by Paul Halter
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘I believe, on the contrary, that artists are more disposed than the average man-in-the-street to become criminals. I know what I’m talking about. The craftiest criminals I’ve met have frequently displayed malleability in the planning and execution of their crimes.’
Surprised, David scrutinised the old detective. The man was thin, like himself, but taller, and there was something comic and childlike in his face, which made him more likeable.
‘You may be right,’ he said eventually. ‘That would make me an excellent substitute suspect, then, if your first choice doesn’t work out.’
‘Are you omitting Miss Rellys and Miss Pickford out of gallantry?’
‘Frankly, I can’t see a woman committing such crimes, even though there are others who believe the contrary, like our vicar.’
‘That would be the Reverend Benjamin Moore, if I’m not mistaken. Mrs. Sheridan spoke about him as an expert in demonology.’
‘He’s very knowledgeable, although I find him a bit strange.’
He turned towards the door, which had just emitted a squeak. A female silhouette appeared in the doorway, a bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other.
‘Miss Pickford!’ exclaimed the sculptor. ‘What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here in such bad weather? Thank you. Let me take your coat.’
‘The bag’s for you,’ said the librarian, smiling. ‘Two books on Byzantine art, including material about their sculpture which I know is of particular interest to you. I thought you’d like to have them as soon as possible. And since you come so seldom to the library....’
She smiled again. Perhaps the pink flush of her cheeks was due to her rush to avoid getting wet. Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her alert eyes shot frequent glances at Dr. Twist.
‘You came here in the rain just for that?’ asked David. ‘How kind of you, Miss Pickford.’
‘We’re practically neighbours,’ she replied, ‘It’s not out of my way at all.’
‘Still, it’s very kind of you. But allow me to present Dr. Twist, who’s assisting in the investigation of these terrible murders.’
‘My goodness! And is it true that Roger’s been arrested?’ she asked, with a surprise that, to David, seemed a little forced.
He wondered also whether she hadn’t dropped by out of curiosity, with the books serving as the pretext. And, living close by, it was quite possible she’d seen the detective arrive.
‘It was necessary in view of the circumstances, madam,’ replied Twist in a non-committal tone of voice. ‘But the course of the investigation may change.’
‘It can’t be him,’ replied the librarian in a voice trembling with emotion. ‘He’s such a charming young man and—.’
‘—so passionate about art?’ interjected Dr. Twist mischievously. ‘Those were Mr. Hale’s sentiments as well. He was explaining to me how artists could never be criminals.’
‘It’s quite out of the question,’ declared Miss Pickford, who proceeded to deliver a lecture on her favourite subject, Greek art.
After a while David, who had seemed absorbed in contemplation of his “Patricia,” interrupted:
‘What do you think is the motive for these crimes?’
‘It’s hard to say at the moment.’
‘Aren’t you on the trail of a maniac, pure and simple?’
Dr. Twist smoothed his moustache pensively, thinking back to the scene of the murder which he had examined two days earlier and the strange absence of bloodstains in one particular round spot.
‘It’s by no means clear. That’s just my opinion. The police, on the other hand, are looking for the worst kind of killer. I can only applaud their efforts. Nevertheless, there are certain details—which I obviously can’t talk about—which are very strange and open up more nuanced hypotheses.’
‘We’re talking about vampires,’ said David, turning suddenly away from his sculpture.
‘Precisely,’ agreed Twist, nodding his head. ‘But there are vampires and vampires.’
17
Eric? What was Eric doing?
Patricia shook her head. She put down Lavinia’s diary with a sigh. She was becoming confused, mixing up the old tragedy and the new, which looked like becoming just as devastating. It was Roger, not Eric, who was in trouble.
Roger? What was he doing? Why was he stubbornly refusing to say anything about that night? Had he lost his mind? When was he coming back? Was he coming back?
