The Madman's Room

10

A year passed without much of note happening. Harris Thorne lay in peace next to his ancestors beneath the chapel. Mr. and Mrs. Hilton led a peaceful existence in Hatton Manor and Brian had not changed his habits one iota. Sarah had replaced her late husband as head of the enterprise, even though her role was more to supervise the new director she’d chosen, Curtin, the previous right hand man. She’d also arranged for more favourable working hours for her brother, with the result that he only went two or three days a week to Coventry. During that time, however, the flame which had animated the romantic sentiments of Bessie Blount and Mike Meadows appeared to have died out, although nobody seemed to know why.

Nonetheless, they were both present at Hatton Manor that Saturday evening in June when the discussion turned to great-uncle Harvey and the mysterious glass forever standing on the table.

Paula — who, after many circumlocutions, had steered the conversation round to the subject — observed Brian out of the corner of her eye. The glimmer of a smile appeared on his face and he turned towards her.

‘My dear Paula, I notice you’re very interested in the subject….’

Paula, who still vividly recalled that famous night when, peering through the keyhole, she had observed Brian contemplating that same object, feigned an indifference denied by eyes burning with curiosity.

‘Yes, because I can’t really see an explanation… supposing there is one.’

‘And nobody has explained to you what it’s about?’ asked Brian in astonishment.

The question was met with astonished silence.

‘And are you in a position to tell us, Brian?’

Still smiling, Brian said only one word, but one which had an instant effect.

‘Yes.’

Dr. Meadows lit a cigarette, followed by Francis. Howard Hilton served himself another port, under his wife’s disapproving eye.

‘You see,’ continued Brian, ‘wherever you go in space or time, people are always the same. When they hear talk of prophecy they adopt a superior air and shrug their shoulders, but… Let’s take an example, the very first, which goes back to Genesis. Adam and Eve, though warned, took no notice of the terrible menace, tasted the forbidden fruit, and were chased from the earthly paradise… and we’re the ones who suffer the consequences. Harris didn’t listen either. Nobody can say I didn’t warn him. Yet he still opened up that room….

‘Before getting back to great-uncle Harvey, I’d like to tell you about certain events which have punctuated history, and whose authenticity is not in doubt. In fact, there have been quite a number of prophecies which have turned out to be accurate. The most well-known, needless to say, are those about illustrious individuals who must have kicked themselves later for turning a deaf ear. Remember Cassandra, whom the Trojans mocked. Does the term “Trojan Horse” ring a bell? Remember Julius Caesar also, and the celebrated “beware of the Ides of March.” He heard his wife having a nightmare in which she was holding his corpse in her arms, and the next day she begged him to postpone the senate meeting. He ignored her and was stabbed to death beneath the statue of Pompey, his enemy.’

He stopped and looked into the distance. His audience, shaken, could see the atrocious scene in his clear blue eyes.

‘I’ll skip over the prophecies of Nostradamus and other well-known figures, and take the case of Marie-Madeleine de Pazzi, one of the most significant and troubling. An astonishing young woman who, at the age of fifteen, declared that she belonged to no one other than Jesus Christ, and would die rather than marry. She flagellated herself regularly to defend her chastity from diabolical temptation, and was occasionally seen writhing on the ground, fighting off an invisible enemy and in the grip of atrocious convulsions.

‘One of her most remarkable predictions occurred during a ceremony to elect a new prior, which the cardinal was supposed to attend. Marie-Madeleine, then aged twenty, was overcome by lethargy during communion. An attempt was made to lift her from the pew and carry her to her cell, but she was lifeless and as stiff as a board; even though she only weighed just over a hundred pounds, she couldn’t be lifted from the bench. When the cardinal entered the chapel he sat down next to her. Petrified no longer, she rose up and said to his face: “You will be Pope. Yes, you will be Pope, but not for long, because you will die less than a month after your election!”’

Brian lowered his voice:

‘Nineteen years later, Alessandro Ottoviano de Medicis took the name of Leo XI.’

‘And did he die a month later?’ asked Paula.

‘Twenty-six days, to be precise,’ replied Brian. ‘I could cite you plenty of other examples, in particular the remarkable vision of Swedenborg, who not only announced there would be a fire in Stockholm, more than two hundred miles from where he lived, but predicted the progress of the fire and where it would end. But let’s get to the death of Louis XIV, or more precisely to the testimony of the Duc de Saint-Simon about that death… which, incidentally, explains the presence of that mysterious glass of water in my great-uncle’s room.

‘On the eve of his departure to take command of the Italian army, Philippe d’Orleans, nephew and son-in-law of Louis XIV, met Saint-Simon in Marly. The latter, as was his custom, took notes about the former’s strange adventure of the night before.

‘Philippe had invited his friends to supper. At the end of the evening, when only his mistress and a few close friends were still present, Philippe was introduced to a curious individual, supposedly a magician who claimed to be able to tell him any detail whatsoever about his past, present and future. To do so, he would need “someone young and innocent” and something else… which I’ll keep silent about for the moment. Mlle de Sery, Philippe’s mistress, had an eight-year old girl staying with her, innocent and rather backward, who had never left her domicile.

‘To begin, they asked the child to describe a scene occurring somewhere else at that very moment, which she did. The Duc d’Orleans sent one of his valets out in secret to the place described by the girl, which was quite nearby. He returned shortly thereafter and told his master what he’d seen chez Mme de Nancre, where the event had taken place. Armed with the information, Philippe asked the child for more information. Her response stupefied him: she described everyone present, their faces and what they were wearing, what they were doing, the position of the furniture… in short, she told him everything the valet had reported.

‘Whereupon, the child was asked if she could describe what would happen upon the death of the king. Remember, having never left the domicile, she knew nothing about Versailles nor, obviously, anyone at court. The king’s bedroom was described in the minutest detail, as was the furniture, the bed Louis XIV was lying on and the people gathered around him. Without going into detail, let’s just say they were individuals whom Philippe d’Orleans could identify easily, but he was amazed that the little girl could not see Monseigneur the Dauphin, nor his son the Duc de Bourgogne and his young duchess, nor the Duc de Berry, the Dauphin’s brother. The response was always the same: she couldn’t see any of them.

‘That was in 1706. The four persons not visible to the girl were all in good health at the time, yet they all died before the king. And, in 1715, in front of his deathbed, the only people present were the ones she had so carefully described nine years earlier.

‘One last detail: in accordance with the magician’s wishes, and in order to help the child to “see” the scenes, a large glass of water had been placed on the table in front of her….’

Mr. Hilton nodded understandingly:

‘So your great-uncle saw the future using the same method?’

‘In all likelihood. I’d known for a long time about the anecdote reported in Saint-Simon’s Memoires, but it wasn’t until last year that I made the connection with Harvey’s glass of water. And I won’t hide the fact that I now use the same method to… let’s say, concentrate.’ A curious gleam came into his eye. ‘It’s remarkable. The perfect transparency of the water acts like a veritable mirror where one can see many things, things which….’

His words tapered off and a beatific expression lit up his face.

‘When it suits you,’ said Francis amiably, ‘I wouldn’t mind a session with you… as long as you don’t announce a forthcoming catastrophe.’

‘But tell us,’ said Paula, still trying to come to grips with what she had heard, ‘is there any connection between your great-uncle’s glass of water and his death, and with the water found on the carpet?’

Brian made a futile gesture.

‘I’ve no idea. I’ve thought about it a great deal, particularly after my brother’s death… Why did he throw himself out of the window? And why the water on the carpet, in the exact same spot?’ He looked thoughtfully at Sarah. ‘You still don’t remember why you were so distraught?’

Sarah trembled.

‘I’ve tried so many times,’ she murmured, ‘but with no success. I can see the door I knocked on and the moment when I opened it … But, after that, nothing.’ She looked dolefully into Brian’s eyes. ‘Maybe it’s a form of vertigo brought on by a premonition of Harris’s death?’

Brian nodded.

‘It’s the only reasonable explanation. What’s more, such premonitions occur much more frequently than people think. I can cite numerous examples where people have been taken ill or had a nightmare at the precise moment when they lost a loved one several hundred miles away… My dear Sarah, there’s no doubt: at the very moment you started to open that door, you knew that Harris had left us forever.’

11

In the oppressive heat of that July afternoon, Howard Hilton contemplated the large clusters of roses that adorned the front entrance to Hatton Manor. Since the beginning of the year, it had been his task to take care of them, so as to lighten the load on old Mortimer, whose physical decline had become only too evident. He carefully checked the grafts he’d made, then, satisfied with the results, decided to take a short rest on one of the benches. He took off his hat, mopped the perspiration off his brow with the back of his arm, and sighed contentedly.

Trying to clear his mind, he contemplated the dark green swathe of the forest, which separated the azure sky from the soft green lawns, from which emanated a suffocating heat. Yet something was nagging at him: what Sarah had said at lunchtime. Although he had nothing specific to go on, he couldn’t help thinking it would put an end to the peaceful calm that had reigned the last few months. Obviously, a woman like Sarah couldn’t be expected to stay a widow forever, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

Footsteps crunched the gravel and he saw Dorothy approaching. They hadn’t had time to talk since lunch, but by her demeanour he could see that she shared his thoughts. She sat down beside him, sombre and silent.

‘What a beautiful day, my dear,’ he observed in a gentle voice.

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ his wife replied. ‘Who knows what tomorrow will bring.’

‘Too true, my dear, too true.’

After a lengthy silence, Mrs. Hilton continued:

‘I don’t blame Sarah, as you well know… but she could have waited a bit longer. It’s not really appropriate. And Heaven only knows what will become of us now… It’s not out of the question that, in a few months time, she lets it be known that, in the interests of privacy, independence, or who knows what else, it’s better that we live apart… Of course, she wouldn’t cut us off financially… although even that remains to be seen.

‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but since Harris’s death, she’s been looking down on us. The way she imposes her will and makes it clear to us, her own parents, that she’s the mistress of the house… The money’s gone to her head, I’m afraid.’

Howard made a gesture showing that he agreed with her, as his thoughts went back to the end of the lunch: Sarah had waited until then to announce she was about to be engaged to Dr. Meadows. To say that it had come as a surprise to all present was to put it mildly. Francis had sat there with his mouth open. Paula had felt a knot in her stomach and Dorothy, despite her outward calm, probably had as well.

Her husband watched her now out of the corner of his eye. As usual, she concealed her emotions. Nevertheless, years of experience had taught him that she was extremely upset. She turned to her husband:

‘Meadows is a perfectly respectable young man. Polite, well-mannered, always friendly, there’s really nothing to reproach him about.’

‘I quite agree, my dear.’

Mrs. Hilton became tight-lipped and paused before adding:

‘Except that I can’t help wondering… nothing certain, you understand….’

‘Whether he really wants to marry her just because of her blue eyes….’

Dorothy’s silence confirmed that she had the same suspicions.

‘I started wondering last month,’ said Howard, ‘when he told us he’d broken off his engagement to Bessie Blount. She’s a sweet girl and I couldn’t understand why it had happened.’ His expression hardened. ‘The question went unanswered… until today.’

The next day, Wednesday, Francis and Paula paid a visit to Bessie Blount. They’d been in the habit of going round once a week and thought it would be insensitive not to do so now.

Bessie’s house was situated a few hundred yards to the left on the way out of the village, beyond a heavily wooded area and just before the winding, pebble-strewn road which led gently uphill to the manor. For residents of Hatton Manor desirous of visiting the Blount residence, however, there was a path down through the undergrowth which led directly to a gate in the fence surrounding the property, from whence a path wound its way through a small meadow to a modest shed which had served as Bessie’s grandfather’s workshop.

The old man hadn’t set foot in the place since the accidental death of his son, for which he felt himself responsible: Bessie’s father had been crushed by the weight of a heavy wardrobe which had fallen on him as a result of a faulty manoeuvre.

Beyond the workshop lay a kitchen garden, a hedge, a small lawn in the shade of a weeping willow, and the Blounts’ house itself.

It was the path through the undergrowth which Francis and Paula usually took to visit their neighbour. They found her installed in a deckchair beneath the weeping willow. Seeing them, she sat up and smiled warmly.

The young couple, who had come prepared to offer words of comfort following Mike Meadows’ engagement to Sarah, were relieved to find that she was actually in excellent spirits. They sat down to tea and were caught off balance when Bessie announced:

‘Grandfather fell ill yesterday… Nothing serious, I can assure you.’

‘The heat, I suppose?’ suggested Francis, stirring his tea.

‘No, it was when he went into his old workshop.’

Francis stopped stirring and Paula looked in the direction of the small building whose roof was visible through the trees.

‘As you know, nobody’s been in there since father died… least of all grandfather, who’s never been able to forget the accident.’ Bessie sighed. ‘Nevertheless, he went up there yesterday afternoon, to look for a tool to replace his broken spade… I can still see him making the announcement over lunch in a casual manner which fooled nobody: mother and I knew how much it cost him to go there, and he could have easily repaired his spade using his other tools. It was obviously a pretext for trying to get rid of his guilty conscience once and for all. We watched him set out briskly, whistling so as to appear confident.’

‘Francis, you can put your spoon down now,’ said Paula with amusement. ‘You’ve been holding it up in the air for thirty seconds.’

‘My spoon?’ said Francis in embarrassment. ‘Ah, yes,’ he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.

Bessie watched him with a faint smile on her lips:

‘You make me think of Mike. His mind went blank like that from time to time. Where was I?’

‘Your grandfather was going to his workshop,’ prompted Paula.

‘Right. Well, he returned ten minutes later with a heavy step and looking quite haggard. He said he’d been taken ill when he was inside and had had to lie down on the grass to recover.’

‘I imagine he’d relived the moment of tragedy,’ declared Paula dramatically.

‘Quite so, but he didn’t want to admit it. Anyway, he won’t be going back there again in a hurry.’

‘So nothing serious,’ said Francis, making a vague gesture.

Bessie shook her head, still smiling faintly.

Paula decided it was the moment to grasp the nettle.

‘My dear Bessie, I’m so glad to see your habitual good humour hasn’t been affected by… recent events.’

Her friend couldn’t help chuckling.

‘Are you talking about Mike? And his engagement to Sarah?’

‘Believe me,’ replied Francis, looking down, ‘it gave us no pleasure to hear it. I’m not passing judgment about Mike, but I can’t say I’m thrilled by my sister’s behaviour, not just towards you, but also—.’

‘My Goodness, Francis, how old-fashioned you can be!’ exclaimed Bessie. ‘Harris has been dead for over a year, don’t you think that’s long enough to respect conventions?’ She looked at their solemn faces. ‘I think you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Mike and I stopped seeing each other — at least in the sense you mean — at the beginning of the year. After the first break-up, we tried again with the same result. Quite simply, our hearts weren’t in it. We decided to remain good friends and to put up appearances for a while. It was Mike’s idea to let people gradually get used to the idea, rather than make a sudden announcement, which would inevitably have caused gossip and would have been bad for his medical practice.’

“Marrying Sarah will certainly put an end to that worry,” said Francis to himself.

‘I understand,’ he said out loud, being careful to avoid any trace of irony.

Paula pulled a face to show she didn’t agree with her husband.

‘I understand,’ she repeated, ‘in one sense. But on the other hand it doesn’t strike me as a very honest way to act. What I mean is that kind of situation leads to complications. But why….’

Paula bit her tongue as she realised the indiscretion of her question.

‘Why did we separate in the first place?’

‘Well, yes,’ stammered Paula, as Francis gave her a furious glare.

Bessie took a deep breath. There was an intense gleam in her blue eyes which neither Paula nor Francis could interpret.

‘Mike,’ she murmured with a bitter smile. ‘We got on pretty well together at the start. And then things began to change little by little… insignificant details. It’s hard to explain. There comes a day when you sense things are going in the wrong direction. You dismiss the thought from your mind and then it comes back even stronger. Finally you’re sure you made a mistake. The day I expressed my feelings to Mike, he didn’t want to accept what I was saying, blaming it on the grim dark days of winter, notoriously bad for lovers. Then he claimed that without ups and downs life would be boring… and a host of other excuses.’

‘So it was you,’ exclaimed Paula, while Francis made a show of clearing his throat noisily. ‘It was you who….’

‘Yes,’ replied Bessie, smiling at her friend’s ingenuousness. ‘Yes, I was the one who broke it up. That’s why I’m in no position to reproach Mike about anything. And besides….’

‘Yes?’ asked Paula, leaning eagerly forward.

Bessie sat back in her deckchair, let out a hearty laugh, and said:

‘I think I’ve said enough for today. Would you like some more tea?’

Once everyone was served, Paula returned to the attack.

‘I get the impression you’re hiding something….’

‘Darling, please!’ protested Francis, spilling some of his tea.

‘I get the impression,’ insisted Paula, ‘that there’s a new Prince Charming in the picture.’

Francis was about to protest some more, but stopped when he saw Bessie wink.

‘Another fiancé?’ he murmured.

‘Bessie, you must tell us everything!’ insisted Paula. ‘What does he do? Where’s he from? How did you meet him?’

Bessie blushed, confused yet at the same time flattered by her friends’ interest. She looked briefly up at the sky with a beatific smile on her lips.

‘I met him in London, several months ago. You’ll never guess how… No, I really mustn’t say.’

‘Ah, no!’ cried Paula excitedly. ‘You’ve gone too far to stop now.’

‘Well, if you insist. We met in a rather unusual way… in fact he stopped me quite unexpectedly in the street.’

Francis suppressed an indignant “what!” telling himself that provincial girls made easy prey.

‘In the street?’ repeated Paula with a shocked expression.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Bessie, ‘but in a rather extraordinary manner. I was strolling along Oxford Street when I saw a young man whom I didn’t know from Adam coming towards me, brandishing a sumptuous bouquet of roses. He stopped in front of me and announced they were for me, that he didn’t know why, that he was very embarrassed by what he was doing, that he regretted it, but that he also didn’t regret it.’

While Paula was uttering the obligatory “how romantic,” Francis suppressed a shrug of the shoulders. The naiveté of some women flabbergasted him.

‘I was so taken aback,’ continued Bessie, pressing her hands to her chest, ‘that I accepted his invitation to have a cup of tea. And there you are. Since then, we’ve been seeing each other almost every week.’

‘Here?’ asked Paula in surprise.

‘No, in London. But now Mike and Sarah….’

‘So, will we soon get to meet him?’ asked Paula, with an enthusiasm which elicited a disapproving frown from her husband.

‘Not right away. He’s actually quite swamped with work at the moment. But he’s promised to spend a few days here before the end of the year.’

Paula tried to find out more, but in the end she and her husband went back to Hatton Manor none the wiser.

12

The evening meal over, Sarah, Paula and Francis decided to go outside for some air. The setting sun threw long shadows over the park.

‘A fiancé? Well, she finished consoling herself pretty quickly.’

‘You don’t understand, Sarah,’ said Francis. ‘Why would she need to console herself when it was she who broke off the engagement?’

Sarah gave a tinkling laugh.

‘And you believe it was Bessie who jilted Mike? What a joke!’

‘But no,’ insisted Paula. ‘She told us herself.’

‘And because she told you, you believe it?’ railed Sarah, turning to her brother and sister-in-law with an ironic, almost disdainful smile. ‘As far as psychology is concerned, you both have a lot to learn. And as regards Mike, you have the wrong version of the story. When he told her that it would be better if they separated, she clung to him, moaning and threatened suicide. Mike was very patient because he wanted to avoid a scandal at any price.’

Francis nodded thoughtfully.

‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘She didn’t give me the impression she was at all jealous.’

‘As I’ve always said, Francis, you know nothing about women,’ sneered Sarah. ‘It’s painful enough to have been abandoned by the one you love, but then to see him in the arms of a friend is the supreme humiliation. Do you think that, on top of everything else, she would want to shout it from the rooftops? No, there’s only one attitude to take: suffer in silence behind a mask of nonchalance. And that’s what Bessie’s doing at the moment. Mike and I aren’t fools. That said, we won’t hold it against her.’

‘That’s a bit of luck,’ observed Francis. ‘Bessie’s a decent girl who, I’m sure, has nothing to blame herself for, and who’s certainly not the woman devoured by jealousy you’re portraying her as.’

‘It doesn’t really matter what you do or don’t think,’ declared Sarah dismissively.

Paula, who had gone ahead, chose the path leading to the chapel, which was hardly distinguishable in the twilight, surrounded as it was by trees. As they approached, Sarah came to a sudden stop, a distressed look in her eyes.

‘No,’ she murmured. ‘Not this way.’

After giving his wife a dirty look, Francis took Sarah’s arm and guided her gently in the direction of the manor. Paula shrugged and followed them. She thought about Harris Thorne with his welcoming smile, his red hair, his inevitable blue-checked jacket and his outbursts of laughter. She remembered him so vividly that she could almost see him in front of her. She shivered. “Harris Thorne,” she said to herself, “wasn’t so far wrong to be jealous of Dr. Mike Meadows, after all… And suppose his spirit is there, lurking in the shadows, spying on his wife, the wife Meadows set his sights on….”

She was startled out of her reverie by the voice of her own husband:

‘Dammit! I was forgetting about good old Brian.’

Paula was about to reply, but Sarah got her word in first:

‘Brian? What do you want with him?’

‘I promised to drop in to see him this evening,’ said Francis, rubbing his hands together cheerfully. ‘For a consultation… about my future.’

Francis’s enthusiasm as he knocked on Brian’s door faded once he stepped into the room. In the first place, Brian’s face was more like a waxen image than his normal self and his sombre expression was hardly more reassuring. The oil lamp, furthermore, seemed to have been set to give the minimum of light, which had the effect of accentuating the shadows rather than dissipating them. The only furnishings which were visible were a table, on which stood a large glass of water, and the gold bindings of the books on the stacked shelves. Brian’s face lit up suddenly with an affable smile.

‘My dear Francis, I’m not sure this is the best method for determining your future.’

Francis Hilton squinted in the darkness.

‘The best method? What method are you talking about?’

‘I sense you’re incredulous… You don’t believe in this science, am I correct?’

‘Well, let’s just say I’m not entirely convinced.’

Brian nodded, then asked Francis to take a seat opposite him, after which he took a deck of cards out from a drawer and spread them out on the table. The soft light of the lamp revealed many beautifully coloured figures: a cleric absorbed in a book, a woman holding a sword and a set of scales, a naked woman pouring the contents of a pitcher into a lake, a skeleton scything grass, a hanged man, a man falling from a tower, two dogs looking at the moon, and a host of others. Some of the cards only displayed symbols, crossed wands, swords, cups, coins, numbers from one to ten.

‘Do you know these cards?’ asked Brian.

‘It looks like a Tarot deck… but not quite.’

‘That’s right. It’s the Tarot of Marseille.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Francis in surprise. ‘I assume they’re cards specially made for predictions?’

Brian smiled.

‘Yes, even today the introduction of Tarot in Europe is the subject of much controversy. The French claim it was a court painter, Jacquemin Gringonneur, who… but I don’t think that would interest you very much. Ah! I notice you’ve been studying the skeleton with the scythe.’

Francis looked up anxiously.

‘It represents death, doesn’t it?’

‘Not necessarily. It depends on the adjacent cards.’

This last observation hardly seemed to reassure Francis, who, at Brian’s request, shuffled the cards and cut them into six stacks. Brian took the top card from each stack and placed them face up in front of his visitor. After a moment’s reflection, he stared at the glass of water. The operation was repeated three times. There followed a long silence which seemed interminable to Francis.

‘Well?’ he said eventually.

Brian gave him an impenetrable look.

‘So,’ he announced, ‘there’s not a shadow of doubt. I did say beforehand that, in view of your scepticism, the outcome wasn’t assured, but… the message from the cards is quite clear. As you have no doubt noticed, we frequently turn up the same cards… the four of wands, the king of coins and the eight of swords followed by Death….’

‘Yes,’ said Francis in a quavering voice, ‘I noticed that last one. Please don’t tell me that….’

Brian stared thoughtfully at the glass of water before he spoke:

‘The eight of swords wasn’t turned up, so there’s no need to fear the worst… But beware of some kind of incident like a fall. But there’s also good news… Francis, you play the horses, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes, but without much success, I have to say. That’s why I only place small bets.’

Brian smiled broadly.

‘In your shoes, I’d be more adventurous next time: the king of coins next to the eight of wands indicates significant winnings!’

At a quarter to twelve, Patrick Nolan, a newspaper under one arm, pushed open the door of one of the pubs in Regent Street. He made a beeline for one of the few empty seats and was about to get himself a drink when he heard his name being called:

‘Patrick!’

He looked round to see someone making his way towards him, someone he hadn’t seen for quite a while and whom he didn’t particularly wish to see now. He feigned a pleasure he was far from feeling and replied:

‘Hello, Francis.’

They didn’t quite fall into each others’ arms, but almost. In the days when the Hiltons spent their holidays in Padstow, Francis and Patrick had got on well enough to become firm friends.

Blue Reed felt a sense of unease, of breathlessness, and of shame as the blood rushed to his cheeks. Frequently in his dreams — and in reality, for that matter — Francis had stood between him and White Camellia. Francis, with his blue eyes and his smile.

‘It’s good to see you again, Patrick,’ he said, as he lined up two beers on the counter.

Blue Reed ordered a second round and, cursing himself for being a hypocrite and a traitor, proposed a toast:

‘Here’s to….’

The name which was always in his mind stuck on his lips.

