The Madman's Room

1

‘When was the Great Fire of London, exactly?’ asked Paula Lyle, shooting her companion a mischievous glance.

Patrick Nolan pretended not to hear. Looking straight in front of him at the beach which sloped gently down to the sea, he preferred to listen to the waves rather than the stupid history questions his friend insisted on asking. She appeared to be revelling in his ignorance. Or, rather, she was enjoying his embarrassment. But the days of him blushing like a schoolboy were over. He remembered the exact date of their first encounter, several years earlier. She had straightaway asked him Queen Victoria’s date of birth. How could she possibly have known how limited his knowledge was about historical matters and how embarrassed he would be? The only facts he remembered pertained to times of tragedy, such as the plague which ravaged the capital in 1665 and the macabre details of London Bridge and the decapitated heads on spikes. He’d also made a study of the most celebrated crimes. And, of course, he did know all about the fire which had engulfed the capital.

Still maintaining his silence, he studied her thoughtfully as she lay beside him on the beach. Roughly the same age as he — barely twenty — he would have been hard put to judge her repugnant. Light brown hair, high cheekbones, an adorable chin and mischievous blue eyes with long black lashes. Medium height and seemingly very well proportioned. Of course, to be sure, he’d have to see her without that annoying swimsuit covering her anatomy. He tried to forget about that obstacle.

‘I say,’ observed Paula, ‘if you’re going to undress me with your eyes, you could at least do it more discreetly. You’re like an entomologist in front of a new species of insect!’

‘Then how about like this?’ asked Patrick, rolling his wide-open eyes in wonder.

The young woman stood up, looked towards the horizon and said, very seriously:

‘You don’t understand, my dear: we’re alone on a deserted beach, where you’re free to contemplate my knees at your leisure… If anyone should see us, my honour would be compromised.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, darling. Pudding Lane, one o’clock in the morning, second of September 1666.’

‘What?’

Patrick regarded his fingernails nonchalantly:

‘You asked me when the fire had started. Is there anything else you’d like to know? The direction of the wind, the human and material losses, the consequences, both direct and indirect….’

‘It’s true, I’d forgotten: once death is involved you’re a veritable encyclopaedia. I never understood why you didn’t join the police… or a detective agency. I’m sure you’d have been in your element. Your obsession with the morbid….’

Patrick Nolan raised his arms to the sky.

‘There we have it! You can’t show an interest in certain aspects of history or in police investigations without being treated as a pervert or a homicidal maniac.’ He lowered his arms and frowned. ‘As a matter of fact, I did apply to a couple of detective agencies. But the work was more often adultery rather than serious crime investigation. And helping cuckolds is not how I intend to spend my life.’

‘I should hope not,’ retorted Paula. ‘If ever I marry, it could never be to—.’

‘—someone like me!’ interrupted Patrick, laughingly throwing a handful of sand on Paula’s bare legs.

Paula laughed as well:

‘No, that would be a catastrophe for both of us!’

The two young people exchanged complicit glances and fell into silence. Lying on the sand, eyes closed, they savoured the warmth of the sand, the caresses of the sun’s rays and the silent calm of the cove, rocked by the unceasing murmur of the sea.

Silently, Patrick looked back on his long friendship with Paula. She was the only girl of his age with whom he could carry on a relationship without there being any question of love. No flirting, even: just comradeship, pure and simple. She was certainly attractive, he didn’t deny that, but he’d known her for too long for there to be any feelings deeper than that. As a companion, she was never dull: whenever they were together she would tease him mercilessly and pester him with a thousand questions. He had not appreciated the time when she had subjected his nose to a detailed examination and commentary in front of several of his friends. Neither had he been amused when she’d cut the sleeves off one of his shirts on the pretext she didn’t think they were suitable — he’d almost put her over his knees to administer a spanking. Paula was certainly a handful — and that may well have been the aspect of her he found the most interesting. One day, on what she’d claimed would be a “cultural voyage” to a church near Salisbury, she’d profited from the fact they were alone inside to ascend to the pulpit and launch an inflammatory tirade in which he participated. They’d laughed so hard on the way out they’d had tears in their eyes. There were many similar incidents, but once the impish adolescent grew up to be a charming young woman, their relationship had changed. When a brief love affair of Paula’s had fizzled out, he’d taken advantage of the situation to play the wise father and offer sensible advice. At first, it was nothing more than a game for Patrick, a sort of payback. But, once he realised she listened to his recommendations, he started to take himself more seriously and vowed to become the guardian of her happiness.

He shot a glance at his companion who, head turned to one side, appeared to be asleep. Noticing a frown on her normally smooth forehead, he asked light-heartedly:

‘Any worries, my sweet? An affair of the heart?’

Paula sat up, looked at him for a long moment, then contemplated the circles her index finger was drawing in the sand.

‘I got a letter from Francis this morning.’

‘Good old Francis. What’s become of him since last summer?’

Paula stopped drawing circles and became tight-lipped.

‘I saw him again last December in London. He’d invited me to spend a few days at his parents’ house. He was very nice and… made me a certain proposal.’

Patrick smiled indulgently.

‘But I already know all that, Paula. You told me about it in detail, don’t you remember?’

‘I certainly didn’t tell you he asked for my hand in marriage!’

‘You didn’t need to, I guessed it anyway. He fell for you like a ton of bricks the moment he saw you. It was right here, about a year ago. I recall the scene as if it were yesterday. His parents were installed in deck chairs further up and he and his sister walked past us on the beach. As soon as he saw you his eyes lit up. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.’

Paula looked down:

‘And I suppose you don’t remember the look you gave Sarah?’

Patrick affected a casual sigh.

‘She’s very beautiful, I must admit. But….’

He stopped, unable to find the words. Paula looked with amusement at her companion. He was tall and slim, and she liked to gaze into his big brown eyes full of tenderness mixed with irony, especially when he was feeling uncomfortable, as was the case now.

‘But?’ repeated Paula, full of smiles.

‘How can I put it?… She’s very beautiful, I’ll be the first to admit, but she’s not… desirable, if you see what I mean.’

Paula raised a quizzical eyebrow:

‘I could almost swear I saw the two of you kissing, out there on the rocks. Don’t tell me it was an optical illusion?’

‘Simple politeness on my part,’ declared Patrick, stiffly. ‘Any other reaction on my part would have… offended her. It was the least I could do. Let me remind you that it was already late, it was a warm night and… Anyway, what were we talking about?’

‘Francis.’

‘Ah, yes. Francis. A nice chap, and quite interesting — at least, when he’s not talking about you.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that, besotted as he is with you — and even that’s putting it mildly — he won’t stop asking me questions about your precious self. Just so as you know, I’ve painted a rather favourable portrait: good family, well brought up, good education, agreeable personality, conduct above reproach….’

Paula, who seemed not to be listening, declared glumly:

‘I don’t know what I should do.’

‘What you should do? I assume the letter is to ask you if you’ve thought about his proposal?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s terrific! I’m sure he’ll make you the happiest of women. I don’t know why you’re hesitating: he’s not bad looking, he loves you, he’s got a good job, he….’ Patrick put a protective arm around his friend’s shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘Now listen, I don’t want to influence you, just give you a piece of good advice: marry him. I know him well enough to say he’s the right man for you. Trust me. I knew right away….’

Paula stared absently at the sea.

‘You haven’t understood anything. It would mean I’d have to leave here; and London isn’t exactly next door.’

‘But when you marry someone, you have to live with him. With him and nobody else. Who cares about family, friends and all the rest!’

‘Maybe… But that’s not the problem.’

‘So what is the problem?’

‘I–I’m not sure I love him.’

Patrick smiled broadly:

‘Paula, my sweet, every woman has those same doubts. Your reaction is perfectly understandable. I’d be worried if you felt differently. You’re at the crossroads, on the brink of a new life and you’re hesitating before the unknown. There are several directions, but which to choose? You can’t avoid making a choice, you know. And it might as well be the best one….’

Looking anxiously at him, she replied:

‘I’m not sure I love him.’

Patrick gave a deep sigh and got up. He picked up a shell, threw it into the waves and came back to stand right next to her.

‘Listen,’ he said solemnly, ‘there’s no such thing as love at first sight, love with a capital L. Obviously, there are exceptions, cases of physical attraction with no tomorrow….’ He sighed again before looking her straight in the eye. ‘Between the two of us, we’ve clocked up forty-four years, correct? Well, has either one of us experienced a true grand passion?’

Paula shook her head.

‘Neither have I,’ said Patrick, in a tone that sounded almost sinister. Satisfied with his demonstration, he stopped.

‘Speaking of Sarah,’ murmured Paula, ‘it appears she’s going to get married soon.’

‘That’s great. Who’s the lucky fellow?’

‘A certain Harris Thorne. Very rich and quite a bit older than she is. Francis didn’t tell me any more in his letter.’

‘Well, well. Wedding bells are about to chime.’

‘So you think I should accept….’

‘Yes, Paula,’ concluded Patrick firmly. ‘Marry Francis. I guarantee you won’t regret it.’

2

The marriage was set for the end of September. Paula was to join her betrothed in London three days beforehand. She and Patrick decided to have a farewell evening together the evening before her departure.

They dined in a cosy restaurant in Newquay where, well lubricated with champagne, they were noticeable by their exuberance and irrepressible hilarity, unaffected by reproachful looks from some of the other diners.

It was a warm night, considering it was nearly autumn, and the stars shone brilliantly against the velvet background of the sky. And so it was that, in the taxi on the way back to Padstow, they decided to visit their little cove one last time.

They climbed to the top of the cliffs in silence, where they looked out over the sea, calm and powerful as it sparkled under the stars. As they suddenly became conscious of the majesty of the scene before them, their madcap evening seemed to dwindle into insignificance. Paula was the first to react.

‘What an evening!’ she observed, as they descended the path down to the cove in a leisurely manner.

‘You haven’t been altogether reasonable, madam,’ declared Patrick, in mock seriousness.

‘And whose fault is that?’ whispered the young woman. ‘Frankly, Patrick, if I didn’t know better, I might believe your intentions weren’t entirely honourable.’

‘I forced you to drink? It was you who profited from my sadness — yes, I admit I’m sorry to see you go — to top up my glass whenever my back was turned.’

Paula didn’t reply right away. Once they were on the beach, she took off her shoes and said, with a smile:

‘So, you’re sad to see me go?’

Patrick smiled back:

‘A little, yes.’

‘Well, you certainly hid it well. You were paying the fool the entire evening — a pretty strange way to express sadness.’

‘And you, who were the star attraction of the evening with your endless stream of jokes, are obviously filled with joy at the prospect of leaving.’

Paula placed her hands on her hips in a gesture of defiance:

‘And whose fault was that, may I ask?’

Patrick looked thoughtful.

‘Come to think of it, if Francis had seen the way you were carrying on, I very much doubt he would have approved.’

‘What he would approve of even less is to see you and me together on this beach at this hour of the night.’

‘Good point.’

They both burst out laughing as they ran towards the sea. Waves lapped their feet as Paula looked up to the sky.

‘The moon is fascinating. I can feel its influence on me. It’s as if a magical force is taking me away. Magical, yes, and even evil.’

‘There she goes again,’ chuckled Patrick.

‘Oh, Moon, Queen of the Night, put a curse on this unfortunate mortal grovelling at my feet and hopelessly in love….’

‘Just talk, my sweet,’ exclaimed Patrick, ‘and as for taste—.’

‘Let’s go for a swim.’

Patrick was stunned.

‘A swim?’

‘Yes. It’s almost midnight, and it seems to be the done thing.’

‘If I remember correctly,’ replied Patrick, feigning detachment, ‘that sort of activity is performed… without clothes.’

