The Kit Bag - Algernon Blackwood

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The kit Bag by Algernon Blackwood, with the words not
guilty sounded through the crowded court room that dark December afternoon.
Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal k C and leader for
the triumphant defense, was represented by his junior but Johnson,
his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers

(00:21):
like lightning. It's what we expected, I think, said the barrister,
without emotion, and personally, I am glad the case is over.
There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defense
of John Turk, the murderer on a plea of insanity,
had been successful. For no doubt, he felt as everybody

(00:41):
who had watched the face felt that no man had
ever better deserved the gallows. I'm glad too, said Johnson.
He had sat in the court for ten days watching
the face of the man who had carried out, with
callous detail, one of the most brutal and cold blooded
murders of recent years. The council glanced up at his secretary.

(01:02):
They were more than an employer, and employed for family
and other reasons. They were friends. Ah, I remember, yes,
he said, with a kind smile. And you want to
get away for Christmas. You're going to skate and ski
in the Alps, aren't you. If I was your age,
i'd come with you. Johnson laughed shortly. He was a

(01:24):
young man of twenty six, with a delicate face like
a girl's. I can catch the morning boat now, he said.
But that's not the reason I'm glad the trial is over.
I'm glad it's over because I've seen the last of
that man's dreadful face. It positively haunted me. That white
skin with the black hair brushed low over the forehead

(01:45):
is a thing I shall never forget. And the description
of the way the dismembered body was crammed and packed
with lime into that, I'll dwell on it, my dear fellow,
interrupted the other, looking at him curiously out of his
keen eyes. Don't think about it. Such pitchers have a
trick of coming back when one least wants them. He

(02:06):
paused a moment. Now go, he said, presently, and enjoy
your holiday. I shall want all your energy for my
parliamentary work when you get back, and don't break your
neckt scheme. Johnson shook hands and took his leave. At
the door. He turned suddenly, I knew there was something
I wanted to ask you, he said, Would you mind

(02:27):
lending me one of your kit bags? It's too late
to get one to night, and I leave in the
morning before the shops are open. Of course, I'll send
Henry over with it to your rooms. You shall have
it the moment I get home. I promise to take
great care of it, said Johnson, gratefully delighted to think
that within thirty hours he would be nearing the brilliant

(02:49):
sunshine of the High Alps in winter. The thought of
that criminal court was like an evil dream in his mind.
He dined at his club and went on to Bloomsbury,
where he occupied the top floor in one of those
old gaunt houses in which the rooms are large and lofty.
The floor below his own was wakened and unfurnished, and
below that were other lodgers whom he did not know.

(03:10):
It was cheerless, and he looked forward heartily to a change.
The night was even more cheerless. It was miserable, and
few people were about. A cold, sleety rain was driving
down the streets before the keenest east wind he had
ever felt. It howled dismally among the big gloomy houses
of the great squares, and when he reached his rooms

(03:31):
he heard it whistling and shouting over the world of
black roofs beyond his windows. In the hall, he met
his landlady shading a candle from the drafts with a
thin hand. This comes by a man from mister Wilprint, Sir.
She pointed to what was evidently the kit bag, and
Johnson thanked her and took it upstairs with him. I
shall be going abroad in the morning for ten days, missus, monks,

(03:53):
he said, I'll leave an address for letters, and I
hope you have a merry Christmas, Sir, she said, in
a raucous, wheezy voice that suggested spirits and better wealth
than this. I hope so, too, replied her lodger, shuddering
a little as the wind went roaring down the street outside.
When he got up stairs, he heard the sleet wallying

(04:14):
against the windowpanes. He put a skettle on to make
a cup of hot coffee, and then set about putting
a few things in order for his absence. And now
I must pack, such as my packing is, he laughed
to himself, and set to work at once. He liked
the packing, for it brought the snow mountain so vividly
before him and made him forget the unpleasant scenes of

(04:35):
the past ten days. Besides, it was not elaborate in nature.
His friend had lent him the very thing, a stout
canvas kit bag, sack shaped with holes around the neck
for the brass bar and padlock. It was a bit shapeless, true,
and not much to look at, but its capacity was
unlimited and there was no need to pack carefully. He

(04:57):
shoved in his waterproof coat, his fur cap and glove,
his skates and climbing boots, his sweaters, snow boots, and
ear caps. And then on the top of these he
piled his woolen shirts in underwear, his thick socks, putties,
and knickerbockers. The dress suit came next, in case the
hotel people dressed for dinner. And then, thinking of the
best way to pack his white shirts, he paused a

