by Paul Halter
When they emerged from under the canopy of leaves they entered the strange nocturnal landscape of the marsh bathed in moonlight, which exerted a magnetic charm on both of them. In the silence, the croaking of the toads could be heard.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’ asked Patricia suddenly.
‘About what?’
‘About the photo on the wall.’
‘The one of Lavinia?’
‘Yes. You knew that was my face.’
David smiled.
‘Yes, if you like. But I didn’t say anything because Roger asked me not to.’
‘I know, because he told me so himself. It’s stupid, but let’s drop the subject.’
‘Is that what you wanted to tell me?’
Patricia shook her head.
‘No, of course not. It’s something much more important.’
She took a few steps forward to the uneven edge of the marsh. She leant forward, as if to look at herself in the water, then pulled back. For a few moments, David imagined her as she had posed for him in his studio. She’d looked like a goddess descended from Olympus to show herself to mere mortals.
Patricia turned to him sheepishly:
‘I’m afraid it’s not very original, but it’s about me again.’
‘I’m listening,’ he said with a lump in his throat.
She came to him and pressed herself against his shoulder.
‘I sometimes have headaches, David.’
‘Headaches?’
‘Yes, but not physical pain. I sometimes get a terrible impression in my head.’
‘That’s hardly surprising,’ he replied, trying to comfort her. ‘After all you’ve been through.’
‘I don’t mean all the trying things that have happened. I mean it’s inside me. I think... I think I’m a little mad.’
‘Come now, let’s be serious,’ said David, putting a protective arm around the young woman. ‘You’re exaggerating, I feel sure.’
‘Sometimes I’m deliriously happy, sometimes I’m desperately melancholic. And in between, there’s nothing. I feel as empty as if I didn’t exist, as if I had no personality. In fact, I don’t think I do have any. Or not very much. I’ve already been told that. Either I’m brooding or it’s as if I’m mad. Besides, I am mad. I can feel it. I can feel myself going mad.’
David was about to reply when she slipped her small hands into his. Even though she was still looking at the silver patches on the surface of the pond, he felt his heart miss a beat.
‘What beautiful hands you have, David,’ said Patricia. ‘True artist’s hands. They look like Mr. Fielding’s, but much younger, of course. He was an artist in his own way.’
‘Patricia,’ said David, drawing her closer to him.
‘Patricia?’ repeated the young woman in astonishment. ‘You must be mistaken.’
‘Patricia.’
‘I’m not Patricia. You’re mistaken. I’m Lavinia!’
‘Lavinia?’ repeated David, dumbfounded.
She pushed him away defiantly.
‘Yes, Lavinia,’ she said tersely. ‘Who else would I be?’
32
In that chilly early-October evening, Roger had lit a fire. He was particularly happy to be back home, having spent a challenging day in London making seemingly endless purchases. But now the most important one lay on the table: the replica of Lavinia’s violet dress, executed by the city’s best craftswomen.
It was Patricia herself who had unwrapped it and placed it on the table in order to compare it with the original which was looking the worse for wear.
‘It was a good idea to have a copy made, Lavinia,’ said Roger, going over to his wife. ‘I can’t imagine you in any other dress.’
‘So I didn’t please you today?’ asked Patricia, looking down at the grey suit she was wearing.
‘But of course, darling, you’re always beautiful. But you make me think of you-know-who.’
Patricia smiled and turned to “Baucis.”
‘Her?’
Roger nodded solemnly and went over to the sculpture, which he held thoughtfully.
‘I wonder whether it wouldn’t better to move it somewhere else, Lavinia. It brings back bad memories.’
‘Yes, maybe,’ replied Patricia, in an expressionless voice, still examining her new dress.
‘We could move it to the attic, although that might annoy David.’
‘David...,’ repeated Patricia, looking up from the new dress. ‘I find him strange since he returned from his holidays. He looks at people peculiarly. By the way, did I tell you I saw him the other night?’
‘Ah, yes! Last week, when you walked out slamming the door. He’d asked me about our trip to Greece, which I shan’t forget in a hurry. Magnificent, wasn’t it?’
‘Of course, darling.’
‘And we spent so many marvellous moments. We must go back again next year.’
‘If you say so, Roger.’
‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his hands together, ‘shall I serve you a drink?’
‘Why not?’
Someone who knew Patricia well would no doubt have been intrigued by the flat tone of her replies. Or her lifeless blue eyes. But she never received anyone those days, confining herself to the house, just as Lavinia had done, all those years ago.
She sipped the house cocktail with pleasure. Over time, she’d gradually come to appreciate the mixture, which her husband claimed was based on rum, lemon, tomato, carrot juice and amaretto. Maybe, she thought, but there was also something else which had surprised her at first, about which she had said nothing, for fear of upsetting Roger, who seemed so proud of his “Red Devil.” Funnily enough, just as she’d become accustomed to it, he’d stopped including it. She shared the thought with Roger and asked him the reason.