‘To Paula!’ exclaimed Francis joyfully, raising his glass.

The two men drank, each with a broad smile on his lips, although the sincerity of Patrick’s was highly questionable.

Francis, who had emptied his glass in a single gulp, made a confession:

‘I owe you everything. I owe you… Paula.’

‘I don’t see what there is to thank me about,’ protested Patrick, starting to choke.

‘Paula told me the role you played in our marriage. She admitted she’d been indecisive. Without your advice….’

‘All I did was—.’

‘Whatever it was, I shan’t forget that it’s to you that I owe my happiness.’

Pierced by a fiery sword, Patrick said nothing and lit a cigarette.

‘It’s been two years since we were married,’ Francis continued, ‘and two years since we last saw you, Patrick. You should have contacted us, Paula would have been so happy… Her parents gave you our new address, I imagine?’

“Two years since we last saw each other isn’t quite correct,” thought Patrick bitterly, thinking of White Camellia. He’d seen Francis two weeks ago, in the north of London, while he had under surveillance one of the department heads of the Cope Refrigerating Company, whose wife suspected him of adultery. He vividly recalled the polar equipment he’d had to wear in order to spend a few hours in the refrigeration unit, in order to snap photographs of the department head and his secretary engaging in a passionate embrace, despite the Siberian temperature. He’d almost caught pneumonia. It just so happened that afterwards he’d seen Francis getting into his car, but since he was pretty sure Francis hadn’t seen him, he decided not to bring it up.

‘It’s been quite a while since I left Cornwall for the capital. I thought about you a lot, obviously, but you know how it is. What with work and everything else, there’s no time left for other things.’

Francis nodded his agreement and asked:

‘By the way, what do you do?’

After Patrick explained, Francis remained thoughtful.

‘I don’t suppose you ever met Harris Thorne?’ he asked eventually.

‘No, never.’

‘Well, you won’t be able to do it now, because he died last year.’

Patrick was about to feign surprise, but changed his mind. He clapped his hand to his forehead and exclaimed:

‘What was I thinking? Of course I’d heard about it. Either someone told me or I read about it in the newspapers. Jolly hard luck on poor Sarah… How’s she dealing with it?’

‘Pretty well, actually. She’s just got engaged to Mike Meadows, the village doctor.’

Once again, Patrick had to stop and think. It was a delicate situation, for he could hardly pretend not to have known Meadows. He decided to follow the old adage: attack is the best form of defence:

‘If I remember correctly, Harris Thorne died in rather strange circumstances, didn’t he?’

‘Exactly, and I wanted to talk to you about it. As a detective, I imagine you’d find it interesting.’

Just as Francis finished his account of the facts, two men seated not far away called out to him. He went over and introduced Patrick to them. The conversation ranged over other subjects and the four of them decided to have a bar meal there. From the following discussion, which was exclusively about horse racing, Patrick gleaned that Johnny and David were avid punters and that Francis also seemed well versed in the subject.

There followed much friendly banter, wherein Johnny and David chided Francis for his timid betting habits. ‘How can you win anything if you risk nothing?’ asked David, at which Johnny shot Francis an amused look.

‘Actually, our student made a big bet yesterday, but the sly fellow didn’t think to tell us about it. Isn’t that so, Francis? Don’t deny it, I saw you at the window. What did you win?’

‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t dared to look. Patrick, can I borrow your newspaper?’

He thumbed rapidly through the paper to reach the sporting pages. In the silence which followed, his companions saw him go pale. He plunged his hand into his inside pocket and brought out a ticket, which he examined at length before placing it on the table. Johnny and David looked at each other and leant over to inspect it. They recoiled in astonishment and stared at Francis.

‘Little Joe,’ murmured David. ‘He put twenty pounds on Little Joe.’

‘Which was at thirty to one,’ added Johnny, almost falling off his chair.

The happy event was duly celebrated and the four of them left the pub at closing time. After saying goodbye to the two punters, Patrick and Francis stopped by the tote office to collect the latter’s winnings. Because Francis’s train didn’t leave until six o’clock, the pair decided to take a stroll in St. James’s Park first.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Patrick, sitting down on a bench. ‘Winning such a huge sum in so short a time… I’d love to see Paula’s face when you tell her.’

Francis sat down beside him without a word. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and looked thoughtfully into the distance.

‘What’s up, old boy? You don’t look like someone who’s just won six hundred pounds.’

‘If you only knew how I won it….’

‘By betting on a horse, and as far as I know, that’s not illegal. Anyone would think you’ve got something else on your conscience.’

‘It’s not that,’ replied Francis, shaking his head. ‘Just now I told you about Harris’s brother. He calls himself a clairvoyant. I don’t really believe in that stuff, but since my brother-in-law’s death, which he predicted, I can’t dismiss it completely.’

‘Pure luck.’

Francis smiled sceptically and took his time lighting a cigarette.

‘Pure luck,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not so sure. It wasn’t the first time he announced an event which came to pass. Besides, he had a great-uncle with the same gift.’

As they walked to the station, Patrick listened to Francis’s account of the life of great-uncle Harvey, which he knew already. The end of the recital took place on the departure platform because Francis had added all the strange events which had occurred since their arrival in Hatton Manor.

‘And it’s the same Brian,’ he concluded, ‘who as recently as last week told me I would soon collect a large sum as the result of a bet.’

‘It’s scarcely believable,’ said Patrick, lost in thought and seemingly unaware of the voyagers rushing past.

Francis appeared troubled.

‘That’s not all. He also predicted an incident, a sort of accident, I’m not sure precisely what. That’s why I’m not exactly jumping for joy about…’ He tapped his inside pocket. ‘What does the great detective think?’

‘To be honest, there’s nothing to say, except to be careful… You never know.’

The sharp blow of a whistle made them jump.

Francis, smiling again, extended his hand to his companion:

‘Don’t worry, Patrick. There’s a lucky star looking after me and you know her.’

‘Ah! Paula,’ replied Patrick, looking downcast.

‘Promise you’ll come and see us.’

‘Of course.’

‘I hope I’ll still be there to greet you!’ exclaimed Francis with a roar of laughter, before turning on his heel and climbing into the compartment.

Patrick stayed to watch the train leave and Francis make a last wave from the window, then retraced his steps. His mind was full of questions. He ordered a cup of coffee at the station buffet and sat down to reconsider the plan he’d been hatching for weeks, if not months.

13

Sarah pushed the director’s report away in annoyance. As always, there was nothing new and business was fine, so she attributed her bad mood to the gloomy wet weather. She looked at the clock: almost a quarter to nine already. She sighed, turned towards the window and, pressing her forehead against it, watched the night engulf the greyness of the day. As she listened to the rain pattering on the window she allowed her thoughts to wander. In the first place, she wondered why she’d habitually come there, Harris’s old study, to conduct her business. After all, it was so oppressive. Not only was it a sinister reminder of her husband’s death, there was something else she couldn’t put her finger on. Could it be the old furniture and carpet, and those old books whose pages had blackened during the years great-uncle Harvey had lived there? Possibly, but the place was a haven of silence and peace, unlike anywhere else in the manor. And calm and tranquillity was what she was most in need of, as Mike kept telling her. The room seemed to hold a secret attraction for her. Maybe she would end her days there, like great-uncle Harvey… and Harris.

Feeling suddenly tired, she decided to lie down. Extinguishing the old oil lamp, she wondered whether it wasn’t about time to install electricity. If Brian refused every attempt to modernise his room, that was up to him, but there was no reason for her to live in the last century. She would speak to Mostyn about it the next day.

She reached the divan and lay down. As she was about to close her eyes, she remembered that Mike had told her he’d drop by at around nine o’clock. She’d go downstairs in a few minutes, just a few short minutes — enough time for a short nap….

The monotonous sound of the rain against the windows was fading and drowsiness was overcoming her when she suddenly heard the door creak.

She froze as the feeble light of the corridor gradually penetrated the room.

Who could it be?

The deformed shadow thrown on the wall offered no clue.

Advancing gingerly towards the door, she closed it behind her. Darkness reigned again in the room. She opened her mouth to ask the figure to identify itself, but no words came out. The only details she thought she had seen were red glints in the figure’s hair. A picture of Harris flashed into her mind.

She heard muffled footsteps on the carpet and saw a silhouette at the window, outlined in the dying light. The sound of a match being struck broke the silence and, to Sarah’s intense relief she recognised Brian, who was lighting the lamp. How could she have mistaken him for Harris? His dull brown hair had none of the flamboyance of her late husband’s. She must have been thinking about him at that very moment, that was the only possible explanation. Decidedly, she hadn’t been her normal self lately.

‘Oh! Sarah!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘Excuse me, I didn’t know you were there… How pale you are. Anyone would think you’d seen a ghost.’

The light-hearted manner in which he uttered the words didn’t stop Sarah from shivering. But she recovered with a shake of her head.

‘I was about to take a nap,’ she replied, telling herself she didn’t owe him any explanation. ‘Brian, can you tell me what you’re doing here?’

‘I–I…’ he stammered, looking down. He thought for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I wanted to do some research.’

‘Research, here? Ah, I understand,’ she added, looking around the room at all the books on the shelves.

‘It’s not exactly that. I think I mentioned it already: I believe there’s still a manuscript by my great-uncle in existence.’

‘You did. But I’d like to know why you think that.’

Brian looked straight at her, then opened his hand as if something was written there.

‘No particular reason, really. Just an impression. How can I explain it? As you know, I believe our great-uncle’s writings should be considered a masterpiece. A masterpiece unique in its own way. Admittedly, I haven’t read a single word myself, but several different testimonies confirm the genius of the author. I refuse to believe that every single thing he wrote has disappeared. It’s not possible, do you understand? All the….’

Sarah wasn’t listening. She was looking at Brian’s hand. It was pale and large. Very large, even. When her brother-in-law had finished, she agreed, vaguely:

‘I see what you mean.’

Silence.

‘So you think there might be a manuscript hidden in this room?’

Brian turned to look at the shelves bracketing the chimneypiece.

‘It’s not out of the question. Think about the door hidden behind those shelves. Why wouldn’t there be a secret drawer or some such thing. I’ve been thinking about thoroughly examining this room for a long time.’

‘Well, if that’s what you want, go ahead. And, while you’re at it, look at the storage room next door. Cathy sweeps it from time to time, but that’s all. Everything’s still as it was and I don’t think anyone’s touched it since we arrived.’

‘That’s a good idea. I’ve already looked once, but maybe not hard enough.’

They heard three discreet knocks and Mostyn appeared in the doorway:

‘Dr. Meadows is here, madam.’

Mike Meadows looked at Paula in astonishment:

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Six hundred pounds,’ repeated the young woman, pronouncing each syllable carefully. ‘Francis won it the other day at the races.’

Dr. Meadows placed his glass of port on the low table, paused for a moment, then looked questioningly at Francis:

‘Does that happen often?’

‘Unfortunately not. And, by the way, I’ve never bet that much before.’

‘A hunch, was it?’

Francis and Paula exchanged amused glances. She explained:

‘Francis went to see Brian a few days ago and he predicted a large sum of money in the future.’

Francis shook his head:

‘He did more than that. He more or less told me I’d win on a bet.’

Meadows took a sip of port and lit a cigarette:

‘That man has some astonishing gifts. But I thought you’d always been sceptical about him?’

‘Sceptical, but not deaf. When he told me, I decided to have a go, and I bet on a real outsider.’

Steps sounded and Meadows turned round:

‘Ah, Sarah darling. Francis and Paula have been telling me the news. Extraordinary, isn’t it?’

Howard Hilton watched the rain through his bedroom window.

‘It’s been like that for the last twenty-four hours and they say there’ll be no change in the next few days. It’s a real quagmire out there. I was planning to do the flower beds, but it doesn’t look as though that’s going to happen before next week… and maybe not even then. Wait a minute….’

Mrs. Hilton, sitting up in bed, shut her book and asked:

‘Yes, Howard, what is it?’

‘Mike Meadows just left, and it’s only a quarter to ten.’

‘That’s not an unreasonable time to retire.’

‘I agree, but he normally doesn’t leave before eleven o’clock.’

Mrs. Hilton had wanted to keep reading, but now she put her book down on the bedside table.

‘I’m tired, dear.’

Howard Hilton knew his wife well enough to know she was about to turn off the light.

‘So am I,’ he said with a yawn, ‘but I think I’ll have one last drink.’

He cleared his throat and made his way to the door, taking care not to look at his wife, and left the room. In the corridor he noticed Paula who had just come up the stairs. She gave him a little wave and disappeared into the bathroom. As he reached the top of the stairs he almost collided with Sarah, who was taking the steps two at a time.

‘Good evening, darling. Is everything all right?’

Sarah nodded with a brief smile and continued on her way.

In the salon, Howard Hilton found his son slumped in one of the armchairs, smoking a cigarette and looking worried. He served himself a whisky, sat down opposite him and asked:

‘You’re looking thoughtful, Francis, having problems?’

‘No, I was thinking about the money I won.’

‘I can well understand. It doesn’t happen every day.’

‘Quite so, but I was thinking about how it happened, not the result. Or, rather, about Brian. I’ve just been talking about it with Meadows, Sarah and Paula. We compared notes about all his predictions. It’s pretty surprising. I’m beginning to wonder whether he doesn’t indeed….’

‘Have a gift?’ replied Howard Hilton, contemplating his glass. ‘You know, Francis, the one thing that has surprised me is that no one has yet discovered Brian’s true nature. But that’s where we have to look to get to the bottom of all these mysteries. Brian may be shy and introverted, but that doesn’t stop him being an acute observer of human nature. People talk about a sixth sense, which is a convenient way of avoiding discussion about what might be another form of intelligence. Be that as it may, what’s undoubtedly true is that some people possess a flair for future events, even if they can’t explain it themselves. They seem to be able to process every slight detail about people they meet: their attitudes, their reactions their emotions, their thought processes, and somehow synthesise it all so they may announce a future event….’

‘Maybe,’ replied Francis dubiously. ‘But being able to predict that someone will be able to place a winning bet… I can’t see any explanation for that.’

His father responded with a smile. He emptied his glass and served himself another one.

‘There’s another thing. All the professional gamblers talk about “beginner’s luck.” It may be a trap to lure novices into the game, but apparently there’s quite a lot of evidence to support the idea. I know you’ve always liked the horses, but you’ve never placed a big bet, so in that sense you’re a beginner.’

‘If I understand you correctly,’ observed Francis, ‘I was condemned to win from the start!’

The conversation continued until half past ten, when the two men got up. They climbed the stairs — in Howard’s case, rather unsteadily — and stopped on the landing to wish each other goodnight.

‘Aren’t you going to see Paula?’

‘Not right now. There’s something I have to do in the study.’

Mr. Hilton watched his son walk down the corridor and decided he would have one last cigarette. He lit up and was leaning over the balustrade enjoying the peace and quiet, when it was suddenly interrupted by the distant creaking of the door to the study. Several seconds elapsed, and he was beginning to ask himself why Francis hadn’t closed the door behind, when he heard a muffled thud.

He turned round. The badly-lit corridor was empty.

‘Francis?’ he called out in an anxious voice.

The only reply was an echo. Without further ado, he followed his son, but stopped at the angle with the west wing of the manor.

The study door, a yellow rectangle in the surrounding half-light, was open. Lying on the sill was an inert mass he identified at once.

‘Francis!’ he shouted, rushing to the body.

At that very moment, the door to the room beyond the study opened and Brian appeared.

‘What is it, Mr. Hilton? Oh, My God!’

The two of them leant over Francis, who was lying on his side with his head near the door jamb and the rest of his body in the room. There was a bruise on his temple from which a thin stream of blood was flowing. Brian knelt down to take his pulse, then looked up:

‘Nothing serious, by the look of it.’

A look of relief spread across Howard’s face and the two men peered into the room, which was softly lit by the oil lamp. It was obvious there was nobody there.

Steps sounded in the corridor and Sarah appeared, with Paula just behind. Their faces pale, they listened to Howard Hilton’s explanations, which failed to reassure his daughter, who continued to tremble. Just at that moment, Mostyn arrived and was sent to fetch Dr. Meadows, after which Francis started to recover. Despite Paula’s protests, he stood up. Puzzled, he looked at the worried and questioning faces around him.

‘Francis,’ murmured Sarah in a quavering voice, ‘what happened?’

‘Well…,’ he started to say and frowned as he tried to concentrate.

Then he stopped, looking around in bewildered fashion, until his gaze alighted on the fireplace. There was an agonising silence, during which everyone could see his face grow paler and paler before freezing in an unspeakable expression of horror. The he shook his head in bewilderment.

‘I don’t know… I opened the door and went in and… I don’t remember anything else.’

‘Francis,’ cried Sarah in a hysterical voice, ‘what did you see?’

‘Nothing, Sarah, nothing,’ he replied in an unconvincing voice. ‘I think I got a bit sick, that’s all.’ He rubbed the bruise on his head. ‘I must have hit it against the doorframe.’

Sarah started to reply, but stopped as she saw Brian go towards the fireplace. He stopped in front of the hearth and examined the floor at that point. Then he stood up, looked at his companions, and announced in an expressionless voice:

‘The carpet’s wet.’

14

Dr. Meadows arrived at Hatton Manor at eleven. He examined Francis in his room, then went to give an injection to his fiancée, who seemed in a much more alarming state than the victim. After that, he went to find Brian and Howard Hilton, who had stayed behind in the study. He placed his bag on the table and regarded the two men while stroking his moustache.

‘Nothing serious in Francis’s case,’ he said after a moment. ‘As for Sarah …she was close to a nervous breakdown.’ His expression hardened and he punched his open hand with his fist. ‘Dammit! I’d really like to know what there is about this room. I assume you haven’t forgotten what happened here last year. Why did Harris Thorne throw himself out of the window? Why did Sarah faint from fright? And now Francis!’

‘What’s equally curious,’ offered Howard Hilton, ‘is that nobody can remember anything.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ replied Meadows with an inscrutable look. ‘If you want my opinion, I rather think they know something but are afraid to talk about it. At least in Sarah’s case. I’ve often asked her about the frightful thing she saw, thinking it was a case of loss of memory. But recently I’ve changed my mind. The mere mention of that night makes her go pale and change the subject.’

With a sombre look on his face he lit a cigarette, went over to the fireplace and knelt down to examine the wet carpet.

‘We’ve already looked,’ commented Brian. ‘It seems it’s just water.’

The doctor stood up and nodded his head.

‘It does seem like it. But what does it mean? A few drops of water shouldn’t cause people to drop like flies.’

‘Of course,’ sighed Howard. ‘There must have been someone there. Someone standing in front of the fireplace, dripping wet. Someone, therefore, who came from outside….’

Deep in thought, Meadows leant on the marble mantelpiece and tapped on one of the pewter pots there with his fingers.

‘Someone, the very sight of whom can terrify his victims? It must indeed be a creature of nightmare. Standing in front of the fireplace would mean anyone entering the room would see it immediately, which fits the facts. But, as far as I can recall, Sarah was looking down. And it didn’t rain that day. And there was nobody in the room, I’ll bet my life on it.’

‘I hate to say this,’ observed Howard, ‘but it was exactly the same situation just now, wasn’t it, Brian?’

Brian coughed, obviously ill at ease:

‘In any case, the windows were shut.’

‘Come to think of it, the lamp was lit and Francis certainly couldn’t have had time to do it.’

‘It was I who forgot to extinguish it,’ confessed Brian.

Meadows cleared his throat forcefully and declared:

‘It’s about time you explained to me under what circumstances you found Francis.’

Hilton spoke first. Then it was Brian’s turn, and he was at pains to explain the reason why he’d been in the study earlier. The mention of the hypothetical manuscript — and of Harvey Thorne — did nothing to relax the atmosphere.

‘Him again,’ Meadows couldn’t help saying. ‘But please go on, Brian.’

‘Mostyn announced your arrival at nine o’clock. I started to search all the bookshelves until about ten, with no result. I went back to my room discouraged and continued my research, just as Sarah had suggested. I stayed there about an hour….’

Meadows stopped him with a gesture.

‘Sarah showed me something once.’

So saying, he went over to the bookcase to the right of the fireplace, which he examined carefully.

‘I seem to remember there’s a pivoted panel leading to a storage area.’

Brian nodded and came to join him. He removed several books and slid his hand into the resulting space. Part of the shelving swung open and the three of them went into the storage area. Brian crossed the room and turned on a switch near the door leading to the corridor. There was so much furniture stacked there that the walls were almost hidden. Brian pointed to an open wardrobe with half its contents emptied in front of it, mainly books and old newspapers.

‘I was here when I heard the sound of a thud,’ he explained.

His remark didn’t seem to interest the doctor, who closed the pivoted panel. He tried in vain to reopen it.

‘It’s not possible,’ said Brian. ‘You can only activate it from the study side.’

Dr. Meadows gave Brian a thoughtful look and studied the panel again.

‘What happened next?’ he asked.

‘I was surprised, obviously, and I stood still with my ears open. I dimly heard someone call out and, ten seconds later, the call was repeated much louder and I recognised Mr. Hilton’s voice. I opened the door here and you know the rest.’

The young doctor nodded his head silently, crossed the room and opened the door. He went out into the corridor, followed by the others.

‘So the unknown visitor — whatever he or it was — only had about fifteen seconds to escape.’

‘Yes,’ replied Brian hesitantly. ‘But he must have done it on tiptoe. Apart from Mr. Hilton’s shouts, I heard absolutely nothing. And I’ve got very keen hearing.’

‘In any case,’ continued Meadows, pointing to the opening to the spiral staircase, ‘he could only have gone that way. Are we agreed?’

The others nodded and followed him down the stairs to a small tiled area, perfectly clean. Brian opened the door to the kitchen, turned on the light switch and observed that the kitchen, too, was immaculate. He went across the room to a cupboard at the other end which he opened and took out a torchlight which he handed to Meadows.

The doctor took it, unlocked the door to the outside and opened it.

The ray of the lamp swept the area around the door — which the rain had transformed into a mud bath — and the three men noted it was utterly devoid of any footprint.

‘It stopped raining at about ten o’clock,’ declared Meadows. ‘Which means that our fugitive, if he took this way out — and, as we’ve seen, there was no other choice — would unavoidably have left traces in this muck. What’s more, if he’d have tried to come in this way — even though I don’t see how he could have unlocked the door from the outside — he would just as unavoidably have left traces of his passage. Yet the floors are as clean as a whistle and there’s no mat on which he could have cleaned his muddy shoes.’

‘So, no real person,’ concluded Brian. ‘Harris should never have unsealed that room. Never….’

Far more than the damp and the cold, the tone of his voice made his companions shiver.

‘I did warn him,’ he continued, ‘and now you can see what’s happened since … That room possesses a terrible power. It killed Harvey and Harris and almost drove Sarah mad… and now Francis. It has to be sealed again, and as quickly as possible.’

There was a long silence.

‘If I understand correctly,’ declared Mike Meadows, eyeing Brian sceptically, ‘you predicted tonight’s incident as well?’

‘Correct.’

‘Just as you announced the death of your brother?’

‘As well.’

The night was dark, but at that moment there was a break in the clouds and the baleful moon illuminated Brian’s face and the metallic gleam in his distant gaze.

‘How… how do you do it?’ asked Meadows, apparently impressed by the clairvoyant’s attitude.

‘Things are as they must be. No one can alter the course of destiny.’

15

Sarah stared disconsolately at the mirror. How long had she been there, scrutinising that pale and anxious face? More than half an hour, anyway. And more than half an hour before that, masking those awful bags under her eyes with make-up. A total waste of time, as it turned out. The result was there in the pitiless reflection in the mirror: an anxious woman with many sleepless nights behind her.

She couldn’t keep spending whole nights dwelling on her terrible memories. She felt she was wasting away. If only she could talk to Mike… Mike who was so attentive, so sensitive and who tolerated her changes of mood so patiently.

He’d obviously noticed that something wasn’t quite right with her, just as he’d realised it wasn’t a “physical” illness. He’d questioned her several times — discreetly and skilfully, needless to say. She couldn’t blame him, because he was acting in her best interests, but her response had been complete silence to the point of rudeness. But what could she have said? Certainly not the truth — and she didn’t want to lie to him.

She gave a deep sigh and lit a cigarette to give herself the illusion of comfort. When had this slide towards the abyss started? It had begun with Harris’s death, but she’d recovered from that. Francis’s sickness a month ago? No, it was well before that.

With an effort, she cast her mind farther back and had a flash of insight. She shuddered at the thought which had occurred to her.

Mike Meadows! Since she’d known him in a different light than friend and doctor… Yes, from that moment on… No… It wasn’t possible! And yet….

As if in a dream, she recalled the elegant figure with the laughing eyes full of reassurance which had overwhelmed her….

There was a knock on the door and the reflection of the man in her thoughts appeared behind hers in the mirror.

She stood up, turned round and melted in his arms. Mike Meadows held her at arm’s length, all the better to contemplate her.

‘How lovely you are tonight, darling. That red dress is marvellous….’

His warm and soothing voice had always had a magical effect on her. The charm was still there, sweeping everything else away. She replied teasingly:

‘Just tonight? And what’s marvellous, the red dress or me?’

The admiring look spoke for itself. Then the expression on the doctor’s face hardened.

‘What is it, darling? Don’t you want to marry me any more?’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s the invitation which bothers me. I saw Bessie this afternoon and she was full of smiles.’

