The Vampire Tree

by Paul Halter

  18

  Thursday, June 19

  Inspector Archibald Hurst wasn’t bothering to hide his displeasure. His superficial smile wasn’t fooling anyone any more than the forced light-heartedness of his tone:

  ‘What you say is very interesting, Miss Rellys, very interesting. And I must thank you for having taken the time to come and visit me here at the Yard.’

  Maude, looking very chic in a perfectly tailored tweed suit, uncrossed her shapely long legs and replied:

  ‘It was the least I could do, once I learned that—.’

  ‘Once you learned?’ interjected Hurst in astonishment. ‘We came to see you just after the murder. And we’d already told you that Mr. Sheridan was a suspect. So why didn’t you speak up then?’

  ‘But I did tell you he couldn’t be the one you were looking for. I didn’t want to give you the details... for obvious reasons.’

  She slid down in the chair and crossed her legs.

  ‘So,’ continued the inspector, ‘you’re sticking to what you just told us?’

  Maude sat up straight, her eyes open in surprise.

  ‘Well, obviously. I’m afraid I don’t understand why you’re asking.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied the policeman, shooting a sideways glance at Dr. Twist, who seemed engrossed in stuffing his pipe. ‘Would you permit me to make a short phone call?’

  ‘Please feel free.’

  The young woman’s tone had been very terse, but the inspector dialled the number with a calm which attracted even Dr. Twist’s attention.

  ‘Good morning, Sir Octavius. This is Inspector Hurst of Scotland Yard. I’m a friend of Dr. Twist... Yes, we met last week. Yes, she’s here in my office... Yes, we’re still working on the same case... I’m afraid she’s made a false statement to the police to protect a friend.’

  Maude stiffened and opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing.

  ‘... and she seems determined to stick to it,’ continued Hurst. ‘I appreciate her noble gesture and willingness to sacrifice, but it could place her in a very difficult situation... Yes, I’ll pass her to you.’

  Handing the phone to his visitor, he said:

  ‘It’s your father, miss. He wishes to speak to you.’

  When, ten minutes later, Maude Rellys banged the phone down, Hurst wondered for a moment if he’d have to call in the resources of Scotland Yard. He’d had no difficulty imagining Sir Octavius holding the apparatus away from his ear when he heard the strident and belligerent voice of his daughter on the other end of the line. But the storm passed and Sir Octavius appeared to have been no more successful than the inspector in changing the young woman’s mind.

  ‘Well,’ said Hurst after a while. ‘You’re sticking to your story, as far as I can see.’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of taking back what I said, and even less of lying, particularly in this case.’

  ‘So let me summarise. At about half past seven last Sunday evening, Roger Sheridan picked you up by car and you dined together in a small restaurant in the area. Between the hours of eight and nine-thirty, you stuffed yourselves and drank several toasts to your own health.’

  ‘Please don’t say more than you have to, inspector. The situation is already embarrassing enough. We weren’t drunk, just happy.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ replied the policeman with a broad smile. ‘But that’s not what interests us. That’s between you and Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan, if she can cope with it. You say you left the restaurant at half past nine. Are you sure of the time?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m sure the waiters will confirm it.’

  ‘And twenty minutes later you stopped at your house for... let’s say, one last drink. That would make it nearly ten o’clock.’

  ‘A quarter to ten, actually. I know because we checked the clock to see how much time we had for... that last drink. It was past one o’clock when he left, but I can’t be any more accurate than that.’

  Hurst raised his hand:

  ‘All that concerns us is your movements covering the time of the crime, in other words between nine-thirty and ten-thirty. Do you swear that during that time he was never out of your sight?’

  ‘We were together from half past seven until after one o’clock, I swear it.’

  ‘What she says is true,’ interjected Dr. Twist, turning to look at his friend. ‘Sheridan can’t have committed the crime, particularly since the medical report places the crime more precisely: between ten o’clock and a quarter past. And if the restaurant staff and customers confirm her story....’

  ‘And they will!’ declared Maude with the look of a black panther.