(05:19):
moment to reflect, that's the worst of these kit bags,
he mused, vaguely, standing in the center of the sitting
room where he had come to fetch some string. It
was after ten o'clock. A furious gust of wind rattled
the windows as though, to hurry him up, and he
thought with pity of the poor Londoners whose Christmas would
be spent in such a climate. Whilst he was skimming

(05:39):
over snowy slopes in bright sunshine and dancing in the
evening with rosy cheeked girls. Ah, that reminded him he
must put in his dancing pumps and evening socks. He
crossed over from his sitting room to the cupboard on
the landing where he kept his linen. As he did so,
he heard some one coming up the stairs. He stood
still a moment on the landing to listen. It was

(06:00):
missus Monk's step. He thought she must be coming up
with the last post. But then the steps seized suddenly
and he heard no more. They were at least two
flights down, and he came to the conclusion they were
too heavy to be those of his bibulous lady. No
doubt they belonged to a late lodger who had mistaken
his floor. He went into the bedroom and packed his

(06:21):
pumps and dress shirts as best he could. The kit bag,
by this time was two thirds full and stood upright
on its own base like a sack of flower. For
the first time, he noticed that it was old and dirty,
the canvas faded and worn, and that it had obviously
been subjected to rather rough treatment. It was not a
very nice bag to have sent him, certainly not a

(06:42):
new one, or one that is chief valued. He gave
the matter a passing thought and went on with his packing.
Once or twice, however, he caught himself wondering who it
could have been wandering down below, For missus monks had
not come up with letters, and the floor was empty
and unfurnished from time to time. Moreover, he was almost

(07:02):
certain he heard a soft tread of some one patting
about over the bare boards, cautiously, stealthily, as silently as possible,
and further that the sounds had been lately coming distinctly nearer.
For the first time in his life, he began to
feel a little creepy. Then, as though to emphasize this feeling,
an odd thing happened. As he left the bedroom, having

(07:24):
just packed his recalcitrated white shirts. He noticed that the
top of the kit bag locked over towards him with
an extraordinary resemblance to a human face. The canvas fell
into a fold like a nose and forehead, and the
brass rings, for the padlock just filled the position of
the eyes a shadow or was it a travel stain,

(07:45):
for he could not tell exactly look like hair, It
gave him rather a turn, for it was so absurdly,
so outrageously like the face of John Turk the murderer.
He laughed and went into the front room, where the
light was stronger. That horrid case has caught on to
my mind, he thought, I shall be glad of a
change of scene and air in the sitting room. However,

(08:08):
he was not pleased to hear again that stealthy tread
upon the stairs, and to realize that it was much
closer than before, as well as unmistakably real. And this
time he got up and went out to see who
it could be creeping about on the upper staircase at
so late an hour. But the sound ceased, there was
no one visible on the stairs. He went to the

(08:29):
floor below, not without trepidation, and turned on the electric
light to make sure that no one was hiding in
the empty rooms of the unoccupied suite. There was not
a stick of furniture large enough to hide a dog.
Then he called over the banisters to missus monks, but
there was no answer, and his voice echoed down into
the dark vault of the house and was lost in

(08:49):
the roar of the gale that howled outside. Every One
was in bed and asleep, every one except himself and
the owner of this soft and stealthy tread. I absurd
imagine nation. I suppose he thought it must have been
the wind after all, although it seemed so very real
and close, I thought. He went back to his packing.

(09:10):
It was by this time getting on towards midnight. He
drank his coffee up and lit another pipe, the last
before turning in. It is difficult to say exactly at
what point fear begins. When the causes of that fear
are not plainly before the eyes, impressions gather on the
surface of the mind film by film, as eyes gathers

(09:32):
upon the surface of still water, but often so lightly
that they claim no definite recognition from the consciousness. Then
a point is reached where the accumulated impressions become a
definite emotion, and the mind realizes that something has happened.
With something of a start, Johnson suddenly recognized that he
felt nervous, oddly nervous, also that for some time past

(09:56):
The causes of this feeling had been gathering slowly in
his mind, but that he had only just reached the
point where he was forced to acknowledge them. It was
a singular and curious malaise that had come over him,
and he hardly knew what to make of it. He
felt as though he were doing something that was strongly
objected to by another person, another person moreover, who had

(10:20):
some right to object. It was a most disturbing and
disagreeable feeling, not unlike the persistent promptings of conscience, almost
in fact, as if he were doing something he knew
to be wrong. Yet though he searched vigorously and honestly
in his mind, he could nowhere lay his finger upon
the secret of this growing uneasiness, and it perplexed him more.