‘She still likes you. I keep telling you that.’

‘It’s not that. I have a hunch that the soirée she’s organised has a hidden agenda. She’s got a surprise up her sleeve. I could tell it from her smile.’

‘Myself, I’m sure it’s an attempt to bury the hatchet. But I’ll keep an eye open, you can be sure of it. It’s already past eight, we’d better be going.’

Bessie, looking radiant, refilled her guests’ glasses with hot punch. Mrs. Blount took advantage of the moment to take her leave, wishing everyone a pleasant evening. The door closed behind her, but not before Paul and Francis had noticed her giving a conspiratorial wink to her daughter.

Brian was unrecognisable in an elegant blazer and flannels with a silk foulard around his neck. As he helped Bessie serve her guests, she commented that he should get out more and get away from his dusty books. He threw his head back and laughed, then replied he would follow her advice if she would accompany him — which made her blush as she laughed awkwardly.

Mike Meadows sensed his fiancée’s hand squeeze his. He followed her gaze: she was staring wide-eyed at Brian.

‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.

‘That laugh. The way he threw his head back. It reminded me of—.’

She didn’t finish her sentence. Bessie asked for everyone’s attention, in order to drink a toast. All present raised their glasses in anticipation of their hostess’s announcement.

‘Let’s drink a toast,’ said Bessie with a mischievous smile, ‘to my health and that of my fiancé.’

A stunned silence greeted her words. Meadows, apparently the most taken aback of those present, spluttered:

‘Your fiancé? But who is he?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ replied Bessie. ‘At least for some of you. Would you like to meet him?’

A murmur ran through the small gathering. Suspicious glances were cast which eventually settled on a startled Brian, who made frantic gestures of denial.

Bessie, clearly enjoying the situation, turned and called out:

‘You can come in now, darling.’

The lounge door opened and a figure entered the room.

‘Patrick!’ gasped Paula, who looked as if she were about to faint.

Francis and his sister looked surprised, in a different way from Paula. Sarah put down her glass and rushed to embrace the newcomer:

‘Well, we certainly didn’t expect this,’ she said, her eyes sparkling.

Francis, who had come over to shake Patrick’s hand, said with a wink:

‘You old rogue. You kept it to yourself the last time we met.’

‘Bessie and I had decided to keep it a secret,’ said Patrick lamely.

Francis looked enquiringly at Bessie:

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Several months… but I seem to remember telling you about it.’

‘That’s right,’ he acknowledged. He turned to Paula, who was still rooted to the spot. ‘Darling, aren’t you going to congratulate your old chum? Don’t just stand there.’

‘It’s — It’s the emotion,’ she stammered, trying to recover from the shock of seeing Patrick.

Her mind was a mass of contradictory feelings. She saw Patrick coming towards her, relaxed and smiling and nearly slapped him when he said:

‘Paula… how long has it been since we met? One year? Two? Let me think…Yes, it must be two years since you left Padstow.’

It was all she could do not to bite him, a sentiment which increased as he leant towards her in a falsely fraternal embrace. And the comedy continued:

‘Let me look at you… You haven’t changed a bit.’

Whereupon, Francis introduced Patrick to Brian and Meadows — the latter tight lipped, for he had not appreciated the way Sarah had rushed to greet him — and explained how he and his sister had come to know Patrick.

Half an hour later, the evening was in full swing, thanks in no small part to the punch which had coloured everyone’s cheeks. White Camellia had got a grip of herself and presented the happy face of one glad to have met a childhood friend again. Bessie, holding tightly to her fiancé’s arm, smiled frequently at Meadows, who smiled back tensely. The doctor, who seemed to be lacking his customary verve, seemed to have been taken aback by events. Patrick was undoubtedly the centre of attention and Sarah, who seemed transformed, hung on his every word, reliving the good old days of the Padstow cove as if a breath of youth and gaiety had brushed the dark thoughts from her mind. The same change had seemed to come over Brian, who found in Patrick an attentive listener.

Needless to say, Paula was asking herself a thousand questions, notably whether Blue Reed’s visit to Hatton was entirely a matter of chance. Nevertheless, she played the game.

‘It’s incredible, Patrick, I can hardly believe it,’ she prattled, her fluttering eyelashes only partly concealing her malicious stare. ‘Incredible. Are you planning to stay a while?’

Patrick cleared his throat and was about to answer when Bessie interrupted:

‘Mother and I will be taking care of him for three weeks,’ she declared, with a radiant smile. ‘Maybe four. Isn’t that so, darling?’

Sensing White Camellia’s eyes upon him, Blue Reed agreed with a distinctly embarrassed air.

16

Bessie and her fiancé were invited to a bridge party two days later, but only Patrick turned up, Bessie having come down with a cold. The early October evening was cold and wet and he entered quickly when Mostyn opened the door for him.

The manor’s game room was vast and full of heavy furniture. Only the chandelier above the large central table was lit, leaving the billiard table in semi-darkness. Near the fireplace where a cheerful fire was crackling stood three armchairs, probably for players awaiting their turn.

The cut of the cards paired Blue Reed and White Camellia, Sarah and Mike Meadows, and Brian and Francis — a fairly balanced result, given that Francis was an experienced player and Brian, despite his Tarot expertise, was a neophyte. Ordinarily, he only participated to make up the numbers — and then only if pressed to do so — for he believed that cards had a higher purpose. That evening, curiously enough, he’d turned up voluntarily and raring to play.

Whilst the first four were taking their place at the table, Francis and Brian sat by the fire while the expert gave the novice some advice. It must have paid off, because two hours later they had a handsome lead over the other pairs. Patrick claimed it was only because they’d had good luck with the cards. Meadows agreed:

‘When Francis is on one of his lucky streaks, it’s best to be his partner.’

Patrick gave a sympathetic smile, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Brian seemed happy, but he seemed to be the only one. Francis, looking thoughtful, dealt the cards, while Paula sat quietly with her head down. Meadows, after looking at his watch, went over to the fireplace to join Sarah. He murmured some words in her ear, but she sat motionless in her armchair staring into the distance. Patrick found her unrecognisable: he’d never seen her like that. With her haggard appearance, empty stare and deathly white complexion, she looked as if she belonged in Madame Tussaud’s.

Meadows, claiming he’d had a hard day, took his leave after wishing Patrick good luck for the rest of the evening. Sarah went with him. Half an hour later it was Brian’s turn, and shortly after that Francis stood up.

‘I still have some paperwork to do before tomorrow,’ he told Patrick.

The latter, surprised and embarrassed to find himself alone with Paula, stammered:

‘I ought to make a move as well.’

‘Come, come,’ said Francis paternally, ‘I’m sure Paula has lots to tell you… You’re not going to bed for a while, are you, darling?’

‘No, of course not,’ she replied unconvincingly, making a show of collecting the cards to hide her blushes.

After the door closed behind Francis there was a heavy silence in the room. Blue Reed went to sit in one of the armchairs and started whistling Somebody Loves Me. Despite the melody the silence seemed even heavier. After five minutes had gone by, Paula went over to join her companion. She planted herself in front of him with arms crossed, frowning:

‘Dear friend,’ she said with heavy irony, ‘I’d like to know the meaning of this farce.’

Patrick feigned wide-eyed innocence:

‘Farce? What farce?’

‘Please don’t try to tell me you met Bessie by accident.’

Patrick lit a cigarette and closed the lighter with a sharp click.

‘As far as I know, I’ve a right to befriend anyone I want. I met Bessie in London and….’

‘I know how you met her. She told me, without saying who, but the extravagant way it happened should have tipped me off.’

‘I don’t follow.’

Paula smiled and sat down in another armchair:

‘How many women between the ages of twenty and thirty would you say there were in England?’

‘Now you’re asking… three million, maybe. I don’t know.’

‘And how many in the little village of Hatton?’

Patrick shrugged:

‘How would I know?’

‘Roughly.’

‘Twenty or thirty.’

‘Let’s say thirty, although that’s on the high side. That makes three million divided by thirty, in other words a hundred thousand. Which means there was a one in a hundred thousand chance of you happening on a girl from Hatton.’

‘It was a coincidence. They happen.’

‘Maybe,’ replied Paula wearily. ‘And in any case, I prefer not to know why… let it drop.’

Patrick, blowing perfect smoke rings, observed Paula out of the corner of his eye. She was slumped in her armchair with a far-off look in her eye, glints from the flames in her chestnut hair.

‘Paula, I have a distinct impression all’s not well with you.’

‘To say the least. But I’m not talking about me. I assume… has Bessie told you what happened to Francis a month ago?’

Patrick, who had noted Paula’s hesitation, nodded.

‘Yes, vaguely. The funny thing is, I ran into Francis a few days earlier, after his big win on the horses. I assume you know about that?’ Paula nodded. ‘He explained to me about how he’d come to make such a big bet on a single horse. He told me about Brian’s predictions, including “something else,” and was even joking about it as he boarded the train. I had no idea that prophecy would come true as well. It’s almost unbelievable… It seems the carpet in front of the fireplace was wet, just as on all the previous occasions?’

‘There’s no doubt about it.’

There was a moment’s silence, then Patrick asked Paula to go through everything in detail, as Bessie had left a lot out.

‘It’s enough to make you doubt your sanity,’ he observed, throwing his cigarette into the fire. ‘Francis doesn’t remember anything and neither does Sarah. It’s incomprehensible. In the extreme case, one might think it was a prank.’

Paula shook her head in disagreement.

‘That’s not their style. Not everyone’s like you. And anyway, Francis tried to minimise what had happened, as if it had been a fainting spell… and that’s not all.’

Patrick looked at her wide-eyed.

‘Oh, nothing really extraordinary, just a host of weird little things.’

‘Yes?’

‘In fact, almost all concerning Sarah. Haven’t you noticed how she’s changed?’

‘Of course. She seems a bundle of nerves and weary, so weary. Maybe she’s still thinking about her husband?’

‘I’d be surprised. Mike’s done his best to make her forget about him. In any case, that doesn’t explain her nervousness. And when I say nervousness, I mean hysterical. She loses her temper over trifles. Just the other night, she created a fuss about nothing. It was around half past nine and she went up to the study, where someone must have smoked.’

‘Smoked?’

‘Yes, a cigar. One of Harris’s, according to her. She tried to discover who was the guilty party. Everyone in the place was interrogated. In vain. And the more people denied it, the angrier she became.

‘A few days earlier, she attacked me. We were out for a walk together near the woods. Suddenly she grabbed my arm and started asking me questions, pointing at the trees: “Paula, what was that?” I asked her what she was talking about. “The shadow there, behind the trees, there was someone…” I told her I’d seen nothing and we continued on our way. A quarter of an hour later, it was the same thing: she’d seen “someone” when there was clearly no one there. I was so irritated at her trying to convince me about something non-existent that I snubbed her. She wouldn’t talk to me for days.

‘Another evening, it was Brian’s turn. The fuses had blown and she’d found herself alone in the corridor. She let out a terrible scream which aroused everyone. When the lights came back on, we found her in front of her bedroom door with Brian, whose teeth were almost chattering because of the screaming. She accused him of running his fingers through her hair in the darkness, which he vigorously denied. She ranted at him for half an hour. Poor Brian, he almost went down on his knees to beg her to stop.

‘And there we are,’ she concluded with a sigh. ‘Has the great detective any ideas?’

‘None, and it’s not for want of trying.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Good lord! It’s past eleven. Bessie will be starting to get worried.’

Paula, somewhat surprised, watched him get up. She was about to say something, stood there with her mouth open for a moment, then said:

‘All right, I’ll come with you to the door.’

On the doorstep, the night cold caused Patrick to raise the collar of his overcoat and jam his hat down over his head. He smiled at Paula, who was standing in the open doorway.

‘See you soon, White Camellia, if I’m still allowed to call you that.’

Paula couldn’t help giving a small nod of agreement, and she watched him disappear into the night after one last wave to her.

Despite a light drizzle, Patrick walked slowly along the gravel, whistling Tea for Two. Halfway between the manor and the entrance gate he turned round. There was not much inviting about the silhouette of the imposing construction half hidden in the mist, but the flicker of a smile crossed his face. He crept stealthily back towards the west wing of the manor and stopped in front of the service exit. He looked up and frowned when he saw a light behind the drawn curtains of the study.

“That wasn’t part of the plan,” he grumbled to himself.

He stood there for a moment, lost in thought, looking at the door which he’d unlocked earlier under the pretext of a pressing need.

After a fatalistic shrug of the shoulders he turned the knob and pushed open the door. No creaking noise. So far, so good. He climbed the spiral staircase as quietly as he could and stopped in the corridor at the top, listening carefully. Except for the narrow strip of light under the second door to his left, the whole area was in total darkness. Not for long, because light suddenly appeared at the angle at the end of the corridor and he heard steps on the main staircase.

“That must be Paula going to her room,” he told himself, taking the precaution, nevertheless, to flatten himself against the wall.

A few seconds later, there was the sound of a door closing and the place was once more plunged into darkness. For a brief moment, Patrick’s thoughts went back to that summer night in the cove at Padstow and a smile came to his lips. Reluctantly, he put the thought out of his mind, tiptoed to the door of the study and put his eye to the keyhole.

From what he could see, the room was as he had imagined it, but his attention was caught by the sight of Francis pacing to and fro in front of the window. Someone was talking, and he recognised Sarah’s voice.

‘The truth, Francis, I want the truth.’

‘I’ve been telling you for the last half hour that—.’

‘A simple blackout? You can do better than that.’

Sarah was speaking in a low voice, but each syllable was emphasised. She repeated in the same voice, angrily:

‘Tell me what you saw. I have to know. I must!’

‘Just to let you know, Brian is sleeping next door.’

‘I want to know what you saw. Because you did see something.’

Francis’s shoulders slumped. He looked at the floor in front of the fireplace, then put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.

‘I… I don’t know. It’s been more than a month.’

Suddenly Sarah blocked Patrick’s view. She planted herself in front of her brother, eyes flashing:

‘I know what you saw. Francis, I know, do you understand?’

Her brother’s response was disjointed:

‘I… I… I must have been seeing things. It’s not possible otherwise.’

Sarah recoiled:

‘So it really was….’

Francis nodded his head slowly.

‘My God!’ moaned Sarah, hiding her face in her hands.

Francis went over to the fireplace and looked at the carpet at his feet as if it were his worst enemy, then came back to his sister:

‘Sarah, listen to me: it’s not possible, not possible! Maybe I thought about it the moment I came in here. Yes, that must be it… I’m not saying I saw… what you’re thinking about. I thought about it, it was one of those fleeting visions one has sometimes….’

‘And which caused you to faint! Ha, ha, ha!’ she sneered hysterically.

Francis caught hold of his sister’s shoulders and shook her violently:

‘That’s enough! If you continue like this, we’ll all go mad! Get a grip on yourself. It’s this house and this room which are causing us to talk nonsense… Now you’re going to go to bed, and I also.’

Without further ado, Patrick withdrew into the spiral staircase. A few moments later he heard the study door open and shut and footsteps fade away in the corridor. After the light went out, he waited a good five minutes in the dark. Should he postpone his inspection of the study to another day? The next opportunity might not come soon. There was, of course, another solution: do it in daylight with the full permission of Sarah and Brian, who could hardly refuse. For several reasons — the principal of which was undoubtedly his adventurous spirit — he rejected that last approach.

But there were other pressing questions, notably what significance to give to the enigmatic conversation between Francis and his sister. What was that curious “thing” to which they alluded? The thing which Sarah had seen and Francis had “thought he’d seen.” If only they hadn’t talked in riddles… But it wasn’t to be….

Francis’s words nagged at him: “Sarah, listen to me: it’s not possible, not possible!” What wasn’t possible, for heaven’s sake?

He pushed all thoughts of postponement out of his mind and made his way to the study. The room looked innocent enough, but there was indeed an indefinable sense of unease which seemed to weigh on his shoulders. Could it be that, by some quirk of nature — the orientation of the room, an underground source of some kind, or other phenomena — the room exerted an influence on its occupants, provoking visions or dizziness? Or was it the weighty legacy of great-uncle Harvey whose oppressive, almost palpable presence could still be felt… there, hunched over his desk, his tortured, feverish brain transmitting his sulphurous prophecies to posterity on page after page of blackened paper… the scratching of his pen… the diffused light of the lamp illuminating the brow wrinkled by the effort. What rubbish! He wasn’t about to let his imagination get carried away!

He started by examining the furniture. Next, he activated the pivoted panel and took a quick look inside the storage room. After that he examined the chimney, quickly coming to the conclusion that no one could have got in or out that way. He stood with his back to the door and scanned the floor. His gaze automatically fell on the part of the carpet in front of the fireplace. He stood there for quite some time, motionless, his mind teeming with questions. What had Sarah seen? And Francis, had he seen the same thing? Come to think of it, what had Harvey and Harris Thorne seen, standing in the same spot — because each had been found at an equal distance, but in opposite directions: the former writhing in agony on the sill and the latter outside, defenestrated. “Something wet” was probably the only detail one could be sure of. The important thing was to determine whether that wet element was — or was not — made of flesh and bone. Meadows and Bessie were sure that the circumstances of Sarah’s collapse precluded the possibility of human presence or intervention. The same went for Francis’s situation, but with less certainty. So, a “thing” but not a very big one — or, more accurately, not a very tall one — taking into account the direction of Sarah’s gaze….

Patrick gave a long sigh as he realised his attempted process of elimination wasn’t yielding results. Try as he might, he wasn’t making any progress. And, to cap it all, there were Brian’s predictions about the incidents, which left his poor brain floundering.

In one final effort, he went over to the fireplace again and examined the carpet. Once again, no traces and no clues. In fact, he’d learnt nothing from his nocturnal investigation except the conversation he’d overheard, which had only served to confuse the situation even more.

Closing the service door behind him, he thought about the unbolted door which would be discovered the next day. But he wasn’t worried: one of the servants would be accused of negligence, and that would be that.

It was still drizzling as he hurried along the central driveway. He stopped half way, in approximately the same spot where he’d stopped an hour earlier to double back. This time, he noticed a paved path crossing the lawn to his right. Despite the mist he could make out the ghostly silhouette of the chapel above a ring of trees. It was a sober and elegant construction which nevertheless seemed curiously disquieting, even forbidding. Generations of Thornes had been buried there, in the family vault. He felt a shiver run down his spine and stood there thoughtfully until the hint of a smile crossed his face. After taking a precautionary look around, he set off along the path.

The chapel door squeaked as he opened it. The damp cold seemed more intense than outside. The only sound was the gentle pattering of the rain. In total darkness, Patrick lit a match, a feeble firefly quickly swallowed by the shadows. He advanced cautiously and noted a small altar. He turned to his left and struck another match. He looked around and changed direction. As he did so, he stubbed his foot against a pillar lying full length on the ground and let out a curse. Once more a flickering light dispelled the silent, creeping shadows of the ancient chapel. Patrick, who had stood up, now knelt down to examine the floor, where he had detected the outline of a large slab. His face lit up: it must be the entrance to the crypt. Nearby, he located a solid stake, no doubt placed there for the same purpose he himself was planning: to insert it into the ring embedded in the slab and shift it to one side. The operation, although not easy, was accomplished in under ten minutes. He descended the narrow steps leading down and came face to face with a heavy chestnut door. To his dismay, he discovered it was locked and was forced to retrace his steps. After putting the slab back in its place, he was drenched in sweat, and it was with a sentiment of utter frustration that he took the direction of Bessie’s house.

The following day, Friday, he spent the entire time in the warmth with Bessie, who was beginning to recover from her cold. A deliciously idle day in front of the fire, defying the rain pattering against the windows.

Saturday arrived with no break in the weather and no sign of Bessie and Patrick setting foot outside. At around five o’clock, Brian turned up with an invitation to a bridge party. Bessie, still in the grip of a stubborn migraine, declined politely but told her fiancé there was no reason he shouldn’t go. Patrick declared gallantly that there was no chance he would leave her alone a second time. A perfectly reasonable attitude at the time, but one that he would come to regret later. In fact, what would happen later would turn out to be of special importance: an evening during which Brian would distinguish himself in a particularly sinister manner.

17

That same Saturday at around eleven o’clock, Bessie and Patrick were still awake. The Blounts’ house was shuddering under the assault of the wind and a fire was roaring in the lounge. Patrick was savouring a whisky, trying to look interested in what his fiancé was saying. After a number of circumlocutions, she had succeeded in steering the conversation to a subject which was obviously still troubling her: Dr. Mike Matthews. At great length he learnt that behind the elegant exterior and warm smile lurked a completely different person and that, beneath the veneer of civility, was an insufferably complacent individual, a frightful egoist full of good counsel which cost him nothing, an individual as vain as a peacock, a quibbler for detail, and who knew what other target of opprobrium.

Her animosity towards her ex-fiancé seemed to Patrick to have clouded her judgment, but having no desire to pick a fight, he rapidly lost interest in the subject.

‘… and it won’t be long before Sarah finds that out for herself, if she hasn’t already.’

Patrick nodded, yawned discreetly and sneaked a glance at his watch, which showed half past eleven. He pricked up his ears suddenly and looked at Bessie.

‘Didn’t you hear anything?’

‘Yes. I’ll take a look.’ She went to the window and pulled back the curtains. ‘There’s someone… but who?… Francis and Paula!’ Exchanging an enquiring glance with her fiancé, she went to the door.

While quickly serving himself another whisky, Patrick told himself that such a late and unexpected visit could only be bringing bad news. He was not mistaken.

The pale faces of their two visitors showed anxiety and confusion. After Bessie had taken their coats and ushered them to the warmth of the fireside, Francis began to speak:

‘We fear the worst.’

He looked insistently at Patrick whilst he lit a cigarette and continued:

‘It’s about Brian.’

Patrick, after hearing the alarming words and looking at Paula and her husband in turn, muttered:

‘Don’t tell me he’s made another prophecy?’

Paula nodded and Francis continued:

‘A prophecy of misfortune and maybe even… death.’

For long seconds the only sound was the howling of the wind.

Patrick, who couldn’t stop looking at Paula’s anguished eyes, trembled at the thought that came into his head.

‘Against… her?’ he asked hesitantly, pointing a trembling finger at Paula.

‘No, against Sarah,’ replied Francis tersely. ‘Here’s what he said verbatim less than half an hour ago: “There’s misfortune in store for you, Sarah, great misfortune … You are in danger.” After that he ran a limp hand across his brow and continued in a fading voice, like a litany: “A misfortune, a great misfortune, a truly great misfortune.”’

‘Patrick,’ intervened Paula, ‘you’ve got to help us. You have to do something.’

‘That’s why we’ve come here to alert you,’ declared Francis, ‘not simply as a friend but above all as a detective.’

Patrick chewed his lip pensively. He studied his visitors, then asked them under what circumstances Brian had made his prediction.

‘We started to pay bridge shortly before eight o’clock,’ said Paula. ‘I say “we,” although I wasn’t playing, merely watching, because… well, that doesn’t really matter. Brian was playing with Sarah against Francis and Dr. Meadows. Everything went smoothly at the beginning, but little by little the atmosphere changed. Sarah had been nervous from the start with brusque and hasty gestures. She dropped her cards a couple of times when she was trying to pick them up.’

‘She’s always like that,’ said Francis, shrugging his shoulders. ‘That’s nothing unusual.’

‘Maybe, but tonight she appeared particularly agitated. In fact, it was Brian’s attitude, in my opinion, which cast a chill on the proceedings. He was perky at the beginning, much more talkative than usual, but as the evening wore on we heard less and less from him and he became paler and paler.’

‘It’s true,’ agreed Francis. ‘He looked out of sorts.’

‘It wasn’t just him,’ continued Paula, irritated by her husband’s constant interruptions. ‘There was Meadows as well. But in his case, it was more the lay of the cards which upset him… At the beginning he was only too pleased to have you as partner, Francis. But he changed his mind after that, because you have to admit, you weren’t at the top of—.’

‘What does that matter,’ snapped Francis. ‘Patrick’s not interested in all those little details.’

‘Very well,’ she replied in resignation. ‘The game ended at half past ten or thereabouts, by which time Brian had a disturbing expression on his face. That happens quite often, but in this case he’d seemed so happy at the start.’

‘Stick to the facts, Paula.’

‘We all went out into the hall. Sarah went to accompany Meadows. Brian started up the stairs, more slowly than usual, stopping still at the seventh or eighth step. His behaviour had attracted our attention. He turned around just as slowly and gave Sarah a strange look, piercing yet at the same time distant. He was very pale and as motionless as a statue. His thin figure was back-lit against the stairs, but his eyes, strangely enough, gleamed in the darkness. At least, that’s what it looked like to me… Then he solemnly pointed a trembling index finger in Sarah’s direction. And that was when he… when he….’

Paula was unable to continue. It was useless. But Bessie and Patrick had understood and had no trouble imagining the scene.

‘And afterwards?’ asked Patrick, breaking the silence. ‘How did Sarah react?’

The question seemed to upset Paula, who let her husband take her place. Francis seemed equally embarrassed.

‘In fact,’ he began, ‘I had the distinct impression that Paula and I were the most frightened. Sarah had changed colour, of course. As for Meadows, he rushed towards her and gave Brian a wrathful look accompanied by an ostentatious shrug of the shoulders. He didn’t say anything, but he looked daggers. Thereupon, Brian went up to his room. Paula and I went into the salon and Meadows and Sarah went out. A few moments later we heard a door slam and the doctor’s car drive furiously away. Sarah came back in and crossed the hall without a word or even a look at us. As if we were responsible for Brian’s words.’