  ‘... all we have to do is to apologise to Mr. Sheridan.’

  Hurst looked daggers at the young woman. He had been badly shaken by her testimony.

  ‘Well, it’s a fine state of affairs,’ he said eventually. ‘And to think he’s only been married a few weeks. I hope you’re both proud of yourselves.’

  Maude’s dark eyes filled with tears.

  ‘It’s all my fault. I thought that... I was very upset when he told me so suddenly about his marriage. He never once mentioned it while we were playing tennis.’

  ‘As I told you, miss, that’s none of our business,’ said Archibald Hurst uncomfortably.

  That afternoon, Dr. Twist returned again to Lightwood. He paid a brief visit to Patricia. He found her very pale and so, without being specific, he hinted that she had every reason to be optimistic about the future. But the young woman failed to show the relief and joy he had expected; in her mind, there had never been any doubt about Roger’s innocence.

  He proceeded next to the inn where Mr. Fielding was staying and listened with interest to what he had to say, particularly about “vivid impressions,”—a point of view with which he sympathised. With regard to the case he was working on, he carefully noted the old man’s observations, finding him to be a keen observer.

  From there he went to visit Reverend Benjamin Moore, who confirmed the impression he had gleaned from listening to others. The vicar seemed interesting, but their meeting was interrupted by an urgent call for him. Twist was obliged to return to London by the late afternoon train and so was unable to learn the cause of the urgent call.

  During the return trip, he thought further about the case but made little progress except, perhaps, in the matter of the anonymous letter. By eight o’clock he was once again in Inspector Hurst’s office. He could tell at once from the famous forelock that his friend was not in a good mood.

  ‘Our lady artist was telling the truth,’ he growled by way of welcome. ‘The restaurant staff confirms her story. They remember the two because they seemed to be in a particularly exuberant mood. In other words Roger Sheridan can be eliminated... or else she’s as guilty as he is.’

  ‘Miss Maude Rellys an accomplice in crime?’ exclaimed Twist sceptically. ‘That would really be a quirk of nature!’

  ‘You must admit that she has the temperament,’ retorted Hurst. ‘She’s easy on the eye, but quite muscular, nevertheless.’

  ‘Did you notice her legs this morning?’

  Twist looked up:

  ‘So you’re looking at young women’s legs these days?’

  Archibald Hurst cleared his throat before replying:

  ‘Er, yes, when it’s relevant to our enquiries.’

  ‘I hope you were discreet, at least.’

  The policeman grinned:

  ‘I’m used to it.’

  ‘Used to looking at young women’s legs?’ asked Twist, his eyes widening.

  ‘No!’ the inspector bristled. ‘Observing things in general. Who do you take me for, Twist? We’re wandering off the subject.’

  ‘Not really. As you rightly said before, no detail is too small. If Miss Rellys has muscular calves—.’

  ‘Which you looked at yourself!’ exclaimed his friend triumphantly.

  ‘The calves, yes, but no higher up.’

  ‘Not even the knees?’

  ‘Th
e knees,’ replied Twist, puffing calmly on his pipe, ‘are very agreeable to look at. She knows it—as does Roger Sheridan.’

  The policeman looked wide-eyed at his friend. He could scarcely believe his ears.

  ‘But, getting back to the calves,’ continued the eminent criminologist. ‘They show Miss Rellys is a fine sportswoman and would have had little trouble physically committing the crimes. Even though, according to our theories, she could not be more than an accomplice.’

  ‘If they’d driven fast,’ continued the policeman, ‘they could both have been at the crime scene by a quarter to ten. It’s only a fifteen minute drive from Lawshall, where the restaurant is, to Lightwood. The road from Lawshall goes right by that cluster of trees near the fairground and they could have parked the car behind there. Sheridan waits there for the victim and Miss Rellys goes farther into the woods.’ He frowned. ‘What’s the matter, Twist? Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Physically, it’s possible, I don’t dispute it. But, frankly, I can’t see things happening like that. I have a distinct feeling that whoever is committing these crimes is acting alone, without an accomplice. And that kind of murderer is usually a solitary type.’