‘Precisely,’ said Paula. She suddenly ran her hand through his hair, laughing. ‘If you could see yourself. You look like a hedgehog. In any case, rest assured I shan’t allow you to feast your eyes on my divine form,’ she added, closing her eyes and shaking her head. ‘It’s much too dangerous.’

‘Your wish is my command, my beautiful friend. So, how to proceed?’

‘You turn round and count to a hundred. Then you call to me and I wait for you with my back turned.’

Patrick let out a deep sigh.

‘My sweet, I’ve always know you had a perverse side, reserved exclusively for me. Since we’ve known each other, you’ve never stopped provoking me, directly or indirectly. But I shall submit to this last test just as stoically as the others.’

Paula raised a little finger.

‘My dear friend, I deduce from what you’ve just said that you’ve always, deep down, had a secret desire for me.’

‘Exactly, my divine beauty. And that’s why, in an ultimate act of perversion, I pushed you into the arms of another.’

The midnight swim was punctuated by numerous accusations and protestations, each suspecting the other of cheating with sly sidelong glances.

When they finally ended up side by side, their playful banter continued until Paula ended up pushing Patrick’s head under water.

When they finally got back to the beach, regaining their clothes proved just as delicate an operation as removing them. As they lay side by side on the sand again, Paula observed:

‘If my parents catch me coming back with my hair all wet and covered in sand, I’m going to be in trouble.’

‘Just tell them I drank a little too much and pushed you in the water.’ The tone of his voice suddenly changed. ‘You know, you’re not bad at all.’

‘Well, that’s quite a discovery. What exactly do you mean?’

‘I’m talking about… your anatomy.’

‘Wretch! I knew you weren’t playing the game.’

‘Not at all, I just said that to embarrass you. But I do admit I was sorely tempted to steal a glance.’

‘Your frankness honours you and should be rewarded.’

Patrick sighed. ‘What’s she up to now?’

‘Close your eyes and count to ten,’ replied Paula, in a tone far too polite to be sincere.

‘All right, but now I’m suspicious.’

When he opened his eyes again, Patrick’s first reaction was surprise in not having been a victim of one of his companion’s pranks. His second surprise was to see her sitting on the sand in exactly the same position as before.

‘About this rewar—.’

He didn’t finish the sentence. His gaze fell first on the pretty pink blouse which lay on the sand next to some lingerie. He looked up slowly to see the most ravishing of sirens. The illusion was perfect. Paula’s legs, slightly bent, were moulded by the soft tissue of her skirt. And the ringlets of her hair, draped over her graceful shoulders, barely concealed the delicious curves beneath.

‘P-Paula,’ he stammered in wondrous bewilderment.

Several seconds of flustered silence followed, after which the young woman picked up her clothes and put them back on.

‘That will be my last act of madness tonight,’ she smiled.

‘I’m speechless… What a souvenir to remember!’

‘And to think I had to reveal part of my charms for you to finally appreciate my beauty!’

‘I plead guilty. Guilty of being totally blind… until the very last day.’

Paula gave a tinkling laugh.

‘My dear Patrick, to hear you one would almost think you’ll be sorry to see me go.’

He approached her and gave her a strange look.

‘How long have we known each other, Paula?’

‘Almost eight years.’

‘And during all those eight years — I can tell you this now — I never thought about kissing you… except once.’

‘Well, that’s news to me. And when was that?’

‘When we went for that walk in St. Ives, two years ago. We got caught in a shower and took shelter under porch. We stood there a long time without speaking, do you remember?’

‘Yes, and I can tell you now what a twirp you were for not taking advantage. Why the reticence?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe because we’d always been friends.’

It was Paula’s turn to fall silent. They were very close to each other now and Patrick looked into the young woman’s beautiful blue eyes as if he were seeing them for the first time. The little gleam of mischief was still there, but now there was something new which he didn’t recognise.

It must be said in his defence that he was so disoriented by her expression that he couldn’t think what to do next. Afterwards, he realised there was nothing new in her expression that sweet September night, but that he had finally recognised something that had been engraved deep in his being since she had first asked him which day Queen Victoria had been born.

The young man’s lips slowly approached those of his companion.

Paula offered no resistance.

The moon bathed the silent beach in its silver light. A convenient cloud blocked its light for a short moment and seemed to smile when the pink blouse dropped on to the sand for the third time that night….

The next morning, Patrick accompanied Paula to the station. The young woman’s parents were also present. They would be taking the same train two days later to meet up with her in London. The young man didn’t hear their parting words, but he did see Paula smiling at him tenderly through the compartment window. Through the softness of her blue eyes he relived the epilogue to their nocturnal idyll.

‘My Goodness, Patrick, what have we done?’

‘One last act of madness,’ he had sighed. ‘Any regrets?’

Paula, a half-smile on her lips, had shaken her head slowly.

‘Nor I, Paula, I—.’

‘Call me darling. You still have the right for a few minutes more.’

‘I… I’ll never forget this night.’

‘Which will forever remain a dear, sweet secret.’

‘Our secret, my darling.’

They had stopped at the top of the cliffs to exchange a long kiss, which they had sworn would be their last and that their adventure would stop there and then. But they had broken that promise several more times so that, even though the distance from the cove to their respective homes was short, it was three o’clock in the morning when they had called each other darling for the last time.

A whistle blew and the train started. With a curious sentiment he didn’t try to define, Patrick watched it leave.

When it was out of sight, Mrs. Lyle asked:

‘Are you two going to stay there? I’ll go and buy the tickets. No sense in leaving it to the last minute.

Arthur Lyle made a sign of agreement and turned to the young man:

‘Now the women have left, we can talk seriously. I know you were a large influence in Paula’s marriage.’

Patrick opened his mouth to speak, but the other cut him off:

‘Paula was very hesitant. Heaven only knows why. My long experience told me that Francis was a good man in every respect. But women…,’ he said, raising his eyes to the heavens. ‘You always have to point them in the right direction.’

He put his arm around Patrick and continued:

‘You know, my boy, it’s not always easy for a father to talk to his daughter, particularly if she needs convincing about something. Paula told me it was you who convinced her.’ He looked Patrick straight in the eye, with respect. ‘I know you’ve always been a true friend to Paula, a loyal, honest friend. So, as her father, let me thank you for all you have done for her.’

Patrick whistled a tune as he arrived home, in order to maintain an air of composure. But the vicious kick he aimed at an innocent dustbin gave the lie to his apparent good humour.

3

The marriage of Francis Hilton and Paula Lyle took place on the appointed day, and Sarah, Francis’s sister, wed Harris Thorne two months later. At this point, the narration skips directly to the following spring, to the St. John’s Wood area of London, and the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Howard Hilton, the parents of Francis and Sarah.

Looking worried, Howard Hilton watched mechanically as his wife poured him a cup of tea. Dorothy, slightly built and with nondescript features, attracted attention only for the lack of expression in her pale blue eyes. Anyone who knew them well would not have failed to notice how much Howard Hilton had changed in recent months. He still retained the simple dignity and frank and friendly regard which came naturally to him, but his gestures betrayed a suppressed nervousness totally out of character. He’d just lost his job with the small manufacturer of wooden toys where he’d worked all his life and was one of the best employees. It had changed hands following the death of the owner and there was no more place for him. Despite being out of work at fifty-five, the prospect of finding a new job wasn’t what was worrying him, nor was his financial situation, which wasn’t exactly brilliant. His daughter’s wedding hadn’t cost him a penny — his son-in-law had dismissed his offer of a contribution with a wave of his hand — but it was nevertheless there that the source of his worry lay.

Sipping his tea, he looked around the room he’d known for twenty years. While not luxurious, the lounge was comfortable and the two large windows overlooking the garden on which he had lavished so much care provided plenty of light.

‘I know what you’re thinking, Howard: you’re upset at the idea of leaving here. But what choice do we have? And, to tell you the truth, the idea of going to live in a manor doesn’t displease me at all. You don’t seem to realise that we’ll no longer need to count every penny as we’ve had to do all our lives. And the children will be close to us. We’re very blessed to have a son-in-law like Harris.’

Harris. Harris Thorne. Howard didn’t seem able to get that name out of his head, for several reasons. First, he’d married his daughter. Second, he was rich, very rich… too rich. His parents had left him a comfortable inheritance and, at thirty-eight years of age, he was at the head of a successful bicycle manufacturing firm in Coventry, which he directed with competence and authority. His powerful voice, thunderous outbursts of laughter and generosity gained sympathy from all who knew him. Despite his tendency to impose his views, it never seemed to occur to anyone to contradict him, at least openly.

His brother Brian, discreet and silent, didn’t resemble him at all. He lived as a recluse, with a couple of servants, in a manor not far from Cheltenham. He spent most of his time shut up in his room, only leaving it for the occasional country walk, where he wandered aimlessly with his head down and a faraway look in his eye. Naturally, the upkeep of the property fell to Harris, the only one capable of assuming the expense. Since the beginning of the year, the manor had undergone extensive renovation: Harris had decided to make it his principal residence and had invited Francis and Paula and their parents to move in with Sarah and himself. Paula, who had failed to adapt to the hectic rhythm of London, jumped at the idea of a rural life. Francis, who, thanks to his generous brother-in-law had an interesting job with good prospects of advancement, was just as enthusiastic.

As for Howard Hilton, it was, paradoxically, just such a prospect which tormented him. In addition, Harris had made it clear to his parents-in-law that they would be able to lead a peaceful existence, without worries of any sort. And, as a balm to their dignity, he’d asked if they’d help him supervise the staff — in exchange for a decent remuneration, of course.

‘You’re right, of course,’ Howard Hilton said to his wife in a mournful voice. ‘Harris is an irreproachable fellow.’

‘I don’t understand you, Howard, I really don’t. Our situation leaves us no choice. Why hesitate?’

‘I could say it’s because we’d no longer have our peaceful home or our independence, but that’s not it.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Sarah came to see us the other day. How did you find her?’

‘Well, she did seem a bit… But you know as well as I do, she’s always been a very nervous child.’

‘I know, but I’ve never seen her so tense. Didn’t she say anything to you? I saw you in the garden and you seemed to be talking about a serious matter….’

Mrs. Hilton put down the piece of cake which she’d been nibbling.

‘Yes and no. She told me she hadn’t been feeling well recently and that Harris… Well, you know she has a difficult character and the first months of marriage aren’t always plain sailing. She talked to me about Harris, the long hours he puts in, his habits and his temperament… They’ve had a few stormy rows. But nothing to get unduly alarmed about: perhaps you’ve forgotten about the time you stamped on mama’s hat because you were furious about—.’

‘That’s not the point. I have a feeling that Sarah has absolutely no desire to live an isolated life in the Cotswolds with, by way of company, Harris’s brother who doesn’t seem quite right in the head.’

‘How can you say that? You’ve only seen him once, at her marriage.’

‘That’s quite enough to form an impression. The two brothers are nothing like each other. In appearance, at least. There are a few points in common. Harris is also capable of—.’

‘Howard!’ protested Mrs. Hilton. ‘How can you talk like that? I’d like you to explain once and for all what you’ve got against him. Incidentally, when Sarah first introduced us, I noticed you didn’t seem very enthusiastic.’

Mr. Hilton hesitated.

‘Listen, Dorothy, I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not the age difference, in any case. Even though fifteen years… No. Incompatible personalities, perhaps. Sarah’s not in the habit of allowing herself to be walked on, and obviously neither is he. He’s more likely to crush other people.’ A mischievous gleam appeared in his eye. ‘While we’re on the subject, my dear, why don’t you tell me what you’ve got against Paula, that sweet young thing? You’ve never said anything, but I know there’s something about her you absolutely can’t stand. Isn’t it true?’

‘What an idea, Howard… No, I’ve nothing at all against her, even though… At times she gives the impression of being — how to put it? — light-headed? Frivolous?’

