by Paul Halter
THE VAMPIRE TREE
Paul Halter
Translated by John Pugmire
The Vampire Tree
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published in French in 1996 by
Librairie des Champs-Elysees as L’Arbre aux doigts tordus
Copyright © Paul Halter & Editions du Masque-Hachette Livre, 1996
THE VAMPIRE TREE
English translation copyright © by John Pugmire 2016.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design by Joseph Gérard
For information, contact: [email protected]
FIRST AMERICAN EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Halter, Paul
[L’Arbre aux doigts tordus English]
The Vampire Tree / Paul Halter
Translated from the French by John Pugmire
Pour Sabine, en toute affection P.H.
1
Friday, May 23
Travelling down in the local train from London, Patricia Sheridan watched the peaceful, green countryside of Surrey go by. Everything seemed contentedly asleep that afternoon under the gentle rays of the spring sunshine. Lazy cows foraging under the hedgerows hardly bothered to look up as the train passed. From time to time the occasional ancient rooftop could be seen amongst the trees, as if to remind the observer that there was human presence in this landscape which time seemed to have forgotten.
‘Remarkable scenery.’
Patricia jumped and turned towards the man who had disturbed her reverie by uttering the very thoughts going through her head. He was the only passenger in the compartment since those irritating chatterboxes, with their arms full of packages from their London shopping spree, had got off at the previous stop.
She’d hardly noticed him. In his seventies, with white hair and dressed conservatively in tweed, he had a pleasant, intelligent face and must have been watching her for some time to have divined her thoughts so accurately.
She mumbled a few words of reply before settling back once again to contemplate the passing scenery, having no interest in participating in a conversation which she sensed would not terminate until she left the compartment. For the moment, all that she wanted to think about was what would be awaiting her when she got off the train at Lightwood.
How could it be otherwise for young Miss Patricia Squibby, who had become Mrs. Sheridan less than a week ago? The lucky fellow—for Patricia was very pretty—was one Roger Sheridan, a young, red-headed twenty-eight year old whom she had met a mere three months before in circumstances which she only dimly recollected.
It had happened at a friend’s party. At the height of the evening—helped, no doubt, by a few cocktails—she had danced all alone like a whirling dervish before losing consciousness and waking up on a sofa with an unknown face staring down at her.
It had taken her quite some time to recover, during which Roger, before eventually introducing himself, had sat watching her very much as Adam must have done when he saw Eve for the first time. Even though Patricia was aware of her attraction for the opposite sex, no one had ever looked at her with such fascination.
A fascination which showed no signs of diminishing in the days which followed, which surprised her somewhat, for her unpredictable mood swings had lost her a number of friends. She was undeniably difficult, going from spontaneous gaiety and euphoria one day to deep melancholy and depression the next.
None of which seemed to bother Roger who, when pressed by an anxious Patricia, explained that the changes of mood should be viewed like the transformations of Cinderella from the little girl in rags to the ravishing princess: as a constantly renewed source of pleasure.
Nevertheless, she felt obliged to warn him:
‘I don’t really know what happens to me at such times, Roger. And sometimes I even feel I don’t know who I really am.’
Roger casually swept aside her concerns:
‘They’re just momentary lapses, the kind that everyone has.’
‘You’re only saying that because you’ve never really seen me in one of those states.’
‘You’re making too much out of it. And, as I said, it’s a joy to continually rediscover you. Now I’ve got something far more important to tell you... or, rather, to ask you.’
The perceptive reader will already have guessed the nature of the request. And, by mid-May, Roger and Patricia were man and wife. The wedding was a quiet one, with just a few friends, neither of the happy couple having any close relatives. A marriage made in heaven, some said, but others muttered that the difference in their backgrounds would lead to trouble later on, Patricia having lost both her parents—refugees from central Europe—during the wartime Blitz.
She’d spent her adolescence in a London orphanage before acquiring a nursing diploma. The suburban hospital where she had worked for the past two years had nothing but good to say about the energetic and cheerful twenty-four year old with a slender figure and chestnut hair. The mischievous look in her big blue eyes gave her great charm and she spread sunshine wherever she went, except on those rare occasions when a bleak and distant look crept into her gaze.
As for Roger, he’d had the good luck to be born into a wealthy family, well-established over several generations, who had had the commendable idea not to proliferate their descendants, which meant that when his father died Roger became the sole heir to a considerable fortune.
The senior Mr. Sheridan had passed away the year before, only a few months after his wife, at the age of seventy. Roger, their only son, had been a late arrival. His ancestors, prosperous weavers, had settled in the village of Lightwood, in Suffolk, and opened their first workshop during the reign of the first Queen Elizabeth. It was no longer in existence, but the ancestral home—for better or for worse—had survived all of the turbulent and tragic events in the history of the Sceptred Isle. Only a part of the original half-timbered mansion was still standing, but Roger insisted it had lost nothing of its character.
