by Paul Halter
‘Let me see.’
Hurst almost snatched the packet the officer had pulled out of his bag. He pulled out a man’s handkerchief, carefully folded although dirtied from contact with the ground, and examined it carefully before handing it to his friend Twist.
‘And where did you find it?’
‘Close to where the kid was killed.’
‘And you didn’t spot it earlier?’
‘No,’ replied the officer stiffly, shaken by the tone of his superior officer. ‘Because it was hidden by the fallen branch of a tree.’
‘Show me where,’ said Hurst.
A few moments later, the two detectives were examining the spot where the body had been found, after listening to the explanations of the officer whom Hurst had then summarily dismissed to continue the search with his colleague.
‘You’re not exactly a model of courtesy today, Archibald.’
‘We have to set an example to these provincial officers and show them who’s in charge. Did you take a look at the handkerchief?’
‘Yes, but before going any further, I’d like to retrace the scene as it must have happened last night. Stop me if you think it’s a waste of time.’
After Hurst nodded his agreement, the eminent criminologist took his time to light his pipe.
‘The first observation I would make is that it’s the ideal spot to commit a murder. Not far from the fairground, which you can see through the trees which shelter you from the casual gaze, and at ten o’clock there can’t have been many people around. The killer could have attracted his victim and brought him here in less than ten minutes... The times fit and they also show that, while not rushing things, he didn’t waste much time either. And so, at the fatal moment, he grabs his victim and slits his throat right there, next to that tree.’
‘Yes, I saw the traces of blood,’ said Hurst, clenching his fists. ‘By thunder, I may have become hardened over all these years, but this kind of thing still revolts me!’
‘I share your feelings, but we can’t let ourselves get carried away. We’re going to need all our faculties if we’re going to catch the killer. Now, let’s examine the traces more carefully. You can still see a couple of spots of blood on the ground, which is still fairly dry. The medical examiner was right to point out there wasn’t much. But I’d like to make a further observation. Archibald, don’t you see anything strange?’
With an effort, the inspector leant forward to examine the ground to which Twist was pointing, then shook his head sheepishly.
‘What’s strange,’ continued Dr. Twist, ‘is that we can see a few spots in an area of about a yard square, but there are none in the middle... Look, Archibald, I can’t see any here.’ He drew a circle of about six inches in diameter. ‘Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I can’t see any.’
‘I agree, now that you mention it. So, what do you conclude from that?’
The criminologist puffed silently on his pipe while he looked around in a circle.
‘I think that the victim must have fought for a few moments,’ he continued. ‘That fallen branch, under which the handkerchief was discovered, has only been there for a very short time because the grass underneath is still green. So it must have been displaced or pushed, possibly by the poor child in one last attempt at defence. No doubt the branch was at the exact spot where the child was attacked... I believe I can even see his outline on the ground. Certainly there’s less grass there, but you can tell that an object of some length had lain there...and it must have been that branch. So we can reconstruct what happened thus: the killer pulls his weapon out of his pocket, which causes his handkerchief to fall out and land on the branch. The victim puts up a fight and kicks the branch, which lands upside-down over there on top of the handkerchief. What do you think, Archibald?’
‘It’s not impossible,’ acknowledged the policeman grudgingly—he would have preferred to announce the conclusion himself. ‘But that still doesn’t explain the mysterious absence of bloodstains.’
‘I’d like to think about that a little longer.’
‘For fear of sending me off in the wrong direction? I shan’t insist.’ A sly smile appeared on the inspector’s ruddy face. ‘So, according to you, the handkerchief must belong to the murderer?’
Twist appeared taken aback:
‘Why, yes.’
‘Did you see the embroidered initials R.S.?’
‘Of course.’
‘R.S., as in Roger Sheridan, for example.’
‘For example, but that isn’t conclusive proof.’
‘Maybe not, but you have to agree that all our leads point to him. The scene, the description of him... and now the handkerchief with his initials.’
‘Yes, but that’s only because Miss Rellys spoke to us about him. Without that, we wouldn’t even know he existed.’
Hurst flashed his feline smile again:
‘Luck has often played a part in our investigations, Twist. You of all people should know.’
‘Maybe, but I’d still like to proceed step by step. And most of all I’d like to talk to the lad who had the argument with the victim and then go to see that dear Maude Rellys.’
‘Roger! What a nice surprise!’ exclaimed the librarian upon seeing the young man open the door.
‘Good morning, Miss Pickford. How are you?’
‘Fine,’ said the spinster warmly. ‘But please call me Emily. We’ve known each other long enough. By the way, allow me to congratulate you on your evening. It was a great success!’
‘Modesty forbids me from saying so, but I have to agree,’ replied Roger, running a hand through his shock of red hair. ‘But it was all due to the quality of the guests. Speaking of which, the vicar appears to be a man of great erudition.’
‘Mr. Fielding, too. He’s a pleasure to listen to and a very alert man for his age. And he dances the waltz perfectly...just like you!’
Roger smiled in embarrassment at the memory of the end of that evening when several of the guests had danced to the waltzes emitted by the phonograph. But the memory of dancing with Maude Rellys had left a stronger impression than dancing with Miss Pickford. He’d been careful not to get too close to his tennis partner for fear of causing a scene, for Maude had been very provocative. If he’d been asked to choose someone to epitomise feminine danger, she would have been his unhesitating first choice. To make a comparison with mythology, he would have placed her somewhere between the beautiful Calypso, the insatiable goddess who managed to keep Ulysses on her island for many years, and the sirens who lured sailors to their death... for Maude was a very dangerous woman.
Miss Pickford hardly reminded him of Calypso, thought Roger, smiling to himself. But he would still be wary of her on a desert island because she had such vitality. She was one of those people who were always in a good mood.
‘Ah! Now that I think of it,’ she said, ‘I’ve managed to lay my hands on the second volume of the Histories of Herodotus. Guess who had it? Our vicar. But I seem to remember telling your wife that already.’
‘Yes, she mentioned it. But I think I’ll give Herodotus a break, for now. There are too many digressions.’
‘It’s well known that he rambles a lot.’
Roger gave an embarrassed smile:
‘I feel guilty, after all the trouble you’ve been to.’
‘I’m here for that, Roger. Did you come here for something specific?’
‘Yes. The other day you mentioned two books on the Mycenaens and the Cretan civilisation.’
‘Yes, I have the one on the Cretans. You’ll have to wait a while for the other. May I ask what interests you about them?’
‘Well, we tend to think of those old civilisations as being primitive, but I don’t share that view. I think it’s just because we don’t know enough about them. And I believe there are things they knew which have since become lost.’
‘Such as?’
‘Their knowledge of things metaphysical....’
‘Another murder!’
repeated Maude Rellys, whose sudden paleness matched the whitewashed walls of her cottage. ‘It’s quite terrifying. Yesterday night, you say, on the outskirts of the fairground?’
Inspector Hurst cleared his throat and put down his whisky.
‘Yes, at about ten o’clock.’
‘And you’re sure it was murder?’
‘Not the slightest doubt about it, miss. You can’t cut your throat like that by accident. Everything points to a new murder by the same maniac.’
Maude stared at the bottom of her glass and swirled the contents before emptying them in a single gulp. She got up and went over to stand in front of the great hearth.
‘Tell me, Dr. Twist, have you seen Papa recently?’
‘Sir Octavius?’ replied the criminologist, who had been absorbed by an abstract painting whose subject he had struggled in vain to identify. ‘Why, yes. Not long ago at the Hades Club.’
‘How is he?’
‘Well, as far as I can tell. He’s still as brilliant as ever at chess. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ replied Maude evasively. ‘Did he ask you about me?’
Dr. Twist looked at her over his pince-nez.
‘Yes, he asked me if your tennis had improved.’
‘Is that all?’
‘I think so.’
‘Ah.’
‘Should I give him a message the next time I see him?’
‘Yes, ask him to write to me. He’ll understand. And if he doesn’t, or pretends not to, tell him that if he doesn’t do something soon, his beloved daughter will be forced to join the ranks of the world’s oldest profession to survive.’
Dr. Twist’s pince-nez looked as if it might fall off.
‘I’ll make a point of doing so,’ he said.
Hurst broke the ensuing silence.
‘How are the sales of your paintings going, Miss Rellys?’
‘Would you like one?’ said Maude, reaching his side with the speed and suppleness of a panther.
Hurst gave an embarrassed smile:
‘It’s not that I don’t like them, but there’s no room left in my flat.’
‘You can always give it to someone.’
‘Yes,’ said Twist, ‘that’s a good idea. Particularly since Miss Rellys has graciously offered her co-operation in our present investigation.’
The inspector shot a murderous look at his friend and gave the young woman an affected smile.
‘Yes, why not? That is, if the police regulations allow me to do so.’
‘I’ll give you a good price, inspector, don’t worry. Choose the one you like best. ’
The policeman hesitated between two of the smaller paintings, one of a sad clown and one of a twisted old tree surrounded by snow.
‘You have good taste inspector. Those are my two latest paintings. The sad clown, of course, represents my father. As for the tree, that’s a different story. You’d better talk to Roger about that. He’ll explain it.’
‘Would that be Roger Sheridan, your friend?’ asked the inspector. Maude nodded in agreement. ‘That’s convenient, we were just about to talk to him. Which reminds me, how’s your investigation going? Have you found out anything more since out last visit?’
Maude looked downcast.
‘Nothing beyond what I told you last time... But, with this latest murder, I may be able to detect suspicious evidence about the culprit.’
‘The culprit,’ repeated Hurst with a sinister grin. ‘By which you mean your friend Sheridan?’
‘Roger? The maniac?’ exclaimed Maude. ‘I was joking. He was one of the last people to move into the village, as I said... But I mentioned that just for the sake of saying something.’
‘Well, miss, we have good reason to believe that, maybe without meaning to, you may have hit the bull’s-eye... It’s not at all out of the question that your friend is our man.’
Ten minutes later, after the inspector had related the latest turn of events to their hostess, her face had become a waxen image and her gestures, previously so confident, had become nervous and hesitant. She served herself another whisky while forgetting to offer anything to her guests.