‘Light-headed or frivolous?’ exclaimed Howard. ‘Paula? Good grief, Dorothy, you’re full of surprises. She just likes a good laugh, that’s all. I’ve always suspected you’d consider any wife of your son, whoever she may be, as some sort of thief.’

‘Which just goes to show how little you know me,’ sniffed Mrs. Hilton, in the tone of an outraged queen.

Howard Hilton picked up the newspaper, then threw it down in frustration and lit a cigarette.

‘I don’t feel happy about the situation,’ he sighed. ‘A family united all together under the same roof, in an old manor, with a generous and very rich man. If this were a novel, it would end in tragedy.’

4

At the wheel of her convertible, Sarah Thorne followed the winding road leading to Hatton Manor at high speed. She had just driven through Withington, followed by admiring and envious looks. The inhabitants of the village were not accustomed to see such a beautiful sports car, with such sparkling chrome, nor such a beautiful driver.

Sarah was wearing a bright red dress of a deceptive simplicity, which suited her perfectly. Her luxuriant black hair trailed behind her in the wind. She filled her lungs with the pure air, as exhilarating as the speed of the little Bugatti. Happy at the thought of finally exploring her new home, she felt tempted to push harder on the accelerator, but decided otherwise when she heard the squeal of the tyres as she rounded the latest curve.

Harris had wanted to show her the place himself that very day, but had been detained by important business in Coventry, much to his annoyance. No longer prepared to wait, Sarah had decided to go there alone: Harris would join her that evening, along with her parents, Francis, and Paula.

Far from being upset, she was thrilled by the idea of discovering, all by herself, the property her husband had described in such glowing terms. Of course, there would be Brian, strange Brian, but from what little she knew about him she felt sure he would not make a nuisance of himself.

At the sight of the sign for Hatton, her eagerness intensified. But as she left the village behind, she was obliged to stop. The road forked left and right ahead of her, but there was no indication in which direction the manor lay. ‘Turn left just after leaving Hatton, you can’t miss it,’ Harris had assured her.

After a brief hesitation, she made a random choice and proceeded along a narrow, rocky road, but stopped a second time as she saw a couple coming towards her. She switched off the engine and waited for them to draw level. The man, dark-haired, slender and of medium height, was tastefully dressed and about the same age as Harris. Sarah found his regular features and discreet but engaging smile quite attractive. His younger companion, with her striking golden hair and charming profile, would have been very beautiful but for the rather vacant look in her pale blue eyes.

Sarah asked for directions to Hatton Manor and the couple looked at her in surprise.

‘Would you, by any chance, be Brian’s sister-in-law?’ enquired the man.

‘Well, yes,’ replied Sarah, charmed and a little confused by his admiring regard.

‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ said the man, bowing slightly, ‘Mike Meadows, at your service, and this is my fiancée, Bessie Blount.’

‘Delighted to meet you,’ said Sarah, in response to Bessie’s friendly smile. After an awkward silence, and not knowing quite what to say, she added:

‘So you know Brian?’

The couple exchanged amused looks. Mike Meadows cleared his throat and continued:

‘Yes, we’re from the village. Brian’s a friend of ours, an excellent friend. And we owe him a lot.’

‘Oh, yes!’ exclaimed Bessie, laughing heartily. ‘You could say we owe him everything!’

Sarah tried to make sense of their strange words and hilarity, but failed.

‘You see, Mrs. Thorne, as the village doctor—.’

‘Doctor!’ Sarah blurted out, having a completely different image of the medical profession in her mind.

Meadows smiled.

‘I can understand your astonishment, madam. Obviously, I haven’t yet acquired the same experience as my colleague Dr. Allerton, whom I shall replace a couple of years from now. But what I meant to say was that, as a man of science, I bow before your brother-in-law’s powers.’

‘His powers?’ repeated Sarah, stupefied.

There was another silence. Bessie Blount turned to her fiancé:

‘Obviously Mrs. Thorne doesn’t know… Brian isn’t the sort of person to shout from the rooftops that he’s capable of….’

‘So you really don’t know?’ asked Mike Meadows.

‘I don’t understand. What powers are you talking about?’

‘Your brother-in-law possesses a particular gift and one that’s very rare. A gift which I, as a man of science, refused to admit… until I met Brian. Prophecy, divination, clairvoyance, call it what you will, your brother-in-law is capable of predicting the future.’

Sarah was about to burst out laughing, but the serious looks on the couple’s faces dissuaded her.

‘Predict the future? But that’s impossible!’

Mike Meadows nodded solemnly.

‘I won’t spend any time on facts which don’t personally concern us and which we haven’t personally witnessed. But be aware that Brian told Bessie and me, just a few weeks ago, about a happy event in the near future which would be of great importance to both of us. He literally told us that we would know great love in the coming weeks. And the very next day we fell madly in love with one another.’

Sarah’s mind was empty as she drove the remaining three hundred yards to the manor. The road ended outside the wide open gate to the property. A wide gravel drive traversed a park of ancient trees, in which the birds were greeting the arrival of a warmer season. If the cracked, moss-covered pillars of the entrance showed signs of abandonment, the lawn, on the contrary, had obviously been carefully maintained. Halfway along the drive, a paved path to the left led to a wooded hillock on which stood a chapel. A thick hedge inside iron railings encircled most of the park, in the middle of which stood the manor. It was a well-proportioned XVIIth century stone construction consisting of an imposing main building, in the centre of which was the front entrance, and a small wing to the left.

Sarah eased her foot off the accelerator, causing the sound of the motor to be drowned out by the noise of the tyres crunching on the gravel. As she approached the manor, with its windows sparkling in the sunshine, she began to appreciate the peaceful charm of the place.

She had hardly cut the motor when the front door opened. She immediately recognised Brian. Thinner than his brother, he looked old for his age. Was that due to his weary manner, his bony face with its premature wrinkles, his balding head with its long russet hair, or the disillusioned look in his pale, deep-sunken eyes?

He came over to Sarah with a smile on his lips. But sadness clouded his otherwise warm and welcoming look.

‘Greetings, Sarah,’ he said as he extended a brotherly hand. ‘I trust your journey went smoothly?’

‘Perfectly. And the weather is beautiful. I’ve been thinking of nothing else but the pleasure of discovery and I’m not disappointed! So spacious and so calm… Now I understand why you’re so attached to the place, and I hope that our arrival won’t disturb the peaceful life you’ve led until now.’

‘Rest assured, Sarah, my solitude can sometimes be a burden. Welcome inside these old walls, which will be rejuvenated by your graceful presence and that of your family.’ His expression darkened. ‘Even as I wonder whether it’s a good thing….’

Brian noticed Sarah’s eyes widen in astonishment and lowered his head.

‘I… I was talking about all the modernisation work, which is an affront to the past. But didn’t Harris come with you?’

‘He was detained at his company headquarters in Coventry, but he’s promised to be here before nightfall.’

‘Good!’ he exclaimed pensively. ‘But come, allow me to show you around. I’m sure you’re dying to see the place.’

On entering the main hall, Sarah was first struck by the imposing staircase of dark wood whose balustrade extended all round the balcony, where the wide landing gave access to all the rooms on the upper floor. Next, her admiring gaze fell on a magnificently ornate Gothic bench.

‘That’s a period piece, isn’t it?’ she asked.

Brian smiled indulgently.

‘It’s an artful copy, commissioned by Harris. The tiled floor is original. I had to fight to save it.’ There was a vaguely damp smell which mixed with the more agreeable one of the freshly waxed wood. ‘Harris wanted to replace it with marble.’

Sarah mused privately that it was a pity Harris had yielded to his brother’s wishes, but she kept her thoughts to herself so as not to upset Brian, who seemed to get considerable pleasure from acting as guide. He ushered her into the salon to the right of the hall.

A wide opening revealed a spacious room bathed in sunshine from the large mullioned windows. Deep leather armchairs of a more modern style faced the monumental stone fireplace, mixing audaciously with much older pieces of furniture: a remarkable French Renaissance chest; another one of English origin lacquered in black with chinoiserie; English baroque chairs; several delicate Louis XVI chairs; all standing on an oriental carpet. The walls were panelled to head height and whitewashed above.

‘Harris had the door and a good part of the wall removed, thinking to make the room lighter. Which is what happened.’

Sarah detected a note of regret in her brother-in-law’s voice, but she was too excited by the visit to attach any importance to it. She discovered the library and the game room, with its billiards table and congratulated herself for having given Harris a free hand for the renovation: the modern touches he’d introduced didn’t clash with what was there before, whatever Brian might think.

After having shown her the closets and cloakrooms accessible from the hall, their doors concealed in the panelling, he pushed open the door of the dining room. Like the salon, the windows opened to the south. Two Dutch chandeliers sparkled in the sunshine above an immense table. The room was connected by a corridor to the kitchen located in the wing, which also contained an office and a laundry room. The vast kitchen, with its old earthenware and copper pots, combined modern comfort with ancient charm and pleased Sarah enormously.

‘And what about that door there, Brian?’

‘It leads to the service entrance, and also to an old stone staircase which goes to the floor above and the attic, where the servants’ rooms are located. Take a look….’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘A spiral staircase!’

‘It’s the oldest part of the manor, the only vestige of the original construction built by a knight who fought in the Hundred Years’ War. He witnessed Joan of Arc being burnt at the stake and was appalled by the horrifying spectacle, after which he returned to England. The nightmare vision haunted him and he was often heard to say “We burnt a saint.” He began to lose his reason and one day the castle he had built went up in flames. Some said it was God’s punishment. Others insisted it was the knight himself who burnt it down, taking his own life at the same time.

‘The castle was never rebuilt and fell to pieces, with only the staircase left standing. The manor was only constructed much later. My dear Sarah, don’t try to climb these steps in your pretty high heels. We’re better off taking the main staircase.’

Once they were on the upper floors, Brian showed her the rooms destined for her parents and those for Paula and Francis, together with the two luxurious bathrooms, leaving to Harris the pleasure of showing Sarah their own rooms with adjoining boudoir. He pointed out his own bedroom and study, situated at the angle of the corridor, but without showing them to her on the pretext they were too untidy. Sarah looked down the corridor leading to the wing of the manor. There were two doors, one after the other. It was the closer of the two which attracted her attention. The door wasn’t set back in the frame as was the case with the other doors, but was flush with the wall. She noticed it didn’t have hinges or a handle either.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, intrigued.

‘The door at the end just before the staircase? A storage room, full of old junk.’

‘No, the one in front of it. But….’ She went to look at it and seemed bewildered. ‘But it’s not a door! It’s just a wooden panel built into the wall! Is this one of Harris’s modifications?’

‘No, it’s not one of his modifications and never will be. I’ll make sure of that.’

Surprised by the cold determination in his voice, Sarah turned to look at him. She was struck by the fixed stare in his almost translucent blue-grey eyes which seemed to look at her without seeing.

‘I–I beg your pardon?’ she stammered in alarm.

‘It’s an old story,’ he said, still with the same absent look. ‘This room has been sealed up for various reasons.’

‘Various reasons? By someone who, like Harris, wanted to modify….’

‘No. This room was sealed so that nobody could ever get in again. It’s no longer part of the house.’

‘But why?’

Brian fell silent and Sarah sensed him shiver before he finally answered:

‘To protect the Thornes.’

5

It was just before ten o’clock when, the meal finally cleared away, Sarah, Brian and the new arrivals got together in the salon. If Mr. and Mrs. Hilton were tired by their journey, they didn’t show it. A smiling Howard Hilton looked very much at ease in a stuffed armchair. As for his wife, not even a trained observer could have detected her real feelings. Paula, whose blue dress matched the colour of her eyes, was her usual ebullient self, laughing heartily at Harris’s jokes — which seemed to irritate Francis, who obviously felt that the circumstances warranted a more serious demeanour. Paula’s husband was one of those men who easily pass unnoticed, due to their regular features and conservative dress, but his eyes held a steely expression.

