The whole thing really began, I suppose, when I, going through my papers, realised that if not my income, by some wondrous change in my employer’s view of money (and me), increased or the rent, by some equally wondrous change of mind on my land-lady’s part, decreased I’d be able to stay in my current lodgings for approximately a couple of months. Naturally, the realisation came as somewhat startling. Not that I’ve ever been what you’d call rich but I’ve never counted myself amongst the poor.

The natural course of action now was, of course, to look for new rooms, and that was also what I did. My choices, however, where somewhat limited. First of all the rent had to fall short of my incomes which, sadly, were not particularly high. Second of all cooking had to be included since I lacked both time and skill to cook my own food. And at last, I couldn’t stand the thought of a room-mate. I’m not a very sociable person, and even though I do attend parties and such, the idea of living with a practically unknown person seemed to me utterly revolting.

With these conditions in mind I scanned the newspapers after advertisements after lodgers, discreetly inquired with my acquaintances if they possibly knew of a land-lord or lady in need of a lodger and I even contacted a firm specialised in finding lodgers for out-letters and lodgings for renters. The firm soon told me, for a sum of not a un-notable quantity, that they hadn’t found any rooms meeting my requirements. My spirits didn’t drop because of this and I continued in my search for rooms without the somewhat dubious help of the firm.

One day, in a bookstore, I briefly met an acquaintance from a party. As mentioned, our meeting was brief but he did have time to remark on my quest for rooms. I believe I must have answered something empty and then I rather half-heartedly asked if he knew of anyone in need of a paying guest. I had by then been looking for new rooms for over one and a half month and my personal economy was in a serious crisis. To tell the truth I had nearly given up on finding somewhere to live.

“Well, I can’t be sure of course, but I do think Harrington’s moved out. He had a row with the other guest staying there. The place is just around the corner, if I remember right.”

Whilst wondering who the hell Harrington was and if I was supposed to know him, I asked for the address. My companion didn’t know it but he could give me the name of the street. I thanked him and with the street in my hands (figuratively) we parted on the best of terms and promised to see each other soon again.

Even though renting the room meant a room-mate I decided to go and look at the rooms. If the person living there seemed agreeable and the price was reasonable I would rent it, temporary. After all, I thought, I couldn’t have asked for a better location; it was central and near my job.

I walked briskly down the street and turned onto the street my acquaintance had mentioned. Most of the houses contained small stores, some contained offices and a few were for living in. Looking around I noticed that the street was unusually empty for London, only a couple of street kids and an old lady were out. She was robustly built and wore sensible clothes in rather dark colours. Her face looked nice and she was carrying a basket. Hesitantly, I approached the lady. She didn’t appear to notice me so I gave a discreet cough.

“Oh, do excuse me, sir! I didn’t see you,” she exclaimed.

“That’s quite all right. You must excuse for just imposing myself upon you in this way but I wondered if you might help me?” I asked.

“Well, I’m not sure if I can be of any help but I’ll certainly try”

“I heard that there were rooms to be let here. Do you by any chance know where?”

To my surprise the woman gave a cry and stretched her hands toward me. Amazed, I took a step backwards.

“Please don’t think me mad,” the woman said, “but you see, Mr. Ackroyd’s been trying to let the rooms out for months now but no one seems to want rooms anymore.”

“Mr. Ackroyd is the land-lord?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. And a very good man he is too.”

“What about the other lodger?”

“Other lodger?” the woman said, clearly not understanding what I was talking about.

“Well, it’s rather embarrassing but, you understand, I heard about the rooms from an acquaintance and he new about it being let out because one of his friends had lived here,” I answered awkwardly.

“That would be Mr. Harrington,” she said darkly, “he had a row with Mr. Ackroyd and moved out. Of course it was all Mr. Harrington’s fault.”

“But is there then no one living there now?” I asked, confused.

“Why, only Mr. Ackroyd.”

“Oh,” I said, embarrassed over my mistake, “Would it be to much to ask you to show me the place?”

“Not at all! Mr. Ackroyd will be delighted!”

With that she proceeded down the street with me after her. In front of a big, old house she stopped. The door was made of some dark wood and looked awfully impressive. On it was a small brass sign saying A. Ackroyd. The woman opened the door and beckoned me inside. Well inside I looked around myself. The hallway was big and rather gloomy. On the left was a big cupboard.