The house was only part of his inheritance, which consisted mainly of stocks and shares and other investments guaranteeing him a comfortable future. Both he and his parents having lived in the capital, he had never actually visited the old mansion. He had a vague recollection of his father pointing it out as they were passing through the village one day, but that was all. Up until recently, he hadn’t thought about it. An old couple, friends of the family, had lived there, but they had died shortly before his parents. It was almost by chance, while making an inventory of his inheritance, that he went to look at it. Merely intrigued at first, he became more and more captivated by the place and spent many weekends there. ‘At first,’ he told Patricia, ‘I just went to relax and soak up the atmosphere of the countryside and the old house. Then I started to rummage around and even tinker a little bit, thinking about all the possible changes which could be made.’
Up until now, Roger hadn’t taken Patricia there, wanting to keep it as a surprise. She needed to discover it after their marriage, for it was to be the cosy nest of their dreams. Ideally, they should have spent their wedding night there, but Roger had delayed things a week so as to put the finishing touches to it. So it was that, after their short honeymoon—three days in a Devon seaside resort—Patricia had gone back to her minuscule London flat, champing at the bit, to await the official invitation: a telegram from Roger, who had gone to Lightwood directly
to get the work finished as soon as possible.
The telegram had arrived at three o’clock that afternoon. And, less than an hour later, suitcase in hand, she had rushed to Liverpool Street station to take the first train to Lightwood.
Her nose pressed against the glass, ignoring the clicking of the wheels and the whistling of the steam as the old train meandered lazily between its many stops. There was excitement on her face, but also traces of anxiety. Noticing the reflection of the gentle old man in the glass, she felt guilty she’d treated him so brusquely and ignored him.
She smiled at him and observed, with more enthusiasm than before, how beautiful the countryside was. As she’d anticipated earlier, it was the start of a discussion—or, rather, a monologue—which proved interminable. The man had a slow, languid delivery which was easy on the ear and she began to relax as he droned on about various events in his life, sprinkled with anecdotes in a manner which might have become irritating from the mouths of others. For all that, Thomas Fielding—for that was his name—was very discreet about himself, and his account focussed almost exclusively on other people, of whom he was a sharp observer. She complimented him on his gift, secretly hoping to see him blush with confusion, but in this she was disappointed. Thomas Fielding replied smoothly:
‘As sharp-eyed as a lynx towards others, and as blind as a bat about oneself. It’s a national fault, which I admit to possessing more than the average.’
‘I don’t think it’s a fault,’ protested Patricia.
‘To be blind about oneself?’
‘No, I’m talking about observing others. I’m sure it’s to our advantage to know people better.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘I believe most conflicts occur from people not properly understanding one another.’
‘Who can argue with that? But, on the other hand... it’s not always best to know too much. If one detects antipathetic feelings in someone else, not only does one take offence, one develops one’s own antipathetic feelings which the other person is bound in turn to detect, resulting in an escalating spiral which will inevitably lead to conflict.’
Patricia nodded her agreement, but added, with a smile:
‘Don’t tell me you deliberately ignore what your eyes tell you.’
‘Well, no, but—.’
‘In any case, I think it’s all instinctive.’
‘How right you are! And that’s precisely my case.’ He smiled modestly. ‘I observe with my eyes, obviously, but also with my instinct. I sense things more than I see them.’
‘A bit like a medium?’
‘If you like,’ agreed Thomas Fielding, rather grudgingly. ‘But obviously not to the same degree. I don’t have a gift, as such.’
‘But you’re very observant,’ insisted Patricia. ‘There’s no doubt about it.’
Thomas Fielding gave in with a smile:
‘If you say so. And, since we’re exchanging confidences, I admit I get a certain satisfaction out of it and it’s my principal distraction since my retirement. Even though it has nothing to do with being a surgeon, which is what I did in my previous life. What do you think of that?’
Patricia looked at him in bewilderment:
‘I don’t quite understand: what is your passion?’
‘It’s true, I didn’t tell you. Anyway, it’s very simple: I spend my time walking and travelling at random. Often with a suitcase, in the event I get a live impression.’
‘A live impression?’ repeated Patricia, intrigued.
‘Let’s say when I detect a certain atmosphere.’
‘You mean when there’s a lot of activity?’
A smile of amusement crossed the old man’s wrinkled face.
‘Good grief, no! That’s precisely what I try to avoid. What I mean by atmosphere, to give you an idea, is what emanates from an abandoned or haunted house....’
‘A haunted house?’ repeated Patricia, eyes wide open. ‘Do you study haunted houses, then?’
