The Vampire Tree

by Paul Halter

  Patricia examined it carefully, confirmed what her husband had said, and returned to her knitting.

  Hurst agreed with a sour smile that it could be a coincidence, and the proceeded to list other “coincidences,” notably the tune hummed by the killer.

  This time, he struck home. For several seconds, Roger looked like a hunted beast, trapped by a pack of hounds and looking frantically around for an escape route.

  ‘It—it’s incredible,’ he stammered.

  ‘So you agree you’re in the habit of whistling such a tune?’ persisted Hurst in a sugary tone.

  ‘I—I don’t know.’

  ‘I should warn you, Mr. Sheridan, that several of your friends have already certified the fact. Think carefully before you reply.’

  The master of the house stood up, his face scarlet. His voice went up a notch:

  ‘Yes! Yes! I admit it! I whistle that tune as well as a host of others. So what?’

  ‘If you add that to the rest, Mr. Sheridan, you’ll understand our—or, rather, your—position, which is, I have to say, rather critical. In your shoes, the wisest thing to do would be to—.’

  ‘Confess,’ interjected the young man, holding out both hands as one about to be arrested.

  ‘You’re confessing?’ repeated Hurst in surprise.

  ‘Confessing? Are you out of your mind? Confessing to what? Those crimes? Truthfully, do I look like a homicidal maniac?’

  ‘Roger hasn’t killed anybody,’ interjected Patricia suddenly, without looking up.

  The three men turned to look at the young woman, more intrigued by her calm and measured tone than what she had said.

  ‘I don’t feel your accusations carry much weight,’ she continued, still very calm. ‘A handkerchief and a tune. It sounds rather childish. You’re here because of what Miss Rellys told you, aren’t you?’

  There was a second silence, broken by Hurst clearing his throat before continuing:

  ‘Now, if you would be good enough to tell us what you were doing on Sunday night, at about ten o’clock, and provide some form of proof, we would be most grateful. And for you the matter would end there.’

  As Roger turned to look at Patricia, Hurst added:

  ‘I’m afraid a statement from your wife won’t carry any weight. Testimonies from spouses have no value in a court of law... Well?’

  ‘Roger, tell them. You were at a business dinner.’

  As Hurst slowly and deliberately pulled his notebook in order to take note, Roger, his face distraught, stammered:

  ‘S—Sunday at ten o’clock, you said?’

  ‘Start by giving us the name and address of the person or persons with whom you dined.’

  ‘I—I can’t.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Hurst, frowning.

  A vein was throbbed prominently in Roger Sheridan’s temple as he repeatedly ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘I... I can’t... it’s impossible.’

  Hurst looked at his colleague. Dr. Twist, who had appeared very composed up to that point, seemed more concerned about Mrs. Sheridan than about his impetuous friend’s line of questioning.

  ‘Impossible,’ he repeated, looking at Sheridan. ‘Do you realise the position such a response puts you in?’

  ‘I... I can’t say anything.’

  ‘So you haven’t the shred of an alibi?’

  Roger was looking down with his head in his hand. He repeated in a heart-rending tone:

  ‘No... I can’t tell you anything.’

  Hurst got to his feet, planted his two hundred pounds in front of the sobbing master of the house, and declared solemnly:

  ‘In that case, Mr. Sheridan, I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me to Scotland Yard. You should bring whatever personal effects you will need with you.’

  ‘I’m burning! I’m sure of it! I’m about to reach the end! My implacable logical powers are about to sweep away the shadows around the death of my beloved Eric!

  I assert that logic is the daughter of method and that a clear and well-ordered mind must, after having rejected all the wrong answers, retain one solution, and one solution only, which must then be the key to the puzzle. It’s no more difficult than that. No—I prefer to tell you right away—I haven’t yet solved the problem. I can’t yet reveal the famous solution, but I can, on the other hand, enumerate the bad solutions, such as the rope stretched from the end of the roof—or another tree—to the old aspen by the murderer, who then hung from it in order to come and go without touching the unbroken snow. Such an acrobatic exercise would inevitably have left marks where the rope was tethered—marks which would surely not have escaped the investigators’ notice. I’ve turned the problem over in my mind from all angles and the answer is no. A formal no, which means that it will not be necessary to return to this point.