‘I have to say,’ added Paula, ‘that she’s hardly spoken to us at all recently. Nor to anyone else either, by the way.’

‘So that’s it,’ said Francis, turning to Patrick. ‘We came here straight away. Now I think about it,’ he added reflectively, ‘maybe we were too hasty. I’m starting to become wary of Brian’s predictions.’

‘Wary?’ echoed Bessie in astonishment. ‘You’d have to be crazy to ignore them. If he spoke about great danger, it’s because—.’

Francis cut her off:

‘What do you think, Patrick?’

Patrick replied with a question of his own:

‘What exactly do you want me to do? Shadow her? Watch her night and day?’

‘Of course not,’ retorted Francis. ‘That’s out of the question. That would only frighten her more. She’s at the end of her tether and that kind of surveillance, far from reassuring her, might have the opposite effect and provoke a regrettable incident.’

Patrick, who was starting to feel uneasy, reached for his glass and emptied it in a single gulp. The situation was confused and becoming tiresome. Francis kept staring at him. Francis, who had a blind confidence in him because of their friendship, which he had betrayed… with Paula. Paula, in whose wide-open blue eyes he could detect fear, remorse and another sentiment whose flame seemed still to be burning… And, next to her, Bessie, his fiancée. A strange trio, all hanging on his word as if he were able, by waving a magic wand, to dispel the menaces and spells placed upon Hatton Manor. As if he could lift the veil from this absurd affair, over which hovered the shadow of a seer whose prophecies always seemed to come true… An affair which only a detective of the impossible could unravel… A detective of the impossible… a light bulb went on in his head.

‘I don’t really know what to tell you,’ he declared prudently. ‘I do happen to have investigated a criminal case — although it only concerned threats and slander — but this affair is quite out of the ordinary. And, when you get down to it, aside from Brian’s predictions and a few incidents, what is there? Nothing. Nothing that would justify an investigation, in any case, even a private one.’

Bessie and Paula started to protest, but he silenced them with a gesture.

‘I know the situation looks serious. What should we do? The more I think about it, not very much.’

‘I tend to agree, unfortunately,’ growled Francis, clenching his fists. ‘If something really is due to happen to Sarah, then she’s not going to be safe anywhere. But let’s not get carried away.’

‘I have an idea,’ announced Patrick suddenly. ‘I know someone in London who specialises in this sort of case.’

‘What do you mean by “this sort of case”?’ asked Bessie.

‘Bizarre cases which the police are unable to solve on their own, where murderers appear to have walked through walls, or on snow without leaving any footprints. Cases which appear to have no rational explanation. But the person I know always manages to solve them.’

‘He sounds like some kind of magician,’ said Francis, sceptically.

‘In a sense, yes. Needless to say, there’s no question of bringing him here. But I might go to visit him in London tomorrow, to get his opinion.’

Patrick returned from London on Monday evening at a quarter past eight and asked the taxi to drop him at the centre of Hatton village. Without knowing exactly why, he felt like walking a little before returning to the Blount residence. To reflect, perhaps, to take stock, to order his thoughts. The first part of his plan had gone well enough, but now he had the disagreeable feeling of wading in quicksand. The goal he’d set for himself was a long way from being achieved. A very long way, in fact. He had to admit he hadn’t progressed an inch. For a moment he felt like giving up. But what had he thought? That his dreams would come true just because that’s what he wanted? Bitterly, he began to foresee a fiasco. He’d never suffered one before. He had a horror of failure and, when he wanted something, he would do anything to get it.

On impulse, he took a path from the village which he’d never taken before, but which he knew went through the woods, parallel to the main road. It would eventually lead him to the back of the Blounts’ enclosure and allow him another few minutes for quiet thought. He lit a cigarette as he walked and thought about his two days in London. He’d arrived late in the afternoon on Sunday and had visited the person he’d asked to meet that evening. His host had expressed a keen interest without, unfortunately, being able to offer him any specific advice beyond being careful, because the sum of all the events seemed to him to be a bad omen. The next day Patrick had dined with his business associate and sent a message to Bessie announcing his arrival that evening. Bessie, he repeated to himself with a lump in his throat, Bessie….

The path was only illuminated by the light from the occasional rear window and progress was slow, but after nearly ten minutes he was able to make out, in the near distance, the fence around the Blounts’ property. Seeing the gate open, he approached more quietly and stopped.

What the devil?

On impulse he hid behind a bush and kept his eyes open. He had no difficulty identifying the figure that had just set foot on the path up to the manor. There was nothing extraordinary about its presence there at that hour. On the other hand, what it was doing….

Patrick, his breath taken away, watched the spectacle taking place before his eyes in amazement. No, he wasn’t seeing things. Of course, there was one thing he couldn’t see very clearly…but the shape left no doubt. He couldn’t believe it, nothing made sense.

His stupefaction was such that he was unable to react. He stood there, rooted to the spot — which was a grave error, as he was to realise later — his mind bewildered by events.

18

‘“Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,”’ sneered Inspector Archibald Hurst. ‘Come on, Twist, you make me laugh with your maxims!’

‘That one’s not mine, it belongs to—.’

‘In any case, you’ve adopted it. Not a month goes by without you trotting it out.’

‘And why does it make you laugh so much, my friend?’ asked Dr. Twist, pouring two cups of tea.

‘Why? Because it’s false. Completely false. You know as well as I do that every time we tackle a case, nine times out of ten it’s the “impossible” hypothesis which turns out to be correct.’ The inspector’s ruddy face darkened suddenly. ‘But, come to think of it, every time you pronounce the phrase, there’s a problem you’re mulling over.’

Twist nodded and Hurst looked as though he’d been slapped in the face. He listened to the clock strike five and turned to look out of the window at the light fog which was settling on London, telling himself that Tuesday evening didn’t look as if it would be much fun.

‘Don’t tell me it’s a locked room problem,’ he said, forcing himself to remain calm. ‘Not that, Twist. Anything but that. Last month’s kept me from sleeping during the entire investigation. I spent a whole week racking my brains for a solution — which turned out to be so simple I spent another couple of nights wondering why we hadn’t found it earlier. Frankly, I’m not ready for another one so soon.’

‘If that were all… The affair I’m thinking about seems to be much more complex than a simple locked room. Don’t pull that face, Archibald, and listen before you drink my tea. It’s just occurred to me that you know about it already. It was you yourself who told me about the Thorne case a year ago!’

‘Thorne… Thorne,’ repeated the policeman, frowning. ‘I remember: the strange suicide, the clairvoyant and the sealed room.’

‘That’s the one. There have been some recent developments. No murders, as of yet, just new prophecies that have come to pass. Do you know Patrick Nolan? The young detective who has an agency near Piccadilly?’

‘Vaguely,’ grunted Hurst. ‘Get to the point.’

‘Well, he came to see me yesterday evening.’

Whereupon Alan Twist repeated the details of what Patrick had told him.

He didn’t mention the idyll with White Camellia for the simple reason that Patrick hadn’t confessed to it.

In the silence which followed, Hurst lit a cigar, a sullen expression on his face.

‘Thoughts can’t kill,’ he growled. ‘It’s impossible.’

‘That’s a strange maxim, my friend,’ teased Twist. ‘In the first place, the young woman isn’t dead yet. And secondly it’s a prophecy, not a thought… and one that only announces misfortune — a grave misfortune, admittedly, but a misfortune nonetheless.’

‘Whatever the case may be, I’m sticking to my first impression: that Brian is a shady character.’ Hurst brought his fist down on the table and Twist winced as the porcelain rattled. ‘Hell’s bells, don’t tell me you’re taking that charlatan’s tall tales seriously!’

Still holding up to ridicule all prophets and soothsayers, Hurst, after having crumpled up an empty envelope which was lying on the table, got up and started pacing the room, kneading it with his large hand. He finished his speech by throwing the rolled-up ball of paper into the fire. His expression changed to one of alarm when he saw his friend Twist watch with amazement as the flames devoured the mistreated envelope.

‘Good grief,’ he stammered. ‘Excuse me, Twist, but with these damned soothsayers, I got carried away. Nothing too serious, I hope?’ he added contritely.

‘Archibald, you’re a genius!’

‘But the envelope…’

‘Don’t worry about that, you deserve a medal.’

The inspector had become accustomed to his friend’s enigmatic remarks, but this one took the cake. Twist was mocking him! Once again, he brought his great fist down on the table, this time ending the days of one of the cups which spilt its contents over the immaculate tablecloth. Catastrophe! He closed his eyes, his features tense, and couldn’t believe his ears when he heard:

‘It’s extraordinary, Archibald, extraordinary.’

He opened his eyes to see the criminologist looking in delighted surprise at the scene of the disaster.

‘Extraordinary,’ repeated Twist. ‘Fabulous! My dear Archibald, I don’t think you realise the full extent of your discovery.’

‘My… discovery?’

‘You’ve lifted the veil on one part of this mysterious affair, and not the least important. Come, come, don’t play the innocent. You know very well what I’m talking about. Your first gesture may have been just pure luck, I admit, but not the second. Your double indication….’

‘I can assure you I don’t—.’

‘Really?’ said Twist. ‘Well, it’s quite possible. You have the gift of pointing me in the right direction without knowing it. Forget everything I said, then. In fact, it was only a detail. An important one, but a detail nonetheless. Now, let me think.’

Archibald Hurst settled his considerable bulk into his chair and watched his friend puff on his pipe. Several minutes elapsed before the eminent detective spoke.

‘If we consider all the facts, nothing but the facts, it seems undeniable that Brian Thorne has the gift of prescience. Although it seems beyond belief, the facts are the facts. And, for now, the most important issue is that he’s announced a misfortune regarding his sister-in-law. A misfortune, I have an uneasy feeling—.’

Twist was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. He got up and lifted the receiver.

‘Hello… Yes, he’s here. I’ll pass him to you.’ He turned to Hurst. ‘It’s for you… Scotland Yard.’

Hurst grumbled to himself as he stood up and took the phone from his friend.

‘Hello,’ he growled. ‘A friend from Cheltenham? Yes, put him on. Not a moment’s peace in this damned profession,’ he groused to Twist who, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, didn’t appear to be listening. ‘Hello? Hector Redfern? To what do I owe the pleasure?’

During the next two minutes, the inspector didn’t utter a word. Then:

‘Very well, Hector. I’ll work it out with my superiors as quickly as I can. It’s very likely we can be there tomorrow.’

As Hurst replaced the receiver, Twist stopped and looked up enquiringly. The inspector’s hand was still on the receiver and his face was grim. A wayward lock of hair fell across his furrowed brow.

‘That was the chief superintendent at Cheltenham, whom you met last year, Hector Redfern. The news is not good. Our clairvoyant was right again: Sarah Thorne is dead.’

Dr. Twist looked down and took off his pince-nez. The light in his blue eyes grew more intense.

‘It happened last night,’ continued Hurst. ‘Where and how? Exactly the same as before… In front of the study door. There’s even a witness who saw her at the very moment she slumped to the ground. It was a heart attack according to the initial medical examination. Oh, and the carpet in front of the fireplace was wet. Redfern is out of his depth and quite happy to let Scotland Yard handle the affair.’

‘It’s incredible,’ murmured Twist. ‘Brian Thorne….’

‘Speaking of whom,’ said Hurst tersely, ‘nobody has seen him since last night.’

19

The following day, Wednesday, the chief superintendent, Dr. Twist and Archibald Hurst met at the scene of the tragedy. Hector Redfern, a plump little man with an inscrutable regard behind thick horn-rimmed spectacles, did not share Alan Twist’s predilection for imbroglios. It was obvious he was not keen to tackle a case of sudden death in suspicious circumstances and was only too relieved when he found that Scotland Yard was ready to take over.

‘I’ve just received the medical examiner’s report,’ he announced. ‘It confirms what I told you yesterday: Mrs. Sarah Thorne died of a heart attack. No suspicious marks except for a couple of bruises sustained in the fall. Everything points to the attack being the result of a violent emotion. Her heart was weak, but not to the point of stopping without the intervention of an external agency. Her face shows signs of her being subject to intense fear: convulsed features, glassy eyes… but the report remains discreet on the matter.

‘In view of the testimony of the maid, Cathy Restarick, it’s the most obvious hypothesis. But in fear of what? That’s the question.’

Hurst pointed a thick finger towards the base of the fireplace, but Redfern didn’t give him a chance to speak.

‘My men examined the carpet there when they first arrived. It was damp… from water, at first sight. But we’ve taken the precaution of sending some threads for analysis. The results aren’t back yet.’

‘Damp, you say,’ mused Dr. Twist. ‘That’s curious. In the previous incidents it was plain wet.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was told.’

‘At what time did your men arrive?’

‘Within an hour of the incident. Ah, I see what you’re getting at. But the ones who discovered the body will tell you that it wasn’t “plain wet,” to use your expression.’

‘And what was the extent of the damp area?’

‘It’s hard to say. A stain longer than it was wide, four or five feet I would say. Besides which, the dampness wasn’t uniform.’

‘Tell me, Redfern,’ asked Hurst, as if struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, ‘are there any lakes in the area?’

‘Lakes? No, why?’

‘Nothing,’ growled the policeman, clearly disappointed.

Alan Twist adjusted his pince-nez and suppressed a smile. His friend had clearly been entertaining thoughts of an aquatic monster. He asked if there had been any news of the fugitive.

‘Nothing for now,’ replied the chief superintendent, ‘but it’s only a question of time. There have been no bicycle or vehicle thefts reported, so he must still be in the area, probably in the woods, which we are in the process of searching.’

‘Were you able to interview him?’

‘No, he’d already disappeared by the time we arrived. But he was seen half an hour before that.’

‘So,’ said Hurst, ‘he left shortly after his sister-in-law died?’

‘Roughly, yes.’

‘Very well. Let’s talk to the principal witness.’

Young Cathy Restarick was distinctly ill at ease. The predominant expression on her plain face was that of anguish. Rubbing her hands together nervously, she looked furtively at the famous carpet. Nevertheless, the gentle, reassuring voice of Dr. Twist succeeded in eliciting a relatively clear account of what she had witnessed on Monday evening.

‘It was at about ten o’clock when I realised I’d forgotten to put my ring back on. I always take it off when I’m doing the dishes. I knew where I’d left it and that it would still be there the next day, but I decided to go downstairs anyway. My room is in the mansard attic near the spiral staircase, which leads down to the kitchen and the outside.’

‘We understand,’ said Hurst, ‘you went down that staircase to get your ring.’

‘When I reached the first floor I heard footsteps in the corridor.’ She blushed. ‘I know that’s nothing unusual, but…well, I went to take a look, I couldn’t tell you why.’

‘We understand,’ said Hurst, smiling broadly, congratulating himself on the curiosity of the domestic staff which he always claimed was one of a policeman’s principal sources of information.

‘I was still on the stairs when I heard the door creak. A few seconds later I stuck my head into the corridor. And that’s when I saw… the space isn’t very well lit, but I recognised Mrs. Thorne. In fact, I think there was light in the study, which is how I was able to see her face. She was standing on the sill, with her hand still pressed against the door which she’d just opened. She suddenly went white and her mouth opened as if to cry out… in vain. I think she also put her hands to her chest and her eyes rolled up, then she fell backwards. There was a heavy thud. She didn’t move. It was horrible… I almost fainted myself. I… I thought about all the things that had happened in that spot… and I ran back to my room. I stayed there for a few moments, then I went to tell Mr. Mostyn. We—.’

‘Just a moment,’ interrupted Hurst, with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. ‘Can you tell us where Mrs. Thorne was looking?’

‘A-At the floor,’ stammered Cathy.

‘Where the carpet was damp?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

The three men exchanged sombre looks, then Hurst continued:

‘According to you, then, Mrs. Thorne was frightened, not to say terrified by “something” in that room?’

Cathy nodded her head, shivering.

‘And after that?’

‘I went back down — with Mr. Mostyn this time — and we confirmed that Mrs. Thorne was dead. We knocked on Mr. Brian’s door but there was no answer. I ran down to the salon. Mrs. Paula was there and we went to get her husband from the game room. The door to the library opened and we saw Mr. Brian… I think he knew already before we told him the tragic news… in any case, it had a strong effect on him. We went upstairs. Mr. Hilton was kneeling next to his daughter. After that, I don’t know… I must have told him what had happened…then Mr. Francis took the car to find Dr. Meadows. Fifteen minutes later they were back. Dr. Meadows told us nothing could be done — which we knew already. He looked very upset.’

‘He’d just lost his fiancée,’ observed Hurst.

‘Yes, he was distraught… But he seemed angry as well. He said he’d phoned the police… Afterwards, Mr. Mostyn drew their attention to the carpet near the fireplace. They had a discussion and afterwards, Mr. Brian went to his room… and we haven’t seen him since.’

Cathy Restarick was excused and it was Philip Mostyn’s turn to be questioned. He confirmed the maid’s account and said he’d taken a quick look in the study after she’d gone downstairs to tell the others. The lamp was lit, the windows were closed and there was no one there at the time. Naturally, he hadn’t forgotten to examine the carpet and hadn’t been surprised to find it was wet, or rather damp, where it touched the hearth.

The testimonies of Francis and Paula did little to shed light on the circumstances of Sarah’s death. Even so, the Scotland Yard inspector and the criminologist were able to form an accurate idea of the movements of each individual on that tragic night. After the meal, at around eight o’clock, Mrs. Hilton retired to her room with a severe migraine. Brian had also left the table to go to the library — at least, that’s what he claimed — and apparently stayed there until the maid came down to announce the tragic news at around ten o’clock. Francis went up to the study and Mr. Hilton, his daughter and Paula found themselves in the salon. What was Sarah like at that moment? Slightly nervous, certainly, but no more than usual. Between a quarter past eight and a quarter to nine, Mr. Hilton went out for a walk, just as he did every night when the weather allowed it. A quarter of an hour after that, at nine o’clock, Paula took a cup of tea up to her husband. Another regular habit whenever Francis worked in the study, usually until ten o’clock. But that night he drank the tea and left the study almost immediately.

Paula and he had left the room at about five past nine. They’d extinguished the lamp and there had been no one in the room when they’d left. Was the carpet already damp? No. But they weren’t ready to swear to it. When they’d gone back down to the salon, they’d found Sarah there alone. Mr. Hilton had gone up to bed. Sarah, Francis and Paula had talked for a few minutes, then Paula had gone into the kitchen to prepare some coffee and Francis had headed for the game room, leaving Sarah alone in the salon again between twenty past and half past nine. For half an hour after that, Francis returned and the three of them didn’t leave each other’s sight, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. At ten o’clock, Sarah stood up. She didn’t tell them she was going up to the study, but they suspected it because she was in the habit of going there at that hour when there weren’t any guests. Francis went back to the game room and Paula stayed in the salon until the arrival of Cathy Restarick ten minutes later.

Hurst made copious notes of their depositions, then thanked the young couple and ask them to call Mr. and Mrs. Hilton.

Only Howard Hilton turned up:

‘My wife isn’t feeling well. She would be very obliged if you would question her another day.’

‘Of course,’ replied Hurst, full of indulgence for the poor man who’d just lost his daughter and was trying to put a good face on it.

‘Thank you, Inspector. It’s a grave misfortune for us… and to think she was about to get married….’

‘Had the date been set?’ asked Hurst, looking at Twist out of the corner of his eye.

‘No, she’d only just announced it, or rather talked to my wife about it, no later than last week. Dr. Meadows and she hadn’t fixed the date, but it would have had to be before Christmas anyway, because they planned to spend their honeymoon in Venice and then extend it through other trips to India, South America…’ He swallowed hard and then recovered. ‘Her luck ran out.’

After a silence, Hurst asked:

‘Do you know if the young couple planned to stay in Hatton Manor after that?’

Howard Hilton lit a cigarette and Dr. Twist noticed his hand was shaking.

‘I… I don’t think so. They were thinking of selling the property, which couldn’t be done without Brian’s consent… and I don’t think she’d asked him. To be truthful, my wife and I didn’t like the idea. It’s a very pleasant spot and very quiet… but that’s of no importance now.’

Hurst nodded then leant towards him:

‘It seems that your daughter’s nerves were on edge recently. Do you know any particular reason for it?’

Hilton gazed at the window and took his time to answer:

‘Sarah was always a very excitable child. She was very upset by the death of her husband, much more than she showed. There was a period of calm at the beginning of the year, so to speak. … then she fell for Meadows. A happy idyll on the surface, but hardly beneficial for her nerves. I don’t want to blame Michael, but it’s a fact that after they started seeing each other, things became more intense — at least as far as she was concerned. But to answer your question, during the last two weeks she was at the end of her tether. She lost her temper about nothing and became scared if anyone so much as looked at her…As to why that was, I couldn’t tell you.’

‘One last question, Mr. Hilton. Have you any idea where to find Brian Thorne?’

‘No idea whatsoever.’

‘And what do you think of his disappearance?’

‘Strange — although Sarah’s death did affect him profoundly. He more or less predicted it.’

‘We know.’

‘Well, if you want my advice, I think he felt himself responsible in a way and that caused him to lose his head… as though he’d just realised his power, and the danger it represented.’

‘You say “power,” so do you believe in his gifts as a clairvoyant?’

‘I don’t think there can be any doubt about it.’

20

In many ways, Dr. Alan Twist was an enigma to the Scotland Yard inspector. Perhaps the biggest mystery was his ability to tuck away gargantuan quantities of food in that thin frame, twice as much as Hurst — himself no slouch in that department. Where did he put it all?

He wasn’t the only one to ask himself the question. Hector Redfern watched in astonishment as the criminologist ordered his fifth lamb cutlet. It was seven o’clock and the three men were dining in the Black Horse, where Hurst and Twist were staying. An hour earlier they had questioned Dr. Meadows, whose house was on the edge of the village.

They had learnt very little from the young doctor, but had detected a barely-contained fury behind a mask of convention. The great catch that Sarah had been was now only a memory and he hadn’t hidden the fact that he found Brian’s disappearance suspicious. He’d changed his opinion of the man as well: the clairvoyant of dazzling powers was nothing but a harbinger of bad luck and there was no doubt in his mind that his prophecy about Sarah, by plunging her into a state of anxious hysteria, was directly responsible for the tragedy. Had he any idea where Brian could be found? No, and it would be best for him if he, Meadows, didn’t find out. Before coming to the inn, the three men had stopped by the Blount residence and Bessie had invited them to partake of coffee there after eight that evening.

‘My dear friends,’ said Hurst solemnly, after having lit a cigar, ‘I don’t know whether you realise it or not, but there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, to justify the use of the term “murder.” An anxious woman during a trying period, and with a weak heart to boot, dies from a heart attack. Except for a few drops of water found on the carpet — and can they really be considered a clue? — there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, to support the murder theory. And I know you well enough, Hector, to be certain that that damned room was searched with a fine-tooth comb.’ Redfern nodded. ‘All that’s left is Brian’s prophecy.’

‘You surprise me, my dear Archibald,’ replied Twist, looking up from his plate. ‘You talk as if nothing else happened.’

‘I haven’t forgotten anything!’ thundered the inspector, pushing the rebellious forelock back from his pink forehead. ‘I’m simply trying to pose the problem calmly and without any other distractions!’

The hubbub in the bar ceased for a moment as the locals stared at the stranger who dared to shout louder than they, then recommenced.

‘You’re right,’ said Redfern, pushing his plate away. ‘And I’m beginning to wonder whether I didn’t exaggerate the business, and whether I was right to call you in.’

‘There’s good reason to doubt it,’ growled Hurst. ‘The Yard’s not used to dealing with clairvoyance, divination and all the rest of it. And, to be honest with you, Hector, I doubt that I’ll be allowed to carry on my investigation for much longer. That said, I still have a few questions.’

‘Let’s be thankful for that,’ sighed Twist. ‘I’d have been disappointed if—.’

‘My dear friend,’ said the inspector through gritted teeth, ‘I’m going to cut the ground from under you by resuming the affair, as you’re dying to do. Only I’m going to do it impartially, without exaggerating certain aspects for the sole purpose of disorienting the audience and making them doubt their sanity, as you are wont to do.’

‘We’re all ears,’ replied the criminologist, a mischievous gleam lurking behind his pince-nez.

‘Here goes. In the last century, a certain Harvey Thorne died under strange circumstances. It must be said that he was someone not in full possession of his mental faculties and who passed his time cloistered in his room writing horrible stories of an apparently divinatory tendency, because in one of them he accurately predicted the death of his own father. He was found dying on the sill of his door, in the grip of terrifying convulsions. Before he died he made a few disconcerting utterances such as “will perish by fire,” or something like that. One peculiar detail is that the carpet was wet where it touched the hearth. And, curiously enough, several members of the family did die in a fire, which led to his den being sealed off.

‘Everything seems to suggest that his great-nephew has inherited his powers and that he, too, is able to make prophecies which become reality. Just consider those where we have tangible evidence. Early last year, he predicts to Miss Bessie Blount and Dr. Mike Meadows that they will shortly fall in love and it happens the very next day. That summer, his brother Harris, who has just moved into Hatton Manor with his in-laws, decides to reopen the sealed room and use it as a study. Brian makes a new prophecy, far more sinister than the first. It’s worth noting that unsealing the cursed room seems in itself to create an atmosphere of unease, particularly in the case of the newly-wed Thornes. And, sure enough, a few days later, Harris Thorne dies from defenestration. Half an hour after that, Sarah Thorne faints upon opening the door to the damned room, apparently terrified at what she sees when she looks towards a patch on the carpet adjacent to the hearth which, once again, turns out to be wet. We can be almost certain there was nobody in the room at the time. Questioned about what she’d seen, Sarah declares she can’t remember anything.

‘The following year, meaning this year, our clairvoyant, having predicted love and death, now turns his talents to money. The lucky beneficiary will be Sarah’s brother who, following his advice, places a big bet on the horses and wins. That’s in early September. But our soothsayer has also predicted an incident, a fall perhaps, and — just as night follows day — Sarah’s brother does indeed himself faint and fall upon opening the door to the famous study, just like his sister a year earlier. The carpet is once again wet in the same spot and, needless to say, he doesn’t remember anything. And, apparently, there was no one in the room either. Sarah, who has meanwhile become engaged to Dr. Meadow, now gets another warning from Brian: “a misfortune, a truly great misfortune.” And what must inevitably happen does: she collapses in the doorway, in the same place, with the same terrified look in the direction of the carpet as in the previous year. This time, she dies. Of a heart attack. The carpet, needless to say, is damp. It’s worth noting, however, that between the time the maid sees her collapse and the time she returns with Mostyn, a good five minutes elapse. So, if there had been someone in the room, he would have had the time to escape. That’s merely an observation, for it’s hard to imagine that the mere sight of someone could kill the viewer on the spot.

‘The problem couldn’t be clearer: on the one hand, victims taken ill, always at the same spot and with traces of water near the fireplace; on the other hand a soothsayer who predicts the future, and in particular, their misfortunes.’

Inspector Hurst nodded his head, visibly satisfied with his summary. His radiant features were in stark contrast to those of the chief superintendent, who was mopping a brow damp with perspiration.

‘Remarkable,’ gushed Dr. Twist. ‘Quite remarkable! What conciseness, what impartiality! You’ve presented all the facts with a rare objectivity, Archibald.’ Hurst, glowing with pleasure, made a self-deprecating gesture. ‘Even so, my friend,’ he pursued gently, ‘I can’t help wondering whether what you’ve just reported wouldn’t have caused the best investigators of the genre to lose their reason.’

The inspector’s expression changed as he began to realise how incredible his account must have sounded, resembling as it did more of a macabre and fantastic fairy tale than the kind of case he normally encountered. He shot a hostile look at his friend whom he suspected of taking pleasure in underscoring the contradictory propositions of his account, but could detect nothing behind the pince-nez. He gave a deep sigh:

‘In a way I’m quite relieved that our clairvoyant hasn’t turned up. Who knows what new catastrophe he would have announced? We’ve quite enough on our plate as it is.’

(Fortunately for him, Archibald Hurst did not possess the gift of foresight, for what had happened up to that point would pale in comparison to what was to follow.) He turned to the chief superintendent:

‘We’ve talked about a lot of things, Redfern, but you haven’t yet given us the vital facts.’

His colleague looked dumbfounded.

‘Yes,’ continued Hurst with a cunning smile. ‘Who stands to inherit? I imagine you’ve already done your research?’

Redfern cleared his throat.

‘Well, yes. I saw Peter Higgins, the Thornes’ solicitor, yesterday evening. And I have to admit that what he told me was rather curious and doesn’t get us very far… Allow me to explain. The first strange thing is that Sarah went to see him a few days ago to make her will… as if she’d had a premonition. Higgins, surprised by the unexpected visit, thought she looked tormented and anxious. He was even more surprised when she asked him to keep the visit a secret, to which he retorted that it was against professional etiquette to do anything else. According to the terms of her will, half her fortune goes to her immediate family — in this case her parents and her brother — and the other half goes to her brother-in-law Brian Thorne.’

‘Nothing to her fiancé?’ asked Hurst in astonishment.

‘Nothing. Needless to say that intrigued Higgins, who knew about her matrimonial intentions with the young doctor. After beating about the bush, he managed to coax out of her the reason for her generosity to Brian. To paraphrase: “It’s natural, in the event of anything happening to me, for a large part of my late husband’s fortune to go to his family. Brian is the only living descendant of the Thornes. This way he’ll be able to conserve and maintain the manor.” She left it at that, and the will was prepared and signed.’

‘Bizarre,’ growled Hurst, scratching his chin. ‘In other words, everyone involved in this business benefits, except the fiancé.’

‘As I said before, it doesn’t get us very far,’ replied Redfern prudently, ‘particularly since we don’t know whether any of them was aware of the terms.’

‘You’re thinking of Brian, I assume,’ said Hurst pensively.

Redfern nodded.

‘Yes. Let’s just suppose that “someone” was the instigator of “something.” The only thing we can be certain of is that Mike Meadows is the clear loser in all this and therefore had nothing to do with the “something.”’

Hurst, thinking hard, his fingers drumming furiously on the table, regarded Twist, who had just picked up the menu again, with annoyance.

‘Twist!’ he exploded, point-blank.

‘Hmmm….’

‘We’ve forgotten something. There is someone who should have an idea of why Sarah was in such a state.’

At that very moment, an officer in uniform appeared at the table.

‘What is it, Johnson?’ asked Redfern.

‘Nothing positive to report, sir,’ replied the man. ‘But I thought you should know we’ve found no trace of the fugitive. In my opinion, he’s hiding somewhere in the village, even though he doesn’t seem friendly enough with anyone for them to offer him asylum. We’ve questioned everyone without success. Should we carry out a search?’

Redfern pursed his lips and replied:

‘Yes, with kid gloves for the time being. Notify me if anyone refuses. Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, sir. In fact, that’s why I took the liberty of coming here. They’ve just called through the results of the carpet analysis. There’s no trace of anything on the sample. So it was certainly water and nothing else.’

The policeman saluted and the three men watched him leave the inn.

‘What were you saying, old friend?’ asked Twist gently.

‘Do you remember the conversation which your friend Nolan overheard? The mysterious conversation between Mrs. Sarah Thorne and her brother?’

‘I see what you’re saying.’

‘Hell’s bells! Francis Hilton knows something. He must have at least some idea about what was causing his sister to be frightened. He himself confessed to seeing that “something.”’

Dr. Twist shook his head:

‘He talked about a fleeting vision, a blurred image, a reminiscence, something that “wasn’t possible” and which seemed more like the fruit of his imagination.’

‘If I understand you correctly, they were just words to soothe his sister? Maybe. But I still can’t help thinking he knows more or less what was tormenting his sister.’

‘Granted. And I assure you I haven’t forgotten. Now please let me order my dessert.’

21

A short while later — Redfern having left them — Hurst and Dr. Twist were listening to Bessie Blount’s grandfather giving them his opinion about one of the rare criminal cases that Scotland Yard had failed to solve. He was a well-built man, despite his age, and not at a loss for words. Francis and Paula were also there and, together with Patrick, they listened attentively to the old man’s monologue, whilst Bessie looked at the ceiling when she was not emitting exasperated sighs.

He rambled on about having seen Jack the Ripper with his own eyes, how he’d witnessed the carnage in Mitre Square and how the police had ignored his description of the killer because he was only fifteen at the time.

‘Grandpa,’ implored Bessie, ‘we’ve heard the story a hundred times and you’re boring our guests.’

‘Boring our guests? But it’s about the most celebrated mystery of all!’ He looked wearily at the two detectives. ‘Gentlemen, my granddaughter and her mother take me for an old fool who’s off his rocker and makes up stories. Only yesterday, I pointed out that someone had moved the wheelbarrow in the garden.’

‘Don’t start on about the wheelbarrow,’ said Bessie crossly.

‘Well, somebody unknown must’ve touched it, because you and your mother denied it was either of you. I’d left it under the vine the previous evening and the next day I found it near the hedge.’

‘Grandpa, this is not the time….’

‘I understand. I’m going to bed.’

After he’d left with Mrs. Blount the conversation took a different turn and, once again, it was about the deceased. Hurst led the discussion and declared to Francis a quarter of an hour later:

‘Mr. Hilton, there’s every reason to believe that you’ve a good idea what was tormenting your sister during her last days. Yes, walls have ears….’

Patrick almost dropped the cigarette he was smoking, but Francis was too upset to notice. Like a cat playing with a mouse, Hurst dropped a few hints about the famous conversation overheard by Patrick the week before, finishing with a masterly: ‘Please don’t ask how we know. We’re listening, Mr. Hilton.’

Clearly the shot had struck home. Francis was as white as a sheet. There was a heavy silence in the room. He got up from his chair and started to pace back and forth in front of the fire, his hands behind his back. The flames illuminated his tense features, and with his tailored beard, he resembled Mephisto from Faust.

‘You’re not going to believe me,’ he said eventually, not bothering to hide his irritation.

‘Tell us anyway,’ purred Hurst. ‘Tell us what you saw in the study.’

Francis turned and almost spat in the inspector’s face.

‘But I didn’t see anything! It was Sarah with all her stories who—.’

‘Calm down, Mr. Hilton, calm down. What stories are you talking about?’

Francis shrugged his shoulders.

‘It’s so absurd… but, since you insist. Sarah was starting to lose her mind in her last few days. She thought she’d seen… her husband.’

‘Her husband! Harris Thorne?’ bristled the inspector.

‘Yes. Obviously she was having visions.’

‘So that was it!’ exclaimed Paula. ‘One evening, I remember, we were walking close to the woods, and she told me on two occasions that she’d seen someone… when there was manifestly nobody there.’

Francis gave her an eloquent look, then continued:

‘It had almost become an obsession. She wanted to convince me, too, that I’d seen him in the study the evening I’d fainted.’ He looked Hurst straight in the eye. ‘I’m telling you again, Inspector, and I’m perfectly clear about this: I just felt faint and there was nothing, absolutely nothing in the room.’

‘And the water on the carpet. How do you explain that?’

‘I’ve no idea. I’ve told you what I know. But there’s definitely a bizarre atmosphere in that study and I’m not the only one to have noticed. A sensation of calm, of tranquillity, but also of anxiety.’

‘Like a cemetery,’ observed Hurst.

Francis shivered.

‘Yes, rather like that. But I imagine it’s all to do with our imagination and our thoughts going back to the last century when Harvey Thorne wrote his novels in that very room… Where was I? Ah! Yes… Sarah was pestering me to say something that wasn’t true. It was like a cry for help; she was trying to reassure herself she wasn’t suffering from hallucinations. She insisted, she insisted and then… for a brief moment I finished up doubting. By dint of recalling my brother-in-law in that room with its peculiar atmosphere and listening to Sarah shouting in my ear, I saw his shadow pass in front of my eyes. A fleeting image, a thought mutating into an image, that was all. But I’ll say it again, she wanted to drag something out of my mouth that I didn’t want to say. She was in such a state….’

‘In short,’ interjected Dr. Twist, ‘you simply wanted to calm her down.’

Francis nodded his head. Hurst muttered to himself because the explanation, coherent though it was, shed no light on the investigation. He extinguished one cigar and lit another one straightaway:

‘We’re going round in circles. Now that I think about it, what had she seen the first time she’d fainted?’

Francis stroked his chin.

‘She pretended she couldn’t remember. Which isn’t out of the question. In fact I just don’t know.’

‘What is certain in any case,’ observed Archibald Hurst, ‘is that it wasn’t Harris Thorne. For two reasons: firstly, testimony proves there was no one in the room at that time and, secondly, Thorne was already dead, the medical examiner confirmed it. In any case, it’s hard to believe that the simple view of her husband would be enough to cause her to lose consciousness. So what did she see, if indeed she saw anything at all?’ He stopped before adding grandiloquently: ‘“To see or not to see, that is the question.”’

Hurst’s self-satisfied smile was not returned by any of those present. But Dr. Twist himself appeared to be deep in meditation, during which he repeated, in a scarcely audible murmur, the inspector’s last words. His face suddenly lit up:

‘“To see or not to see, that is the question.” Yes,’ he continued, catching his audience by surprise. ‘Because Sarah was supposed to have seen her deceased husband, the question is: “is he or is he not?” What was she afraid of? Who was she afraid of? We know the answer now: him. This afternoon we listened to Dr. Meadows. He’d also noticed his fiancée’s fear… but she never told him what she was afraid of. Which means it must have been of Harris Thorne.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ grumbled Hurst, glowering.

‘While he’s alive, Harris Thorne shows himself to be extremely jealous, particularly of Mike Meadows. Then he dies. And, not long afterwards, his widow becomes engaged to the same Mike Meadows. Don’t you understand? It would be understandable, if she had indeed seen her late husband, that he would hardly be in the mood to congratulate her. On the contrary, he would be making terrible scenes of jealousy! And even threatening her! Of course she felt guilty… and she wouldn’t confide that to her fiancé.’

Everyone’s eyes widened and Francis Thorne burst out laughing. He collected himself immediately.

‘Your reasoning is impeccable. But what are you suggesting, Dr. Twist? Harris Thorne is dead and… Ah! I’m beginning to understand: it’s what my sister would have imagined.’

The detective nodded in agreement.

Suddenly Paula stiffened and caught her husband’s arm:

‘I’ve just thought of something… Do you remember when Harris announced his intention of reopening the sealed room and Brian told him to renounce the project or a misfortune would befall him?’

‘How could we forget,’ said Francis.

‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Harris’s answer:

“Even if I were to die, I wouldn’t necessarily be dead.”’

It was Hurst’s turn to laugh. A terse, hearty laugh, utterly devoid of mirth. His rebellious forelock flopped down over his forehead. He declared with thinly veiled anger:

‘Deaths and disappearances, the inexplicable appearance of water, prophets… and now ghosts. We’ve had our fill. Is there anything else? No? Good. My patience does have its limits, and I’m beginning to think that everything we’ve heard so far is just a tissue of lies, a collective crisis of hysteria, a parade of testimonies each more absurd than the other and….’ His furious look settled on Paula. ‘Do you still insist that what you said was true?’

Francis cleared his throat.

‘What my wife said is correct, but I think I need to explain what Harris meant. Brian made frequent allusion to great-uncle Harvey’s ghost, haunting, according to him, the site of his death. By the way, the Thornes are of Scottish descent. I don’t know whether Brian was joking or speaking seriously. Maybe both at once. But Harris’s reply was definitely a joke, an allusion to that ghost suggesting that the Thornes were immortal. Harris was a practical joker who liked making outrageous statements in a serious manner, so there was always an element of doubt about his pronouncements. I recall very well the tone in which he pronounced those words… He was teasing Brian, it was obvious!’

‘I prefer that,’ replied Hurst, reassured. ‘See how, with a little good faith, we can get to the right answer.’

Dr. Twist and the inspector took their leave at eleven o’clock. The main street of the village was deserted and the illuminated windows could be counted on the fingers of one hand.

‘If our clairvoyant is sleeping under the stars,’ proclaimed Hurst, who had regained his good humour, ‘he hasn’t got much to complain about. It’s not all that warm, agreed, but for an October night, it’s not so bad. The sky is with him, for the moment at least. I must say, Twist, that your reasoning about Sarah Thorne being afraid of her husband wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Particularly since it fits well with her visit to the solicitor. I wanted to tell you that earlier, but I preferred to keep quiet because of the will. The fact that she left half her fortune to Brian and nothing to her fiancé …do you see what I mean? She acted as if she were in the grip of a terrible fear, as if her husband were still watching her.’

‘That was the basis of my reasoning.’

‘The poor girl must have lost her marbles. It doesn’t surprise me, what with the lugubrious manor and her brother-in-law who thinks he’s the Messiah. Yes, that’s the only explanation.’

‘Tell me, old friend, didn’t you notice some strange things tonight? Certain attitudes?’

‘Well yes… The way Francis Hilton behaved in particular. He seemed very upset when I told him someone had overheard his conversation with his sister.’

‘Actually, I thought he was the only one who behaved more or less normally. Look, Archibald, I know you consider me a confirmed bachelor living the life of a monk — which is not entirely true — but I wasn’t born yesterday. Two couples were present tonight. One couple married for less than a year, the other recently engaged. Well, I tell you that three quarters of them didn’t behave the way they should have done.’

‘Twist,’ exclaimed Hurst, trying to remain calm, ‘what are you talking about?’

‘Well, let’s start with young Mrs. Hilton, Paula. Her comportment with her husband was “normal,” so to speak, but her furtive looks at Patrick Nolan whenever he got too close to his fiancée certainly were not. Nothing much, just a flicker in those blue eyes, but she seemed upset. And you could see the same kind of look from Nolan when Paula got close to her husband, but far more noticeably. And I have an advantage over you because I know the young man. When he came to see me on Sunday to tell me about the case, I noticed he spoke about Paula with a certain reticence, as if he had something to hide.’

‘To be blunt about it, do you think the two of them are carrying on?’

‘I wouldn’t swear to it, one way or the other. But that’s not the worst of it. When Nolan came to see me on Sunday, he was passionate about the case like any self-respecting detective — which he is, by the way — with fervour, eyes gleaming with excitement and dying to know the outcome. Did you notice him tonight? He sat in his armchair, hardly saying a word, like a sleeping cat. How do you explain such a complete change in a case that’s becoming more and more baffling? He must have learnt something between Sunday and today. Don’t ask me what, I don’t know. Something he doesn’t want to talk about. That bothers me, Hurst, and more than you might think.

‘Now let’s talk about Miss Blount, whom I find charming, by the way. Alas! I’ve a feeling she’s also hiding something. Did you notice how quickly she got rid of the mother and grandfather? And that story about the wheelbarrow which changed places doesn’t satisfy me either. It’s so senseless there must be an explanation….’

‘Twist, it’s you that I’m starting to worry about.’

The eminent detective ignored the remark. Walking along the sleepy street with long strides, he continued:

‘Yes, our charming hostess is hiding something. Did you notice how she jumped at the slightest noise and kept looking at the door?’

‘Was she afraid as well?’

‘No, that’s not it. At least, not exactly. She was anxious and on the alert, as if she were waiting for something to happen. It’s not the same thing at all.’

Hurst cleared his throat loudly, trying to keep his mounting anger under control.

‘A year ago,’ continued Twist, ‘you came to see me to talk about Thorne’s death. We went over the night of the tragedy in great detail. I remember drawing your attention to the peculiar movements of some of the players.’

‘That’s right, but without, of course, telling me who or what it was about. As usual, you see everything and I see nothing. That’s why I keep saying: “To see or not to see, that is the question.”’

‘What are you saying, old friend, what in heaven’s name are you saying?’

‘Don’t treat me like an idiot. I hope you understand that I know I’ve misquoted Shakespeare for the purpose of… What’s got into you?’

Twist had stopped and was looking up at the sky with an ecstatic smile. Pronouncing each syllable carefully, he said:

‘“To see or not to see, that is the question. To see or not to see, that is the question….”” Turning to Hurst, he said. ‘Archibald, it’s a fact that without you I would be the least significant of detectives. To see or not to see, don’t you understand? When Sarah Thorne opened the door….’

‘What did she see?’

‘She didn’t see anything at all. And that’s why she fell backwards: because she didn’t see anything at all!’

22

Hurst didn’t fall asleep until three o’clock in the morning, and even then Twist’s enigmatic words were still haunting his dreams. The next day, Thursday, the two of them were back in London, but they returned to Hatton again on the Friday to attend Sarah’s funeral.

It was four o’clock when the pall bearers carried the deceased’s coffin down the stone steps of the chapel leading to the Thorne family vault. The day was relatively mild, even though the sky was overcast and rain threatened, but the chapel itself was cold and damp. Francis, his expression sombre, had his arm around a tearful Paula. Patrick and Bessie followed in reverential silence behind them, with the young detective casting furtive looks all about him. Mike Meadows, wearing an impeccable dark suit, wore a haggard expression. As the undertakers left, Mrs. Dorothy Hilton burst into uncontrollable sobs while her husband tried to console her. Dr. Twist and Inspector Hurst stood at a discreet distance by the chapel door. As the slab was being put back in place, the policeman whispered in his friend’s ear:

‘Since the murderer always attends the victim’s funeral, I’m beginning to doubt it was actually murder. In my opinion, either Brian’s the guilty party, or there isn’t one.’

Twist didn’t reply. Behind his pince-nez, his eyes followed the direction of Patrick Nolan’s furtive looks.

Shortly afterwards, all present gathered in the salon of Hatton Manor except Patrick, who had caught his trousers on a rose bush and gone back to the Blount residence to change.

Mostyn served tea in an uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Hilton took a sip and retired after excusing herself. Her husband watched her go and seemed on the point of following her, but stayed where he was and took out a cigarette. Bravely overcoming his own grief, he tried to console the others. Mike Meadows also lit a cigarette and addressed the policeman:

‘Still no news of Brian?’

The scathing tone more than the question itself hinted at the incompetence of the police, from whom he was clearly not expecting a positive answer.

‘Still nothing,’ replied Hurst with a studied calm. ‘But, as I said before, it’s only a matter of time because we’re almost certain he hasn’t left the area.’

The inhabitants of Hatton Manor had been informed of the deceased’s visit to her solicitor and the contents of her will. Twist and Hurst had not been present, but Patrick Nolan reported that no one had appeared happy, least of all the young doctor. Although he hadn’t said anything, those present could easily imagine the questions on the tip of his tongue. “Why didn’t she tell me? And why cut me out of the will?” They themselves must have been asking why such a large part of the estate had gone to Brian.

Bessie, who had been anxiously looking at the clock, sighed when she heard the doorbell ring.

‘Did grandfather keep you all this time?’ she asked Patrick when he entered the salon.

‘No, I had a discussion with someone at the front gate.’

‘Who was it?’ asked Meadows, frowning.

‘I don’t know.’ Patrick placed a thoughtful finger to his lips. ‘It’s odd, because when I asked him, he threw his head back with a hearty laugh.’

‘Could it have been a journalist looking for a story?’ pressed Meadows.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘A curious passer-by, then?’ Without waiting for an answer, the doctor continued, with an expression of hate on his face. ‘There ought to be a law against people like that. What did he want to know? Details of the burial, no doubt,’ he added with a nervous laugh.

‘Yes, but not in the sense you’re implying. It must have been someone from the village who knew your fiancée well, or a friend maybe. He asked me if everything had gone well.’

‘A friend? Who didn’t even express his condolences? My dear Nolan, it seems to me you’ve been tricked by a journalist. Not very bright for a professional detective!’

Clearly Meadows wasn’t himself, but nobody thought to hold it against him. Patrick looked him in the eye, thoughtfully:

‘No, I’m telling you again, it wasn’t a reporter keen to get a story. In fact, you must know him because he asked me about you and your reactions… whether you weren’t too upset.’

Meadows went white and his jaw dropped, but he quickly recovered.

‘Someone I know,’ he repeated, stroking his moustache. ‘Someone who’s worried about me… I really can’t see who… What else can you say about him? Where was he exactly, and what was he doing?’

Patrick looked surprised, but he shrugged his shoulders and continued:

‘He was behind the gate looking towards the manor. As I said before, he didn’t look like a simple passer-by. He was smoking a cigar and I think he may even have been smiling. He asked me questions about the burial, just like someone concerned about a friend. The he changed the subject and asked me who I was, whether I like it here and other banalities. I was intrigued, of course, but I assumed it was one of your friends. He did seem quite cheerful, which I found bizarre in the circumstances. He had a peculiar way of laughing: very loudly and throwing his head back. And he nodded in agreement at everything I said as if it made him happy. And he kept repeating the same thing: “All in good time, my young friend, all in good time.”’

This last remark had the effect of a bombshell, so much so that Patrick turned to Bessie for help. But his fiancée seemed dumbstruck as well.

‘What did he look like?’ Meadows managed to ask.

‘Medium height, bearded, solid without being fat. Fortyish. He was wearing a blue-checked jacket and a peaked cap pulled down over his eyes.’

‘Redheaded?’ asked Francis, turning pale.

‘Yes, redheaded,’ Patrick replied, without hesitation.

Astonishment turned to horror. Hurst wanted to step in to clarify matters, but Dr. Twist made a discreet sign for silence. Bessie was the first to speak:

‘Patrick, you’ve never met Harris Thorne, have you?’

‘No, never.’

‘And you’ve never seen a photograph of him either?’

Patrick shook his head.

Francis disappeared and returned a minute later with a photo album. He opened it and Patrick was able to see several shots taken of Sarah and her spouse at their wedding. After a few seconds of oppressive silence, he raised his head and looked at Francis with wide eyes:

‘I… I can’t be sure, but it does look like him.’

Confusion followed and Inspector Hurst had to exercise his authority to calm everyone down. He submitted the young detective to such a rigorous interrogation that at one point he turned red and threatened to leave the premises, saying he wasn’t in the habit of being treated as a liar. The man he’d seen by the manor gate looked very much like the deceased and under normal circumstances he would have confirmed as much, but he wasn’t prepared to swear it under oath. When Meadows pronounced Brian’s name, the room fell silent again.

‘You know Brian quite well, Mr. Nolan,’ hissed the doctor. ‘He’s much thinner than his brother, but about the same height. They don’t obviously look the same, but nevertheless there’s a slight resemblance. That was clear the night you first arrived in Hatton. Brian was smiling that evening and didn’t have the miserable face he normally shows to the world. Try to imagine Brian decked up with a false beard and wig, wearing one of those blue-checked jackets his brother always wore, suitably padded to complete the illusion…’ Meadows picked up the album and pointed to a photo of the two brothers together. ‘What do you think now, Mr. Nolan?’