Seated between his sister and Brian, he forced himself to listen attentively to the comments his brother-in-law was making, punctuating his speech with forceful gestures. The contrast between the two men was striking. Francis, with his dark, curly hair, small pointed beard and discreet manner, practically disappeared before the overpowering personality of Harris Thorne, whose red hair and beard contrasted with the checked suits in every shade of blue which he customarily wore. Authoritarian yet likeable, he had his own distinctive way of talking, punctuated with loud roars, facial expressions and gusts of laughter. Sometimes the good-natured joviality froze on his face, most often when Sarah talked about some previously unknown episode in her past, which was the case now.

‘What? You were in the theatre?’ he asked tersely. ‘When and with whom? I don’t remember you telling me about it!’

Sarah laughed daintily.

‘Darling, don’t look at me like that. One would think it was a crime. It dates back to the time I was in college. We created a theatre troupe… I usually played the masculine parts: the Knights of the Round Table, Robin Hood, Richard the Lionheart and others. It was great fun. I’ve kept the costumes and accessories. I’ll put on a show one of these days.’ She looked around the room. The wood panelling seemed to absorb the light from the imposing chandelier made from stags’ horns which cast an ominous, deformed shadow on the whitewashed walls. ‘Maybe I’ll revive some ancient tragedy….’

‘And I’ll disguise myself as a ghost!’ exclaimed Paula.

Harris, who was in the process of lighting a cigar, stopped himself.

‘Ghost, ancient tragedy…’ he repeated with a strange smile, contemplating the flaming match he was holding in his fingers. ‘You don’t realise what you’re saying.’

‘What?’ asked Paula, more excited than afraid. ‘Do you mean to say there’s a ghost haunting these premises?’

Harris took his time lighting his cigar, then continued:

‘Not exactly a ghost, more of an evil spirit hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce at the first opportunity. Although the existence of an actual ghost can’t be ruled out.’

Silence followed his words, then he threw his head back and guffawed.

‘Harris!’ Brian spoke sharply, his face deathly pale. ‘Don’t make fun of such things. You mustn’t do it, Harris, do you hear?’

‘Listen, Brian, it’s time you started being reasonable. Our great-uncle was as mad as a hatter, and only by an extraordinary chance did his threats become realised. I understand it’s always been the done thing in the Thorne family to believe in spirits and occult forces, but we’re now in the twentieth century and science has proved that—.’

‘Science has proved nothing whatsoever. You can’t deny that there was something in that room. Nor can you deny the strange circumstances of Harvey’s death… in the same room!’

Harris carefully crushed his cigar in the small bowl he used as an ashtray.

‘I’m not denying the facts. I’m simply saying they weren’t supernatural occurrences, and that therefore there’s nothing at all to fear. And I’ll prove it.’

Brian gave a hollow laugh.

‘Really? How?’

‘By opening up the room again… when I feel like it.’

Brian stood stock still, fixing his brother with an impenetrable look. He got up, wished the assembled gathering goodnight, then turned on his heels and left.

His footsteps echoed in the hall and then on the stairs until only the tick tock of the grandfather clock broke the silence.

‘Poor Brian,’ said Harris, emptying his glass in a single gulp. ‘I’m afraid his long isolation has, let’s say… affected him. Luckily for him we’re here now. That’ll force him to come out of his lair and stop reading those damned books.’

‘What does he do, exactly?’ asked Mr. Hilton in a light-hearted tone, in an attempt to relax the situation. ‘Is he pursuing some kind of studies?’

‘More or less. He’s studying everything that traditional education doesn’t teach, anything weird or out of the ordinary: divination, fortune-telling, astrology and all the rest of it… but the worst of it is, he’s starting to fancy himself as a soothsayer. Mind you, you can see who he takes after!’

‘Harris,’ said Sarah gently, ‘don’t you think it’s time you explained to us why that room was sealed, and what role your mysterious great-uncle played?’

The master of the house shrugged his shoulders.

‘If you insist. Although I hardly think it’s worth it, because there weren’t, strictly speaking, any extraordinary facts. It’s more or less a family affair which has effectively prevented the Thornes from prospering, because Brian and I are the last descendants. In fact we don’t know very much about our ancestors except that the Thornes were once a rich and prosperous family. Rich, powerful and respected, at least until the end of the last century. My grandfather, Stephen Thorne, was already married and lived here in the manor with his sister Agatha and his two brothers, Thomas and Harvey, and it’s the latter who interests us. Even at a tender age he was a gifted writer and his teachers saw in him a future literary genius — a view shared by his parents, who let him choose the room most favourable to inspiration. He installed himself on the upper floor of the wing. In the beginning, he spent two or three evenings a week there, but later… Food was brought to his “lair” and people who saw the light of a candle flickering all through the night behind the windows of his room wondered what he was doing. It’s unlikely they guessed that an indefatigable hand was filling ream after ream of paper.’

‘But what was he writing that was so fascinating?’ asked Sarah, lighting a cigarette.

Harris, who had been waiting for just such a question, paused for effect, then continued:

‘There we have it. What was he writing? What was it that absorbed him day and night?’

The clock struck half past ten. Looking at Mr. and Mrs. Hilton, Harris asked:

‘Maybe it’s too late to continue? I imagine after such a busy day, you’d rather retire.’

‘Harris!’ protested his wife, ‘don’t play your little games with me! You’ve started your story, now you have to finish it. Mother and father aren’t tired.’

‘Even if we were,’ replied Howard Hilton, ‘we wouldn’t be able to sleep without hearing the end… Would we, Dorothy?’

Mrs. Hilton replied with an amiable wink. Only her husband knew that her silence was indicative of disapproval.

‘That was the question the members of his family were asking themselves,’ continued Harris, stroking his ginger beard. ‘And then the day arrived when he presented them with a thick manuscript, the fruit of more than two years’ work.’ He looked regretful. ‘You might as well know right away that the manuscript, to my knowledge, doesn’t exist anymore and we don’t really know what was in it. What we do know, however, is that his father was the first to read it and, when he’d finished it, an extraordinary change came over him. He refused all food and quickly lost all his strength. A few days later he became very ill and died. Our grandfather Stephen and his brother Thomas took turns to read it and remained in a state of shock for a while. I hasten to add they didn’t suffer their father’s fate. The manuscript was returned to its author with strict instructions never to take it out of the room again. The only information we have about the contents were imparted to us by our mother, who got it from her husband, who had been told in confidence by our grandfather Stephen. Apparently it’s something unbearably atrocious, a slow and inexorable descent into madness which seizes hold of the reader and drags him into a state of unspeakable nausea. It’s an account of unparalleled evocative power: evil, not to say diabolic. As for the theme, it’s about reflections on life, its origins… and its future. I can’t tell you any more,’ he added, after a slight hesitation.

‘But you do know more, darling,’ interceded Sarah. ‘I can tell!’

Harris glanced thoughtfully at his wife, then looked down.

‘Well, yes. But I don’t know whether one should place too much confidence on a testimony passed along by three people, one after another. It seems that the principal character in the book is none other than Harvey’s own father, the time and manner of whose death were predicted precisely.’

A ripple ran through the audience. Harris coughed and continued:

‘The attitude of his family hurt Harvey profoundly. He treated them as ignorant and illiterate: how could they ignore and despise a genius like himself? His father’s death? It had been written, he could do nothing about it. He shut himself up for good in his room and wrote many other books. The years went by. Stephen and Thomas did everything possible to conceal the existence of someone they considered to be unbalanced and who brought dishonour to the family name. Here, I need to mention that Thomas had been decorated by the queen for services to the crown and any hint of scandal would ruin his career. Their brother was mad, so be it, but as long as nobody else knew, there was no reason to be alarmed. The bombshell exploded when a London publisher sought them out to talk to them about manuscripts which their brother Harvey had submitted for publication. Needless to say, there was no question of him printing them, but he wished to draw their attention to the fact they had been written by someone who was clearly mad, which could turn out to be dangerous if they were indeed published, given that they had been sent to several other publishers as well. Thomas and our grandfather took all the necessary precautions: enquiring of other editors and increased surveillance of their brother. After a while, the panic died down and became nothing more than an unfortunate memory.

‘A few more words before I finish. It was rare for anyone to go into Harvey’s study — he slept and worked there — but if they did cross the threshold, they were immediately seized by a curious and indefinable sense of unease, as if the premises were really and truly unhealthy. Another curious fact: Harvey stocked up with large quantities of water every day. He filled two or three bottles which he took back to his room and one might assume it was purely to quench his thirst. Except that, every time anyone entered his room, whether he was there or not, there at the centre of the table was a sort of large glass full to the brim with water!’

‘Hardly surprising,’ observed Sarah, ‘if he liked to drink so much.’

‘I don’t know,’ retorted Mr. Hilton, tongue in cheek. ‘Why would a heavy drinker of any kind leave behind a full glass?’

‘Of course not,’ said Francis with a shrug of the shoulders aimed at Sarah. ‘But I assume that detail is important somehow?’

‘Yes, indeed. Which leads us to the last act. One day, cries and moans were heard coming from Harvey’s room. He was found on the floor, on the sill of the open door, suffering from atrocious convulsions. He was rolling around on the floor, wild with rage and pain. His suffering ended just a few minutes later: he was dead. The doctors who examined the body were uncertain as to the cause of death. Heart attack? Due to a fit of anger or fear? They certified he wasn’t poisoned or victim of any other kind of foul play and that he died of a heart attack. There were no clues to be found in his room which could explain the mysterious circumstances of his death. The only peculiar thing — and, if my memory is correct, it was told to my mother by one of the maids, not my father — was that there was a wet patch on the carpet in front of the fireplace. And that’s not all: just before he died in agony Harvey had babbled out strange and disconcerting words: “Will perish… sinned… will perish by fire… will perish by fire.”’

Harris struck a match and contemplated the flame before finishing his story:

‘And, some time later, at a party given by some friends, Thomas, Stephen and Agatha all perished in a terrible fire. Only our grandmother Rosemary — Stephen’s wife — escaped. She was pregnant at the time. But before she delivered our father, she gave orders for Harvey’s room to be permanently sealed. Grandmother lived long enough to see us both born, Brian and me, but we have no personal memories of her or our father, because they both perished in a ship that went down… as the result of a fire.’

6

‘Well,’ sighed Sarah, ‘what a story! And you said there was nothing extraordinary about it… What’s more, you told it as if you had no doubts about its accuracy.’

‘I did get a bit carried away,’ admitted Harris, ‘but you have to try and treat the story seriously, don’t you think?’

‘Even so,’ observed Howard Hilton thoughtfully, ‘your great-uncle must have had the gift of clairvoyance. First, the death of his father, then his last words about death by fire—.’

‘Hang on, Mr. Hilton,’ cut in Harris. ‘As I said, one has to be wary of any testimony that’s not first hand. Changes can occur in the retelling: details, nuances, additions and omissions reflecting subconscious desires. In addition to which, dying words are often indistinct. Maybe Harvey only uttered the single word “fire.” As for fire being responsible for the death of some family members, that could be sheer coincidence. Unless anyone has another explanation?’

No one said a word.

‘Good,’ said Harris, stretching his arms. ‘Nevertheless, I won’t hide from you that there are several points I do find peculiar. So peculiar, I can’t imagine they could have been invented.’

‘The strange atmosphere in the room?’ asked Paula eagerly.