  16

  Wednesday, June 18

  The day began under a grey sky and rain soon followed. A fine drizzle, which chilled the bones just to look at it. In Lightwood, even hearts were chilled. The news of Roger Sheridan’s arrest was an open secret, and Dr. Twist’s arrival in the early afternoon at the accused’s house caused many a resident to peer out of the window.

  Hurst, who was tied up with the suspect’s interrogation, had preferred to send his friend Twist rather than one of his men to talk to Mrs. Sheridan, for the interview would require tact in order to be fruitful. But he would have cried foul if he had seen the way the criminologist went about it. Even being familiar with his eccentricities, the inspector would have been shocked to see him talk about everything except the case.

  On that subject, Dr. Twist had contented himself with stating that, if Roger Sheridan persisted in remaining silent, he would be placing himself in a very delicate situation. Patricia had replied that she wasn’t worried because she had confidence in the justice system and she knew her husband wasn’t guilty.

  Straight away, and without even knowing her, Twist realised that the young woman wasn’t behaving normally and that it wasn’t entirely due to her husband’s situation. His gentle voice and manner quickly reassured Patricia, who became more and more talkative. After he’d complimented her on the good taste she’d shown redecorating the lounge, and particularly on retaining the old-fashioned style, she invited him to visit the house. Needless to say, it was the half-timbered part which interested him. The detective pricked up his ears when Patricia talked about the mysterious tragedy which had previously befallen the house, including the death of the witch. Patricia, in her element, spoke of both events with a wealth of detail and ended up showing Lavinia’s diary to Dr. Twist. The eminent detective, eyes gleaming, said that he would be fascinated to take a look at it. That was at half past two. At four o’clock precisely he put down the diary, having read it from cover to cover whilst Patricia kept him company, installed in her rocking-chair, watching the rain fall.

  ‘It’s remarkable,’ he said, filling his pipe. ‘A remarkable testimony.’

  ‘Would you believe I haven’t finished it yet,’ said Patricia, her eyes gleaming. ‘But it’s not out of lack of interest, believe me! How to explain? I’m taking my time and savouring everything, trying to understand Lavinia. She’s a fascinating person, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, very interesting and very lively despite the weight of the tragedy.’

  Patricia fixed her blue eyes on the crucifix above the door.

  ‘It’s true, she’s quite exuberant, even though she’s imprisoned by the death of her fiancé. She’s happy and sad at the same time... It’s funny, she reminds me little of myself sometimes: so much so that I can easily imagine her here, in this house and in this room—where she spent most of her time. Even here, where I’m sitting at the moment.’

  Patricia looked down at her hands on the arms of the rocking-chair. For several seconds, all that could be heard was the gentle movement to and fro. Then suddenly she asked, point-blank:

  ‘In your opinion, how was Eric killed? Have you any idea?’

&nb
sp; Eyes half-closed, Dr. Twist puffed for a few moments on his pipe. The question seemed to embarrass him. He turned it back on the young woman, who replied without hesitation:

  ‘No, but eventually I shall.’

  There was an amused gleam behind the detective’s pince-nez:

  ‘It’s not a straightforward case. And I know a bit about the subject because strange murders are a speciality of mine. This case is a real challenge to reason because the circumstances are so incredible.’

  ‘I know. But eventually I’ll work it out.’

  The determined tone of the young woman surprised Twist more than what she said. In fact, it seemed very peculiar to him that she could be so confident in the face of such a difficult puzzle which not only defied the laws of gravity but involved walking on snow without leaving a trace. Not to mention Lavinia’s mysterious premonitory dream, in which she saw her fiancé strangled by a tree at about the same time he was being strangled in real life.

  ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’ said Patricia, without taking her eyes off the dreary scene outside.

  This time, Dr. Twist removed his pince-nez in order to better examine the young woman. Decidedly, she pleased him. Not only did she quote Shakespeare, but it was one of his favourite passages. He followed her gaze and fixed his clear, dreamy eyes on the misted-up panes and listened to the soft patter of the rain.

  ‘Dear old Will,’ he said, after taking a few puffs on his pipe. ‘I often tell myself, all chauvinism apart, that he probably couldn’t have been born anywhere other than dear old England. It’s just like this strange business... could it have happened anywhere other than our island, perpetually plunged in fog—when it’s not raining, like today—where all the ghosts in the world seem to have agreed to meet?’

  Patricia smiled:

  ‘You say that as if you’re happy with it.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. Even though a ray of sunshine would be welcome from time to time. I’m thinking of the summer of 1940, when the sky was so blue you would really have to be perverse to have imagined what was to follow....’

  It was Dr. Twist who raised the subject of the Blitz, but Patricia who concluded it. And it was Dr. Twist who was treated to the same details as David Hale, who had heard them while Patricia posed for him in his studio. She told him also about the sculpture sessions and her encounter with David on the first day of her arrival in Lightwood, just after she’d had that strange nightmare.

  Dr. Twist made no effort to interrupt. He listened attentively and had relit his pipe several times before the subject turned to the current case. Seeing her inclined to talk, he saw fit to remind her of the charges against her husband, particularly since, strangely, she didn’t appear the slightest bit perturbed about his fate. Unless she was overconfident.

  ‘With all the charges and, above all, because of your husband’s obstinate refusal to speak, Scotland Yard had no alternative but to lock him up. It’s a very serious business.’

  ‘I know it’s a serious business. But the very fact that it is, means that Roger can have had nothing to do with it.’

  How many times had Dr. Twist heard those very same words from the mouths of criminals’ wives, motivated by their unshakeable faith in their husbands? But he knew it was futile to try to persuade them otherwise, despite the evidence. Even though, in the present case, he was far from sharing his friend the inspector’s conviction about the suspect’s guilt. In addition to which, Mrs. Sheridan, although she might be in the midst of a difficult period, didn’t strike him as being particularly naive.

  ‘The description of the murderer seems very vague and certainly not sufficient grounds for arresting someone,’ she insisted, in response to the detective’s summary.

  ‘There’s the handkerchief with the initials.’

  ‘It’s not his!’

  ‘And the tune which he whistles constantly.’

  ‘... And the anonymous letter,’ continued Patricia in a bitter tone. ‘All that proves is that someone is trying to frame him. Anyone can whistle that tune.’

  ‘Not anyone,’ said Dr. Twist, correcting her but inwardly satisfied with the reaction of the young woman, who seemed to be rousing herself from her apathy. This was someone who knew her husband well, sufficiently well to know that he hummed the tune regularly.

  ‘I can’t see it being anyone other than someone who was there that evening. What’s more, now that I think about it, he never stopped humming it. I remember, because it started to irritate me.’

  ‘There’s one last point, Mrs. Sheridan,’ said the criminologist gravely. ‘And that’s what he was doing at the time of the murder. Your husband obstinately refuses to say anything.’

  ‘He has no explanation?’

  ‘None, or almost none. He talked about a business dinner, but with no witnesses and no proof. A crude alibi which even he doesn’t seem to believe. But he won’t budge.’

  A vindictive gleam came into Patricia’s big blue eyes when she replied:

  ‘You’re looking for an evil and dangerous creature? Go and talk to Miss Maude Rellys. I know it was she who originally pointed you in Roger’s direction, even jokingly. I don’t know what game she’s playing exactly, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she were the one who sent you that letter.’