Patrick hesitated:

‘Well, it’s not out of the question… And there was the cap as well, pulled down over the eyes, slightly to one side.’

‘Over the right eye, by any chance?’ asked Meadows in honeyed tones.

‘Yes.’

‘Dear old Brian,’ said the doctor with a ferocious smile, ‘not only has an eye for detail, but he’s very crafty into the bargain. Don’t you understand? Not only did he hide his eyes, but also his right temple where Harris Thorne had a scar.

‘I’ve been fascinated by his predictions for a long time, I must confess, but if you’re looking for someone to perpetrate a hoax, Brian’s your man. That’s the first point. Secondly, my fiancée lived in terror for the last few weeks of her life and there’s good reason to believe someone was amusing themselves by frightening her. Incidentally, she’d just changed her will in favour of her brother-in-law.

‘Mr. Policeman, don’t ask me how he killed her, nor why he pretended to be his brother’s ghost, but it’s certain that he hatched this sordid plot in order to appropriate his brother’s fortune.

‘I’m not done. If there’s one thing it’s impossible to doubt, it’s Harris’s death. We can also rule out the idea that it was sheer luck that someone resembling the deceased in such a striking fashion just happened to stumble across Mr. Nolan’s path. An impostor, therefore. Who would have the slightest motive for such a masquerade? Outside our circle, nobody. And at the time Mr. Nolan was talking to the impostor, the only one of our circle not present was Brian. Need I say more?’

Hurst, who had been nodding his head at practically everything the doctor had said, was about to step in himself when he was pre-empted by Paula.

‘Gosh! I’ve just remembered something. About a month ago, I was looking through some of Sarah’s theatre accessories. She’d stuffed them into a chest in the attic and had shown them to me proudly last summer when she told me about all the roles she’d played as an adolescent. There were three wigs in there, I’m sure of it, with assorted beards, one black, one blond and one red. I remember her putting the red one on to imitate her husband and we’d both been in stitches. And now she’s no longer with us.’

Mike Meadows, with a smile which was a mixture of triumph and fury, turned to Hurst. The inspector brought his fist down on the palm of his hand:

‘We’ll flush him out before dawn, I guarantee it!’

And he was right. But the capture of the fugitive didn’t lift the shadows from the extraordinary affair. Quite the contrary….

23

At around four o’clock in the morning Patrick was in the grip of a terrible nightmare which had taken him back three centuries in the past, to the time of the Great Fire of London. The spectacle was terrifying but magnificent. The city was just an immense brazier and the bridges were arches of fire over the Thames. He, Patrick, was standing on a hill overlooking the scene, standing behind Harvey Thorne, who was shouting: “They will perish by fire.” The face of great-uncle Harvey appeared and then disappeared again behind a curtain of flames floating towards Patrick, who screamed… and woke up bathed in perspiration.

He lay there a long time, getting his breath back and convincing himself it was only a dream. He tapped the bedside table, consulted his wristwatch, put on his dressing gown and went over to the window, which he opened wide. Breathing in the freshness of the night, he contemplated the Blount property. Despite the darkness, he could make out the wisteria, the wide hedge, the vegetable garden, Bessie’s grandfather’s workshop and even the woods beyond.

His thoughts went back to Padstow and the little cove, in the days preceding Paula’s departure. He remembered very clearly that afternoon when Paula had asked him where and when the Great Fire had started. A tender smile lingered on his lips and disappeared. “How will this all end?” he thought, evoking the extraordinary situation in which he found himself. Faces paraded in front of his eyes: Bessie, Paula, Francis, Mr. and Mrs. Hilton, Dr. Meadows, Brian, Sarah… Harris Thorne with his flamboyant beard and sonorous laugh… He had to stop thinking about the man or he would end up believing that… He dismissed that image, but now it was the shadowy figure of great-uncle Harvey which appeared in front of him, smiling. It sat at his desk, picked up his pen, dipped it in the ink and began to write: They will perish by fire….

The words flared up in front of Patrick, then became nothing more than a very small glimmer. The window of the workshop was lit up. Brilliantly lit up now. Black fumes were escaping and Pak could hear the characteristic roar. Just as he realised that the old workshop of grandfather Blount was aflame, a cry of terror rent the night.

Paralysed, Patrick watched in horror as the workshop door was flung open and a human torch staggered out.

Recovering in a flash, he tore the cover from his bed, bestrode the window sill, grabbed the wisteria and landed on the ground outside. He leapt up and rushed to the screaming figure battling with its flaming clothes. Instinctively he gave it an uppercut, flung the cover around it, threw it to the ground and rolled it over and over. A few seconds later, the flames were extinguished and he bent over to look at the blistered face. By the flickering light from the brazier crackling a few feet away, he could identify the figure without any possibility of error: Brian.

At half past eight in the morning, Archibald Hurst and Dr. Twist knocked on the door of the Blount residence. The inspector looked grim. He’d been up late going over every detail of the case with his friend and had barely gone to sleep when the innkeeper woke him to say Miss Blount needed to see him urgently. Accompanied by Twist, he’d followed the ambulance taking the injured man to Cheltenham. Hector Redfern had joined them at the hospital but it wasn’t until seven that they’d been able to talk to the doctor in charge.

Bessie hastened to open the door.

‘Well?’ she asked in an imploring murmur.

‘He’s still alive,’ replied Hurst tersely, ‘but he’s in bad shape. Third degree burns. They’re not sure he’ll survive.’

She led the visitors into the kitchen, where Patrick was sitting with a steaming cup of coffee. They didn’t refuse when she offered them refreshments.

Hurst repeated to Patrick what he’d told his fiancée.

‘… but the doctor wouldn’t allow us to interview him for the time being.’ He turned to Bessie. ‘Isn’t your mother here?’

‘She’s gone to work.’

‘And your grandfather?’

The young woman pointed to the ceiling.

‘He’s just gone back to bed.’

‘Well then,’ said the inspector with a smile that was anything but amiable, ‘we’ll be able to put our cards on the table. Mr. Nolan, can you repeat to us what you saw earlier this morning?’

Patrick did so without omitting the slightest detail.

‘If Brian comes out of this alive,’ observed Hurst, ‘he’ll be deeply indebted to you. In your view, how did the fire start? Did you see anyone go in or out of the workshop? Other than Brian, of course.’

‘No, but that can’t be ruled out. It was very dark and it would have been very easy for someone to throw a lighted match through the window on the north side, near the woods, without me seeing them. If I remember correctly, two of the panes of glass were broken, weren’t they, Bessie?’ His fiancée nodded. ‘Besides, I’d only been at the window a short time.’

‘Very well. Therefore there are two possibilities. Either the fire started accidentally, or there was a criminal hand behind it. Are we agreed?’

Patrick and Bessie both nodded.

‘And in either case,’ continued the policemen in a different tone of voice, ‘that must mean that Brian was sleeping there. Are we still in agreement?’

Bessie sat stony-faced.

‘Mr. Nolan, I assume you had no idea he was there?’

‘Correct.’

‘And I imagine, Miss Blount, that neither your mother nor your grandfather were aware either?’

A heavy air of suspicion hung in the kitchen, before Dr. Twist broke the silence.

‘Miss Blount, I think you’d better explain yourself.’

The young woman gritted her teeth as her eyes welled with tears, then burst out sobbing. When she confessed that she’d been hiding Brian since Monday, Dr. Twist remarked that there was more anxiety and sadness written on her face than on the faces of those present at Sarah Thorne’s funeral.

‘He knocked at my bedroom window at midnight… He told me Sarah had just died and everyone regarded him as having been responsible. He couldn’t face them and he asked me to help him. I… I was really touched. I’d never seen him like that, like a little boy lost and abandoned. I told him nobody had set foot in the workshop for donkey’s years and I gave him blankets and food.’

‘Every day?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what did he tell you after that?’

‘We never really had time to talk. I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. But he always said the same thing, that he didn’t want to see anyone but me for the moment… and he was very grateful to me for helping him. I think he felt responsible for his sister-in-law’s death, too.’

‘Did you tell him the police were looking for him?’

Bessie hung her head.

‘Yes, I kept him informed.’

Hurst cleared his throat loudly and continued.

‘Miss Blount, do you know that this could cost you dearly?’

‘I know,’ she said resolutely, ‘and I don’t care. But I hope you at least realise that Brian has nothing to reproach himself for and he wasn’t the one passing himself off as his brother yesterday after the funeral.’

‘And why is that, Miss Blount? Can you prove he was in the workshop at that time? You were at the manor, if I remember rightly, when Mr. Nolan met the impostor?’

‘It wasn’t him… I’m certain. If I were you, I’d be questioning certain individuals as to their whereabouts at four o’clock this morning.’

‘We’ll be sure to do that,’ replied the inspector, surprised and almost amused by the spunk of the young woman. ‘But at that time of the morning, I’d be surprised if anyone can furnish an alibi. So, according to you, last night’s fire must have been a criminal act?’

‘What else could it have been? If Brian had accidentally started the fire, he wouldn’t have been caught by surprise, would he?’

The three men looked at her in silence as she fought back tears. Hurst was on the point of suggesting a suicide attempt due to Brian having lost his reason, but dropped the idea after a sign from Twist.

‘And you never told your fiancé about it?’ he asked sceptically.

‘No, she never told me about it,’ retorted Patrick, stressing every syllable. ‘She’s already told you that and so have I.’

Hurst, not well versed in the psychology of sentiment, nevertheless knew enough to realise that the couple’s behaviour was peculiar. The young woman had, without her fiancé knowing, sheltered another man whose condition affected her deeply — yet that same fiancé didn’t appear to be concerned and had even come to her defence, as if she were his sister or simply a friend. He was about to say something when, once again, that devil Dr. Twist, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts, shook his head almost imperceptibly.

After they’d finished breakfast — during which Twist had helped himself several times and complimented Bessie — the amiable detective declared in a soothing voice:

‘Brian hid in the workshop and, because it was very rarely used, it’s not surprising that he wasn’t discovered, was it, Hurst?’

The inspector mumbled something indistinct and Bessie shot a look of gratitude at Alan Twist. Then she asked:

‘Do you think we could see Brian?’

‘See him?’ repeated the inspector, raising an eyebrow. ‘Possibly, but not for very long.’

Whereupon the two detectives left, saying they would check on the victim’s condition and would be sure to keep them informed.

As they were leaving Cheltenham Hospital, Hurst and Dr. Twist saw Bessie and Patrick for the third time that day, as they were getting out of their car. When she noticed them the young woman rushed over to meet them.

‘He’s out of danger,’ declared the inspector in a paternal tone of voice. ‘We’ve just talked to him. Not for long, of course.’

‘And what did he tell you?’ asked Bessie.

‘The same thing as you and that he was sleeping like a log when he was awakened by the crackling of flames.’

‘So, according to him, the fire wasn’t started accidentally by a badly extinguished cigarette or anything like that?’

‘He’s sure of it. He told us he didn’t have a lighter or any matches and there wasn’t an oil lamp of any other form of lighting in the workshop. Is that so, Miss Blount?’

‘Yes. There used to be electricity, but it was shut off after the death of my father.’

‘So someone set fire to the place,’ said Patrick thoughtfully. ‘By the way, didn’t he say anything about… about his brother Harris?’

The look in Hurst’s eye hardened.

‘No. But why the question, young man?’

‘Nothing. Just a thought.’

Harris Thorne’s name dominated the inspector’s thoughts as he drove back to Hatton, hands clenched to the steering wheel, in the company of Dr. Twist. The latter, tormented and pensive, had been tight-lipped since Cheltenham and his silence was beginning to get on Hurst’s nerves. In vain did the policeman ask him what he thought about the strange fire and the no less strange question from young Nolan. He was used to his friend’s long periods of silence, but that didn’t make them any easier to bear. They arrived at Hatton Manor just before four o’clock. The butler Mostyn led them to the salon where the Hilton family was gathered, together with Dr. Meadows and two police officers. Hurst immediately sensed from the sombre looks and haggard faces that something was wrong. He put it down to what had happened during the night and the subsequent questioning, because he’d asked Hector Redfern a few hours earlier at the hospital to take care of it. There were indeed two police officers there but, curiously, not the chief of police himself.

He looked around the room and his gaze settled on one of the officers.

‘What the devil’s going on here?’

‘A car accident, or rather a collision,’ replied the man uncomfortably. ‘Two tourists complained. A vehicle from here is responsible for the incident, but apparently no one was driving it at the time. The chief will explain. He’ll be back soon. He went to pick up the two witnesses.’

‘A vehicle no one was driving? What on earth are you talking about?’

‘No one from here,’ explained the officer. ‘Although….’

The sound of a motor could be heard. The officer turned to the window.

‘They’re here.’

Hector Redfern came in, followed by a policeman and a young couple. The chief superintendent’s face mirrored those of the other occupants of the room, pale and haggard. For a brief moment his expression changed on seeing the two detectives:

‘Ah, there you are. Good job, too, because we’re jumping from one mystery to another. But let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow.’

In some ways, Louis Thurlow resembled Dr. Twist, but much younger — about twenty-five years of age — and much shorter. He had the same moustache and the same eyes glinting behind silver-rimmed spectacles. But at the moment he seemed quite upset, as was his wife, Celia, a determined young redhead who looked like a college student.

The introductions complete, Redfern continued:

‘Before I let Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow speak, let me summarise the statements of those present. They may feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.

‘At around noon, the small red sports car, which witnesses have identified by its licence plate number, was parked in its usual place behind the manor. The vehicle belonged to Sarah Thorne — a gift from her late husband — but was occasionally used by other members of the household. During the day, the keys are left on the dashboard, which means that anyone can use it.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Hilton were having lunch with their son and his wife and their guest, Dr. Meadows. Few words were exchanged, as they’d just learnt about Brian’s condition following the fire. At a quarter past one, Dr. Meadows and Francis left the table to go into the salon. A quarter of an hour later they saw the car leave the property. The top was down, but they couldn’t see the driver. Francis assumed it was his wife. She, for her part, still with her parents-in-law, thought it was her husband. At ten to four — twenty minutes later — the car returned and was seen by Dr. Meadows, who wasn’t paying attention and didn’t see the driver. The car was found in its usual place, but with a dent in the left front wing with traces of paint from the Thurlows’ car.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, you live at 18, Curzon Street, in London. You had been visiting friends in Winchcombe and were on your way back to the capital. At approximately one thirty-five you were about to drive through Hatton. Can you describe to us what happened next?’

Louis Thurlow took up the story:

‘Yes. I was slowing down on the approach to the village when a car came at us from the right. I stamped on the brakes in vain and it hit us. Nothing serious, but the bodywork was damaged nevertheless. My wife and I got out of our car and he did, too. He came towards us smiling, which was already surprising. “So, tourists, admiring the countryside, were you?” he asked mockingly. It was too much. Not only had he come out of a side road onto the main road at high speed, but he was blaming us for the collision. I pointed that out to him and he burst out laughing, as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. My wife intervened and told him she was going to go to the nearest police station. He threw his head back and started laughing again, even more loudly than before, after which he asked us if we knew who we were talking to, as if he was the King of England himself. Then, still laughing, he got into his car and drove off in the direction he’d come from. We’d made a note of his number, and at Withington police station the officer recognised the vehicle, which is apparently the only one of its kind in the area.’

‘Mr. Thurlow,’ intervened Hector Redfern in a calm voice, ‘can you identify the spot which I just showed you, namely the beginning of the road leading to this property, as the scene of the accident?’

‘Of course,’ said the young man, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Can you describe the driver?’

‘He was of medium height, solidly built, with red hair and beard, wearing a blue-checked jacket.’

Hurst went crimson.

‘Are there any other details you can add?’

This time it was Mrs. Thurlow who answered:

‘Yes, he had a small scar on his right temple.’

A shiver went through those present. Meadows looked like a zombie and the others weren’t much better.

‘We have good reason to believe, Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, that the man driving the car was wearing make-up and a false wig and beard, and that the jacket was padded. Is that your impression?’

The young couple looked at each other. Louis Thurlow declared:

‘I’d find that very surprising. What about you, darling?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But you never know.’

‘Very well,’ said Redfern testily. ‘Now, Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, I’m going to ask you to look at every single person in this room and tell me if any of them could have played the part of the driver.’ Then, in an aside to Howard Hilton and the doctor: ‘I know your reciprocal testimonies prove that you were either here or in the dining room at the time of the accident, but to rule out the hypothesis of a conspiracy… You understand: it would clear you of all suspicion.’

Under normal circumstances, the scene which followed would have appeared curious, if not comic. But no one was smiling. The “examination” lasted just over a minute. A vein throbbed in Meadows’ temple. Francis was unrecognisable, Paula very pale, and Mr. and Mrs. Hilton too hard-boiled to react in any way at all.

‘It’s impossible for it to have been any of these people,’ declared Louis Thurlow at the end of the inspection.

‘Absolutely impossible,’ agreed his wife.

‘Very well,’ said Redfern, obviously disappointed.

‘Are there any photographs of the late Mr. Thorne?’

The wedding album was brought out once again, this time for the Thurlows’ perusal. In an oppressive silence, they combed through every page. Then Louis Thurlow turned towards Hector Redfern:

‘Unless he has a twin brother, I’m prepared to swear that the husband here was indeed the man driving the sports car.’

‘I’m prepared to swear to that as well,’ added Mrs. Thurlow.

24

‘It’s impossible! Impossible!’ shouted Archibald Hurst, banging the table with his fist.

It was half past seven in the evening and he and Dr. Twist were dining in the Black Horse with Redfern, Bessie and Patrick. The young couple had returned from Cheltenham an hour earlier. Brian’s condition had improved, because he had even managed to smile at Bessie and his saviour. But this latest news didn’t seem to have made Hurst happy, for he continued to rage:

‘… and I don’t believe in the impossible.’

‘Meaning?’ enquired Patrick.

The inspector lowered the volume a few decibels:

‘None of the people involved in the affair could have played the part. Strictly none. The accident happened after half past one and the vehicle was seen at ten to two returning to the fold. Those who were in the manor at the time are ruled out because of their mutual alibis and the testimony of the Thurlows. So, who’s left?’ Hurst started to count on his fingers and stopped at three, with a small smile at the couple. ‘Forgive me, but I have to envisage every possibility.’

‘I see,’ replied Bessie, who didn’t appear to appreciate the inspector’s allusion. ‘But you seem to have a short memory, because we met outside the hospital at two o’clock. How do you think Patrick and I made the journey to Cheltenham in ten minutes?’

‘It’s not feasible, I agree. That leaves Brian… who was in front of us in his bed at ten to two. Twist, allow me to use your favourite maxim: “Eliminate the impossible—.”’

‘Once again, my friend, it’s not my maxim. It belongs to the celebrated—.’

‘Please,’ thundered Archibald Hurst, ‘this is no time to split hairs. So: “Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”’

A gleam of hope flickered in Redfern’s eyes. Patrick looked sceptical:

‘And what might this last, highly improbable, hypothesis be?’

Hurst allowed a short silence to elapse, then declared:

‘Harris Thorne isn’t dead. Don’t pull faces, there’s no other explanation.’

‘But,’ gasped Bessie, ‘I saw him with my own eyes when we found him at the foot of the wall… and I wasn’t the only one. Everyone saw it. He was dead, there’s no doubt about it.’

‘It’s possible to play dead, Miss, believe me,’ replied Hurst with exaggerated courtesy. ‘There are plenty of examples. Also, one can be dead for a few moments, then recover consciousness, that’s also happened.’ The chief superintendent started to protest but Hurst cut him off with a gesture. ‘Don’t say anything for the moment, Redfern, I have my own ideas and we can talk about it later.’

‘I’m starting to think you may be right, Inspector,’ declared Patrick. ‘The fellow I saw after Sarah’s funeral was indeed the same as the man in the photo I was shown, I’m certain of it. Admittedly, at the time I started to doubt myself, but now… In any case, there’s a simple way to find out where we are.’

‘I think we’re on the same track, young man,’ agreed Hurst, with a knowing look. ‘A very simple way, in truth.’

Hector Redfern, already intrigued by the cryptic interchange, sat dumbfounded before the extraordinary attitude of Dr. Twist, who had continued to dig into his meal as if he’d heard nothing. After wiping his moustache, the detective turned to him and asked:

‘By the way, have you had time to question the Hiltons and Dr. Meadows about their alibis for the time that the Blounts’ workshop caught fire?’

The chief superintendent looked at Dr. Twist’s smiling face in astonishment. How could such an eminent detective waste time on such trifles at such a moment?

‘Yes. Everyone was sleeping like a log, which isn’t all that surprising at four o’clock in the morning.’

Twist nodded in agreement, then proceeded to pose another question:

‘Have you taken a look at what was left of the workshop?’

‘One of my men looked into it. Except for a handful of tools, there are only ashes. An old carpenter’s workshop: you can imagine how quickly it caught fire.’

‘True enough,’ said Twist. ‘By the time we got there, the fire was almost out.’

‘It’s a miracle Brian got out alive,’ sighed Bessie. ‘There was nothing but sawdust and wood inside: old planks, a chest full of wood shavings and even two bales of straw… a veritable miracle. Patrick….’

‘Yes?’

‘You talked about a “simple way” before. What did you mean?’

‘Yes,’ echoed Redfern. ‘What did you mean?’

The young detective looked around before leaning forward. As he spoke, certain faces changed colour.

‘But we haven’t got the right,’ stammered Redfern.

‘It’s a drastic measure, agreed,’ declared Hurst. ‘As a matter of fact, I was about to propose the same approach. What do you think, Twist?’

‘It’s the logical thing to do. The facts being what they are, there’s not much else we can do. Incidentally, it’s not the first time we’ve used this method of verification and it won’t be the last. Isn’t that so, Archibald?’

Redfern didn’t allow Hurst the chance to reply:

‘When are you thinking of doing it?’

‘It would be better not to put it off until tomorrow,’ said Patrick, ‘if you see what I mean.’

‘Tonight?’ said Redfern, wincing. ‘As you wish, but I don’t need to be there. What exactly are you hoping to find, by the way?’

A curious smile spread across Hurst’s ruddy face, as he replied with unaccustomed gentleness:

‘Nothing, Redfern. Precisely nothing.’

At half past nine that same evening, Dr. Twist and the inspector found themselves in the salon of Hatton Manor. Francis was pacing up and down the area in front of the fireplace. He’d lit and extinguished three cigarettes in the space of five minutes. Seated in one of the armchairs, Mike Meadows, calmer but no less thoughtful, stroked his moustache. Mr. and Mrs. Hilton had already gone up to bed. Paula had, too, to the intense relief of Patrick, because the last thing he would have wanted was for his friend to accompany them, which she would most certainly have done if she’d known about it. He knew her only too well.

‘I understand you, my dear Francis,’ declared Meadows, ‘but in view of the situation, these gentlemen are right. Better to get the verification over with right away.’

Francis turned a distraught face to his companions and said through trembling lips:

‘I don’t disagree. But I’m apprehensive.’

‘That’s understandable,’ said Hurst. ‘But we’ll be there,’ he added boastfully, ‘and we’re used to such things. So, what do we need? The key, of course, a heavy screwdriver, a few crowbars and two lanterns… or preferably electric torches: with the possibility of escaping gas, one can’t be too sure.’

Hurst’s confidence started to fade as the five men set out in the direction of the chapel; it had almost evaporated by the time they saw the small edifice through the swirling mists; and it vanished completely when the rays of the torch-lights converged on the stone slab leading down to the crypt. Patrick had had considerable trouble moving it previously, but this time they were five, and the narrow stairs leading down to the chestnut door appeared relatively quickly.

Francis inserted the key in the lock, gave it a turn, and the door opened with a sinister groan. The air inside was typically stale and sickly-sweet. The lights from the lamps scanned the walls and revealed a central ribbed vault supported by four pillars. The walls, in dressed stone, sweated dampness. Niches had been cut into each side, in most of which lay coffins. In an oppressive silence the lights searched for that of Harris Thorne. They located it next to Sarah’s, easily recognisable by the faded roses which had been placed on it, whose dying perfume mixed strangely with a penetrating foulness which was becoming more and more apparent.

The five men approached the interior niche which was supposedly the last resting place of Harris Thorne. His name was there, inscribed on a marble plaque. Hurst’s grimace stretched into a grotesque mask under the glare of his lamp.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ he ordered. ‘Hilton, pass Dr. Meadows the screwdriver. After all, bodies are his business.’

‘Bodies?’ replied the doctor in astonishment. ‘What do you expect to find there? Either he isn’t there — which is what we’re assuming — or he is, in which case not much identifiable will be left. In either case, I think we’d better place the coffin on the ground to remove the screws.’

Hurst and Patrick did the honours.

‘It’s pretty heavy,’ muttered the inspector.

‘It’s solid oak,’ said Patrick, grunting with the effort.

Meadows leant over the coffin and removed the screws one by one. Once the operation was over, he turned to his companions, one or two of whom had taken a step back.

There was a long silence. The rays from the lamps converged on the polished oak. “What are we going to find there?” was the silent question everyone was asking.

‘Go on, Meadows!’ roared Hurst. ‘What are you waiting for?’

The doctor nodded and slid the coffin lid to one side.