‘Yes, I remember,’ replied her husband, who was looking at “Baucis,” his eyes shining. ‘I was disappointed not to offer it any more, but it was unavoidable. Shall we visit Lavinia’s tomb tonight?’ he added.
‘Again? But why, Roger? We go there twice a week. And she’s not dead anymore. Aren’t I Lavinia?’
Roger took her by the hand:
‘Of course, darling, of course.’
‘Sometimes I don’t understand you, Roger. Maybe you should explain better.’
Her husband went over to put another log on the fire.
‘You’re right, darling, the moment has come to explain more. But it’s not easy, believe me. Let’s begin at the beginning. I’ve already told you what a shock I had on seeing you for the first time. I was stunned!’
Patricia smiled weakly:
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Your resemblance to Lavinia was amazing. At the beginning I didn’t know who you really were. You appeared to me as Lavinia’s double and it was only gradually that I realised you had her character as well. You had your highs and lows, you loved to dance, and to dance alone, just like her. It seemed like a miracle: you were just like the woman I loved—the one I’d fallen in love with several months earlier. Or, if you prefer, I loved you before I met you, because I already knew you. I’d discovered you here, in this house, by reading and re-reading Lavinia’s diary... With each line, with each word, I found my love for her—for you—growing, but it was a cruel love because Lavinia no longer existed, up until the day I saw you.’
Patricia looked up and smiled gently.
‘You’ve already told me all that, darling.’
‘Yes, but it’s necessary to remind you because of what I’m about to tell you. At the time I was spending all my weekends alone here, thinking about everything. The mystery of Eric’s death intrigued me, but it was secondary. Then I heard about the witch Gribble in more detail than I knew. I remember when I first talked to you about her I left those details out, because you weren’t as ready then as you are now. People suspected Liza Gribble of being the vampire who took their children and drank their blood as a Fountain of Youth....
‘As a Fountain of Youth,’ rep
eated Roger, with a curious gleam in his eye. ‘Her youthful appearance was attributed to it, despite her being much older, as witness her gnarled hands. People often mock old legends, but that’s a mistake. The detail about the hand was probably added later, because of the tree, but as for the rest....’
For a while, the only sounds to be heard were the crackling of the fire and Roger’s steps as he paced back and forth.
‘You know I’ve always been interested in ancient history, darling.
Did you know that remains of what could have been sacrificial sites have been found not far from the Palace of Knossos? Do you remember what the vicar said during that famous evening? He cited several examples of drinking human blood as a source of youth. Such as Medea sacrificing her younger brother to rejuvenate Jason? Do you understand, darling?’
‘Not really, no,’ replied Patricia, shaking her head and taking another sip of her cocktail.
Beads of perspiration started to appear on Roger’s forehead and he gestured nervously. His voice became louder:
‘Lavinia had to rejuvenate, my darling, it was vital. The Lavinia lying in the cemetery had to become young once more, had to live again... do you understand? And you had to become younger, to shed the envelope of Patricia to become Lavinia. That way we could maximise the chances of bringing Lavinia, of bringing you, back to life, my darling!’
As Patricia frowned and looked at the drink in her hand, Roger came closer, his face dripping with sweat and his eyes wide open in madness. Clutching her by the shoulder, he hammered her with words.
‘I had to do it, Lavinia, I had to, do you understand? Our happiness depended on it. And I think we’ve almost succeeded. Because you are Lavinia, my darling. You are La-vi-nia.’
Patricia, glassy-eyed, tried to repeat mechanically that she was Lavinia, but no sound crossed her lips. She looked down at her glass, whose reddish contents had been shaken by Roger’s actions.
‘I had to,’ he repeated frenziedly. ‘Yes, I had to sacrifice those... young lambs... capture their essence to sprinkle over Lavinia’s tomb, and keep some for....’
Patricia looked in horror at the glass in her hand before dashing it to the floor and letting out a scream of terror.
33
On a cold winter’s morning, David Hale sat in an armchair in Dr. Twist’s London flat, watching snowflakes swirling over the rooftops. His mind was obviously far away.
Several years had gone by since the affair of the Lightwood vampire. Of the original protagonists in the drama, only Miss Pickford remained, offering advice to new members of her library. If asked, she would talk about the affair which had upended her universe, stressing that the vicar had ultimately been cleared of all suspicion. Maude Rellys had left for the capital, to pursue her hectic life closer to her dear father and his wallet. As for Roger Sheridan, he had been unable to escape the gallows, the judges having been unwilling to allow him to spend the rest of his days in a specialised establishment. It was Patricia who occupied the thoughts of Dr. Twist’s guest, lost in contemplation of the snowflakes.
