The Madman's Room

EPILOGUE

At the end of the week, Paula returned to Padstow to move in with her parents. She raised no objection when Patrick proposed accompanying her, neither did she manifest any joy. Would she be able to forgive him one day? She didn’t reproach him for anything, anything at all. Knowing him, she wasn’t at all surprised he’d acted as he did. Would she allow him to visit from time to time? She saw no objection, but showed no enthusiasm, either.

Patrick’s parents saw their son more often in a few weeks than in the previous several years, as the young detective visited them regularly. Relations between Paula and Patrick returned to what they had been before that famous midnight swim, but without the mischief and joyful laughter. Just friends, no more than that.

Winter passed, sombre and gloomy, and the days started to get longer. The migrant birds returned along with the first warmth of spring. Whenever Patrick visited Padstow to see his friend, he always invited her to lunch in a restaurant noted for its fine cuisine, its excellent cellar and the propriety of its staff, and that day in May was no exception. Except that, on that day, as they were seated in the dining room overlooking the bay, he thought he detected, for the first time, the flicker of a smile. He reached across the table and touched her hand. She didn’t pull it away….

The following month, White Camellia and Blue Reed went on their honeymoon.

What happened to Dr. Meadows? One might have imagined him saddled with a rich, austere and authoritarian wife. Not a bit of it. He married one of the most beautiful young women in the county. And one of the richest as well. The only cloud on the horizon: two months after the wedding, she eloped with a silver-tongued travelling salesman. Dr. Meadows still hasn’t got over it.

The day he was released from hospital, Brian asked Bessie to marry him. She retorted that, although it was a very proper and seductive proposition, she was somewhat surprised it hadn’t come sooner. Nevertheless, she accepted on one condition: there was never to be any mention of prophecies, predictions, divinations or anything of the sort. Brian assured her she had nothing to worry about: ever since Dr. Twist had explained to him how Francis had manipulated him, he’d lost complete faith in his so-called powers and, furthermore, had no wish ever again to experience guilt when one of his predictions came to pass.

They married that summer and settled in Coventry, near the bicycle manufacturing firm which Brian had inherited from Sarah. Initially his employees and business partners doubted whether the new director, who seemed a nice enough fellow, had the necessary competence to run the company. Their misgivings disappeared when he displayed a natural flair for sniffing out new markets and shrewd investment opportunities.

No clouds appeared to darken their conjugal happiness and Bessie bore him twin daughters, followed by a male heir. Brian was a happy man in every way, and probably one of the few Thornes ever to be so. Except for one incident.

Having finally become resigned to selling Hatton Manor, Brian agreed to include all the furniture except for some of the books, which he would individually select. He himself took care of the main library, leaving Bessie to go through the books in the study, following very precise guidelines.

After two hours, she had almost reached the part of the bookcase where she’d been told the pivoted door to the storage room was hidden and decided to take a break. She went over to the window to watch the snow falling and, despite the roaring fire in the grate, she shivered, overtaken by a feeling of unease. The room had always had that effect on her. She went back to the bookcase and decided to try the secret panel herself. After removing a dozen books from the area around the handle, none of which was on Brian’s list, she came across one which looked different from the rest. Bound in calfskin-covered boards, it was covered in dust and displayed the title Journal intime d’un petit libertin in gold letters. Amused, she opened it and frowned. It was no ordinary edition from a printing press, but a collection of handwritten pages of manuscript loosely tied with red ribbon. And the subject matter had nothing to do with the cover….

An uneasy suspicion formed in her mind as she turned to the last page and read, without astonishment, the name of the author: Harvey Thorne.

An icy shiver went down her spine. Deeply troubled, she closed her eyes, for several minutes. Then, her mind made up, she shook herself and unlaced the ribbons tying the pages together. One by one, she threw them into the fire.

And Brian came into the room.

Meanwhile, in London, at a later time that evening, Inspector Hurst had dropped by his friend’s flat and they were both enjoying an excellent cognac by the fireside, oblivious to the snow falling outside.

