by Paul Halter
‘All right,’ he said eventually, getting up. ‘But it’ll be a gift, not an order. My wedding gift.’ Roger started to object but the sculptor cut him short. ‘It’s that or nothing. And I’m going to insist on another condition: let me go home, because I’m sure you’re dying to see the back of me.’
The young couple spent the next few days decorating their nest. With great enthusiasm Patricia spent long hours with various merchants selecting interior furnishings and garden plants. The apparently unlimited budget she had at her disposal created some indecision for someone who had previously had to weigh the price of everything. As for Roger, he launched himself joyously into his new passion: home handiwork. His latest project was building a shed at the rear of the house to shelter his car. Patricia was so occupied with her new home that she scarcely thought about the nightmare of the first day. But she hadn’t forgotten the unfinished sentence of her husband: “The room with the view of the tree where someone....”
Someone did what? she had asked herself at the time, and later when she was alone. In the context, the question was intriguing, to say the least. Roger owed her an explanation and she wasn’t going to forget it. But each time she had indeed forgotten, until one evening during their second week together, after she’d served him an after-dinner coffee. And even then, it was by pure chance that the subject came up.
‘I saw David this afternoon,’ said Roger. ‘He’s still waiting to... how did he put it?’
‘Immortalise me in wood,’ replied Patricia, not without a note of pride in her voice.
‘Yes, that’s it. You should go there, darling. I’m sure he’d be horribly vexed if you refused. He’d take offence and I’d lose a friend.’
‘And aren’t you just a little jealous? He’s not bad looking at all, your friend.’
‘You could never make me jealous. I’ve too much confidence in you.’
‘Taking me for granted, are you? Just because we’re newly married doesn’t mean you shouldn’t watch me. You have to win my love every day, my darling. Every day!’
So saying, she got up and started to perform an oriental dance in the middle of the kitchen, shooting her husband lascivious glances. It ended in outbursts of laughter from both of them and Roger saying:
‘You’re wonderful, darling. Fantastic! You’re—.’
‘Mad? Sometimes I think so. Anyway, now I’ve persuaded you that I’ve lost my powers of seduction, I can go to see your friend with a clear conscience.’
Roger cleared his throat reproachfully:
‘Be careful though. You never know.’
Patricia’s expression became serious and, after a pause she asked:
‘By the way, did you hear about the child who’d been murdered?’
‘Yes, of course. People have talked about little else for the past two weeks.’
‘No, not that one. There’s been another, and not far from here.’
‘Another disappearance?’
‘He didn’t disappear for long, as I understand it. They found his body yesterday morning. Strangled and with his throat cut, just like the other one. It’s abominable: how can someone do that to a child? There can’t be a motive for a crime like that... unless it’s insanity. Which reminds me: I have a question to ask you concerning strangulation. Do you remember that nightmare I had about the tree which....’
After Patricia had clearly formulated her question, Roger fell silent for a moment, then:
‘It’s a very old story,’ he said, a faraway look in his eye. ‘And I’ve been wanting to tell you about her for a long time.’
‘Her?’
‘Lavinia. The girl who occupied that room, once upon a time. A girl who... But let me begin at the beginning. The first thing you should know is that your dream wasn’t all that surprising. That room has a history, and a rather sinister one. Just like the tree, for that matter.’
Roger took his time lighting a cigarette, then continued:
‘Have you guessed what’s under the tree?’
Patricia, who was holding her coffee cup with the tips of her fingers, froze:
‘I’ve no idea. In the stories it’s either treasure... or a corpse.’
‘You’re correct, it’s a corpse. It was buried there before the tree was planted. But not just any corpse. The story goes back several centuries, but even so, I’m afraid you’ll have trouble getting to sleep after you’ve heard the whole story.’
‘Whose corpse?’ insisted Patricia, vehemently.
‘That of a witch. Or, more accurately, a female vampire who was hanged after being accused of slitting the throats of village children.’
4
Early in the evening, Dr. Alan Twist knocked at the door of a familiar office in New Scotland Yard. It was no surprise to find his old friend Inspector Archibald Hurst with his nose buried in a dossier. The cone of light from the single lamp revealed scattered papers and a massive hand holding a cigar next to an ashtray full to the brim. Not having been able to reach the policeman at home and having learnt that he was in his office, the criminologist had deduced that an important case had come up. And, for those who knew the inspector, further confirmation had come at the sight of the unruly forelock on his forehead.
“Something’s afoot,” Twist told himself, sitting down opposite his friend and asking slyly:
‘Good evening, Archibald, is everything all right?’
The inspector, a heavily built man in his fifties with a ruddy face, grumbled something which might have been an affirmation. Dr. Twist, older, taller and much thinner than his friend, regarded the latter with almost childlike blue eyes from behind pince-nez attached to a black silk cord. His calm, amiable manner stood in stark contrast to that of the policeman.
‘Anything in particular?’ continued Twist gently.
‘Look at this,’ replied Hurst, sitting up suddenly. ‘Tell me what you think.’
Dr. Twist took the document and examined it.
‘It looks like a map of Suffolk....’
‘It is a map of Suffolk. But don’t you see anything else, by thunder?’