  ‘Well then, if it’s not Sheridan or Miss Rellys, who is it?’

  ‘It’s one of their entourage and, probably, someone who was at the Saturday evening party. The fact that the tune the killer whistled is identical to one Roger Sheridan kept humming that night means it’s not an accident. Someone is trying to harm him.’

  ‘Not to mention the handkerchief with the initials and the anonymous letter.’

  ‘Regarding the latter, I’ve had a thought. But, tell me, Archibald, have you questioned Roger Sheridan yet?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just come from there. I went to Lawshall first to get all my ducks lined up.’

  ‘And what does he have to say for himself?’

  ‘The same as Miss Rellys, naturally. But he doesn’t seem to be particularly relieved. The idea that his wife will find out about his little adventure seems to mortify him. He begged me not to tell anyone... But it’s a little late for that,’ sighed the policeman.

  ‘You’ve allowed him to go home?’

  ‘Yes, but he doesn’t seem in much of a hurry. When I told him we’d talk again tomorrow, he didn’t kick up a fuss.’

  ‘He’s very fond of his wife, I take it?’

  Hurst rubbed his chin:

  ‘That’s part of it. I think he’s also very upset with little Miss Maude.’

  ‘Because she came to talk to you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think it’s more that she went out of her way to show him her pretty knees, if you see what I mean. Anyway, I don’t feel sorry for him. In any case, Miss Rellys’s testimony will be part of the official record. She’s not obliged to describe the events of that night in great detail. Anyway, that’s up to them. What were you about to say about the anonymous letter?’

  ‘Apart from Mrs. Sheridan, I went to find Mr. Fielding and the vicar this afternoon.’

  ‘So it’s one of them?’

  ‘Do you know Mr. Fielding’s favourite occupation? He travels around towns and villages and through the countryside and stops for a few days when he finds an interesting place.’

  ‘Why not, if he’s retired?’

  ‘It’s his selection criteria which are interesting. It’s the atmosphere of a place, a “vivid impression” which he can feel, that attracts him. Old houses, accursed places, and scenes of tragic battles are his chosen fields. He conducts a sort of inquest on the past, based on his intuition. He’s extremely erudite and perceptive, with a profound knowledge of human nature.’

  ‘So maybe he has some idea about the crimes. Not to mention the curse and the story you told me about yesterday with its witches, murderous trees and all the rest of it.’

  ‘As far as our current case is concerned, I think he has some ideas, but he didn’t tell me what they were.’

  ‘And what about Sheridan’s arrest?’

  ‘He seemed quite surprised, particularly when he heard some details he hadn’t known about. But he didn’t say anything about that, either.’

  ‘In any case,’ muttered the policeman, ‘his word isn’t law. What about the vicar?’

  ‘A temperamental fellow, also very erudite and very well versed in the study of good versus evil. Regarding the latter, it’s better to fight it, naturally. Good Grief, Archibald, it should have hit us between the eyes! The Latin citation in the anonymous letter.’

  ‘Abyss, abyss, whatchamacallit?’

  ‘Abyssus, abyssum invocat. The abyss invokes the abyss, sin evokes sin. A Latin citation is more natural in the mouth of a man of the cloth than an ordinary mortal. What’s more, it’s a biblical quotation castigating evil. Who better than the vicar to make use of it?’

  The policeman, nodding his head in approval, asked:

  ‘So he’s our man?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘We were talking about a manoeuvre by the real criminal to deflect suspicion on to Sheridan.’

  ‘I know, but we have to be wary of hasty conclusions and—.’

  The shrill ring of the telephone froze the two detectives. Hurst took the call with a discouraging “Hello.” There was a silence disturbed only by the crackling of the line and the inspector’s heavy breathing.

  When he replaced the receiver, his rebellious forelock was hanging over a brow even more furrowed.