‘… and notably the Thorne case, which you solved in such a masterful manner, down to the slightest detail.’

‘The slightest detail? Certainly not, my friend.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Hurst, his eyes popping out of his head.

‘Exactly what I said. The case is far from being solved.’

‘Are you joking?’

‘Far from it. Don’t misunderstand: the explanations Patrick Nolan and I gave were correct as far as they went. That’s not the problem.’

‘Then what the devil is?’

‘The best way I can describe it is as an accumulation of events, each of which can only be explained by coincidence. And, as you know, I don’t much care for coincidences. Take, for example, the warning Brian gave Harris when he decided to reopen the sealed room. I explained what persuaded Brian to do it but not why the incident itself actually happened. After all, two weeks after the prophecy Harris was indeed dead. And that’s not all. Think about it: once that cursed room was open there was a chain reaction of events, each of which we explained. But the facts remains they all occurred. The arguments between the Thornes increased, Sarah killed her husband accidentally and Francis was transformed into a veritable monster. According to all the witnesses, nothing could have predicted he would do such things. Even Nolan said he’d always been a decent sort of chap.’

‘But most murderers—.’

‘Maybe.’ Twist cut the inspector off. ‘But just think of all his machinations. They were more the work of a demented mind than a coldly calculating killer. I can think of dozens of ways of getting rid of someone, all far less risky than what he did.

‘And that’s not all. What about great-uncle Harvey’s predictions? Almost the entire family did actually perish by fire, exactly as he predicted. And Brian only avoided the same fate by a hair’s breadth. You can say the Hiltons weren’t direct descendants, but they were also burnt to death. No, truly, that string of coincidences is really troubling.

‘Then there’s the overall scheme of things. It’s a succession of mysteries, each weirder than the one before, culminating in the discovery of a more or less intact Harris Thorne in his own coffin. We explained each one in turn and the links which connected them. But each time, everything hung by a thread, starting with the part played by Patrick Nolan. If he hadn’t known Paula, she would never have married Francis. And if they hadn’t had their little adventure, and if it hadn’t taken the form it did — for Nolan, at least — he would never have done what he did. Above all, if he hadn’t decided on impulse to take the path through the woods, he would never have seen Francis and his wheelbarrow. As for Francis himself, I still can’t get over his subtle transformation into a particularly twisted criminal. Dr. Meadows played an important part as well, first by breaking off his engagement — which allowed Nolan to enter the scene — and secondly by creating, intentionally or not, a feeling of jealousy in Harris Thorne’s mind, a jealousy which was at the heart of his demise. On top of all that, there were Brian and his prophecies, which started everything.

‘And that’s just a rough summary. If we went into more detail, we’d be here all night.’

‘Fair enough, Twist, but what are you trying to prove?’

‘Nothing,’ sighed Twist, swirling his cognac in the glass. ‘Maybe I’m losing my grip.’

‘You said it, not I,’ sighed Archibald Hurst. ‘As for me, my biggest regret is that, although for once we found a secret passage at the scene of a crime, it turned out to be irrelevant.’

‘Bessie!’ exclaimed Brian, staring in agonised surprise at the pages burning in the grate. ‘What are you doing? What’s that book you’re burning?’

Bessie didn’t reply. He picked up the binding of the book, smiled briefly at the title, then rescued the last remaining page from the fire. He extinguished the flame and examined the fragment that had survived. He considered it for several moments, then turned to his wife:

‘One of great-uncle Harvey’s manuscripts?’

‘So it would seem. His signature was on the back page.’

‘Why did you burn it?’ he asked, trembling with emotion.

‘I had to do it, Brian,’ replied Bessie, looking him straight in the eye.

Brian nodded his head in silent agreement.

‘Yes,’ he said slowly, as if in regret, ‘I think you did the right thing. It’s better to forget about it all.’ A sudden eager gleam came into his eyes. ‘Did you… Did you read any of it?’

‘No.’

Once again, Brian examined what was left of the piece of paper. It was the first page of the manuscript. Only the first few lines remained: