The Vampire Tree

by Paul Halter

  Thomas Fielding nodded his head slowly and gravely in agreement.

  21

  Roger and Patricia returned home at around midnight. In fact, Roger was accompanied by two Patricias: the real one, his wife, and her wooden twin, his friend David’s wedding gift. It had been a solemn event, toasted in champagne, which had helped to disperse the depressing atmosphere of the previous few days. Roger had been fascinated by the sculptor’s work. When his friend had expressed doubts about the tangle of roots and suggested cutting them off, Roger had declared he would kill anyone who touched so much as a hair from his wife. Patricia—the real one—had announced herself to be flattered by such an unconditional defence, and David had observed that he understood his friend only too well and would have taken the same position if he possessed such an inestimable treasure as Patricia.

  The young Mrs. Sheridan had laughed heartily at the remark and Roger, feigning jealousy, had muttered that never again would he lend his wife out to anyone, particularly an artist, no matter how talented.

  David, for his part, said that he considered it his best work and was sad to say goodbye to his beloved “Baucis.”

  ‘I knew David wouldn’t let me down,’ said Roger when they were once again in the lounge, ‘but I never imagined such a masterpiece. What do you think, darling?’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ agreed Patricia, casting a look around the huge room for the ideal place to put the sculpture.

  They decided on a space between the phonograph and a large potted plant. The natural dark sheen of the wood harmonised with the bright green nuances of the plant. They contentedly contemplated the sculpture in its new home, where it gave the impression of an old companion who had been with them for ages.

  ‘A lifelong companion,’ said Patricia. ‘Rather like dear Lavinia. It’s strange, darling, it feels as though I’ve known her forever.’

  ‘Have you finished reading the diary?’

  ‘Almost. I’m on the last few pages. You can sense her being overcome by madness... She talks about going to join Eric. But in fact you’ve never told me how she died. I suppose she killed herself so she could join her loved one in paradise?’

  Roger nodded with a vague smile.

  ‘At least that’s what those who’ve read the diary think. I’m talking about her motive, not the means of her death—which leaves no room for doubt: she did indeed commit suicide.’

  ‘Did she slash her wrists?’ asked Patricia sharply.

  ‘No, she hanged herself. No prizes for guessing where.’

  ‘On the old tree,’ suggested Patricia, almost immediately.

  ‘Yes, in the same spot where her fiancé was killed. Not only did she go to join him, she used the same departure point, so to speak.’

  ‘The door which leads to paradise!’ exclaimed Patricia, whose beatific smile suggested she herself had been transported there. ‘Which reminds me, darling, we’ve never examined the tree thoroughly. Maybe there’s a secret door there.’

  ‘You don’t appear to be particularly affected by the story, Pat. Personally, I find it very sad.’

  ‘It’s a true proof of love,’ his wife shot back, going over to sit in her beloved rocking-chair and looking up at the ceiling. ‘I wish someone would kill themself for me.’

  Roger coughed discreetly:

  ‘Let’s just enjoy life for now. Speaking of which, I propose we take a holiday in the Mediterranean once this frightful business is over. We both need sunshine and peace. We did promise ourselves a proper honeymoon after that brief stay in Devon.’

  ‘You know I’d follow you anywhere, darling.’

  Roger frowned:

  ‘You say that as if it’s just for my benefit. Doesn’t it tempt you?’

  ‘Of course! It rained a lot while you were... away. I had a lot of time to think, particularly about Lavinia.’

  Roger brightened up:

  ‘Did you manage to solve the mystery of Eric’s murder?’

  ‘No, but I haven’t finished the diary yet. But I did notice something strange regarding the mystery: she speaks about it less and less.’

  ‘I told you so.’

  ‘I know. And you thought it might be because she’d guessed the identity of the murderer, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. But not the only one....’

  ‘By the way, Roger, do you still not remember where you put her photograph?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, it came to me this morning. Because it had been rolled up, I put it under a pile of books to flatten it out.’