‘Well, yes. There’s a curious geometric figure drawn in pencil.’
‘Geometric is the right word. I just got a lecture on it. From Briggs of all people. What a nerve! There ought to be a law forcing early retirement on elderly inspectors, too old for active service but lucid enough to give irritating advice to those of their colleagues doing all the hard work, especially those lumbered with the most complicated cases. That’s me, in case you failed to notice! “Join three points to form a triangle,” he says, as if I didn’t know. “Then draw lines from the corners to the medians and where they join is the barycentre,” as if I didn’t know that. He’s mocking me, Twist, don’t you agree?’
‘Possible, but I still don’t understand....’
‘The barycentre, the famous theory of the barycentre,’ growled Hurst, pushing back his recalcitrant forelock. ‘As if there were a hundred clues pointing to where the murderer was living. There! There! That’s where he is! As if things were that simple!’
He had stood up, as if to emphasise his words, but slumped suddenly down, as if overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness:
‘He’s right, of course. The theory works most of the time.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘But I don’t like people teaching me my business. And, in any case, I was just about to do that.’
‘Archibald, if you would kindly explain what’s happened....’
‘What? You haven’t worked it out? You’re getting old, my friend. Usually you know what I’m going to say before I even think it.’
‘If you’re going to be sarcastic, I’m leaving.’ Twist made as if to stand up, while pulling a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll leave you with this cutting from a Paris newspaper, about a certain Scotland Yard inspector specialising in insoluble cases, and whom the French police would do well to imitate....’
His eyes wide, the inspector asked in a gentler tone:
‘I
t’s about me?’
‘Who else would it be about?’
‘Show me that!’
Minutes later, Archibald Hurst, transformed, beaming and relaxed, put down the article in which a journalist from the other side of the English Channel—probably to stigmatise his own country’s police, but Hurst had chosen to interpret it otherwise—summarised all the cases brilliantly solved by the “subtle and clairvoyant Inspector Hurst, specialist in impossible crimes, a worthy disciple of Aristotle and emulator of the celebrated Sherlock Holmes.”
In vain did he try to appear modest while his face glowed with pride.
‘You were mentioned as well, Twist,’ he pointed out after clearing his throat.
‘Yes, I noticed: “always accompanied by his friend Dr. Twist, an amateur detective whose role is similar to that of Dr. Watson.”’
‘Well, that’s not so bad, is it?’
‘Not at all. I’m a great admirer of Dr. Watson.’
‘Good. Well, we can’t spend the evening in mutual admiration,’ said Hurst, getting to his feet. ‘That’s not my style, as you know. How about a coffee before I tell you about the case? You’re probably going to need it: it’s a dreadful business... Child murders committed by a maniac. Up until now, the press hasn’t made much of a splash about it, contenting themselves by writing about disappearances. But that could change rapidly....’
While a junior officer brought in the coffee, Hurst leant over the map and pointed at one of the angles of the triangle:
‘That’s Minhead Wood where the body of Harry White was found on the twelfth of May, having disappeared a week earlier. Dumped in the undergrowth. His throat had been cut, but he’d been strangled beforehand. But not there—there was no blood on the ground—or the surrounding area, which was searched with a fine-tooth comb. Harry lived in Latton, a bit further north, and had disappeared on the road back from school, although we don’t know at what time because there weren’t any witnesses.
‘This is Whitebridge, also adjacent to the woods. This one’s more recent: it happened on the thirtieth of June. John Thorne, eight years old. Identical circumstances: throat cut after having been strangled, at a place different from where he was found: behind a bush on the edge of the woods. His disappearance, on the other hand, occurred only two days before and happened in the evening, when he went out for a walk.
‘The third was found in a part of the forest where there was a gypsy encampment. They’re still in the area, by the way. It was actually the second murder chronologically, occurring around the twenty-sixth of May. The parents didn’t immediately report the disappearance of the little seven-year old gypsy, whose body has just been discovered, strangled, with the throat cut, just like the others. What do you think?’
Dr. Twist put down his coffee cup.
‘A very sad business. Probably a maniac.’
‘That seems obvious. But not one with bloodshot eyes and a foam-flecked mouth, wandering loose about the countryside.’
‘Did the victims have any other wounds?’
Hurst shook his head slowly:
‘No. No signs of being violated. Only strangled and throat slit—as if that wasn’t enough.’
‘By a man?’
‘Probably, because most such cases are, but in the circumstances it could equally well have been a woman. Harry White, the ten-year old, wasn’t very big. He, unlike the two younger ones, was strangled with a scarf. The culprit was careful to wear gloves each time and the medical examiner is cautious about describing the assailant, except to say it wasn’t a seven-foot giant with the hands of a gorilla.’
‘So it could have been anyone?’
‘Anyone. And it’s often the quietest and least suspicious ones. So it looks like we’re stuck with barycentric theory according to the celebrated savant Briggs.’
Dr. Twist filled his pipe slowly and carefully before lighting up.
‘I believe the statistics bear it out.’
‘I’m not denying it. Most of the time, this kind of killer lives at the “centre” of his crimes. He rarely kills close to home, but strikes further away, changing the spot each time and turning in a circle around his home base. Unfortunately the pattern only becomes clear after he’s killed several times. Our problem, Twist, is that we only have three reference points. So the result is very vague, at this point.’
‘So what have we got so far?’
‘Nothing, needless to say. The barycentre is the middle of the woods.’
‘What’s the nearest village?’
‘There are three, but Lightwood is slightly closer than the others. It’s very small and there’s nothing special about it. Have you heard of it?’
Dr. Twist thought for a moment, then exclaimed:
‘Why, yes! Maude Rellys, the niece of Sir Octavius, one of my oldest friends, lives there. She’s a charming young woman who loves tennis and painting. Very independent and very single-minded—and very spoiled!’
‘So, we have someone on the spot. See what you can do, Twist. Get in touch with her. See if she can keep an eye open and provide us with sketches of all the suspects.’
‘So that she may finish up with her throat slit? Sir Octavius would never forgive me.’
‘Don’t let me down, Twist,’ growled the inspector. ‘They’ll only be vague suspicions, as we’ve seen.’
‘The sad thing is,’ said Twist, shamefacedly, ‘that she’ll be only too delighted to play at detectives.’
‘So, it’s a done deal.’
‘From that point of view, yes. But it doesn’t really clarify anything. These murders are atrocities committed by a particularly dangerous individual, about whom we know practically nothing. Not a single clue. And there’s an aspect of the case which disturbs me greatly... The absence of blood.’
‘Absence of blood? He slit their throats, for heaven’s sake!’
Dr. Twist blew out a thin puff of smoke, before explaining himself slowly and carefully.
‘I’m talking about the absence of blood at the scene of the crime, deliberately underlining the fact that the victims had been killed elsewhere. Is it normal with this kind of maniacal killer to move his victims each time? Where does he kill them? Where’s the blood? Why slit their throats after strangling them? None of it makes sense.’
5
Patricia, pale and wide-eyed, stared at her husband. Her fingers, clutching the tablecloth, trembled imperceptibly.
‘A witch?’ she repeated in a trembling voice. ‘A female vampire who slit children’s throats? ... But, for heaven’s sake, isn’t that what’s happening now?’
Roger nodded his head in commiseration:
‘I’m beginning to wonder whether I should have told you. But now it’s too late. You’re as white as a sheet, darling.’
‘I have to know!’
‘As I said, the story dates back several centuries to the end of the Middle Ages, to the reign of Henry VIII or his son Edward; in other words to just before this house was built. Witches were nothing unusual and every village declared it had one, as soon as the cattle fell suddenly ill, or a series of strange thefts broke out, or some other calamity befell the neighbourhood. Usually, the accused was an eccentric old woman living on the outskirts of the village. But not always... take the case of Liza Gribble who was, by all accounts, young and very pretty....’
‘Liza Gribble,’ Patricia repeated several times to herself, her eyes riveted on her fingers, mechanically stroking the table cloth. ‘It’s not the kind of name you associate with a witch.’
‘Some people must have thought differently at the time. She was accused of a series of child murders, quite spread out over time, but occurring periodically. Some vanished completely, but those that were found all had their throats cut.’
‘So Liza Gribble was a vampire.’
‘Yes, all indications were that she was responsible.’
‘All? Meaning what?’
Roger served himself more coffee and emptied his cup calmly before answe
ring:
‘I don’t know exactly, but it doesn’t really matter. It didn’t need much to convince a few excited villagers, thirsty for revenge. She was hanged and buried there, at the back, below the old aspen tree, which was planted shortly thereafter. But don’t ask me why.’
‘Hanged... That’s strange, I thought that kind of creature was always burnt alive.’
‘That’s possible,’ grumbled Roger, ‘but... but I don’t really think there were any established rules.’
Patricia fell silent for a moment, then asked:
‘I suppose you learnt all that in the village?’
‘Yes, but I believe my parents also told me the same thing when I was a child.’
‘It was David who refreshed your memory, I presume?’
‘David, Maude, Miss Pickford, or someone else. I don’t know any more.’
‘Maude?’ repeated Patricia, raising her eyebrows. ‘Who’s Maude?’
‘A friend. She paints and plays tennis. I believe you know her by sight?’
Patricia nodded.
‘Yes, I think so. I’ve spoken to her without knowing her name. Charming, in any case. And Miss Pickford?’
‘She’s the librarian,’ replied Roger, smiling. ‘No problem there, darling, she’s a spinster. Nevertheless, she’s very pleasant and I’m sure you’ll get along fine with her.’
‘I prefer to make my own mind up. In any case, I was intending to go over and borrow a few books. Come to think of it, you’ve probably met the other gentleman....’
‘What’s his name?’
‘I can’t remember, although he did tell me on the train. He and I were alone together for part of the journey, and I’ve seen him a couple of times since. He takes walks near here. He’s in his sixties and quite distinguished-looking. You must know him, you’ve been here quite a while.’
‘Before you joined me, I was only here weekends, but I think I know who you mean. He’s been renting a room at the inn since about a month ago and, now that you mention it, he does take a lot of walks.’
‘Particularly around here.’