Patricia kept asking herself these questions. That Dr. Twist had been very kind and understanding, and his presence had been reassuring, but he hadn’t tried to conceal Roger’s precarious situation. And it was only now that she fully understood the danger menacing her husband. And to think there was nothing she could do but wait.
What time was it? Late. The clock showed eight o’clock. It seemed too late to eat, and she wasn’t hungry anyway. Maybe she needed a pick-me-up. She thought of Roger’s cocktails and smiled tenderly as she thought of his last words as he was being led away by the police: “Don’t forget to drink my health, even if I’m not there.”
Even though they’d only been married for a few weeks, she felt as though they’d already travelled a long road together. She would never have thought that his absence would be so intolerable. The house seemed utterly empty, as if a gust of glacial air had swallowed it up. His laughter and his jokes created a happy atmosphere which his absence only served to underline. And when he took her in his arms to dance....
Eric, his laughter and his jokes....
Eric? No, it was Roger! Decidedly, it’s getting confused up there, she said to herself, as she tapped her forehead.
Eric was Lavinia’s fiancé and Roger was her husband. It wasn’t very complicated. And in her mind she could clearly differentiate them, even though she had only met Eric in her imagination. Certainly, they had certain points in common, such as their love of the dance. The last time Roger had taken her in his arms to dance—apart from that Saturday evening she preferred not to think about—was that night when he lit the oil lamp.
Suppose she lit it now? Wouldn’t that help her to relive those moments? And suppose she put on the violet dress?
She jumped up at the thought, now full of the energy which had so cruelly deserted her during the last twenty-four hours, and put her thoughts into action. As the golden light lit up the old lounge, Patricia experienced a delicious sensation of well-being. She started towards the rocking-chair, but changed her mind and tried out a few dance steps. As if transported, she quickened her pace and turned faster and faster....
How exhilarating it was! If only Eric could see her... Eric? Why no, Roger!
After a few more minutes she collapsed in the rocking-chair, out of breath. Her head was spinning and she even had the impression that the furniture was now dancing around her. They sailed like drunken vessels before her eyes. Then, little by little, they slowed to a stop. But, strangely, the lounge now seemed to have a life of its own. The golden glow of the lamp illuminated a different room, albeit with the same furniture...the dresser with the blue porcelain plates, the frosted glass globes of the wall lamps, the old oak table, the imposing sofa in buffalo hide... The layout hadn’t changed but she had the curious impression of having travelled back in time.
‘Eric? Eric? Where are you?’ she cried out in surprise. ‘Eric, come quickly, we’re going to dance!’
The clear light of the lamp revealed Patricia’s ecstatic features as she laughed for joy. She was getting to her feet for another solitary dance when her eye caught the crucifix....
The crucifix above the door, still and shimmering. The light caught the silver sequins on the body of the crucified Christ. She knew then that she shouldn’t have looked at it, but it was too late. She couldn’t look away; she felt as if she were holding it in her two hands. Immediately, she made a gesture of violent rejection, as if she’d touched a red hot iron.
Her hands were burning as she doubled over.
‘No... No...,’ she moaned, without taking her eyes off the crucifix, which was now spattered with blood. ‘No... No....’
The door bell rang, freezing the unspeakable terror on Patricia’s face. Breathless, her forehead wet with perspiration, she felt suddenly overwhelmed by hope: Roger?
Stupefied, she waited for the second ring before she got up.
David, the visitor, probably detected her disappointment as she opened the door, but she pulled herself together quickly and was sincere when she said she was glad to see him. She realised that David, too, was under the influence of a strong emotion. His eyes had a strange gleam and everything about him betrayed a state of feverish agitation: his dishevelled hair; his jacket and scarf thrown on in great haste; the halting delivery of his voice:
‘Patricia, I have to show you something! Something very important... In my studio... Can you spare a moment?’
Ten minutes later, David opened the door of his studio, with a very intrigued Patricia close on his heels.