‘No, no,’ protested the old man calmly, with a smile. ‘At least, not exclusively. That was just an example. Let’s just say that, generally speaking, I’m happy to spend my time amongst old stones, in places full of history. But atmosphere doesn’t always come from some antique monument. It can come from a nondescript village, for example, when you least expect it. The main thing is that I experience a tingle under my skin, an indefinable frisson which tells me to stop. In fact, you’re not far from the truth: it often turns out that the places I choose instinctively are haunted in one way or another. By some tragedy in the past, for example. I seem to have a sixth sense for uncovering such places....’
So saying, Thomas Fielding turned his attention to the passing countryside. Patricia was intrigued by the expression on his face and couldn’t suppress a shudder. Could there be any connection between his words and the smiling landscape rolling past. It was difficult to imagine. Yet the next observation the old man made gave Patricia the impression that he could read her like an open book:
‘How could there be such dramas connected with such a peaceful countryside, I can hear you say. Look at the soft lines of the distant hills, the verdant grassland, the old houses sleeping under the gentle sun... Everything to soothe the spirit. How could tragedy occur here? It seems absurd. And yet....’
The intonation of those last words sent shivers up Patricia’s spine.
Mr. Fielding continued, but in a more sombre voice:
‘I don’t like to tout my experience, but I can’t ignore what it has told me during the course of this long voyage which will soon end for me. Tragedy is everywhere: it’s part of life and often happens when you least expect it. Some people seem able to sense it in advance. I can’t tell you how I do it, but I am one of those. I have a sort of sense which is rarely wrong. Speaking of which, did you overhear the conversation of the two old ladies who got out at the last station? They were talking about a child who had disappeared and whose body had just been discovered in the woods.’
‘I—I wasn’t paying attention,’ stammered Patricia.
‘It didn’t happen at the place where they got out, but in the same region. Can you imagine such things happening here?’
Patricia stared at the green fields separated by hedgerows covered in wild roses and murmured:
‘Yes, it’s scarcely believable.’ After a short silence, she added: ‘And are you travelling at the moment?’
‘Yes, but I’m about to stop. For quite a while, I expect. I like this part of the world. My travels led me to a small village near here a few weeks ago, which will be the next stop on the train. Here we are, in fact... I almost missed it!’
Patricia watched the old man in silence as he got up while the train was slowing down, its wheels making a groaning noise on the rails. He took his leave courteously, saying he’d been charmed to make her acquaintance, and stepping down once the train had come to a stop.
She followed him with her eyes as he walked the length of the platform. He exited through the white barrier unhurriedly, stepped past the old brick building and disappeared from view. The picture of the sleepy, old-world station, bathed in gold by the setting sun, had a curious effect on her. Something tried to attract her attention and rouse her from her somnolence, but to no avail. The station-master blew his whistle and the train started to move, giving out clouds of steam. Patricia watched the receding platform, but with the image of the old man still in her mind, even though he had left several minutes before. Something else was bothering her.
With a deep sigh she settled down in her seat. She reproached herself for feeling better after that charming old man’s departure, but she had started to feel ill at ease towards the end after his strange words. Above all, she felt relieved that he hadn’t got out at the same stop as herself. She would have taken it as an ill omen if the mysterious old man had chosen the village of Lightwood, where she and Roger planned to start their young marriage, for his studies.
Speaking of which, she should be there
very soon. Her watch showed half past five, so there shouldn’t be more than a couple of stops before she arrived. My goodness, how the time had flown by while she was listening to the old man. He’d got out pretty quickly, faster than this old locomotive, which seems constantly out of breath! She decided to make enquiries at the next station.
Ten minutes later, the train stopped. The station sign said Nordley. Lightwood must be the next station. She decided to ask the young woman who had just come into the compartment as the train pulled away once more.
‘Lightwood?’ replied the other, staring at her wide-eyed.
Just at that moment, and before her companion could speak, the penny dropped. What had been trying to attract Patricia’s attention while she had been mulling over Mr. Fielding’s words had been the station sign where the old man had got off. The sign had said....
‘Lightwood?’ repeated the woman. ‘That was the last station!’
2
Old Mr. Fielding had alighted at Lightwood. That’s where his instincts had led him, where he had detected a bizarre “atmosphere,” that famous little frisson that was rarely mistaken.
Lightwood? Patricia had imagined a charming little spot under a cloudless sky, with birds twittering in the trees... And now there was a shadow over the place. Was this not to be the village of her dreams? Had she been mistaken? She had refrained from visiting until now, out of respect for Roger’s wishes. Nevertheless, she hadn’t been able to resist taking a look at the surrounding area in a friend’s car, after work. But things are different at night.
She suddenly felt listless. There was a feeling of solitude about the empty platform of this little country station. The two sets of tracks vanishing in the distance sparkled under the rays of the setting sun. Her eyes were riveted on the thousands of tiny spots of light. Be careful, Patricia, get a grip of yourself. You know how this will end if you don’t. If you keep staring at the tiny lights, you’ll end up not seeing anything and not recognising anyone, including yourself. Don’t let this passing moment of discouragement overwhelm you.