  So saying, he left the room and returned quickly with the photograph in question. Patricia stared at a coarse-grained picture of a woman in her thirties with a distant look in her eye, wearing the violet dress Roger had found. There was no affectation to be seen in her attitude, her beauty was undeniable, and in her eyes could be discerned a curious mixture of sadness touched by a spark of mischievousness, however paradoxical that might sound. Patricia, deeply affected, had the impression of already knowing the woman, even though it was impossible that they’d ever met. She’d died long before Patricia herself was born. She shared her impression with Roger.

  For his part, her husband replied:

  ‘I don’t know what to tell you, Pat. I have the same feeling of having known her a long time. There’s something fascinating about her. It must be the eyes... even though the photo isn’t very clear. There’s undoubtedly a mystery there, but one which surpasses the normal meaning of the term.’

  ‘Roger....’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m frightened.’

  The young man followed his wife’s gaze as she stared at the crucifix above the door.

  ‘Is it the crucifix?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s the vicar more than anything. There’s no doubt about it, he frightens me... And he seems to enjoy it.’

  She recounted the Reverend Benjamin Moore’s visit the day before.

  ‘It was probably his sudden gesture which caused it, darling,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘And your nerves were probably on edge, waiting for me while I was being accused of all those atrocities. But I have to confess that he has the same effect on me, does our bizarre reverend. His obsessive combat against Evil has always made me feel uneasy: it’s so aggressive.’

  A spasm of fear crossed Patricia’s face:

  ‘And what if he’s the murderer?’

  Roger looked pensive.

  ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I don’t want anyone to go through what I experienced over the last few days. He’s a possible suspect, we can’t say any more than that at this stage. Let’s keep our eyes open, though.’

  22

  Saturday, June 21

  The following day, at ten o’clock in the morning under a leaden sky, a procession of four individuals was making its way to the marshland to the west of Lightwood. The leader, marching as if he were leading troops into combat, was one Charles Park, familiarly known as “Charley,” a lad of some ten summers. Following close behind were three tall figures, two of them solidly-built—Reverend Benjamin Moore and Inspector Archibald Hurst—and one as thin as a beanpole. The latter, Dr. Alan Twist, cast inquisitive looks all around as he trod lightly behind.

  ‘Is it much farther?’ asked Hurst, himself casting inquisitive looks at the partly-folded map he was holding in front of him.

  ‘No, Mr. Policeman, we’re nearly there.’

  ‘Enough of the “Mr. Policeman.” Address me as “Inspector.”’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Policeman.’

  Hurst gave up. He had tried to teach the boy the police hierarchy, but without success. ‘We’re actually less than a mile from the village as the crow flies,’ he observed to the clergyman. ‘There should be a quicker way there without following this interminably winding trail.’

  ‘There is, Mr. Policeman,’ interjected Charley. ‘But it goes over the “mountains,” which aren’t really mountains. They’re only large blocks of stone, but you have to be nippy to ge
t over them and I didn’t think... I mean, I thought you might get your clothes dirty.’

  Dr. Twist, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, made it known to the boy that the police, while appreciative of his thoughtfulness, would remember to take care.

  The night before, following their discussion with Thomas Fielding, the detectives had run into the vicar outside the inn, where he had come to look for them. He’d just remembered that one of Billy Marten’s friends had let slip one day that he knew the whereabouts of Billy’s secret hideaway in the woods. The information should be treated with precaution, but was perhaps worth following. After talking to the friend in question—Charley—the detectives decided it was worth a try and had arranged to meet the following morning.

  ‘I can’t tell you exactly where it is,’ Charley had declared, ‘but I’m pretty sure I can find the cabin in less than half an hour.’

  At the present moment they were following a path by the side of the marsh, close to the spot where Billy’s hat had been found the day before, on a tuft of grass surrounded by mud.