Harris smiled indulgently:

‘No. That’s exactly the kind of retrospective impression created by the appropriate atmosphere, evil in this case. What I was thinking of, in the first place, were the circumstances of Harvey’s death. From what we know about him, he was the quiet type. Which in and of itself, obviously, doesn’t rule out a heart attack. But how does one explain that convulsive state, and the fact that he was found on the sill of the room? That last point is what bothers me the most, because it’s not the kind of detail that’s likely to have been invented. After all, it’s hardly dramatic.’

‘So, if I understand you correctly,’ interjected Mr. Hilton, ‘the more absurd the detail, the more you are likely to believe it?’

‘Exactly. And then there’s that other detail: the damp patch on the carpet.’

‘Quite,’ agreed Mr. Hilton. ‘It seems highly unlikely anyone would graft such a detail on to the story to make it appear more sinister.’

‘Maybe there’s a simple explanation,’ suggested Francis. ‘The glass on the table and the bottles he’d brought in. He just knocked them all over during his convulsions.’

Harris shook his head:

‘My mother asked the same question of the maid, who was categorical: that explanation wasn’t possible because of the position of the table — against the wall opposite the fireplace. At least, it couldn’t have happened accidentally. Of course, one can’t rule out that Harvey deliberately splashed water on the carpet, for whatever reason… to amuse himself? But I don’t believe so. He was mad, but not to that point.’

‘Water,’ repeated Paula dreamily. ‘Water whose presence can’t be explained in two specific places: on a carpet and in a large glass. But was it really water?’

Harris, amused by his sister-in-law’s interest, shrugged off the question. Paula returned to the attack.

‘Another thing: just now you spoke of an evil spirit hiding in the shadows and the possible existence of an actual ghost.’

‘My goodness!’ exclaimed Harris with a broad smile. ‘My dear Paula, you and Brian make quite a pair. You both believe in ghosts.’

‘But so do you, by your own words.’

‘Yes, but I was speaking on behalf of my brother who, as you saw, is convinced that that room is haunted. I also suspect that he believes great-uncle Harvey isn’t altogether dead. He’s often told me he senses his presence….’

‘There’s an easy way to find out,’ retorted Paula.

‘And what would that be?’ asked Harris, his eyes narrowed.

‘Why, open up his coffin. It must be buried there under the chapel.’

Francis drew in a sharp breath, Mrs. Hilton sat bolt upright and Harris’s deafening laugh shattered the silence of the rest of the audience.

‘Well, why not, if that’s what you want,’ he spluttered. ‘But we’d have a death on our conscience: Brian would never survive. My God, what an evening!’

Out of the corner of her eye, Paula noted the furious look from her husband and the reproachful one from her mother-in-law, but pressed on regardless.

‘And what happened to the manuscripts?’

Harris lit a cigar and drew deeply on it before replying:

‘According to my mother, they were all destroyed immediately after Harvey’s death, although she couldn’t be absolutely certain. Brian believes there must be at least one in existence.’ He raised his eyes to look at the ceiling. ‘His theory is that no one would ever destroy the entirety of a work of such genius. Because, to Brian, that’s what our great-uncle was, a genius, a truly exceptional being, the greatest seer of his century. He insists that each of the manuscripts described an episode in the history of the Thorne family, but in the future!’

‘I assume,’ said Paula disappointedly, ‘that you’ve looked everywhere in vain.’

Harris nodded grimly.

‘Darling!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘Guess who I saw coming down here. Dr. Mike Meadows and… a young woman who’s his fiancée.’

‘Don’t you remember her name?’ asked Harris absently.

‘No… although she did tell me.’

‘Bessie Blount,’ he said, stressing each syllable separately. ‘Strange that you couldn’t recall her name, whereas that of the handsome doctor tripped daintily off your lips… Well, so what?’ he added brutally.

Sarah’s eyes flashed with anger as she replied: ‘They told me about Brian’s gift. He predicted they would fall in love just the day before they fell into each others’ arms.’

‘If you keep issuing predictions non-stop, sooner or later one of them will turn out to be accurate. But there’s another explanation: that skirt-chaser Meadows took advantage of the situation to get little Miss Blount into his clutches. I can well imagine him, with his mousquetaire’s moustache, saying: “Darling, we must love each other. It’s written in the stars….”’

Several pairs of eyes were looking at the stars that night. Not to see what was written there, and probably not even seeing them, but simply because certain people couldn’t get to sleep.

‘Paula, when are you going to learn to behave in polite society?’

‘What did I do now?’

‘What did you do? Don’t you even realise?’

‘I’m listening, Francis, I’m listening. Tell me what I did wrong.’

‘Darling, you exhibited a morbid interest in that… sinister story. When you suggested visiting the crypt to… I thought my mother was going to faint.’

‘So nobody’s allowed to make jokes any more. We’re not in Queen Victoria’s time now. I am who I am. And I’m beginning to ask myself whether you truly love me as much as you say….’

‘I love you more than anything else in the world, my darling. How could you doubt that?’

‘What do I find so special about Dr. Meadows? Nothing at all. Unless it’s that he seems a bit young to be a doctor.’

‘I note nevertheless that you were able to remember his name quite clearly, but you couldn’t do the same for his fiancée, more pity to her.’

‘Harris, when will you stop these stupid scenes of jealousy? You see a rival in every man I speak to. I was flattered at first, but now it’s become intolerable. Do you understand: intolerable.’

‘And I’m not going to stand for being ridiculed in public, is that clear?’

‘Ridiculed in public? Good grief, the things I have to listen to… Don’t you think you went a bit too far tonight?’

‘Forgive me, Sarah, I… it’s in my nature to get carried away. If there hadn’t been that detail of remembering one name and not the other….’

‘What are you afraid of? You’re holding me prisoner in your own castle!’

‘Frankly, my dear, I’m beginning to wonder whether we did the right thing by moving in here.’

‘And I’m beginning to wonder if Francis did the right thing by marrying that girl. I’m not holding my tongue any more. She went too far tonight. I’ve never seen such cheek in my life. She seemed to revel in the details of that tragic business….’

‘Dorothy, you’re being too hard on Paula. She’s a good-natured young woman who likes a bit of fun….’

‘Likes a bit of fun. That’s just it! You have to know when to do it. One thing’s for sure: Francis disappointed me enormously by picking her.’

‘If I had to compare Harris to an animal….’

‘Howard, don’t try to change the subject. We were talking about Paula and her complete lack of….’

‘… it would be a bear. Yes, a bear. I’m not saying he’s always in a bad mood — far from it, he’s always laughing — but he nevertheless makes me think of a bear. Maybe it’s his physique, which is on the heavy side.’

‘You’ve never liked him. Why don’t you just say so?’

‘What do you mean? Bears are quite nice creatures, don’t you think?’

Brian couldn’t sleep either and watched the stars through leadlight windows, a fascinating spectacle which he never tired of watching, although usually not so late at night. And without seething emotions, as was the case that night. His brother’s strident voice had reached his ears when he had come down to the library to look for a work and had been about to go back upstairs. What he had heard had hardly astonished him, after all he’d known Harris’s opinion on the subject for a long time.

The two brothers had always had a curious relationship. Despite diametrically opposite characters and ideas, there had always been a respect and a sort of affection for one another, which assured that their fierce discussions never ended in bitterness and quarrel.

Even so, overhearing the tale Harris was telling had made him upset. Returning to his room, he had become aware of a tightness in his throat which he initially attributed to anger with his brother. It was only later that he realised his unease had a different origin. The words pronounced by Harris came back to him: “… there at the centre of the table was a sort of large glass full to the brim with water!”

Three hours had gone by since then, during which he’d thought ceaselessly about that large glass of water, the mysterious glass of water which had haunted him for so many years, ever since his mother had told him the story of his great-uncle. And he’d never discovered the slightest explanation. But now, he felt certain he’d heard speak of it… somewhere, but where? He knew from experience that any concentrated attempt to rack his brains would end in failure.

A cold sweat covered his brow. Irritated, he groped around in the dark for the box of matches on his bedside table. The gentle glow from the opaline globe revealed the details of the room and Brian, just as every other time he lit his oil lamp, congratulated himself on resisting his brother’s wishes to convert to electricity. And it was at that precise moment that he thought of the king of France.

‘Louis XIV!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good heavens! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?’

He scanned the several bookshelves which lined the walls and stopped, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. With a trembling hand, he pulled out a volume on the Memoires of the Duc de Saint-Simon. The book opened all by itself on the page he was looking for, where he found a passage he knew by heart.

‘The glass of water,’ he murmured a few moments later in a euphoric state. ‘Incredible! I must have been blind or feeble-minded not to have made the connection before! The glass of water!’

7

The month of August was already well under way and the heat wave which had descended on the region several days before showed no signs of abating. It was just past ten o’clock in the morning and the temperature was already climbing.

Mrs. Dorothy Hilton looked out of the corner of her eye at her at her son-in-law who was tapping the arm-rest of his armchair nervously. His red hair was soaked in perspiration.

“What an idea to wear a jacket in weather like this,” she thought to herself. “And why those perpetual blue-checked suits? As if there were no other colour.”

She was about to make a comment about wearing a jacket in summer, but contented herself by merely observing:

‘It’s quite hot already….’

‘Yes, very hot,’ agreed Howard Hilton. ‘You know, Harris, you shouldn’t worry. Sarah has always been highly-strung, we’ve never known her otherwise. Those little heart murmurs don’t occur often, thankfully, but she can’t bear it when it’s very hot. You need to be watchful, of course, but there’s no need to get alarmed.’

Harris Thorne didn’t appear to have heard his father-in-law. His eyes scanned the sky. Even though there were no clouds on the horizon, he sensed they were inevitable. Two months had gone by since his in-laws’ arrival at Hatton Manor. Two happy and peaceful months, except for the last ten days. He had to admit that the pleasant atmosphere had largely evaporated since he’d opened up the “sealed” room to turn it into his study and Brian had almost spat out the words he didn’t care to remember any more than his recent quarrels — not to say brawls — with Sarah.

Even though he tried to forget it, what had happened the previous Saturday kept coming to mind. Sarah had invited Dr. Meadows and Bessie Blount for a game of bridge with Francis and Paula. Was it because he’d had too much cognac that he’d accused Francis of cheating and Meadows of being a lousy partner? He couldn’t say for certain. But what was certain was that his furious outburst had cast a chill over, and put an end to, an evening which had started out so well. What had happened afterwards had been disastrous. Before turning out the bedside lamp, he hadn’t been able to resist telling Sarah that even a blind man could have seen the smiles which she and Dr. Meadows had been exchanging. What followed was an altercation of such intensity it had probably kept the entire household awake for most of the night. By morning, all had been forgotten, but another row had flared up two days later. The whole week had been filled with tears, heartbreaks and reconciliations, which had taken a severe toll. And, just when he’d thought things could get no worse, Sarah had woken him up. Doubled over, with her hand clutching her chest, she’d been unable to utter a word. He’d rushed to her parents’ room, where they’d been able to reassure him.

He’d asked his butler Mostyn to call the doctor — he’d stipulated it must be Dr. Allerton and not the other one. But Mostyn had returned to inform him that Dr. Allerton had been called out on an emergency to a remote village and would not be back soon. Frustrated, he’d been obliged to call Dr. Meadows, who was now in his room with his wife.

Sarah’s condition, his own jealousy and feelings of guilt — he was clear-headed enough to acknowledge he was at least partly responsible for the quarrels — were the reasons he found himself in a continuous state of agitation he wasn’t used to.

He jumped up out of his armchair when he heard someone approach, but it was only Philip Mostyn bringing him the mail.