The first sound was the inspector breathing a sigh of relief. And it was indeed the body of Harris Thorne lying there in the velvet-lined coffin, with his blue jacket, his red hair and beard, and even the scar on his right temple. But then Hurst’s features froze and his eyes seemed on the point of popping out of his head.

Meadows, fascinated and, at the same time, terrified, leant over the body and declared:

‘What the Devil? I swear that this man has only been dead for a few days!’

25

Hector Redfern had spent a sleepless night and had risen early to eat a rapid breakfast. His humour did not improve after listening to the account of the previous night’s events, as reported by Hurst, Patrick Nolan and Dr. Twist, who had come to visit him that Sunday morning in his Withington bungalow.

He remained still for a long moment without saying anything, then looked at Hurst, whose crumpled face indicated he’d slept even less than the chief superintendent, if at all. Patrick appeared tense, but in control of himself, and Twist looked worried and pre-occupied.

‘It’s absurd,’ he said finally. ‘The man’s been dead a year and I was present at his funeral. I’m willing to swear it was he and no one else in that coffin. If need be, you can always question the undertakers….’

‘There’s no need,’ cut in Hurst. ‘Meadows and young Hilton also confirmed everything. ‘But there’s been some fishy business somewhere, that’s for sure. Alas, if I may put it this way: that’s not the question.’

‘You must be joking,’ retorted Redfern. ‘That’s the whole question. And, speaking of Meadows, what did he have to say about the body — in his capacity as doctor, I mean.’

‘First of all, there’s not the slightest doubt it was Harris. Young Hilton confirmed it as well.’

‘We’ll get to the bottom of it,’ fumed Redfern, normally considered the calmest of men. ‘What did he die of? And when exactly?’

‘Without a thorough examination, he seems to think that the injury to the temple was what caused it.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Redfern, on the brink of apoplexy. ‘A man dying twice isn’t enough for you? You’re trying to tell me he succumbed a second time to the same injury as the first? It’s utter madness!’

Hurst grimaced disconsolately.

‘I’m trying to stick to the facts. Meadows might be mistaken about the cause. We didn’t spend a lot of time down there, you understand. But he’s adamant about the date, which he says was only a few days ago — a week at a maximum. And I know enough about the subject to tell you he’s right about that. And Dr. Twist agrees.’

‘So he died at about the same time as his wife, last Monday to be precise?’

‘More or less. But you don’t know the half of it, Redfern… He was seen near the cemetery on Friday afternoon, and yesterday at the junction of the Hatton main road and the drive up to the manor. Ah! I see it’s sunk in: a man dies last year, then a second time about a week ago, and now has been resuscitated again, four days later and….’

‘Stop it!’ moaned the chief superintendent. ‘You’ll drive me mad.’

‘But there are more questions still,’ continued Hurst, who was obviously deriving considerable pleasure watching someone else grappling with the whirlwind of impossibilities. ‘For example, why did he return to his coffin? And how did he manage to screw the lid down? Unless someone helped him… Unless, before putting him back in his coffin someone killed him — for the second time — by hitting him on the head on the identical spot where he was hit the first time when he fell out of the window… And, if so, why? And don’t forget all the other stuff going on, such as the prophecies of Brian — whom I’m starting to think might be innocent — and the room which makes people feel uneasy when it’s not killing them, the wet carpet, not to mention the frightful death Brian escaped by a hair’s breadth and which confirms great-uncle Harvey’s prediction….’

As the inspector recited the list of questions and suppositions, his voice started to falter and he didn’t even try to push his rebellious forelock back or wipe the perspiration from his brow. He looked like a beaten man.

‘That’s where we stand, Hector. That’s the situation I’m going to have to present to my superior officers.’

Clouds started to gather in the dull sky beyond the large bay window as the bells of the village church started to chime.

Redfern cleared his throat:

‘Am I right in thinking you haven’t told this to anyone else?’

‘Not for the moment. And, quite frankly, we’re not in a hurry to do so. Unless you think….’

Redfern was quick to assure them that he shared their opinion.

‘And what about the autopsy?’

‘I don’t think it will tell us much more than we know already,’ intervened Dr. Twist. ‘Except for… and we can verify that ourselves.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Last night, Meadows conducted a brief examination. He didn’t undress the body. So we don’t know whether there’s a scar on its stomach… from last year’s autopsy.’

‘Good grief!’ muttered Hurst, ‘I hadn’t even thought about that. And if there is, we’re no further forward. Quite the contrary.’

Twist didn’t reply, but instead turned to Patrick, who was looking thoughtfully at him.

‘I think, in fact,’ said the young man, ‘that that explains… Dr. Twist, did you notice something on the body, on the clothes?’

‘What kind of thing?’ asked the detective blandly, with an amiable smile.

‘There was something in the fold of the trousers. I picked it off and thoughtlessly threw it away.’

‘Ah? That’s strange. I don’t remember seeing you. No matter, please continue.’

‘I can assure you….’

‘It’s not important. What was the object, anyway?’

Patrick had guaranteed the full attention of the others present. He said quietly:

‘A piece of wood. A small piece of wood. A minuscule piece of wood!’

Hurst and Redfern rolled their eyes, but Twist was still smiling. After a while, he declared:

‘My little finger tells me, my dear Nolan, that that minuscule piece of wood has turned a bulb on in your head which could shed light on the mystery surrounding Harris Thorne’s death.’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘You see,’ continued Dr. Twist, with a sharp look at the young detective, ‘up to now I still had a few doubts, but what you’ve just told me has swept them away. And I congratulate myself even more for asking Archibald to keep the affair under wraps, between ourselves. Do you see what I mean, Nolan? In a way I understand you — even admire you. In my distant youth I also… but here you’ve gone a bit too far.’

As Patrick kept his eyes glued to the floor, Hurst and Redfern were bursting to hear explanations.

Twist’s amiable features took on a worried expression:

‘My friends, I’m going to have to ask you to remain patient. I — Mr. Nolan and I — will give you the solution to this whole bizarre affair soon enough.

‘All I can tell you now is that the death of Sarah Thorne was murder premeditated for a long time. A perfect murder, conceived by a Machiavellian mind, by a murderer who doesn’t even deserve the rope to hang him. The worst of it is, there’s not a shred of evidence to expose him. Negative proof, yes: by which I mean the crime can only be explained one way and that way leads to one particular individual. But the whole truth must be exposed, which won’t be good news for certain of those amongst us. In fact, the truth won’t be good news for anyone. That’s why I’m hesitating. If only fate could give us a hand!’

At that very moment, Mrs. Hilton was bustling about her room with rare gusto. If, after the death of her daughter, she seemed to have been plunged into a state of near-depression, the extraordinary news announced by Francis at breakfast had reinvigorated her.

‘Not a single day more! Do you hear me, Howard? I’m not staying here a single day more.’

Mr. Hilton hesitantly watched his wife empty the two wardrobes in their room. The three suitcases open on the bed filled at an impressive speed. He’d seldom seen Dorothy in such a state, nor pack her clothes with so little care. He thought about saying something, but his instinct warne him against it.

‘And when I say not a single day, we’re going to be on the road by half past ten at the latest.’

Howard Hilton studied his wife closely. It was the first time he’d seen her eyes betray her, flashing as they were with anger and open wider than usual.

‘Of course, darling, of course. But do you think we need to be in quite such a hurry?’

‘I know what I’m doing, Howard. In a few hours we’ll be a long way away and we’re never setting foot in here again. Never.’

‘But we can’t take everything with us today. We have to—.’

‘It’s useless to argue. I repeat, I know what I’m doing.’

‘But do we even have the right? Won’t the police want to question us?’

‘They can. But not here. And don’t stand there idle. Help me.’

‘Is it too much to ask where we’re going?’

‘To any hotel far enough away. We have the means now, don’t we? Now that I think about it, there’s a second cousin of mine who runs an excellent establishment near Rochester.’

At that moment, their son came into the room, his face ashen.

‘Francis, dear, you don’t look at all well. Do you think you’ll be able to drive us to Rochester in the next couple of hours?’

Francis nodded listlessly and looked at his mother in a manner devoid of any expression. Mrs. Hilton thought she knew what was on his mind.

‘You’d like to go as well, but Paula doesn’t want to, isn’t that it?’

‘No mother, not at all.’

‘Surely you’re not both going to stay here? After everything that’s happened? Without even talking about last night. That would be sheer madness. Sooner or later, the “other” will leave the hospital and come back here. God only knows what will happen then. I beg you, Francis, try to convince Paula.’

Howard Hilton made a discreet sign to his son not to respond.

Mrs. Dorothy Hilton interpreted her son’s silence in her own way and asked him in acid tones:

‘So Paula won’t be coming with us, is that it?’

‘No… She promised Bessie she’d go to see Brian with her this afternoon.’

An hour later, Francis loaded his parents’ luggage into the car and got into the driver’s seat. His mother sat down beside him.

‘What are you doing, Howard?’ she said in annoyance. ‘We have a long road ahead of us.’

Howard Hilton stood with his hand on the handle, taking one last look at the manor. Despite all that had happened, he had a certain amount of nostalgia on leaving. They had, after all, enjoyed some good times there. And who would look after the roses on which he had lavished so much care?

‘Howard, we’re waiting!’

He stood there with a lump in his throat for a few more seconds, his eyes riveted on the old house. He had a distinct feeling he was looking at it for the last time.

And he was right.

26

At around four o’clock, Patrick, Paula and Bessie saw Dr. Twist coming out of Brian’s room. The criminologist greeted them briefly and said he’d see them later, during the course of the evening. He seemed preoccupied but excited, and was holding a piece of folded paper in his hand which Patrick took to be a telegram.

Brian was lying in his bed with his head entirely swathed in bandages except around his eyes, which lit up at the sight of his three visitors, and around his mouth, which welcomed them with a courageous smile.

‘My dear friends,’ he said in a feeble voice. ‘I shall regret leaving this bed. I’ve never had so much attention in my life.’

‘What are you saying, Brian?’ replied Bessie, in a tone of amiable reproach. ‘It was you who never noticed our existence. What does your doctor say? When will he let you go home?’

‘He told me I was very lucky, but I still need to stay here for another two months.’

Which was true, for the visitors had met with the doctor before running into Dr. Twist. Fortunately, the victim’s face bore only superficial burns, but his arms and legs had sustained more damage and would take longer to heal. Two months more in hospital was the minimum. Nevertheless, despite appearances, he had a robust constitution, he suffered stoically and his morale was excellent.

Patrick asked Brian casually what was the purpose of Dr. Twist’s visit.

The joyful light in the injured man’s eyes went out immediately.

‘We talked for almost two hours. He asked me certain questions about… cards, which I’d prefer not to talk about. Just before you arrived, someone brought him a telegram. He read it and seemed quite agitated by it, but he didn’t tell me what it was about.’

Seeing that Brian was becoming agitated, Bessie changed the subject, but not before frowning at Patrick.

A little later, Paula announced she was going to step outside for a while to smoke a cigarette and asked Patrick whether he would be good enough to join her.

In silence, the two of them reached the garden and sat down on a bench. Paula puffed nervously at her cigarette and then declared, in a dangerously calm voice:

‘Don’t you think it’s about time you told me the truth?’

‘But… what truth?’

‘The truth about your relations with Bessie. Because it’s as clear as daylight that you don’t love each other.’

‘What are you talking about, Paula?’

‘The truth. Nothing but the truth. She doesn’t love you and you don’t love her either. That doesn’t mean that you don’t like each other. It was quite convincing — in the beginning at least. But now, you’d have to be blind not to see she’s in love with Brian, more in love than she’s ever been, even in her time with Meadows.’

‘Where are you going with this?’ exclaimed Patrick, raising his arms in the air. ‘She pities the poor fellow, in the condition he’s in.’

‘Pity? Have you seen the way she looks at him? Either I’m an idiot, or that woman has just realised she’s met the man of her life — or, more precisely, Brian is the man she needs. Forget about the nuances. It can’t have escaped your notice, and yet you haven’t taken offence… on the contrary, you seem relieved. For the last time, Patrick, what’s going on?’

Blue Reed was on the point of protesting, but decided to keep quiet and sat back on the bench, admiring the park. He thought for a moment and then decided to come clean. He took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to dive:

‘I can explain in three words, Paula: I love you.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of.’

Her tone wasn’t very warm, nor was it very convincing. Her pink cheeks (from the cold?) contrasted with the paleness of her skin. Her hair, dishevelled by the wind, fell in disarray on her coat collar as she, too, stared into the distance.

‘Very well,’ said Patrick, ‘I see you’re not going to make it easy for me, but I’m going to tell you everything.’

‘And not before time.’

‘Do you remember last summer, and our last rendezvous the night Harris Thorne died?’

‘Perfectly. And you promised me that it would be the last time and you would never try to see me again.’

‘Well, since that moment I’ve never stopped thinking about you. I… what’s the use. I’m not sure you could understand. Suffice to say, I didn’t keep my promise — and I started to think. How to get close to you without it appearing pre-meditated? I did some searching and—.’

‘You arranged to make the acquaintance of Bessie. How charming!’

‘Paula, I beg you. I wouldn’t want you to think—.’

‘Think what? That you used her as a pawn on the chessboard? It’s disgusting! An easy prey, a poor girl bewildered by the break-up of her engagement.’

‘I know it wasn’t very elegant, but I couldn’t see any other way. And I’ll tell you something: Bessie was very happy to meet me at that moment. She needed someone. She never admitted it, but I learnt afterwards that the separation had been very painful for her. It was her self-respect which suffered more than anything. And I’m sure it was Meadows who broke it off, so he could pursue one of her best friends.’

‘It wasn’t very elegant, I concede. But I notice you’re quick to climb on your high horse when other people’s principles are involved.’

‘She came to see me in London once or twice a week,’ continued Patrick after an embarrassed cough. ‘And we really did amuse ourselves. There wasn’t much between us, if you want to know, just comradeship.’

‘As far as comradeship is concerned, there’s nothing you have to learn from anybody.’

‘Paula, please. Listen to me. We saw each other once or twice and then she suggested I spend a few days with her, in order to meet her family and friends.’

‘If it was comradeship, I don’t see why—.’

‘And her friends,’ stressed Blue Reed vehemently.

‘I see, she wanted to parade you in front of her ex-fiancée as a sort of revenge. I imagine her reaction was anticipated in your plan?’

‘More or less,’ confessed Patrick, looking down. ‘But at that time I had a lot of work and couldn’t leave it all to L… my associate. Likewise, I told Bessie that, by an extraordinary coincidence I knew you… so we put off my surprise visit until later. You must have had a shock when you saw me last week?’

‘I’ll say. But I immediately suspected something fishy was going on. You’ve always had that guilty look when you were preparing a dirty trick.’

‘And I’ll admit that at that moment I was scared stiff, and later, too. You were there next to me, but Bessie and Francis were there as well and… well, I don’t have to draw a picture, do I?’

‘So you’re remorseful. All is not lost. And did you manage to sleep at nights?’

‘Not very well. I was always thinking about you, about that evening in the cove, about our midnight swim, about—.’

‘That’s enough.’ She cut him off. ‘And afterwards?’

‘There were Brian’s predictions, which intrigued me enormously. I didn’t know what to think, everything was bubbling around in my mind. And then there were Sarah’s death and Brian’s disappearance. I had no idea that Bessie was hiding him in the workshop. I’d noticed a change in her attitude recently, without knowing why. Yes, Paula, she’s really taken a liking to Brian, but I don’t know if she realises it. Be that as it may, it’s a very good thing for Bessie and, in addition, it takes a weight off my shoulders.’

The sound of flapping wings punctuated with shrill cries interrupted the peace of the park. A swarm of birds flew up towards the clouds, in an operation confusing at first, but which White Camellia and Blue Reed eventually realised was a disciplined flight with variable geometry.

‘The great departure,’ observed Patrick, at once admiring and nostalgic.

‘What I don’t understand is what you want from me. That I leave Francis for you?’

‘That was part of my plan at first: to approach you gently at first, then try and convince you. Sheer madness, I admit. But I’m honest and I confess it to you.’

Paula gave a long sigh.

‘You’re starting to sound reasonable, Patrick. But because we’re sharing confidences, I must tell you that I get on well with my husband and I’m very happy with him.’

‘Paula….’

‘Do you know who you remind me of, Patrick? A spoilt little child who only wants what’s forbidden to him. In real life—.’

‘No lectures on morality, please.’

‘Very well. What do you plan to do now?’

Patrick pursed his lips and brought out his cigarette case.

‘Continue your investigation?’ continued Paula in an incisive tone. ‘You’re scared stiff, aren’t you? Do you know who it was who looked like Harris and whom you discovered in the coffin?’

‘It was Harris’s body….’

‘Have you all lost your minds! You, your police friends and even Francis. For Brian to believe in ghosts is understandable. But for the rest of you — and you above all, Patrick! You’ve always told me that there’s a rational explanation for every mystery. Have you changed your mind?’

Patrick shook his head and crushed the cigarette he’d just lit under his foot.

‘I — that is, we — know nearly everything, Paula. There’s no ghost or anything like that. Dr. Twist even has an idea about Brian’s prophecies.’

Stunned, Paula looked at him wild-eyed.

‘Harris died last year. And the body you discovered is his?’ she mumbled.

‘Yes. But let’s leave that for the moment. For my part, I’ve learnt quite a lot since last Monday, since the death of Sarah, since I saw a certain person in the process of… the penny didn’t drop at the time, but later it did. And afterwards I didn’t behave very well with regard to the law or anything else. I was in an awkward situation, because if I’d revealed what I’d seen, you… one could have thought that… Well, anyway I kept quiet and acted on my own — which wasn’t very clever, now I think about it. And that brilliant devil Twist worked everything out. He even guessed there was something between us.

‘The situation is worse than you can possibly imagine, Paula, because we know almost everything but there’s not a shred of proof. And things can’t stop here. I thought I was doing the right thing, Paula, I swear. I didn’t want you to think that… There was probably some other way I could have acted, but you know me… I always want to dramatise everything.’

A heavy step crunching the gravel interrupted them.

Archibald Hurst was coming towards them, head down. As he drew level he gave them both a sombre look and slumped down on the bench next to them.

‘Have you seen Dr. Twist?’ asked Patrick. ‘A telegram came for him.’

‘I know. Redfern sent it from Newbury. I’ve just talked to him on the phone. Twist left immediately after he received it.’

Silence. The inspector took his time lighting a cigar, obviously delaying what he had to say. Then he grasped the nettle and spoke.

‘I have very bad news for you, Mrs. Hilton. You need to brace yourself. Your husband and his parents have been killed in a car accident on the road to Newbury. Apparently the driver lost control of the vehicle and it caught fire. They all died immediately.’

Which was true for the parents, but not for Francis who, according to witnesses, fought in vain to get out of the car. The inspector had decided to tell a white lie.

Paula appeared not to have grasped the situation at first, but then she broke down in convulsive sobs. Patrick wanted to take her in his arms, but resisted the impulse.

‘That’s not all, unfortunately, Mrs. Hilton. We’re practically certain that your husband killed his sister.’

27

The following evening at eight o’clock, a number of visitors were seated in the lounge of Hector Redfern’s bungalow. Paula, sombre and silent, was sitting on the sofa next to Bessie. Since yesterday, the Blounts had taken her in, and she was likely to stay there for the foreseeable future. Bessie had been trying to take her friend’s mind off the tragic and cruel epilogue to her marriage to Francis as best she could. Patrick had been keeping them company without intruding in their conversations. He hadn’t stopped looking at White Camellia, waiting in vain for a look or the shadow of a smile, unable to penetrate her thoughts. Blue eyes wide open, but not a single tear. An impassive countenance, which he took as a bad omen as far as he was concerned. For now, he was seated in an armchair, nursing a whisky and torturing himself with the question: “Can she ever love me again?”

Archibald Hurst, enthroned on his seat, was relaxed, far more so than usual on such occasions — Twist had confided most of the key to the mystery already. Which was far from the case with the chief superintendent, who was pacing back and forth in front of the chimneypiece, hands behind his back, with the regularity of clockwork.

After extinguishing his pipe and adjusting his pince-nez, Dr. Twist started to speak.

‘Before I begin, I want to make it clear that what I am about to say will be strictly confidential and must have no other witnesses than you and these four walls. I leave you to imagine what the press would make of it if they learnt about it. The Thorne and Hilton families have suffered enough without being delivered to the unhealthy curiosity of the gutter press. Are we all in agreement? The same goes for a certain London detective agency.

‘That said, I shall, without further ado, get to the heart of the matter and attempt to explain each event in this imbroglio in chronological order. We shall start with the case of Harvey Thorne. A very strange individual, the details of whose life come to us via several successive testimonies, which doesn’t help us very much. As an aside, I must tell you that quite often an obscure case has, as its point of departure, another obscure case which was the result of an incredible sequence of coincidences. That’s the only explanation I can offer for finding a shred of logic in this extraordinary story of the premonitions of great-uncle Harvey. He announces to his family and his descendants that they will perish by fire and, as bad luck would have it, some of them do die in that manner. A coincidence — but it will be the only one — which will be turned into a curse and result in the sealing of the writer’s room. It’s possible to interpret the words of the dying man: “Will perish… sinned… will perish by fire… will perish by fire,” which probably changed through time, but I remain convinced that they were indeed a warning about death by fire. Which is what most people thought, and is quite understandable.’

Twist paused for a moment to re-light his pipe and continued:

‘Harvey Thorne was found dying on the door sill of his room, mad with rage and pain. The victim of a heart attack, according to the doctors. I draw your attention to the fact that the testimony about the wet carpet was not provided by the family, but by the domestic staff.’

Twist shot the inspector a mischievous glance.

‘And here I must confess, Hurst, that you were a great help.’ The inspector puffed out his chest, despite being perplexed. ‘Thanks to you throwing one of my envelopes onto the fire and then spilling tea on my tablecloth, I found the solution to that particular puzzle, which was staggeringly simple.

‘Let’s pose the problem another way: what could have affected the peaceful great-uncle Harvey in such a way that his heart gave out? His death threats are also very significant… Do you still not see? Come, come, my friends, there’s only one possibility: a member of his family, tired of his eccentricities, decides to destroy all his manuscripts by making a huge bonfire of them. Can you imagine the shock? The work of so many years, so many sleepless nights, his life’s work burning before his eyes! Try to put yourself in the place of that poor, unfortunate man coming back to his room to find his entire life’s work going up in flames!

‘We know from Brian that Harvey kept a supply of water in his room to help him replenish the large glass he used to concentrate his thoughts. Water, which he uses in vain to try and extinguish the roaring flames. Not a single trace of the manuscripts remains in the grate. The carpet, on the other hand, on which he’d splashed a lot of water in his attempts to fight the fire, is wet. Our man is heartbroken, literally by the mortal blow administered by one, if not all, of his relatives.

‘Mad with pain, impotent rage and vengeful fury, he rushes to the door, where he collapses in front of the others who arrive and see him there on the floor. He finds the strength to put a curse on them and threaten that they will perish in the same way they have sinned, that is to say, by fire. I don’t expect those responsible had wished for him to die, but that’s what had happened. An awkward situation. Very awkward.

‘They hastily remove all the ashes from the grate, which could betray what they’d done, but they can’t remove the wet patch on the carpet. That will be seen later by the maid, but the family won’t mention it, for obvious reasons. And that’s all there is to say about that event.

‘Now let’s move on to Brian’s predictions. There’s no doubt the man possesses some sort of gift, which I don’t wish to disparage. There are too many troubling testimonies. From my long experience, I believe that most clairvoyants are fine psychologists and remarkable observers who have found a way to exploit those qualities for money. Brian’s case is different. It’s more of an instinct, that’s to say his senses are very sharp, but he doesn’t do any analysis, simply storing away scores of little details about each person who consults him. Women, for example—.’

‘Here we go. Why not say we’re all idiots?’ protested Bessie.

Dr. Twist smiled and said gently:

‘I’d call that female intuition, dear Miss Bessie. But back to Brian. One thing that’s easy to notice, whether one’s clairvoyant or not, is budding love. The two principals are not even aware of it themselves, more often than not. But there’s a special atmosphere about them which any sensitive person can detect.

‘So that if someone announces that the two turtledoves are soon going to experience great love, that in itself creates the opportunity for them to confess their love because it’s written in the stars. What do you think, Miss Blount?’

Bessie responded with a cynical shrug of her shoulders and a slight nod of agreement.

‘So much for the first prediction,’ continued Twist, bucked up by the reaction. ‘The second one, announcing a misfortune to befall Harris Thorne, is likewise perfectly understandable in view of the circumstances. Brian is convinced that his great-uncle’s room is cursed and that its reopening will bring on a terrible cataclysm. So when his brother announces he’s going to turn it into a study, it’s hardly surprising that Brian warns him. Not to have done so would have been more of a surprise, quite frankly. At that point in time we know that relations between Harris and his wife were already stormy and they frequently had violent quarrels. At the centre of the debate was Dr. Meadows, whom the master of the house suspected of trying to seduce Sarah. All of which created considerable tension, and what was inevitably due to happen, happened.