“Should I take your coat, sir?” the woman asked.

“Yes please”, I said taking it off together with my hat, “thank you , Mrs…. I’m afraid I don’t know your name?”

“Mrs Johnson, sir. Now, if you’d just come with me.”

Mrs. Johnson walked down the hallway and up the stairs, which were in the end. We continued till the third floor were she turned and opened a door.

“These are the rooms, sir,” she said.

I went in. I came into a rather big room; living room, I assumed. There was a fire place, some armchairs and a couple of bookshelves. I turned to Mrs. Johnson.

“It’s very nice,” I said, and nodding toward a door on the left, “is the bedroom through there?”

She nodded and went ahead of me to open the door. The bedroom was smaller and lighter, because of a huge window. The bed was placed in front of the window and next to it a small table. In the room was also a big wardrobe and a desk. Through a door was the bathroom which, to my delight, contained a spacious bathtub.

“If you don’t want to look around more I could take you to Mr. Ackroyd”, Mrs. Johnson offered. I gladly agreed and together we went down the stairs stopping at the floor under us. There Mrs. Johnson knocked on one of the doors.

“Come in!” came the answer.

She opened the door and gestured for me to come inside.

“This is Mr. --“ she began.

I realised that I had forgotten to introduce myself and quickly filled in.

“James Swift. How do you do?”

“How do you do”, Ackroyd answered.

“He is here about the rooms, sir” she said and then left.

Ackroyd was a tall, thin man. He had jet black hair which had gone grey at his temples. He was dressed in a black frock coat, black trousers and a grey vest, all of excellent quality. The face was dominated by the large, grey eyes. The nose was straight and the mouth, even though a bit feminine, looked grim. On his left cheek bone was a thin, white scar. He looked tired and worn but I imagined he must have been very handsome as a young man.

“So you’re here about the rooms?” Ackroyd began.

“Yes. That’s right,” I said. “however, I’m a bit concerned over the price. You see, I’m a man of limited incomes and these rooms seem very luxurious.”

“I hardly think that will be a problem. My major concern is to get them let out as soon as possible so I do not need to occupy my thoughts with it anymore. Therefore, the price is, if I may say so myself, very low.”

“In that case I see no problem,” I said, “I’d…”

“There are, however, certain conditions,” he interrupted me, “do you wish to hear them?”

“Yes please!” I said, annoyed over his rudeness.

“First, you must not talk with any of my guests without my permission.”

“I’d think that rather obvious!”

“Well, a lot of people do not. Second, you must not answer the door.”

“That sounds all right.”

“Last, if I ask you to stay on your rooms or stay out some time, you must do so.”

“Why?” I asked, perplexed.

“For your own safety,” Ackroyd replied calmly.

“My own safety?” I said, sceptically.

“Yes. Will that be a problem?”

“I suppose not, unless it’ll happen often.”

“It will not. It might not happen at all.”

“Then it’s fine. And as for the price…?”

Ackroyd named a sum which I readily agreed on. Whilst reading through the already prepared contract I noticed that Ackroyd was watching me, a smile playing on his lips. I looked up.

“You must find these conditions very peculiar”, he said, “but I can assure you that they have a perfectly logical explanation.”

“Yes”, I sarcastically remarked, “’my own safety’ I think you said.

“If you do not think me too mad to converse with, then, I might perhaps ask you to dine with me tonight.”

“Well…” I began doubtfully. You see, I wasn’t at all convinced of the man’s sanity and I did find the conditions exceedingly peculiar. The part about them being made for “my own safety” I didn’t believe at all.

“I promise I won’t kill you. I’m actually quite civilized and Mrs. Johnson is an excellent cook. She’ll cook for you even if you don’t eat with me, of course.”

“I’d be delighted”, I said at last, “when should I come?”

“Half past eight?”

I nodded.

“Oh, and another thing. When can I move in?”

“Whenever you like.”

I nodded and looked down again then scribbled my name at the bottom. We shook hands and I bade him good day.

“I shall see you at half past eight, then, Mr. Swift,” he said and I left the room.