The butler, a tall slim man in his forties, was undoubtedly the most stylish and imposing figure amongst the staff of Hatton Manor. Discreet, with pleasant features framed by short, black hair, he’d gained Harris Thorne’s confidence by suggesting certain changes in the organisation of the manor and effectively acted as his personal secretary as well. Amongst the other staff, Simon Minden was responsible for the maintenance of the premises and also assisted the cook, Mrs. Ariane Minden, his wife. They were a middle-aged couple,discreet and friendly. Cathy Restarick, the maid, a timid young woman, took care of the laundry and helped with the maintenance. There was only one gardener, old Mortimer, whose two sons occasionally assisted him.

Harris looked quickly through the mail, set aside a letter addressed to Mrs. Hilton, and opened the newspaper — which he must have read at an extraordinary speed, judging by the rapidity with which he turned the pages.

Howard took the letter marked “Mrs. Hilton” and handed it to his wife, who looked intrigued. It was at that precise moment that Mike Meadows came into the room.

Paula left her room, looking ravishing and apparently in a good mood. On leaving the bathroom a few moments earlier, she had run into Mike Meadows, who had reassured her about the condition of her sister-in-law. She descended the stairs jauntily, wondering what she would do on such a promising day, and entered the salon. Dr. Meadows had just left and Harris had accompanied him. She greeted her parents-in-law and went over to the window, where she drew in deep breaths while watching a bee land on a flowering bush to gather pollen. The insect’s buzzing was drowned out by the far more disagreeable sound of Mrs. Dorothy Hilton, which annoyed Paula before it froze her to the spot.

‘White camellia! Blue reed! What’s the meaning of this?’

‘It’s probably a wrong address,’ suggested Howard Hilton.

‘A wrong address? But there’s a name on the envelope, and it’s mine. That’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘Actually, there’s another Mrs. Hilton in the house. Isn’t there, Paula?’

Paula took a deep breath, turned round and gave her parents-in-law what she hoped was an innocent look:

‘Sorry?’

‘Dorothy’s just received a letter,’ explained Howard Hilton. ‘A rather curious letter which doesn’t seem to concern her. Nor you, probably,’ he added with a broad smile. ‘But take a look anyway.’

Paula took the letter and blood rushed to her cheeks as she read it.

White Camellia. Blue Reed. The words resonated in Paula’s brain. They were the names Patrick and she used when they amused them- selves by sending secret messages. She recognised the handwriting: there was no doubt it was from him and addressed to her.

Even though she was in the grip of a mixture of anxiety and excitement, she managed to declare in a calm voice:

‘No, I don’t see….’

At half past two, a door opened on the upper floor of Hatton Manor. A head appeared to take a precautionary look at the corridor and “White Camellia” tiptoed out of her room towards the wing of the manor, descended the spiral staircase leading to the service door, and waited a moment to listen to the voices of Ariane Minden and Cathy coming from the kitchen. Closing the door behind her, Paula told herself she was stupid to draw attention to herself by acting furtively.

She reached the western perimeter of the property and climbed over the railings, which she then followed to the front gate. There, she concealed herself behind a tree and waited in the undergrowth which was an excellent observation post. She had no doubt that this was “the entrance to the fortress” specified in Patrick’s letter, the fortress in question being Hatton Manor. It would have been easier to walk down the drive, but that was visible from the salon and, more importantly, from Mr. and Mrs. Hilton’s room, which was in all probability where they were currently. With a mother-in-law as suspicious as hers, it wasn’t worth taking any risks, particularly since she’d read the letter and would be on the lookout.

She had just checked her clothes — she was wearing a simple cotton dress which suited her to perfection — when she felt a pair of hands covering her eyes.

‘Blue Reed?’ she asked laughingly.

The hands went down to her waist and she turned to face Patrick, who said, simply:

‘Hello, White Camellia.’

There was a silence and then….

This time, the malevolent influence of the moon could not be responsible for the passionate kiss they exchanged. After which, deeming their present position to be insufficiently discreet, they went farther into the woods.

‘You’re completely crazy to come here, Patrick. We swore never to see each other again.’

Lighting a cigarette, Patrick went over in his mind the day in February when he’d gone to London to see Paula again. He’d waited close to her home for Francis to leave, then slipped in to see the girl who had haunted his dreams since she’d left Padstow. They’d spent an afternoon together that he would never forget, which had made their separation even more cruel.

‘I know, but one can’t always help oneself. I tried hard, but I couldn’t resist.’

‘You could at least have announced your presence more discreetly. It was my mother-in-law who opened the letter!’

‘What should I have done? Written your name on the envelope?’

Paula didn’t reply.

‘There you are! … Anyway, let’s forget about it.’

‘And the question of life and death?’

‘I was talking about me,’ he confessed with a shy smile. ‘I had to see you. It was vital for me.’

Paula leant back against a tree and shook her hair, which spread in silky waves over her shoulders.

‘If I understand things correctly, my friend, you’re still in love with me?’

‘Yes, although it’s a rather special kind of love.’

‘I should hope so, because it’s an impossible love, as you well know.’

‘An impossible love,’ repeated Patrick, looking unseeingly into the distance. ‘Maybe it’s that very impossibility which….’ He bent down to pick up a twig which he examined at length before going on: ‘When I saw your train leave the station almost a year ago, I had a strange, hollow feeling inside. It was only several days later that it dawned on me I would never see you again. You had been part of my universe, of my life… Since that day, everything has become grey. Even the sun. I’ve thought about it, I’ve spent entire nights asking myself why I missed you so much… and why I’d been so blind all those years when you’d been by my side and so close to me, yet I’d never seen you.’

Patrick looked up and saw tears in the beautiful eyes watching him.

‘But that’s not all,’ he continued. ‘I thought about all the advice I’d given you — and which I thoroughly believed in at the time — about your future husband. And that was the worst thing of all… As if I’d announced my own death sentence. Because I have the strong impression that, without my insistence, you would never have married him, am I right?’

‘That’s quite correct,’ she replied in a firm voice.

Once again they found themselves in each other’s arms.

‘We mustn’t see each other any more,’ murmured Paula, pressing herself closer to him. ‘It’s not good… for me, nor for you. But… I’m glad you’re here. There are some very bizarre goings-on.’

‘Bizarre? To do with Francis?’ asked Patrick, holding his companion at arms’ length.

Paula shook her head and proceeded to recount everything that had happened since she’d moved into Hatton Manor.

‘What an extraordinary story!’ exclaimed Patrick after a few moments. ‘Making prophecies is one thing, but seeing them come true is something else again… Everything points to Harvey having been a seer and having transferred his gifts to that strange Brian.’

Paula watched Patrick in amusement.

‘I see that your passion for mysteries hasn’t waned.’

‘No, because it’s also my profession. I’ve just opened a detective agency near Piccadilly, together with a colleague. Our door hasn’t exactly been beaten down so far, but we haven’t lost hope.’

‘But that’s wonderful!’ exclaimed Paula. ‘In any case, I never imagined you as anything else: detective — official or private — writer of detective stories, or… criminal!’

‘That’s true,’ admitted Patrick. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by anything involving mysteries, tragedies or strange situations.’

He stopped when he realised that Paula was looking at him curiously. She replied with a mischievous smile:

‘Mysteries or strange situations, you said?’

Patrick stood still and took White Camellia’s hand.

‘Let’s leave it at that, for now, and go back to your story. Obviously, the predictions are mysterious enough, but….’

‘But?’

‘It’s Harvey’s death which intrigues me the most. What with that damp patch in the carpet and the water in the glass as well….’

‘Wait to hear what comes next,’ said Paula with a sigh. ‘I saw that glass of water myself….’

Patrick opened his mouth to speak but Paula cut him off.

‘It must have been around two o’clock in the morning. Everyone was asleep. At least, that’s what I thought as I left my room. I’d just woken from a nightmare and my throat was dry. I was making my way to the bathroom when I saw a light under Brian’s door.’

‘And, curious as you are by nature, you looked through the keyhole!’

‘Yes, and guess what I saw. Brian, seated at his desk, staring at a large glass in front of him, filled to the brim with water!’

8

‘Obviously,’ continued Paula, ‘I can’t be sure it was water, but that’s what it looked like.’

‘Strange,’ murmured Blue Reed.

‘Up until then, things had been going relatively well,’ said Paula, her voice changed. ‘About a fortnight ago, at dinner, Harris announced his intention to open Harvey’s old room and turn it into a study.’

Patrick thought for a moment.

‘And I imagine Brian didn’t exactly bless the project?’

‘You should have seen him, he went as white as a sheet. He stood up and gave Harris a look which put fear into all of us. In a deathly silence, he pointed a trembling finger at his brother: “Don’t do it Harris, don’t ever do it, or you’ll bring misfortune down on you.” At the time, Harris didn’t flinch. It was obvious that he must have remembered the sinister prophecies of his great-uncle, however, because after his deafening outburst of laughter he made a curious remark: “And even if I did die, Brian, that wouldn’t necessarily mean that I was dead.”

‘In any case, he moved into his new study a few days later without making any modifications, other than the door, of course, to replace the sealed panel. The Mindens spent two days airing it, cleaning it, and removing the cobwebs.’

Paula paused and pulled a face.

‘And since that day, everything’s gone to pieces at Hatton Manor. Nothing specific, but you can sense everyone’s on edge. Sarah and Harris can’t stop quarrelling, to the point that Francis almost intervened one night. No, it’s not what you think. Harris isn’t a tyrant. He has a strong character which clashes with Sarah’s: impulsive, jealous for no good reason… but he’s a decent man, sensitive, warm and even funny. This morning Sarah was taken ill — apparently she’s always had a heart murmur — so Francis left for Coventry by himself. Dr. Meadows confirmed that there was nothing to worry about: that she needed rest, but it was above all the extreme heat which had affected her. Harris was beside himself, convinced that he was responsible for his wife’s condition. But by lunchtime all was well and Sarah was her usual smiling self.’

There was a silence, except for the birds twittering.

‘Hm!’ exclaimed Patrick. ‘That’s not much help. I don’t know how to begin to formulate any kind of hypothesis about the presence of that mysterious glass of water. How long did you watch Brian through the keyhole?’

‘Twenty or thirty seconds, maybe.’

‘And what was he doing? Can you describe how he looked at it?’

‘He sat completely still and looked at it… how to put it? With great intensity, as if there was something vitally important to see there.’

Patrick though for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

Whereupon White Camellia and Blue Reed changed the subject.

An hour later they arranged one final meeting for the following night at eight o’clock, after which Patrick, who had taken a room for two nights at the village inn, was due to return to London.

The next day, Saturday, was humid and stormy. The evening meal was over by half past seven and Paula was the first to leave the table. At eight o’clock sharp, Mostyn announced Bessie Blount and Mike Meadows, who had been invited for a game of bridge, and led them into the salon. Twenty minutes later Francis was looking for his wife. On the upstairs floor he ran into Brian in the corridor, which echoed with the sound of loud voices being raised.

‘They’ve been fighting for more than a quarter of an hour,’ declared Brian uneasily. ‘They’re in Harris’s study.’

Francis understood full well what he meant by that last piece of information. Brian’s room being adjacent to the study, he’d been able to follow every detail of the row between Sarah and Harris, whose echoes even reached the floor below.

‘I’m going downstairs,’ announced Brian in a weary voice.

‘I understand,’ replied Francis. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t have seen Paula, by any chance?’

‘Paula,’ repeated Brian, absent-mindedly. ‘No, I haven’t seen her since dinner.’

So saying, he went on his way. Thoughtfully, Francis watched him go down the stairs.

Mr. and Mrs. Hilton left the salon at around half past eight, bidding goodnight to Brian, Meadows and his fiancée.

The three of them couldn’t help noticing how upset Sarah’s mother seemed to be. It was about the same time that there was a sudden silence upstairs. A quarter of an hour later, Mike Meadows suggested to his fiancée that they leave. She was about to reply when her eyes wandered to the open entrance leading to the hall.