  Hurst, still struggling with the map which he was attempting to fold properly, pointed to a spot about a hundred yards to the east.

  ‘It shouldn’t take my men long,’ he said. ‘They’re going to try and take soundings around where the cap was found. But there’s no guarantee of success. Apparently the mud around here has already swallowed up a number of unfortunates without trace.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied the vicar. ‘It’s one of those hell-holes which remind us, if need be, of the presence of Evil. A deep abyss which beckons to all who have sinned. Everyone in the village avoids the area because of its reputation, so it doesn’t surprise me that it’s the spot Billy chose for his cabin.’

  ‘A deep abyss which beckons to all who have sinned,’ repeated Twist, looking at the clergyman over his pince-nez. ‘That reminds me of the Latin citation about the abyss calling out to the abyss....’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ exclaimed Hurst. ‘Abby-thingummy, just like the letter.’

  The policeman realised his blunder after his friend shot him a withering look.

  There was a silence lasting several seconds.

  ‘What letter?’ asked the vicar, with an air of surprise whose sincerity the detectives found difficult to gauge.

  ‘Abyssus, abyssum invocat! That’s it!’ exclaimed Twist, feigning a sudden recollection, with the full knowledge that the trap he’d laid was henceforth disabled. ‘My memory’s been playing me tricks lately. I can’t remember who wrote that in a letter to me recently, but it’s not important.’

  ‘No, it’s not important,’ repeated Hurst, with a fixed smile which gave the game away completely. Turning to the boy, who was hesitating at a point where two paths crossed, he asked in a thunderous voice:

  ‘Well, my lad, where are we?’

  It took them another half-hour to find Billy’s cabin, cunningly concealed between two rocks with a pile of branches overhead. The inside was quite spacious—about twelve square feet—and deserved to be called “Ali Baba’s Cave,” for it contained many treasures: the makeshift shelves were covered with handbags, watches, wallets, hats, jewellery and miscellaneous other objects which caused Hurst and the vicar to gasp in astonishment.

  ‘Well,’ observed the clergyman with an admiring smile, ‘the facts speak for themselves. It looks as though I wasn’t mistaken about young Billy, God rest his soul! Look, there’s even a potted plant, which I seem to recollect seeing in the library. So, Charley, why didn’t you tell me about all this before?’

  ‘But I did tell you!’ exclaimed Charley vehemently.

  ‘You spoke to me vaguely about a cabin, and not very convincingly. If you’d told me about all this....’

  ‘But I didn’t know, vicar, I swear. Billy told me that if he caught me anywhere near here, there’d be hell to pay. And it’s somewhere I didn’t want to be, just like everyone else.’

  ‘You’re right,’ agreed the clergyman in a new tone of voice. ‘I’m the one to blame. I should have taken you more seriously at the time. I might have been able to set Billy on the straight and narrow path.’

  ‘Look over there,’ said Twist suddenly, pointing to the ground. ‘Breadcrumbs.’

  The vicar asked Charley to go and wait outside while the two detectives made a thorough examination of the cabin. Noting that breadcrumbs were fresh, Dr. Twist’s attention was then drawn to a dark stain on the ground. He took out his magnifying-glass and began scanning the shelves. A few minutes later he stood up with a sombre expression of his face.

  ‘Your men will obviously have to give the place a more thorough inspection, Hurst, but I’m willing to bet this is where young Billy was murdered. That stain is undoubtedly blood. The shelves have been thoroughly cleaned but I managed to detect a couple more.’

  Inspector Hurst nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘We can already make a guess as to the sequence of events,’ he said, tilting his hat back. ‘And even draw some preliminary conclusions. The murderer killed the boy here before throwing the body into the quicksand to make it disappear. I note that this time he’s tried to erase all traces of his crime. He was never that meticulous before.’

  ‘That’s right, up to a point,’ said Twist, ‘although we’ve never been able to establish precisely where and when the previous crimes took place.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ continued the inspector, ‘that Billy, as opposed to the other children, may have been killed because he was an inconvenient witness....’