‘It—It’s not possible. It’s just not possible,’ she repeated.
‘And why is that?’ asked the policeman in a coldly polite tone.
‘Because... it’s not possible. He’s my friend... He couldn’t have done it.’
‘Even the worst criminals have friends, miss,’ retorted Hurst pompously.
‘The handkerchief with the initials is just a coincidence.’
‘That’s possible,’ agreed Hurst, ‘and we’re not yet ready to put the handcuffs on him. But you must realise that the facts are troubling. Meanwhile I must ask you to treat our discussion with the strictest confidence. Don’t breathe a word to anyone, least of all your friend.’
Maude took a large swig of whisky and sat still with her eyes full of tears.
‘It can’t be Roger,’ she said. ‘You must be mistaken.’
14
I’m brooding, I’m brooding, I mustn’t, I mustn’t... Patricia repeated the words to herself as she went back and forth in her rocking-chair.
Was that the cause of the fourth murder? Was it because of the words of Mr. Fielding, whom she’d met after leaving David that afternoon, and who’d told her about the latest tragedy?
‘Do you see?’ he’d said, with a strange look. ‘We were within twenty-four hours of us all having an alibi... only the murderer didn’t strike that night but the following one... Curious, isn’t it? It’s almost as if he did it deliberately to make us all anxious. And a child from the village this time... It’s as if death is getting closer... Don’t you feel it?’
‘I beg you, Mr. Fielding, don’t talk like that. You’re beginning to frighten me.’
‘We need to be on guard, I tell you, because I can smell death.’
‘How can you say such things?’ she’d replied vehemently.
‘I can sense it, that’s all.’
Patricia had tried to decipher the long look he’d given her, but in vain. The distinguished old man had walked away, leaving her perplexed and worried.
Her fainting spell in the sculptor’s studio was another worry. What must David have thought of her, a registered nurse fainting because of a scratch? My God, she’d made such a fool of herself! She thought about it again when, lulled by the movement of the chair, she began to stare at the old silver crucifix above the lounge door. She felt almost physically a burning sensation in the hand which had trembled several hours earlier as she was holding the épée during her pose.
What did it all mean? She felt that something in the very depths of her being was trying to speak to her, to make her recall a mysterious event. But, each time, the brief hot flush she felt as she came close to her goal dissipated almost at once, at the same time as her burning hot souvenir.
And she was feeling more and more bizarre. Something inside her was changing. Her personality seemed to be crumbling and she sometimes had the impression she was turning into someone else. She had always had such a feeling, in fact: the awareness of a mysterious duality within her. But recently the impression had become stronger.
I’m brooding, I’m brooding, I mustn’t, I mustn’t....
She had to do something.
Why not get up and dance?
No sooner said than done. She went over to the phonograph to choose a record. While she was hesitating between Edvard Grieg’s Suites 1 and 2, something strange happened in her head, for at that very moment Roger came into the room whistling a passage from one of them. She stopped to mentally review her choice and stood there petrified for several seconds, asking herself what evil spirit could be playing such a trick.
‘Roger, it’s you!’ she exclaimed.
‘Who else would it be?’ he replied in surprise.
‘Roger, Roger, go and get my dress. We’re going to dance.’
‘Dance?... Which dress?’
‘The violet one
. Hurry... Let’s dance!’
A little later, the young couple, still dizzy from the feverish dancing, returned to the kitchen. Roger, unusually, helped Patricia prepare the evening meal, which they ate happily and calmly.
‘Pat,’ he declared after coffee was served, ‘do you know what we’re going to do tonight?’
‘Tonight?’ repeated Patricia in astonishment. ‘It’s already eight o’clock. Do you still have projects for tonight?’
‘Yes. We’re going to visit the cemetery.’
Patricia’s eyes widened:
‘The cemetery?’
‘Yes, I want you to see Lavinia’s tomb.’
‘But... But, can’t we go some other time? Why tonight?’
‘Because we keep putting it off. And, since we haven’t anything specific to do right now, I’d like you to see....’
‘See what? Lavinia or the tomb?’
‘Both. Because, once you’re in front of the tomb, it’s almost as if she’s there with you. I’m in agreement with Mr. Fielding’s theories. The influence of places and memories can be very strong in certain cases. Anyway, we have to decide. And if the vicar sees us roaming at night near his church, he’s going to ask himself a lot of questions. And I’m sure he’ll attribute everything to an intervention of the Devil!’
‘And who knows what fate would be reserved for us,’ laughed Patricia.
The clock was striking half past eight when the young couple arrived at the church grounds. The weather was less clement than on recent evenings: thick clouds were gathering to the west and a cold wind was blowing through the deserted village streets.
The iron gate was permanently ajar due to the ravages of time. It emitted a loud squeak of protest when Roger pushed it further open. A few gravestones were aligned along a partially hidden gravel path, but most appeared to have been strewn haphazardly about the cemetery by a celestial hand. At that hour, when the light from the dying day combined with that of the emerging stars, the contrast between the pale slabs and the dark grass was almost surreal. To their right rose the imposing Gothic silhouette of the church, bristling with little steeples, around which swirled the moaning wind.