‘Sarah and Harris,’ she murmured in amazement.

The three remaining occupants of the salon watched the couple walk, arm in arm, towards the front door, which shut firmly behind them.

‘Incredible!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘A moment ago, they were ready to kill each other and now there they are going out for a stroll, as if nothing had happened.’

‘Love is a funny thing,’ said Mike Meadows quietly, as he was lighting a cigarette. ‘It’s an extraordinary force which—.’

He didn’t get any further. Through the open window they could hear Sarah’s almost hysterical voice which didn’t mince her words, nor apparently spare the person to whom they were addressed. Then the door opened suddenly on a deathly pale Mrs. Thorne who rushed into the salon, threw herself into an armchair, took a cigarette out of the first packet which came to hand, and lit it.

Everything about her indicated a state of extreme emotion. Hardly had she taken a puff when the door opened again, just as suddenly as before. Three pairs of eyes — Sarah, staring at the ground, hadn’t moved — watched the familiar figure of Harris Thorne stride towards the staircase. Once he had disappeared from sight, Brian turned to his sister-in-law, thought for a moment, and left the salon.

Mike Meadows and Bessie Blount watched him go up the staircase in his turn. Once the sound of his footsteps could no longer be heard, Sarah asked in a hoarse voice:

‘My dear Bessie, would you care to take a stroll outside with me?’

‘Of course,’ Bessie replied hastily. Turning to her fiancé, she asked: ‘Are you going to stay here, Mike? We won’t be long.’

Meadows, ensconced in an armchair, nodded his agreement. The two women stood up, Bessie took Sarah’s arm and they went out.

Mike Meadows allowed a few seconds to pass, then went over to one of the open windows. He leant on the sill, inhaling the balsamic fragrance of the woods in the fading twilight.

The lights of the salon cast a beam across the lawn, revealing the silhouettes of the two young women receding along the gravel path. He couldn’t help comparing them, with an auctioneer’s eye that was, at the same time, lecherous.

Bessie’s beauty came principally from her long, blonde hair, although her curves were pleasing enough. But, next to her, the supple and graceful Sarah, with her swan-like neck and feminine allure, made Bessie suddenly seem drab.

The clock was striking a quarter past nine when Sarah and Bessie returned. Back in his armchair, Mike Meadows smiled at them:

‘I think we can consider our bridge evening over.’

Sarah stopped, looking thoughtful. Bessie ignored her fiancé’s remark and announced:

‘It’s a pity you didn’t come with us, Mike. We surprised a prowler.’

‘A prowler?’

‘Someone with something on his conscience, at least. We’d hardly been out there five minutes when we heard a branch crack behind one of the bushes, followed by the noise of someone running back into the woods. But it was too dark to see who it was.’

‘No, our bridge evening isn’t over,’ declared Sarah suddenly, with grim determination.

Meadow and Bessie looked at her, surprised and slightly uneasy.

‘Come on,’ she continued, ‘we’re going to start by finding Harris.’

Bessie and Meadows followed her upstairs without a word. They watched apprehensively as she knocked on the study door. In vain.

That part of the upstairs floor was badly lit, the only light coming from the wall lights in the main corridor, which ran at right angles to the wing where the little group was standing, meaning that it was an indirect light which shone on the anxious faces. After knocking again without result, Sarah opened the door.

At that moment, Mike Meadows and Bessie were standing back, slightly embarrassed, fearing the predictable reaction from Harris, whose strange silence did not bode well. They were watching Sarah’s face, as if it were a mirror reflecting the mood of the master of the house.

Hardly had the door opened than her eyes rolled up and her features became distorted in an indescribable expression of terror. Despite the feeble light, Meadows and Bessie saw the blood drain out of her face and her knees start to buckle under her. It had all happened in the space of a few seconds and Meadows was just in time to catch her before she fell. His first instinct, as was Bessie’s, was to take a quick look inside the room. What was it that had terrified Sarah so much that she had lost consciousness? That was the question they were asking themselves as they stood, Meadows with the inert Sarah in his arms and Bessie shivering behind him, on the threshold of the room whose walls had already witnessed one mysterious tragedy.

But there was nothing there. At least, nothing out of the ordinary. Shelves stacked with old books covered every wall of the room. In front of the wall to their right was a large oak table with a lamp standing on it, giving out a gentle golden light through the lamp-shade. The wall to their left was nothing more nor less than a large bookcase with a red brick fireplace in the middle of it. The left window of the two in the wall facing them — opposite the door — was open. Night intruded through the half-open curtains, undisturbed by any draught. A narrow divan had been placed against the wall nearest the corridor, beneath shelves framing a painting of the battle of Trafalgar. The carpet which covered the entire floor was the same dark red as the curtains.

After several seconds of an oppressive silence, Dr. Meadows looked down at the woman he was holding in his arms, entered the room and placed her gently on the divan. Bessie rushed to the window. She could barely distinguish the drive and the trees in the park, but was able to make out more clearly a hedge closer to the main building. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she was able to see two figures walking through a gap in the hedge towards the manor. She strained hard and was able to recognise the voices of Francis and Paula:

‘Going out for a walk, all by yourself at night? I’ve been looking for you for almost an hour! Couldn’t you have told me?’

‘You’re beginning to annoy me. I don’t have to tell you about every single little thing. And you gave me quite a shock, jumping out of the dark like that, without warning.’

‘By the way, you haven’t explained why you decided to climb over the railings on your way back… And another thing: did you forget about the bridge game we’d planned?’

Paula was about to reply when she caught sight of Bessie. Francis looked up in turn and stopped.

‘Something strange has happened,’ declared Bessie, ‘and your sister’s been taken sick.’

‘We’ll be right up there,’ replied Francis.

Bessie went back to join Mike, who was kneeling by the side of Sarah. Her face was white and her forehead was covered with perspiration.

‘For a moment there I feared the worst,’ declared Meadows. ‘She had almost no pulse. But things are improving. She’s had a severe shock. Look, her lips are still open, as if she wanted to shout out from….’

‘From fright?’

The doctor grimaced sceptically.

‘I can’t say for sure… but you saw her as well.’ He looked around the room and growled. ‘What was she afraid of? Everything in the room is normal. And there was no one there.’

‘Mike,’ murmured Bessie in a trembling voice, ‘there was something in this room, something which terrified Sarah. Admittedly she was already nervous before she opened the door, but afterwards? You would have thought she’d seen the Devil in person, the way her eyes popped out of her head. She was looking….’

Mike stopped with a sign of his hand.

‘She was looking straight in front of her, but downwards.’

He turned to look at the part of the carpet in front of the fireplace, and shot a questioning look at his companion.

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘it was in that direction.’

Immediately, they both thought of the death of Harvey Thorne, which Brian had told them about some time before. Meadows stood up and went over to the fireplace. He bent down and looked startled. He patted his hand over the part of the carpet directly in front of the hearth and froze.

‘Darling,’ he said in an expressionless voice, ‘there’s water. The carpet is wet here.’

A sensation of terror took hold of them, leaving them speechless and frozen to the spot. Then hurried steps sounded in the corridor and Francis appeared at the door, his face haggard:

‘Dr. Meadows, come quickly! Harris is down below… and I fear he may be dead.’

9

They rushed down the spiral staircase at breakneck speed and rushed out through the open service door. Paula, her arms crossed over her chest, was standing there, looking at an inert mass lying under one of the kitchen windows. The west face of the manor towered over them, sombre and hostile. The only lights were from behind the windows of Brian’s room and the study next door. Although the foliage of the trees was illuminated, nothing much could be discerned on the ground below. Approaching the body, Mike Meadows was still able to identify Harris Thorne, lying face down at a slight angle to the wall, arms and legs spread out.

‘It was Paula who noticed him as we were about to enter,’ explained Francis.

‘Go and fetch a lamp,’ ordered Meadows.

Francis returned very quickly, a lantern in his hand, followed by Brian Thorne and Mostyn the butler.

Dr. Meadows examined the victim in total silence, which he himself broke after several minutes:

‘There’s nothing to be done… he’s dead.’ He consulted his wristwatch, which showed half past nine, and thought for a moment. ‘For more than a quarter of an hour, I’d say….’

He looked up at the study window, almost twenty feet above the body, then raised the lifeless head to shine the light from the lantern on it. A wound could be seen on the temple, from which blood was oozing. The path which went around the manor ran the length of a rock garden built up against the west wall. The body was lying on the rock garden.

‘The cause of death seems pretty clear,’ continued Meadows. ‘He fell from his study window. Nevertheless, we should alert the police straight away.’ Mostyn nodded and left immediately.

Brian, who hadn’t uttered a word until then, approached his brother’s body. The flickering light from the lantern illuminated his ascetic features and the strange expression in his eyes.

‘You should never have unsealed that room, Harris. I warned you….’

Dr. Alan Twist was getting ready to butter his toast when the door bell rang.

“There’s only one person in the world who would ring at such an inconvenient time,” he said to himself, looking desolately at his unfinished breakfast. “Only one.”

‘I was waiting for you, my dear Archibald,’ he declared amiably to his visitor, a corpulent individual on the right side of fifty.

‘You were waiting for me?’ said the other, adopting a sphinx-like air. ‘Don’t try and play the fortune-teller with me, Twist, because I know someone who could trump you.’

Dr. Twist knew from past experience that when Hurst was in such a mood, it was best just to let him talk, which is why he invited him to take an armchair.

It was a pleasant September morning. Outside the open window, the sun was beaming down on London and bathed the two silent men in light.

Tall and thin, with a benevolent face beneath unruly silver-flecked hair, a lush moustache above a childlike mouth, a fine web of wrinkles in a healthy skin despite being an inveterate pipe-smoker, Dr. Alan Twist looked smilingly at his friend. His blue-grey eyes twinkled with mischief behind pince-nez held in place by a black silk cord. It was difficult to guess his age, and even more so to guess his profession, for this amiable gentleman was a remarkable detective and a renowned criminologist, possessing faculties of detection and analysis which were the envy of the Scotland Yard inspector sitting opposite him. Archibald Hurst, with his sparse hair, heavy respiration and ruddy face, was a jovial enough character whose profession, alas! put his nerves on edge only too often. A malicious fate had decreed that it was he who was inevitably given the most difficult and complex cases. Sadly, the further he progressed in such investigations, the more he inevitably found himself in over his head until, swallowing his pride, he would find himself obliged to call in his friend Twist.

‘So, old friend,’ began Dr. Twist, ‘how were your holidays in the land of Shakespeare?’

‘Couldn’t have been better,’ replied Hurst, beaming. ‘The weather was fine and Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwick and Kenilworth are charming towns which justify their reputation. The old half-timbered cottages, the castles which take you back to the Middle Ages… everything was most agreeable. But, just as always, it never lasts.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Alan Twist, an amused twinkle dancing behind his pince-nez.

‘Do you know Redfern, Hector Redfern? He’s a childhood friend and currently detective chief superintendent at Cheltenham. I was ill-advised enough to let him know I was spending a few days in the area and give him the address of my hotel. As luck would have it, one of the richest fellows in the region had an accident. The police were called in right away and my chum decided to rope me in. “Although the case might look straightforward at first, there are certain curious aspects that should interest you.”’

‘When I said that your fame had spread beyond the capital, Archibald… Whenever a case appears out of the ordinary, they call for you straight away.’

Hurst adopted the air of false modesty which amused his friend so much, and continued:

‘To cut it short, I went with him.’ He looked pensive for a moment. ‘A case out of the ordinary? Not really, because it was obviously suicide. We arrived on the scene in the middle of the day. The body of Harris Thorne had been discovered shortly before half past nine the previous night….. ’ Taking a notebook out of his pocket, he added: ‘I suppose I’d better begin at the beginning.’