‘It’s very important,’ he repeated as he turned on the light. ‘I’d have preferred to wait for Roger’s return before showing it to you, but I wanted to be sure.’
He indicated a voluminous object in the middle of the room, covered with a sheet, which Patricia correctly surmised to be her double in wood.
‘You have to be sincere, Patricia,’ declared the artist in a voice which was almost pleading. ‘You have to tell me the truth. Tell me honestly what you think.’
‘But you seem so doubtful now. The last time, you seemed so sure of success.’
‘I know. But since this afternoon, since the visit of Dr. Twist....’
‘Dr. Twist? Ah, yes, the old gentleman. It was I who gave him your address. So he’s not here? You showed him your work and he found fault with it? I find that surprising. He seemed so tactful to me.’
‘He didn’t say anything, of course, but I could tell from his expression that something didn’t sit well with him. Something which I hadn’t noticed. And, Lord knows, I’d spent enough time looking at it from every angle. But after he left I tried to stand back and look at it objectively... and I thought I finally understood. But now I’m not sure any more. But I don’t want to influence you. All I ask is that you’re sincere.’
After David removed the sheet, Patricia stood motionless for a few seconds. Her eyes widened in surprise. Delighted and enthralled, she murmured:
‘It’s wonderful, David. It’s quite extraordinary. Words fail me. I’m sure Roger will like it as well. What were you upset about? I can’t understand....’
Her voice tailed off. She had just noticed the sinuous tangle of the roots at the base of the sculpture. David could practically see images of the old aspen and its sinister past flash before her eyes.
‘I see that you understand now,’ he sighed wearily. ‘It’s obvious, and yet I didn’t see it. I looked at my work for hours on end. I had Philemon and Baucis on the brain and that’s what I was trying to express—not that cursed tree!’
He paused to direct a hateful stare at the lower portion of the sculpture, then continued in a louder voice:
‘Don’t you understand? It’s the story of the witch and the tree with the twisted roots that was in my head all the time. It was that which guided my hands, not Philemon and Baucis.’
Patricia discovered a new David. The calm, nonchalant artist whom she had known was now speaking in the inflammatory tones of the vicar addressing his flock with a thunderous Vade retro, Satan! The previous softness of his features had disappeared. All that could be seen now was harshness and despair.
‘In any case,’ she replied, ‘I think it’s a great success. And I mean that, David. How could anyone think otherwise?’
‘That’s just it!’ he replied with a bitter sneer, feverishly pacing up and down the studio. ‘I agree it’s far and away the best thing I’ve ever done. But I can feel it’s not natural. Those weren’t my hands that shaped the work, but those of—.’ Noticing a handsaw, he stopped dead in his tracks. ‘I think I’ve found the answer.’
Swiftly picking up the tool, he continued:
‘It’s simple. I shall just cut off the base and no one will ever see those horrible roots.’
As he advanced towards the sculpture, Patricia’s voice rang out:
‘David! Don’t do it. I like what you’ve done and I forbid you to touch it.’
Patricia left David’s studio at half past nine. The rain had stopped earlier in the evening and she had the impression the night was warmer. As she passed Miss Pickford’s cottage she looked up and was surprised to see her silhouette behind one of the lighted windows. She might have gone over but for the sound of a footstep coming from the main road. Despite his raincoat and the cap crammed down on his head, she recognised young Billy Marten, whom she had met on the station platform on the night of her arrival in Lightwood. What was he doing outdoors at such a time? He appeared nervous and undecided. Was he up to no good? She refrained from accusing him of taking her brooch on the day of her arrival and simply asked him if he remembered her.
The child looked at her evasively and confirmed that he did. He was shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other and it occurred to Patricia that he might be hiding something under his voluminous raincoat. The fruit of another petty theft? Once again, she refrained from questioning him directly.
‘My word, what are you doing out at this time of night?’
The child continued to look evasive. While he was thinking, she continued:
‘Don’t you know it’s very dangerous, Billy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do your parents know you’re out?’