  As Dr. Twist had an hour to kill before his train back to London, he decided to try his luck and talk to David Hale, whose address Patricia had given him. He surprised the artist in front of a sculpture whose face was not unknown to him.

  ‘But that’s Mrs. Sheridan,’ he exclaimed, as his host took the dripping raincoat. ‘That’s her, certainly. She’s just told me about it: a sort of modern Philemon and Baucis?’

  ‘What do you think of it?’ asked the artist, who appeared to be very pleased with his work.

  Truth be told, Dr. Twist found the work quite unsettling. The workmanship was impeccable, but the subject itself was risqué. The upper part of “Patricia” was the young woman herself clad very elegantly in a Grecian drape, but the lower part terminated inexplicably in an inextricable tangle of roots. The craftsmanship was superb but the work left an uneasy impression: the painful contradiction between the beautiful face and the monstrous tangle below suggested a metamorphosis, but with no indication whether it was the young woman who was changing into a tree or vice versa. Dr. Twist wondered whether his opinion been affected by the dramatic anecdote about the so-called witch Liza Gribble, whose skeleton had been found in the ancient lattice of roots under the old aspen at the back of the Sheridan house, or maybe by Lavinia’s and Patricia’s dreams about the murderous tree. He thought it was probable, and also that the artist himself may have been influenced as well, as he chiselled the wood.

  Politely, Dr. Twist talked only about the work’s qualities, notably the face’s likeness to its subject.

  ‘The expression is really remarkable,’ he observed. ‘It’s so realistic one would think she was alive.’

  ‘But please keep it under your hat,’ replied the artist, obviously flattered by the detective’s compliments. ‘She hasn’t seen it yet. I want it to be a surprise.’ He caught himself suddenly and frowned. ‘Even though this isn’t the best moment for surprises. What a shock! I still can’t believe what’s happening to Roger.’

  ‘So you believe him to be innocent as well?’

  David, who had just hung Twist’s raincoat on the head of a wild boar, started to pace up and down one of the few open spaces in the studio, a frown on his delicate forehead.

  ‘Of course!’ he announced suddenly. “How could I do otherwise? Roger has become my best friend since his arrival in the village. For him to be the sadist who kills little children is ridiculous beyond words to those who know him! By the way, who are you exactly? I haven’t quite understood.’

  Dr. Twist explained, without attempting to hide the official nature of his visit.

  ‘And what do you think?’ asked David, waiting keenly for an an
swer.

  ‘I admit I’m baffled,’ replied the detective cautiously. ‘Legends, witches, ancient crimes, sadism, premonitory nightmares... Everything seems inextricably jumbled—like that tangle of roots over there.’

  The comparison seemed to give the artist pause for thought:

  ‘Yes, you could say that, and I can’t disagree. But you haven’t really answered my question.’

  ‘Whether your friend is guilty or not? I only met him yesterday, so you’re a better judge than I. But what does bother me is that he’s not forthcoming about his whereabouts. He refuses to give any explanation of his movements at the time of the crime! If you can help in anyway, we’d be grateful.’

  David lit a cigarette while casting a critical eye on his “Patricia.”

  ‘It’s certainly strange, I’ll give you that. But I can’t help you, I’m afraid. All I can do is repeat that I think I know him well enough to be convinced of his innocence. He’s also an artist in his own way, because he loves beauty, just like... Miss Pickford, for example.’

  ‘Isn’t she the local librarian?’

  David nodded:

  ‘And I find it difficult in the circumstances to believe he’s a destructive monster, do you understand?’

  ‘I see,’ replied Twist with a gleam of malice in his eye. ‘According to you, art lovers can never be accused of any crime. Which just happens to rule you out as a suspect as well. And Miss Pickford. And Miss Rellys, who paints.’

  David sighed wearily. ‘I expected that reaction.’ He looked long and hard at the detective, as if sizing him up.

  ‘I haven’t given you my point of view yet,’ said Twist. ‘I think you’re making a grave error.’