(10:44):
It distressed and frightened him. Pun Herves, I suppose, he
said aloud, with a forced laugh. Mountain air will cure
all that, ah, he added, still speaking to himself, And
that reminds me my snow glasses. He was standing by
the door of the bedroom during this brief soliloquy, and

(11:05):
as he passed quickly towards the sitting room to fetch
them from the cupboard, he saw out of the corner
of his eye the indistinct outline of a figure standing
on the stairs a few feet from the top. It
was some one in a stooping position, with one hand
on the banisters and the face peering up towards the landing.
And at the same moment he heard a shuffling footstep.

(11:28):
The person who had been creeping about below all the
time had at last come up to his own floor.
Who in the world could it be, and what in
the name of heaven did he want? Johnson caught his
breath sharply and stood stock still. Then, after a few
seconds hesitation, he found his courage and turned to investigate.

(11:49):
The stairs, he saw, to his utter amazement, were empty.
There was no one. He felt a series of cold
shivers run over him, and something about the muscles of
his legs a little, and grew weak. For the space
of several minutes, he peered steadily into the shadows that
congregated about the top of the staircase where he had

(12:09):
seen the figure, And then he walked fast, almost ran,
in fact, into the light of the front room. But
hardly had he passed inside the doorway when he heard
some one come up the stairs behind him with a
quick bound, and go swiftly into his bedroom. It was
a heavy but at the same time a stealthy footstep,

(12:31):
the tread of somebody who did not wish to be seen.
And it was at this precise moment that the nervousness
he had hitherto experienced leaped the boundary line and entered
the state of fear, almost of acute and reasoning fear,
before it turned into terror. There was a further boundary
to cross, and beyond that again lay the region of

(12:52):
pure horror. Johnson's position was an unenviable one. By jove,
that was someone on the stairs. Then he muttered, his
flesh crawling all over, and whoever it was, has now
gone into my bedroom. His delicate, pale face turned absolutely white,
and for some minutes he hardly knew what to think

(13:14):
or do. Then he realized intuitively that delay only set
a premium upon fear, and he crossed the landing boldly
and went straight into the other room, where a few
seconds before the steps had disappeared. Who's there is that you, missus? Monks?
He called aloud as he went, and heard the first

(13:34):
half of his words echoed down the empty stairs, while
the second half fell dead against the curtains in a
room that apparently held no other human figure than his own.
Who's there, he called again, in a voice unnecessarily loud,
and that just only held from What do you want here?

(13:55):
The curtain swayed very slightly, and as he saw it,
his heart feltelt as if it almost missed a beat.
Yet he dashed forward and drew them aside with a rush.
A window streaming with rain was all that met his gaze.
He continued his search mud in vain. The cupboards held
nothing but rows of cloaths hanging motionless, and under the

(14:17):
bed there was no sign of anyone hiding. He stepped
backwards into the middle of the room, and as he
did so, something all but tripped him up. Turning with
a sudden spring of alarm, he saw the kit bag. Odd,
he thought, that's not where I left it a few
moments before. It had surely been on his right, between

(14:38):
the bed and the back. He did not remember having
moved it. It was very curious, what in the world
was the matter with everything? Were all his senses gone queer?
A terrific gust of wind tore at the windows dashing
the sleet against the glass with a force of small
gun shot, and then fled away, howling dismally over the

(14:59):
waist of bloombury roofs. A sudden vision of the channel
next day rose in his mind and recalled him sharply
to realities. There's no one here at any rate. That's
quite clear, he exclaimed aloud. Yet at the time he
uttered them, he knew perfectly well that his words were
not true, and that he did not believe them himself.