‘I don’t... No, I don’t think so.’
‘You should go home, Billy. You know very well why it’s dangerous for you to walk about at night. I think I ought to accompany you back.’
‘No!’ exclaimed the child, his eyes wide.
‘Do you have something to hide?’
‘No... Not at all.’
‘So tell me what you’re doing.’
A cunning look came into the boy’s eye:
‘It’s because of all the danger. I’m hot on the trail.’
‘Trail?’ replied Patricia, disconcerted. ‘Are you talking about the monster who’s taken those children?’
‘Of course. That’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it? I can’t tell you any more than that. But please don’t tell anyone, mum. Nobody. It’s a secret. I’m counting on you.’
Patricia was momentarily lost for words. The idea of this little boy on the trail of the murderer seemed utterly absurd, even if she found it comforting. It only served to underline Roger’s innocence. There was such a contrast between the brutality of the murders and the boy’s determination to find him that she was temporarily distracted. Meanwhile, Billy Marten had disappeared into an alleyway. She shivered suddenly.
She should have told him. Told him of the terrible danger.
A few moments later, she was back on the path to her house, trying to sort out her thoughts. She’d had to plead with David not to cut off the base of the sculpture, at least until Roger had had a chance to look at it. He’d finally agreed, but he’d looked like a broken man when she left him. That showed what a sensitive nature he had. She told herself that most artists were people of a complex nature, as complex as the inextricable tangle of the roots of a tree.
The inextricable tangle of the roots of a tree? Why had she made that comparison?
She knew only too well why. The legend of the old aspen was now fixed in her mind and she was almost becoming attracted to the tree. On arriving home, she resisted the temptation to go to the rear of the house to look at it. She ensconced herself comfortably in the rocking-chair, but the sense of calm didn’t last long. She was too agitated to be sitting down. Something was nagging at her, which she couldn’t put her finger on. Nerves? Undoubtedly, but there was something else. Something was calling her....
She went over
to the old part of the house and made a bee-line for Lavinia’s old room. The noises of the old floorboards under her feet, the musty, humid smell, and the flickering flame of the oil lamp conferred a touch of reality to her thoughts. She could perfectly well imagine Lavinia, clad in the violet dress she herself was wearing, traversing the narrow corridor to go to bed.
The leaves of the old aspen rustled in the wind. It certainly didn’t have the same lugubrious air as in winter, stripped of all of its leaves, but it wasn’t hard to conjure up that picture. The cold, the snow, Eric walking calmly towards the tree, passing under it, and continuing farther...
And the tree following him.
Patricia tried to dismiss the images from her mind, but failed in the case of the scene which followed. A scene which she had almost lived when she had that terrible nightmare on the day of her arrival.
Knotted hands, frightful knotted hands which tightened around the tender white flesh of an innocent throat....
Feeling ill at ease, Patricia left the room. At the end of the corridor a door opened out to the rear of the house and, even though it seemed impossible, Patricia thought it was probably the route taken by the murderer to meet Eric before strangling him.
The ground was soaking wet and there were puddles everywhere. Her flat shoes were becoming muddier and muddier, but Patricia didn’t seem to care. She moved determinedly forward, her head filled with the sounds of frenzy and the hate-filled faces of the crowd who, four centuries ago, had avidly watched the last moments of Liza Gribble. She could almost hear the shouts and the gibes of the drunken, enraged crowd as the rope was placed around her neck... Then the sound of spades digging the deep hole which would serve as the tomb... there, in front of her, where the tree now loomed.
Her face expressionless, she reached out to touch the ancient trunk. Her other hand was holding the lamp illuminating the contours of the knotty bark. The night embraced her with its soft, damp breath. The gentle wind caressed her silky hair and caused the foliage above her to rustle gently in the strange calm. Thinking of Eric, who had met his death in the same spot, the young woman stroked the gnarled surface over and over again.