  ‘Were we talking about the wolf? ... The switchboard has just received a call from Reverend Benjamin Moore,’ said Hurst heavily. ‘The news from Lightwood is not good. The vicar was briefly on the line. There’s almost certainly been a fifth victim... Billy Marten, a lad from the village whom nobody has seen since yesterday... The monster is back.’

  19

  ‘It’s true he wasn’t the most well-behaved boy in the village... far from it. And there were times when we became fed up with his practical jokes and let him know. But all that aside... What’s happening to our little village is a veritable calamity. Soon our children won’t dare to go out. If you’d seen the faces of the parents when I asked them if they’d seen Billy... And I’m not talking the Martens, either. They’re already worried stiff.’

  The Reverend Benjamin Moore stopped and stared at Patricia, who looked away, pretending to think. She was indeed thinking, but it was about her visitor. She had no particular animosity towards the vicar, but she always had the impression of being spied upon whenever he was present. He seemed to lie in wait for her replies. In fact, the roles ought to be reversed, for it was he whom she had surprised, late at night, roaming around her property with a cross in his hand. Just as David Hale had surprised him in the church gardens, also at night. What did it mean? Was he so concerned for his parishioners’ well-being that he came out at night to pray for them? The expression on his face, the night she’d spotted him, suggested that was not the case. She thought for a moment about confronting him point blank, but changed her mind.

  He’d knocked on the door half an hour earlier to tell her the sad news. That was at half past ten and Patricia had been surprised to see him standing there. She’d known straight away something was wrong. After she’d invited him in, he’d explained how he’d had to cut short a call he’d placed to Dr. Twist in mid-afternoon, to respond to an appeal from the Martens, distressed about the disappearance of their youngest son. He hadn’t known what it was about, or he would have asked Twist to stay on the line. For, two hours later, having searched in vain for the child, he’d had to call in Scotland Yard anyway. They’d arrived shortly afterwards but didn’t find anything before nightfall, so it was likely they wouldn’t find his body until the next day.

  ‘There’s no more hope,’ he continued, torn between anger and despair. ‘Little Billy’s the latest victim of the monster and his parents know it. And nobody, absolutely no one, saw anything. But the reason I’m here, Mrs. Sheridan, on behalf of Inspector Hurst, is to notify you that because of this—and other
details—your husband has now been cleared of all suspicion.’

  Patricia nodded, while the vicar continued to stare at her.

  ‘You don’t seem very surprised,’ he added after a while.

  ‘Why should I be surprised? I’ve never doubted Roger’s innocence for one instant.’

  There was a twinkle of amusement in the vicar’s eye.

  ‘To tell you the truth, neither have I.’

  Surprised by the gentleness of his manner, Patricia asked:

  ‘You say that as if... Do you have someone else in mind?’

  ‘Let’s just say I have an idea. I’m on the trail, as the police would say.’

  ‘The trail?’ repeated Patricia, frowning. ‘That’s funny: someone said the same thing to me not long ago.’

  ‘Because it’s obvious,’ continued Reverend Moore, who seemed not to have heard the young woman’s remark, ‘that if your husband isn’t the guilty party, someone else must be. And something tells me it’s someone living here.’

  ‘Here?’ gasped Patricia, a look of fright in her eyes.

  ‘By here, I mean the village, of course,’ said the clergyman with a Sphinx-like smile.

  ‘But... but it would have been obvious. A maniac like that couldn’t have gone undetected.’

  ‘Do you really think so? It could well be someone with a split personality. It’s also possible that he himself is unaware of it. That in his normal state he has no recollection of the atrocities he’s committed.’

  Patricia had gone deathly pale.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ she said. ‘So it could be anyone?’

  ‘Anyone,’ replied the reverend calmly. ‘Including you and me. That’s the trail I’m on.’

  ‘Trail!’ exclaimed Patricia. ‘That’s where I heard it. It was Billy himself who said it.’

  Stunned, she held her head in her hands for a moment.

  ‘Billy. Billy Marten... I wasn’t paying attention to the name just now. Billy Marten! I met him last night. He told me he was on the trail of the murderer!’