(15:21):
He fell exactly as though some one was hiding close
about him, watching all his movements, trying to hinder his
packing in some way. And two of my senses, he said,
keeping up the pretense have played me the most absurd tricks.
The steps I heard and the figure I saw were
both entirely imaginary. He went back to the front room,

(15:44):
poked the fire into a blaze, and sat down before
it to think. What impressed him more than anything else
was the fact that the kit bag was no longer
where he had left it. It had been dragged nearer
to the door. What happened afterwards that night happened, of
course to a man already excited by fear, and was

(16:05):
perceived by a mind that had not the full and
proper control therefore of the senses. Outwardly, Johnson remained calm
and master of himself to the end, pretending to the
very last that every thing he witnessed had a natural
explanation or was merely delusions of his tired nerves. But inwardly,

(16:25):
in his very heart, he knew all along that some
one had been hiding down stairs in the empty suite
when he came in, that this person had watched his opportunity,
and then stealthily made his way up to the bedroom,
and that all he saw and heard afterwards, from the
moving of the kit bag, too, well to the other
things the story has to tell, were caused directly by

(16:48):
the presence of this invisible person. And it was here,
just when he most desired to keep his mind and
thoughts controlled, that the vivid pictures received day after day
upon the mental plates exposed in the court room of
the old bailey, came strongly to light and developed themselves
in the dark room of his inner vision. Unpleasant, haunting

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memories have a way of coming to life again just
when the mind least desires them. In the silent watches
of the night on sleepless pillow, during the lonely hours
spent by sick and dying beds, and so now in
the same way, Johnson saw nothing but the dreadful face
of John Turk, the murderer, lowering at him from every

(17:32):
corner of his mental field of vision. The white skin,
the evil eyes, and the fringe of black hair low
over the forehead. All the pictures of those ten days
in court crowded back into his mind, unbidden and very vivid.
This is all rubbish and nerves, he exclaimed at length,
springing with sudden energy from his chair. I shall finish

(17:53):
my packing and go to bed. I am overwrought, over tired,
no doubt at this rate I shall yes steps and
things all night. But his face was deadly white. All
the same. He snatched up his field glasses and walked
across to the bedroom, humming a music hall song as
he went, a trifle too loud to be natural, and

(18:14):
the instant he crossed the threshold and stood within the room,
something turned cold about his heart, and he felt that
every hair on his head stood up. The kit bag
lay close in front of him, several feet nearer to
the door than he had left it, and just over
its crumpled top, he saw a head and face slowly
sinking down out of sight, as though someone were crouching

(18:37):
behind it to hide, And at the same moment a
sound like a long drawn sigh was distinctly audible in
the still air about him. Between the gusts of the
storm outside. Johnson had more courage and will power than
the girlish indecision of his face indicated. But at first
such a wave of terror came over him that for

(18:59):
some seconds he could do nothing but stand and stare.
A violent trembling ran down his back and legs, and
he was conscious of a foolish, almost a hysterical, impulse
to scream aloud. That sigh seemed in his very ear,
and the air still quivered with it. It was unmistakably

(19:19):
a human sigh. Who's there, he said, at length, finding
his voice, But though he meant to speak with loud decision,
the tones came out instead in a faint whisper, for
he had partly lost the control of his tongue and lips.
He stepped forward so that he could see all around

(19:39):
and over the kit bag. Of course, there was nothing there,
nothing but the faded carpet and the bulging canvas sides.
He put out his hands and threw open the mouth
of the sack where it had fallen over, being only
three parts full. And then he saw for the first
time that round the inside, some six inches from the top,

(20:00):
there ran a broad smear of dull Crimson. It was
an old and faded blood stain. He uttered a scream
and drew back his hands as if they had been burnt.
At the same moment, the kit bag gave a faint
but unmistakable lurch forward towards the door. Johnson collapsed backwards,

(20:20):
searching with his hands for the support of something solid,
and the door, being further behind him than he realized,
received his weight just in time to prevent his falling,
and shut to with a resounding bang. At the same moment,
the swinging of his left arm accidentally touched the electric switch,
and the light in the room went out. It was

(20:42):
an awkward and disagreeable predicament, and if Johnson had not
been possessed of real pluck, he might have done all
manner of foolish things. As it was, however, he pulled
himself together and groped furiously for the little brass knob
to turn the lights on again, But the rapid closing
of the door had set the coats hanging on it

(21:04):
a swinging, and his fingers became entangled in a confusion
of sleeves and pocket, so that it was some moments
before he found the switch. And in those few moments
of bewilderment and terror, two things happened that sent him
beyond recall, over the boundary into the region of genuine horror.
He distinctly heard the kit bag shuffling heavily across the

(21:27):
floor in jerks, and close in front of his face
sounded once again the sigh of a human being. In
his anguished efforts to find the brass button on the wall,
he nearly scraped the nails from his fingers. But even then,
in those frenzied moments of alarm, so swift and alert
are the impressions of a mind keyed up by a

