone, I’m sorry. But I’ll assume you can hear me, OK? Right.

(Resumes reading)
Winterton and Eldred stared at the manuscript. They felt utterly alone, as if sitting in a glass box surrounded by darkness with no voice to guide them. Before their eyes the words of the story melted and shifted, and their own names began to appear on the page; also words in parenthesis, underlined, such as “The actor tries to be light-hearted, but is unsettled that there is no reply”; “The actor resumes the reading”.
(The actor pauses) The actor? What actor? Where did an actor come into this? This is getting very weird, Lisa, love. (Reads) “He is rather an important actor, and he doesn’t do short stories for radio as a rule; his patience is being tried by all the interruptions from the unseen producer.”

(Very unsettled now, he reads -- and reacts with horror when he sees his own name)
“We tried to warn you, Mr Keen [real name of actor],” said Eldred. (Actor makes noises with script, as if looking to see where his own name came into it) “We dropped all sorts of hints that this would happen. That tap at the glass you just heard? Well, I’m afraid it won’t be the last. And if you are wondering what’s doing the tapping -- well, let’s face it, no ghost writer drops a reference to a murderous mummified arm and then forgets to bring it back in. I hope you’ve got a poker handy in that lonely little studio, Will, that’s all. I really did try! But as you’ll discover yourself, there’s a limit to what a mere character can do against an omniscient narrator.”
(Actor emotes; he is trapped)
“In the morning, of course, Winterton and Eldred were found lifeless on the Turkish carpet in front of the fire, their faces contorted with horror. (A loud tap, at which the actor yelps) But since there was only one page left to the story, it was unlikely an explanation of their terrifying ends would ever be forthcoming.
(Actor shuffles papers, realising he has only a tiny bit left to read)
No, no, one page? There’s got to be more than this. One page!
(Reads, with dying fall of MR James-y conclusion)
“I would be deceiving you, however,” said Mr Keen, “and that to no good purpose, if I laid claim to possess any information whatsoever on the proceedings of that night.”
(As actor)
Hello? Is that the end, then? Look, I’m not actually in this story, you know. Because that can’t happen!
(A knock on the glass; he reacts. Another knock, then pause; then very scared)
Hello?

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