So saying, the inspector retraced the events of the fatal evening, up to the testimony of Brian Thorne:

‘…and now we come to the last person to have seen Harris Thorne alive — Brian, his brother. I took down his deposition in full, because it seemed interesting,’ said Hurst, with a smile loaded with ulterior motives. ‘Here it is: “As soon as I saw my sister-in-law come back into the salon, obviously on the brink of a nervous breakdown, I got up to meet Harris who had just returned as well. I followed him to the stairs, asking him to listen to me for a few moments, but he didn’t even look round. At the corner of the corridor, I saw him go into his study, slamming the door behind him. He was in a towering rage. Realising I was fighting a losing battle, I was on the point of retracing my steps, but then changed my mind: the incessant quarrels with Sarah couldn’t go on, he had to listen to me. I knocked on his door and, despite the silence, I went in anyway. He was leaning out of the window, taking deep breaths of the night air, clearly beside himself. I tried to talk to him, but in vain. I knew that when he was in such a mood, any discussion would be better postponed to the next day. I left the room and went back to my own, which I didn’t leave until the moment his body was discovered…”

‘It was about ten to nine,’ continued Hurst, ‘when Brian left Harris. And at twenty past nine, Mrs. Thorne, Dr. Meadows and his fiancée found the study empty. It was only five minutes later that the body was discovered but, given the circumstances, we can conclude that it was already lying under the window at that moment. According to Meadows, he’d been dead for about half an hour, a diagnosis confirmed by the medical examiner. As for the cause of death, everything seems to point to defenestration. A few bruises due to the fall and a wound on the temple which we can reasonably attribute to one of the rocks in the rock garden where he was found. On top of that, the autopsy established that it was the wound that killed him and there were no other suspicious traces.’

In the silence which followed, barely affected by the increased traffic in the street outside, Dr. Twist lit his pipe and spoke:

‘So, Harris Thorne is a man quick to lose his temper and very jealous. And it’s jealousy — whether justified or not, it doesn’t matter — which is the source of their frequent quarrels. During the climax of one such outburst, he’s seen, for the last time, leaning out of one of the windows of his study. His body is found below the same window. There’s not much to say: a suicide by defenestration whose motives and exact time of death are known. Although… I have trouble imagining a man like that throwing himself out of a window, at least under those circumstances. A height of less than twenty feet, thick tufts of rock plants and a gravel path below are hardly a guarantee of certain death. But stranger suicides have been known.’

‘I’m with you,’ agreed Hurst. ‘But that’s not the most bizarre aspect of the case. I need to tell you about that room’s strange past and the no less strange individual who inhabited it.’

So saying, Hurst related Harvey Thorne’s sinister predictions, the circumstances of his death, and the sealing of the room which followed.

‘The madman’s room…,’ observed Dr. Twist dreamily when he finished.

‘…And now we come to the case of Brian, who — according to several testimonies — also appears to possess the gift of prediction. Dr. Meadows and his fiancée both certified that he’d “seen” their love one day before it blossomed. But there’s a more serious one: he also predicted the death of his brother after he took the decision to reopen the famous room… A prophecy made in front of several witnesses this time. Just luck, would you say? I would tend to agree with you, but for the case of the ancestor. And that’s where the plot thickens: he died from a heart attack following frenzied convulsions due to a fit of madness, according to witnesses… or extreme fear! And on the sill of the open door! Exactly the spot where Mrs. Thorne, terrified, lost consciousness after looking into that room where there was nothing, and staring at the wet patch on the carpet — exactly as in the case of great-uncle Harvey!

‘First of all, I have to make it clear that Mrs. Thorne’s fainting was genuine. Meadows is formal on that score. She regained consciousness at about the time the medical examiner arrived and he also confirmed it had been genuine.

‘What could she possibly have seen? My first thought was that she’d just seen her husband jumping out of the window, but the doctors’ testimony regarding time of death discredits that theory. A prankster wearing a carnival mask and leaving by the window? Impossible, for several reasons: Meadows and his fiancée didn’t hear any noises and they found the room empty only a couple of seconds later. Miss Blount even looked out of the window immediately and saw no one — which is confirmed by Francis and Paula Hilton, who were making their way towards that part of the manor. To cap it all, Redfern’s men examined the wall below the window and found no trace of any kind of acrobatics. On the other hand, they did find a secret passage….’

Like the adroit narrator he was, Hurst paused, and to his great delight he heard Alan Twist exclaim:

‘A secret passage! Well, well, well! I thought they only existed in novels. And where was it? In the fireplace?’

‘Just to the side. It’s effectively built in to the bookcase which spans the wall on either side of the chimney-breast. Part of the section to the right pivots open like a door and leads to an adjacent storage room containing old junk. The knob’s concealed behind a row of books. It was Brian who told us about it. ’

‘And you think that’s how the joker got out after frightening Mrs. Thorne….’

‘That’s what we thought, but our hopes went up in smoke. Once inside, we found dust everywhere, including the floorboards, but no footprints. The room hadn’t been visited for donkey’s years.

‘That leaves the testimony of Mrs. Thorne herself, you’re about to say,’ he continued, with thinly concealed irritation. ‘Dr. Meadows only authorised her to speak to us late in the afternoon. So we waited… fruitlessly. She remembered standing outside her husband’s study with Meadows and Miss Blount and knocking on the door. But after that, nothing, a black hole. Because she was still in a state of shock, we didn’t insist. Redfern has questioned her since then, but with no better result. According to Meadows, it’s quite possible — given the initial shock, followed by another in the form of the death of her husband — that she will never remember.’

Dr. Twist nodded his head in silence, then asked:

‘Did you ask her what she and her husband were quarrelling about? And why they left again so soon after coming back in?’

‘Yes, but without learning anything new. The subject of their dispute was Meadows. Thorne suspected him of making secret advances to his wife, who — according to Thorne again — did nothing to discourage him. In most people’s eyes, his suspicions were not justified. Apparently he had veritable fits of jealousy… “harder and harder to tolerate,” she confessed, with tears in her eyes. After the meal, Harris Thorne had gone up to his study and she had joined him a little later. Straight away, he reproached her for inviting Meadows and his fiancée… and they quarrelled about it until half past eight, when she finally succeeded in calming him down. She suggested they go out for some fresh air, which he didn’t object to, and they left together. But no sooner were they outside than he started again. She came back in, and you know the rest.

‘By the way, the study was thoroughly examined, without the slightest result. There was no trace of the liquid which had wet the carpet near the fireplace, so it was most likely water.’

Hurst ended his account by shrugging his shoulders and lighting a cigar.

‘The least you can say,’ said Alan Twist thoughtfully, ‘is that it’s all far from clear. If you go back to the death of Harvey Thorne, you could conclude that there’s something dormant in that room which doesn’t like to be disturbed. Secondly, that something terrifies people to the point of causing them to die on the spot, lose consciousness or jump out of the window… Thirdly, that something is invisible, or rather it evaporates immediately after showing itself… an evaporation which nevertheless leaves traces on the carpet.’

‘Are you thinking about some aquatic monster?’ thundered Hurst. ‘A creature with a body so translucent it’s not even visible?’

‘Straight out of a Scottish lake? No, my friend, that’s not what I said. I just stated the problem as it appears,’ he added, with an amused gleam behind his pince-nez.

‘Can you tell me what’s causing you to smile, Twist?’

The eminent detective regarded his friend amicably. His sparse hair — always carefully combed across his pink cranium — had a peculiar characteristic; once he began to see red, it invariably flopped down over his forehead, as it was doing now.

‘What makes me smile is your talent for getting involved in the most complicated cases. Usually, the problem is posed differently: an obvious case of murder where it is shown that nobody could have done it. Here, there’s no murder as such, but a “thing” which frightens people and disappears. A woman faints, a man throws himself out of a window… although murder can’t be excluded.’

‘It’s a possibility I’ve never ruled out,’ said Hurst in an unctuous voice. ‘The inheritance Thorne left behind is certainly food for thought, to say the least. From now on, his widow will own a fortune.’

‘It all goes to her?’

‘Every last penny. He must have thought that his brother, whose own fortune includes half the manor and a number of shares in the company, was well enough off. So he left it all to her. He made his will a few days after they were married, without telling her or anyone else. Did Brian feel frustrated? I can’t say. In any case, supposing it turns out to be murder, we can’t rule anyone out on the grounds they didn’t know they’d inherit. But if he did kill his brother, I doubt that it would have been for money. He’s… how to put it… rather special and that warning issued not long before the accident seems quite suspect. What do you think?’

Dr. Twist, whose eyes were closed, seemed to have dozed off.

‘Let’s leave that aside for the time being,’ he said suddenly. ‘Suppose there was a murder, either by pushing Harris Thorne directly out of the window or by leading him to jump himself, by whatever Machiavellian trick. Can you summarise the evening for me, with the times and movements of each individual?’

‘Of course,’ said the inspector, pulling out his notebook. ‘I’ve already done that. Here goes.’

7.30. End of meal. Mrs. Paula Hilton gets up from table and is not seen until much later. Says she “went to get some air and calm herself down, because she sensed that something was being hatched.”

7.45. Harris goes up to his study. His wife follows shortly after. Brian goes to his room.

8.00. Dr. Meadows and Miss Bessie Blount ring the door bell. Butler escorts them to salon. Mr. and Mrs. Hilton and son Francis already there. Noises of quarrel upstairs start to be heard.

8.20. Francis Hilton, who had gone to find his wife, runs into Brian upstairs. Brian, upset by his brother’s behaviour, goes down to salon.

8.30. The Hiltons leave salon. The loud noises have stopped.

8.45. The Thornes go out. They’ve hardly left when the quarrel starts again. Mrs. Thorne returns overwrought and goes to salon. Husband rushes in and goes upstairs. Brian follows him. Mrs. Thorne and Miss Blount go out for walk.

8.50. The moment when Harris Thorne is seen alive for the last time, leaning out of window, beside himself, refusing to talk. (Note that information provided by Brian, who claims to have left the study immediately.) Death of Harris confirmed as being around 8.50-9.00.

9.05. Sarah Thorne and Bessie Blount, near the front gate, surprise an unidentified person who flees.

9.15. Dr. Meadows, his fiancée and Mrs. Thorne go up to study. Mrs. Thorne faints on opening door but room is empty. Miss Blount looks out of window, sees nothing suspicious, then notices or hears Francis Hilton and wife approaching manor. They find body while opening service door.

‘Getting back to the fatal moment, around 8.50 to 9.00. The most solid alibi is undoubtedly that of Sarah Thorne, who was out walking with Bessie Blount. It’s difficult to picture a conspiracy on their part. As far as Mr. and Mrs. Hilton are concerned, they furnish each other an alibi, but then they’re a married couple, so… Their son Francis has no alibi. He was outdoors looking for his wife, who hasn’t got an explanation for her actions either. Dr. Meadows was in the salon alone: no alibi either. The same goes for Brian, who was in his room, next to the study….’

‘Admit it. If it was murder, you think it was Brian who did it!’

Archibald Hurst gave a sly smile.

‘We questioned him for quite a long time. Gently, I can assure you. A few questions about his supposed powers… What I can certify to you is that he isn’t a charlatan in the proper sense of the term, meaning that he really believes in his powers of prediction. He confirmed the prophetic warning to his brother. “It was inevitable,” he said repeatedly. I don’t say he’s a murderer, but he made a curious impression… Anyway, what do you make of it all? Murder or suicide?’

Dr. Twist didn’t reply straight away. He puffed inscrutably on his pipe.

‘Apart from that,’ he said suddenly, ‘didn’t anything else strike you as strange?’

Hurst squinted at him.

‘It seems to me there are already enough strange things.’

‘Of course, but I was talking about the actions and movements of all the parties that night. And I can assure you, something’s not right!’