(21:49):
vivid emotion, he had time to realize that he dreaded
the return of the light, and that it might be
better for him to stay hidden in the merciful screen
of darkness. It but the impulse of a moment, however,
and before he had time to act upon it. He
had yielded automatically to the original desire, and the room
was flooded again with light. But the second instinct had

(22:12):
been right. It would have been better for him to
have stayed in the shelter of the kind darkness. But there,
close before him, bending over the half packed kit bag,
clear as life than the merciless glare of the electric light,
stood the figure of John Turk, the murderer. Not three
feet from him the man stood, the fringe of black

(22:35):
hair marked plainly against the pallor of the forehead, the
whole horrible presentment of the scoundrel, as vivid as he
had seen him day after day in the old bailey,
when he stood there in the dark, cynical and callous,
under the very shadow of the gallows. In a flash,
Johnson realized what it all meant. The dirty and much

(22:56):
used bag, the smear of Crimson within the top, the
dreadful stretched condition of the bulging sides. He remembered how
the victim's body had been stuffed into a canvas bag
for burial, the ghastly dismembered fragments forced with lime into
this very bag, and the bag itself produced his evidence.
It all came back to him as clear as they

(23:20):
very softly and stealthily. His hand groped behind him for
the handle of the door, but before he could actually
turn it, the very thing that he most afore dreaded
came about, and John Turk lifted his devil's face and
looked at him. At the same moment, the heavy sigh
passed through the air of the room, formulated somehow into

(23:41):
the words it's my bag and I want it. Johnson
just remembered clawing the door open and then falling in
a heap upon the floor of the landing as he
tried frantically to make his way into the front room.
He remained unconscious for a long time, and it was
still dark when he opened his eyes and realized that

(24:04):
he was lying stiff and bruised on the cold boards.
Then the memory of what he had seen rushed back
into his mind, and he promptly fainted again. When he
woke the second time, the wintry dawn was just beginning
to peep in at the windows, painting the stairs a cheerless,
dismal gray, and he managed to crawl into the front

(24:25):
room and cover himself with an overcoat in the arm chair,
where at length he fell asleep. A great clamor woke him.
He recognized missus Monk's voice, loud and voluble. What you
ain't been to bed? Sir? You ill? Or has anything happened?
And there's an urgent gentleman to see you, though it

(24:47):
ain't seven o'clock yet. Ann Who is it? He stammered,
I'm all right, thanks, fell asleep in my chair. I
suppose summon from mister Wilburm's and he says he ought
to see you quick before you go abroad. And I
told him show him up, please at once, said Johnson,

(25:07):
whose head was whirling and his mind was still full
of dreadful visions. Mister Wilbram's man came in with many
apologies and explained briefly and quickly that an absurd mistake
had been made, and that the wrong kit bag had
been sent over the night before. Henry's somehow got hold
of the one that came over from the court room,

(25:29):
and mister Wilbram only discovered it when he saw his
own lying in his room and asked why it had
not gone to you. The man said, oh, said Johnson stupidly,
and he must have brought you the one from the
murder case instead, sir, I'm afraid, the man continued, without
the ghost of an expression on his face. The one
John Turk packed the dead body in mister Wilbram's awfully

(25:52):
upset about it, sir, and told me to come over
first thing this morning with the right one. As you
were leaving by the boat. He pointed to a looking
kit back on the floor which he had just brought.
And I was to bring the other one back, sir,
he added casually. For some minutes, Johnson could not find
his voice. At last, he pointed in the direction of

(26:13):
his bedroom. Perhaps you would kindly unpack it for me,
Just empty the things out on the floor. The man
disappeared into the other room and was gone for five minutes.
Johnson heard the shifting to and fro of the bag
and the rattle of the skates and boots being unpacked.
Thank you, sir, the man said, returning with the bag

(26:34):
folded over his arm. And can I do anything more
to help you? Sir? What is it? Asked Johnson, seeing
that he still had something he wished to say. The
man shuffled and looked mysterious, beg pardon, sir, but knowing
your interest in the Turk case, I thought you'd maybe
like to know what's happened. Yes, John Turk killed herself

(27:00):
last night with poison, immediately on getting his release, and
he left a note from mister Wilbrahm saying as he'd
be much obliged if they'd haven't put away, same as
the woman he'd murdered in the old kit bag. What
time did he do it, asked Johnson, ten o'clock last night, sir.

(27:21):
The water says end off the kit Bag. By Algernon
Blackwood