‘The other day, my friend Hurst observed that: “To see or not to see, that is the question.” Judicious words because, while we were all lost in conjecture about what must have frightened Sarah Thorne to such a point, she hadn’t in fact, seen anything at all. She’d stared at the carpet and she’d seen nothing. It’s been proven that there was nobody in the room at that moment. Nobody, absolutely nobody. I won’t burden you with all the theories that went through my mind as I tried to prove the contrary, explaining how an intruder could have got out of there. I thought of a dozen ways, but none of them satisfactory. So I started to examine the only hypothesis left: Sarah hadn’t in fact seen anything. So, then, why had she fainted? I could only think of one explanation: she was expecting to see something in that spot, but it wasn’t there any more. Needless to say, it would have to be something of crucial importance: a question of life or death.’

Twist stopped to pick up a folder from the coffee table and pull out a sheet of paper.

‘This summarises everyone’s movements during that tragic evening. And there’s something on here which has never been cleared up. At 9.05, Sarah Thorne and you, Miss Blount, are walking near the front gate of the property when you see an unidentified person who flees. Is there anyone here who can shed light on this?’ asked Twist, staring hard at Patrick.

‘It was I,’ confessed Blue Reed, turning scarlet. ‘But I swear it’s of no importance, at least as far as it concerns any of this business. I…we…no importance.’

Dr. Twist gave a half-mischievous, half-tender smile which briefly cheered Paula up. Then he continued:

‘These notes were taken last year and already, at that time, something struck me. Something jumped out at me. Listen. “8.00… Noises of quarrel upstairs start to be heard.” That would be Harris and Sarah, who were upstairs in the study. Everyone heard them. Then: “8.30… The loud noises have stopped.” Shortly after that: “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.”

‘No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t think of any explanation for such behaviour. They quarrel for half an hour, make up for the next quarter of an hour, go out without saying a word, and hardly has the door closed behind them when they start again. They haven’t had time to exchange one word and the dispute starts again, even worse. But nobody explodes from one second to the next, except in the theatre, and even then… To be frank, I found such behaviour to be very suspicious and… theatrical is the word. By the way, let me remind you that a wig and a false beard, both red, had disappeared from Sarah’s theatrical accessories.

‘But I’m not going to leave you in suspense as to what really happened. The quarrel between the Thornes stops suddenly at half past eight. Tragically, as it happens. Harris is a violent man, but Sarah doesn’t allow herself to be bullied. He shakes her, she pushes him away. He falls down. His head hits the base of the fireplace. Dead. The doctors who examine the body later put the time of death as just before nine. They’re mistaken, of course, their diagnosis having been affected by the fact that Harris Thorne had been seen alive at ten minutes to nine.

‘At the time of the accident, Francis is roaming around upstairs. He goes into the study and realises straight away what’s happened. He also understands that his sister’s situation is far worse than it seems. Harris is a rich man, very rich. Sarah, on the other hand, is from a far more modest background and her recent marriage has made her aware of the advantages of a large fortune. A marriage too recent, in fact, for anyone to accept without question the assumption of an unfortunate accident. And the rumours about a possible affair between his sister and Meadows don’t help matters. To cap it all, the couple’s constant fighting is widely known. In a word, the fabulous inheritance due to his sister might not go to her at all. And in that case, he wouldn’t see any of it either.

‘Needless to say, all those thoughts race through Francis’s mind in less time than it takes to tell. And he finds the answer: if Sarah has an alibi, her version of the accident will be accepted without objection. Therefore, she has to have an alibi. Admittedly, the one he’s about to create from scratch in mere minutes might not hold water, but with such a prize at stake, it’s worth trying. He sends Sarah away to find the red wig, the false beard and one of the deceased’s blue jackets. The illusion he’s about to create has every chance of succeeding. All that’s needed is for people to see a mane of red hair and a blue jacket, which will immediately make them think of Harris. The plan is simplicity itself: to prove that Harris is still alive at that moment. From then on, and until the discovery of the body, Sarah has to be in the company of one or more trustworthy witnesses. And the body must be found as soon as possible. Sarah must therefore go back up to the study under the watchful eye of several witnesses.

‘At a quarter to nine, Sarah and her “husband” appear to leave the manor. They link arms and press against each other, in order for people to catch no more than a glimpse of the false Harris. Once outside, Sarah simulates a new quarrel, complete with loud cries, in order to give her a reason to return alone to the salon and join the others — after which “Harris” is seen crossing the hall rapidly. So far, so good. But then things start to get tricky. Brian decides to follow him — at a discreet distance, luckily for Francis. Brian calls out to him and we can understand why Francis doesn’t answer. As he enters the study, he knows he’s only got a few seconds to dispose of the body. The only solution is to throw it out of the window. When Brian enters, he sees the false Harris leaning out of the window, breathing heavily like a man beside himself with rage. Brian, too distressed to notice the trickery, leaves. And we can imagine Francis’s deep sigh of relief. He’s had a narrow escape and now he must think. The body is below the window at present. Which is not such a bad thing. Harris, in one of his many fits of jealousy, has finally committed suicide by throwing himself out of the window. It’s actually more believable than if he’d been found in front of the fireplace as originally planned. The fireplace… Catastrophe! Blood on the edge of the stone! He quickly fetches some water to clean it up.’

‘The water on the carpet,’ murmured Bessie.

‘That’s right,’ agreed Dr. Twist. ‘You can imagine the scene. There’s no time to lose. Water’s sprinkled around the spot, it gets scrubbed vigorously and then wiped down with the first piece of cloth which comes to hand to remove the moisture… but the carpet inevitably stays wet.

‘After all that effort, our impromptu house cleaner escapes via the spiral staircase and the service exit, so as to inspect the body and arrange it in such a way as to give credibility to the idea of a fall. Luckily, the stones from the rock garden are to hand, and one of them will be used to inflict a second mortal wound to Harris’s temple. Francis hasn’t forgotten about Sarah, who will soon find the study empty, but that shouldn’t pose too much of a problem. She’ll be surprised, of course, but that’s all. He thinks about Paula as well, who’s been gone for quite some time. He wanders about the property shouting her name. As luck would have it, he finds her just as she’s climbing over the railings by the entrance gate and….’ Twist coughed and Patrick smiled wanly.

‘But that’s of no importance. Let’s go back to Sarah, who enters the study at a quarter past nine in the company of Dr. Meadows and Miss Blount, fully expecting to emit horrified shrieks upon discovering her husband in the place where he’s supposed to be. Sarah, who’s begun the day with a heart murmur, who’s still affected by the quarrel with her husband — whom she’s just killed accidentally almost an hour earlier — and who’s gathering all her strength to play a sensitive and difficult role. She opens the door and… horror of horrors: she doesn’t see anything! Her husband’s body, which should have been lying in front of the fireplace, has disappeared! Need I say more?’

‘No,’ mumbled Redfern. ‘Looked at from that point of view, everything seems clear.’

Hurst nodded his agreement with intense satisfaction. For once in his career, he wasn’t the one playing student to Twist’s teacher.

‘So much for the first act of the drama,’ continued Dr. Twist. ‘As the burial arrangements for Harris are being prepared, Francis’s little grey cells are working overtime. His sister’s now rich, but what does the future hold for him? Such a beautiful woman won’t remain a widow for long. And when she remarries, who knows what’ll happen? His twisted mind soon conceives a Machiavellian plan. His sister has to die before her second wedding, so that her fortune will revert to Francis and his parents — which is to say him, in practice. I won’t reveal the key to his sinister plan right now — Mr. Nolan will take care of that in a few minutes — all you need to know for the moment is that it required a small amount of preparation in the days following his brother-in-law’s death and a bit of regular maintenance afterwards.

‘The perfect crime he prepared is well worthy of such a description, for several reasons. Sarah’s death wouldn’t arouse any suspicion — as we’ve already seen. He wouldn’t run much of a risk before the fatal day, even if he were to be caught in the act. Nor afterwards, either. He might have difficulty justifying his actions, but in the eyes of the law it wouldn’t constitute a criminal offence. A perfect crime, then, but one which, curiously, isn’t enough to satisfy him. He wants to confuse the situation in a masterly fashion by arranging for his sisters’ forthcoming death to be announced by means of one of Brian’s notorious predictions. And in the meantime, he’ll amuse himself by reinforcing Brian’s reputation as a prophet. Give Francis his due: Brian’s predictions, following on those of Harvey, did muddle the case to such a degree that we didn’t know which way to turn in the face of such an avalanche of mysteries. Needless to say, he’ll also exploit the reputation of the “madman’s room,” not forgetting the detail of the wet carpet. In its way, it’s a masterpiece of misdirection, and Sarah’s death — a natural death, albeit caused by a diabolical machination — will seem perfectly understandable. She’ll be the tree hidden in the forest. The question to consider now is how Francis managed to lead Brian to make such prophecies.

‘And that takes us to the second act, which begins as soon as Francis learns that Sarah and Meadows have fallen for each other. Bound together as they are by the secret of her husband’s death, his sister hides nothing from him and so he’s fully aware of her feelings. To cut a long story short, he initiates the next phase of his plan, namely the fulfilment of two of Brian’s prophecies. The soothsayer announces that Francis will win a small fortune and also that he will suffer a small incident which will, in its own way, be a prelude to Sarah’s death. It’s quite clear by now that Francis’s fainting on the sill of the cursed room was staged, and that he deliberately hit his head on the doorframe to cause blood to flow and add a touch of realism to the proceedings. There was a row of pewter pots on the mantelpiece, one of which had been filled with water ahead of time. It was emptied onto the carpet just before the simulated fainting. I haven’t any proof of that, but it’s the only time the carpet could have been wetted.’

‘Fair enough,’ said the chief superintendent. ‘But what about winning on the horses? You’re not going to tell us it was pure luck, I hope?’

‘Obviously not. But ask yourself the question: is there any way to bet on horses to be absolutely certain to win?’

There was silence and then Patrick raised a finger:

‘There is a way. It’s very simple but very costly. You bet on all the horses.’

‘Bravo, young man, take a bow,’ replied Dr. Twist. ‘It cost him a large sum of money, but you must admit it was worth it. And he made sure there were witnesses present when he placed the bet, when he presented the winning ticket, and when he collected his prize, in case any sceptic demanded proof. He was determined to preserve Brian’s reputation as a seer of the first order.’

The chief superintendent wasn’t satisfied and regarded the criminologist with suspicion:

‘You’ve answered a lot of questions, but what about Brian’s predictions? How did Francis manipulate him to make the pronouncements that he, Francis, wanted?’

‘The double prediction, my dear Redfern, happened as the result of a session with Brian in his room. I questioned him at length yesterday afternoon about that about that particular meeting, about another evening, and about the importance generally of cards in his predictions. Brian, like most clairvoyants, often uses Tarot cards to predict the future, and occasionally ordinary playing cards. Even though he doesn’t take the individual Tarot messages literally — as you know, each card has a precise significance — he does use them for guidance. And when certain cards pop up frequently, he’s likely to be influenced by their message. And that’s what happened when Francis came to visit. To put it more bluntly, all Francis needed to do to get the prediction he wanted was to use his expertise as a card-sharper.

‘And, if you need further convincing, consider this: Francis was almost never defeated at bridge, a record that even the greatest masters of the discipline never equalled. There’s only one way to achieve such a result, and that’s to cheat. And, if memory serves, Harris Thorne accused him of it a couple of times. But, since he was never caught red-handed, he must have been very good at it.’

Dr. Twist asked for a glass of water. Bessie went to fetch one. His thirst quenched, the criminologist continued:

‘It’s not hard to imagine how he tricked Brian. He probably brought along two or three decks identical to Brian’s, pre-arranged in a particular order and waited for a moment of inattention to switch decks. And when he pretended to cut them, he actually put the decks back in the same order.

‘As I say, I questioned Brian and he admits it’s all quite possible. I also asked him about the evening, following which he predicted a grave misfortune for Sarah. There was a bridge party in full swing, with Dr. Meadows, Sarah, Francis, Brian and you, Mrs. Hilton, but you didn’t actually take part, do you remember?’

Paula, who was gazing absently at the fire, nodded in agreement.

‘The first thing to notice is that Francis didn’t win that night, which was very unusual…it was assumed that his thoughts were elsewhere. The truth is that he was trying to introduce into the pack, and into his sister’s hands, two very significant cards — always the same two — which would attract Brian’s attention. Two ordinary cards in spades, which would have no significance to the normal player, but which to Brian spelled death. Francis was playing with Meadows against Sarah and Brian. He was seated to the right of his sister and it was he who gathered up the cards and handed them to her before she dealt. A slight false movement and they fell to the floor, attributed to Sarah’s nervousness. It happened several times in the course of the evening, by the end of which Brian was convinced his sister-in-law’s days were numbered. He was reluctant to tell her, but he felt he couldn’t keep quiet.

‘Once the fatal prophecy was made, all that was left for Francis to do was to execute his diabolical strategy and kill Sarah without leaving a trace. Before handing over to Patrick Nolan here, I must inform you that the perfect crime did require some preparation, without which the murderer wouldn’t have succeeded. It was vital that the victim be in a particular frame of mind to collapse at the sight of what Francis would show her. She did indeed die of a heart attack, as the medical examiner has confirmed. Francis knew she had a weak heart and it was that weakness which he planned to exploit. As soon as he became convinced that she did indeed intend to marry Meadows, he set the machinery in motion, which consisted, as you’ve probably guessed, of persuading Sarah that her husband wasn’t really dead after all. There are several instances which we know about: one evening, the electrical fuses blow and somebody ruffles Sarah’s hair. It was Francis, of course. Another time he filled the study with smoke from Harris’s brand of cigar. A subtle hint, but one very disconcerting for Sarah. And it was he who appeared in the woods — disguised as Harris, needless to say — taking care to be visible to his sister and not to you, Mrs. Hilton, who were with your sister-in-law at the time. Those are instances we know about, but there were undoubtedly other tricks suggesting the return of her deceased husband.

‘The whole business was conducted in a masterly fashion, and Francis held all the aces to control the situation. Sarah could confide in no one but him. Only he knew that it was she who killed her husband, and the manifestations of the deceased were calculated to exploit that fact. A ghost can be a vengeful spirit and I’m sure Francis underlined that point, just as he reminded Sarah of its jealous nature — hardly likely to appreciate a new fiancé, particularly if he happened to be a certain Dr. Meadows. Which made it practically impossible for her to share her fears with the latter. The conversation between Francis and his sister, overheard by Mr. Nolan, illustrates perfectly the insidious manner in which our murderer gives credence to her late husband’s return. He uses his own fainting fit — false though it was, and primarily intended for Brian’s benefit — to hint to Sarah that it was her dead husband that he saw in front of the fireplace. Let me remind you that she was unaware that her brother’s collapse was pure trickery, so the conversation inevitably makes her even more desperate. What has her brother seen? Why doesn’t he want to tell her? Francis knows his sister has a thousand questions, but he pretends that he can’t remember — or, rather, that he doesn’t want to remember. His words say that he’s seen nothing, but his voice, the expression on his face, and indeed his whole being, convey the contrary: he’s seen something so insane and so horrible he can’t bring himself to talk about it, for fear of terrifying Sarah even further. How, then, can she not believe that it was her late husband who’d been seen lying there, in the same spot where he’d met his death?

‘Mr. Nolan, you saw and heard them at that moment. Are you in agreement with what I’ve just said?’

‘Absolutely.’

Twist put the tips of his fingers together in a sign of meditation, then turned to Hurst.

‘Do you remember, old friend, when you told him someone had overheard them talking and he looked worried stiff? He was in a delicate position, because he didn’t know exactly what had been heard and what hadn’t. He was astute enough not to deny the facts and stick broadly to the truth. He would have preferred not to have divulged what it was that Sarah feared, but he was more or less obliged to, and got out of it rather well, by using the same technique which had worked on his sister: playing the fellow who doesn’t want to believe in such things. And he put it all down to the sinister atmosphere of the place and Sarah’s contagious anxiety. It was very convincing, and I freely admit I believed him at the time.’

‘Actually, I thought there was something fishy about the whole situation, myself,’ said the inspector, with an assurance which fooled nobody.

‘There is one thing in this dark and sinister tale which did make me smile,’ said Alan Twist. ‘Francis succeeded so brilliantly in terrifying his sister that she secretly changed her will in favour of Brian, hoping in that way to appease the vengeful ghost. I take great pleasure in imagining how he felt when the terms of the new will were announced. Be that as it may, he did achieve almost all he was aiming for. His sister was half dead with fright and it only remained to administer the final blow. After all that’s been said, you can probably guess what the “thing” was that finally killed her. Mr. Nolan, it’s your turn to speak, because you were the first to understand.’

28

Patrick cleared his throat, emptied his glass, and began:

‘I was indeed the first to understand, but I can’t take much credit. On that Monday evening, at around half — past eight — in other words, an hour and a half before Sarah’s death — I was coming back from London when I happened to see Francis coming out of the Blounts’ garden. He was pushing a wheelbarrow containing a corpse… a rather special one. I also need to tell you that, a few weeks earlier, I happened to see him coming out of an establishment specialising in refrigeration equipment, but he didn’t see me.’

‘He’d frozen Harris Thorne’s corpse!’ exclaimed the chief superintendent in astonishment.

People shifted uneasily in their seats.

‘Exactly. And it was that corpse which he brought into Harris’s old study and placed in front of the fireplace. Can you imagine the devastating shock that Sarah suffered upon seeing her late husband on the same spot where he’d died a year earlier? Let me remind you that the lamp on the desk was lit: Francis must have placed it in such a way as to maximise the effect. And a corpse which had been thawing out for over an hour. He didn’t even need to splash any water to wet the carpet. In theory, he couldn’t be absolutely certain that the scene would cause his sister to have a heart attack, but given all the conditioning he’d subjected her to, any other outcome would be hard to imagine.’

‘It’s monstrous,’ declared Redfern. ‘Absolutely monstrous.’

‘The bastard,’ said Meadows with gritted teeth.

The others were quiet. Bessie, horrified, took Paula in her arms. The murderer’s wife, shaking uncontrollably, appeared about to be sick. Patrick watched her, powerless to do anything. She caught his stare and pulled herself together, ready to hear the rest of his story.

‘What is certain, however, is that the murder, as Dr. Twist has said, had been planned for a long time. For there’s no doubt that Harris Thorne had been frozen just after being placed in the family vault. But how and where? Francis had quickly realised that the Blounts’ abandoned workshop would be an ideal hiding-place. Furthermore, it contained a huge chest filled with sawdust and wood shavings, material often used to prevent water pipes from freezing, and therefore excellent for insulation. Inside the chest, he constructed a smaller one from planks, in which he placed the corpse. He packed the space around the corpse with dry ice — frozen carbon dioxide— which stays in a solid state at lower temperatures than water ice. At higher temperatures, it turns into a gas which is also a good insulator. It’s manufactured by the Cope Refrigerating Company, where I was investigating a case of adultery and where I saw Francis. I think he used to travel there once or twice a week?’

The question was addressed to Paula, who nodded vaguely.

‘Ah! I forgot: you all know the effects of carbon dioxide gas. The workshop had to be aerated. It wasn’t an accident that the glass in several of the workshop’s windows had been smashed. Even so, Bessie, your grandfather suffered ill effects the one time he decided to go in there, do you remember?’

‘Yes, and I remember—.’

‘That Francis almost fainted when he heard your grandfather had gone out there,’ interrupted Paula. Her eyes filled with tears. Redfern served her a port and refilled the others’ glasses in an attempt to calm things down. After filling his pipe, Dr. Twist picked up the narrative:

‘There’s still the mystery of the double appearance of Harris Thorne after Sarah’s funeral, but first let’s finish with the events on the night of the murder. At half past eight, Francis obviously wasn’t in the study as he claimed, because at that very moment he was transporting the corpse from the Blounts’ workshop to the manor, where he almost certainly placed it in the storage room adjacent to the study. At nine o’clock, Mrs. Hilton, you take him a cup of coffee — which I assume he’d requested at the start of the evening, for that specific time?’ Paula nodded silently. ‘Very well. You realise that it was important that someone confirm that, at that moment, there was nothing suspect about the room…. After that, you both go down to the salon. Between nine-twenty and nine-thirty, you leave Sarah all alone: you, Mrs. Hilton, to make some more coffee, and Francis supposedly to go to the game room. But, in reality, he slips out and uses those ten minutes — more than enough time--to transfer Harris’s corpse from the storage room into the study, in front of the fireplace. At ten o’clock, Sarah goes up to the “cursed room.” Francis, far from being in the game room as he later claimed, has been lurking in wait and follows his sister furtively at a distance, not only to observe whether the “operation” goes according to plan, but also to dispose of the body after the fatal moment. Cathy Restarick observing Sarah collapse was most definitely not foreseen, but the impromptu moment doesn’t actually affect the plan. How does he get rid of Harris’s corpse afterwards? It’s impossible to say with certainty. I think he must have thrown it out of the window after the maid left — just as he’d done a year earlier — and rushed down the stairs and out of the service door to hide it behind a bush, before hastening back to the game room. I also believe he put it in the boot of his car when he went to alert Meadows a little later, so he could drop it in a safer spot before putting it back where it was supposed to be: in its coffin.

‘All in all — with the exception of the changes to his sister’s will — you could say that everything has gone according to plan, up until the day of Sarah’s funeral last Friday. That’s when he gets the shock of his life: the dead man he’s just resuscitated has been seen by Patrick Nolan! What are his feelings at that moment? It’s not hard to imagine. There are a thousand questions teeming in his bewildered mind. Is someone amusing themselves by playing the role of the dead man, just as he’d done himself several times? No, that’s ridiculous. An extraordinary coincidence? Hard to believe. What he’s most worried about is the crypt getting searched. If anyone should find the “fresh” corpse of Harris Thorne, that could put investigators on his track. Incidentally, there’s no way to tell whether a body’s been frozen or not. Possibly he didn’t know that. But, in any case, if they did guess it had been, that simply couldn’t be helped. On the other hand, it was absolutely vital to eliminate all traces of the conservation operation in the Blounts’ workshop, the simplest and surest way being to set fire to it. Which he does that same night.’ Twist shot a discreet glance at Paula. ‘There’s nothing to indicate that he realised Brian was in there when he threw the match through the window.’

Even though no one said so, it was quite clear that nobody in the room believed that the prospect of another murder would have deterred Francis in any way. Twist continued:

‘I wouldn’t have wanted to be in Francis’s shoes the following day, Sunday, when two tourists formally identified the driver of the car that had hit them. I’m sure you can recall the expression on his face the night we told him we were going to visit the chapel. Enough said. But none of that explains the double reappearance of Harris Thorne, who refuses to stay in his coffin. I feel I should warn you puzzle lovers in advance that the explanation is disappointingly simple. Over to you again, Mr. Nolan.’

Patrick undid the top button of his shirt. His eyes remained stubbornly riveted to the tips of his shoes as he started to speak:

‘I must tell you at the start,’ he said, in an almost unrecognisable voice, ‘that the Thurlows weren’t entirely unknown to me. They’re close friends and Louis is my associate in the detective agency.’

Redfern looked thunderstruck at the revelation, and Twist and Archibald Hurst both cleared their throats.

‘As I told you just now,’ continued Patrick, his face scarlet, ‘I began to vaguely understand the situation on Monday evening when I observed Francis in the process of transporting a corpse in a wheelbarrow, and then when I took a peep inside the workshop. But it was only the next day, when I learnt of Sarah’s death, that I began to understand the significance of what I’d seen. Many of the details still remained obscure, but I knew enough to be certain that Francis had killed his sister.

‘Why didn’t I denounce him then? For I could have easily have done so. Besides my own testimony, there must have been other clues in the workshop. I kick myself now for not having had the good sense to go back at the time, because then I would have discovered Brian and he wouldn’t now be in hospital… I wasn’t trying to cover up what Francis had done — far from that — but I didn’t want to be the one who denounced him… or, rather, I didn’t want one particular person to know I was the one. Because that person might think that I’d acted for personal reasons… She might even have thought I was lying to discredit the person who… and would end up believing Francis was innocent. I know none of this is very clear, but the person in question knows what I mean.’ Patrick continued to stare at the tips of his shoes. ‘To sum it up, Francis had to pay for his crime, but without me accusing him to his face.

‘What I decided to do could be criticised in some respects: there might have been simpler ways to lead the investigators to understand what had happened. But I wanted to maintain the atmosphere of the affair by progressively frightening the villain, backing him into a corner, and causing him to lose his reason once he realised that the end was inevitable. And a night inspection to the family vault seemed like a nice finishing touch. I didn’t know whether Francis had put the corpse back into its coffin, but an empty coffin would have been just as suspect. Anyway, to cut a long story short, the person I supposedly saw after the funeral, and who resembled Harris Thorne like two peas in a pod, never existed. I made the whole thing up. As for Harris Thorne the demon driver, he was made up, too. I contacted Louis Thurlow last Thursday and told him where to find the convertible. It was he who borrowed it and put it back after damaging the wing of his own vehicle, with the assistance of his wife. I don’t think I need to draw a picture.’

The chief superintendent was sitting with his mouth open.

‘Let me see now,’ purred Hurst, with a feline smile, ‘false testimony during a murder investigation… That could cost the three of you dearly, not to mention your detective agency. Concealment of evidence, withholding of facts, manipulation of police officers in the execution of their duty… Luckily for you, we know how to observe a discreet silence. I’d like to point out, however, that during our visit to the kingdom of the dead, the culprit didn’t crack, as you obviously had hoped.’ His face saddened. ‘And maybe that was a blessing in disguise. The terrible collision which cost the lives of the Hiltons — already suffering from the loss of their daughter — also avoided them learning the horrible truth about their son.’