  There was a silence, during which the only sounds that could be heard were of Charley, who could be observed through a small gap in the branches which formed the door, hopping from one foot to the other. After taking a quick glance at the boy, the clergyman asked:

  ‘What exactly leads you to that conclusion?’

  ‘All these objects which have been collected here. Quite a few people have been victims of these thefts and I can’t help thinking the killer was one of them. Little Billy snatched something which seemed insignificant at the time, but which belonged to the murderer. Then, when he examined it later, something about the object made him think that its owner was the individual the police were looking for. Don’t ask me what, but that would explain his remarks to Mrs. Sheridan about being on the trail of the killer. I don’t know what happened after that, but it could have been a late-night meeting, here in this cabin. Maybe Billy wasn’t sure of his theory and wanted to speak to the person in question. Or—and this is my view, given his predilection for bargaining—he wanted to strike a deal, in other words blackmail him. Which would explain his furtive manner when Mrs. Sheridan saw him for the last time. But he didn’t know his rendezvous was with... death.’

  The inspector’s dramatic flourish was cut short by Dr. Twist:

  ‘Mrs. Sheridan spoke of an object he was hiding under his raincoat. What significance do you think that might have?’

  Hurst, caught off balance, stared at the spot on the floor where the breadcrumbs were scattered.

  ‘Simple!’ he announced with a flash of inspiration. ‘Since Billy’s rendezvous was at midnight and he still had three hours to kill, he’d brought a large sandwich with him. Hence the breadcrumbs.’

  ‘That’s a reasonable explanation,’ observed the vicar, ‘but I’m not sure it advances us very far unless we can determine which of the objects could have been the murderer’s—even supposing he hadn’t taken the elementary precaution of removing the object, which is hard to believe.’

  The two detectives could only agree with his reasoning and they all left the secret cabin of the late Billy Marten rather sheepishly. It has to be said in their defence that the fog which had covered Lightwood earlier that morning had, just like the latest event, hardly filled them with optimism.

  After ordering Charley not to follow them, they proceeded towards the spot where young Billy’s hat was found. The stagnant muddy water, as silent and menacing as a crocodile lying in wait, seemed to beckon to the unwary trave
ller. Here and there reeds and the occasional weeping willow broke the sad monotony, but Lightwood marsh nevertheless seemed like one of those places forgotten by man and abandoned by nature.

  On the way to their destination, they observed traces on the ground which might have been made by the murderer dragging his victim. Once they arrived they stood in silence, scanning the surface of the pond, each trying to imagine the most likely spot for the disposal of the corpse.

  Dr. Twist asked the vicar that question, but the other replied that he had no idea. Looking him straight in the eye, the criminologist asked him if he suspected anyone.

  ‘Yes.’

  Archibald Hurst turned in astonishment to the reverend, who explained:

  ‘I believe I already know what race.’

  ‘What race?’ repeated Hurst, baffled. ‘What do you mean?’

  The clergyman hesitated a moment before making his pronouncement. He turned his back to them and stood silhouetted against the green waters.

  ‘The most detestable race there is. The bloodsuckers which comprise the race of vampires.’

  ‘Vampires? Real vampires?’ asked Hurst in a quavering voice, looking towards Dr. Twist in stupefaction.

  ‘There is every reason to fear so,’ replied the vicar in an icy voice. ‘A true vampire, which attacks its victims in order to drink their blood. Didn’t you yourselves comment on the curious absence of blood in the crime scenes?’

  There was a silence, broken by the cawing of a marauding crow which echoed and was amplified all around them.

  ‘And do you know his identity?’ demanded Hurst tersely. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I’m constrained by my calling,’ said the man of cloth, ‘even though he has not yet confided in me. But I haven’t given up hope. His is a serious case and it’s even possible he’s unaware of what he’s doing. It might well be a case of split personality.’