David Hale had emigrated to Canada, where he had taken up a trade more lucrative than wood sculpture: the construction of cabins. His artistic soul appeared to have left him at the end of the tragic business, which had seen the victory of David over the giant Philistine: Roger, his friend, the monster. He’d had great difficulty believing it, accepting the dreadful truth. Had David vanquished Goliath? Yes, but at what price....
He hadn’t set foot in his native land since the end of Roger Sheridan’s trial, but it was only now that he could think about things objectively. He’d knocked tentatively on Dr. Twist’s door during his brief visit to the capital, remembering how the criminologist had always behaved courteously towards him.
‘The least one can say,’ declared Twist as he offered his visitor a cigar, ‘is that neither the police nor myself distinguished themselves during the course of the investigation. I’m not exempt from reproach.’
‘What about me?’ exclaimed David.
‘The difference is that I’m supposed to be a professional. I consider the case to have been one of my failures, even though I did get a glimpse of the truth. I was struck by the singular absence of blood at the murder scenes. And when in one case I noticed slight stains on the ground surrounding a small round surface, I did realise the murderer was catching blood in a receptacle. That should have given me insight into the motive... but who could imagine a man of normal demeanour nurturing such an insane plan? It was the utterly demented nature of the motive that blinded us. Only brave Mr. Fielding saw the truth—and paid for it with his life.’
‘I seem to remember,’ said David, finally lighting his cigar, ‘that he sent you a letter post mortem in which he named the killer.’
‘Yes, but time was against us, because I only received it a few hours before... you became involved in the last act of the drama. An involvement which delivered the murderer to us—tied hand and foot, so to speak—for which the police were very grateful. I assume you haven’t forgotten the details.’
A sad smile appeared on David’s emaciated face.
Forget that night? How could he? It still caused him nightmares.
‘The late Mr. Fielding,’ continued Dr. Twist hastily, ‘hadn’t worked out the motive either, but he did formally identify the perpetrator and understood that he was mentally unbalanced. Or, rather, he “sensed” it, just as he sensed that the victim of the plan, even though not a flesh-and-blood one, was young Mrs. Sheridan. He realised the killer was suspicious of him, which is why he took the precaution of writing the letter. Events unfortunately proved him right, God bless his soul.’
There was a moment of silence. Dr. Twist hesitated before the box of cigars, but opted for his pipe, which he stuffed slowly.
‘There was also the question of his alibi,’ prompted David, who had turned to watch the falling snow again.
‘You mean the double alibi,’ replied Twist, ‘for there were two. Strangely enough, it was the second, simpler than the first, which made me suspicious. Then there was the strange behaviour of the vicar. In the end, everything was cleared up. His confession supplied us with the missing details.
‘Sad to say, it was the police’s initiative which forced him to prepare an alibi, with all the consequences which followed. Maude Rellys, whose father is a friend of mine, set the ball rolling when she told us, jokingly, that the guilty party must be Roger Sheridan, because he was the last one to settle in the village. By one of those extraordinary coincidences which Fate seems to hold in store, she actually put her finger on the monster we were after. We didn’t really believe it because of her flippant tone, but we had to follow up nevertheless. There was a short investigation which appeared to clear Sheridan, but his name and description were now in our records. A description which matched the testimony of one particular witness. We didn’t really believe it, but Sheridan got wind of it through Maude Rellys. And, even though he didn’t think there was much danger, he became nervous. Sufficiently so for him to feel it necessary to create an alibi which would rule him out completely. Whereupon he seized on a sentimental adventure which Maude herself initiated, knowing we trusted her. He would create a double delayed alibi of great sophistication. His relations with his wife might become strained, but his survival was at stake. His objective was to commit a crime in such a way that there were numerous pieces of evidence against him, and get arrested. Then would follow a piece of evidence in his favour and a murder committed whilst he was still in custody. He would thus be definitively cleared of all suspicion. It would be assumed that someone had tried to frame him and he selected the vicar, telling himself that an alternative culprit could prove useful.’
Dr. Twist stopped to take a few puffs of his pipe and continued:
‘It wouldn’t be the only time he made use of a sleeping draught. In his confession, he admitted putting Patricia to sleep in order to put the violet dress on her and make her believe she’d done it unconsciously. But
let’s get back to the murder. That night, he invited Maude Rellys to dinner. It was a noisy event, during which he plied her with drink while discarding his own wine in a nearby flowerpot, for he needed to stay sober. He did everything to make sure they were noticed. It was half-past nine when they left the restaurant. And, according to them---that’s to say Maude—five minutes to ten when they arrived at her cottage. That’s what she firmly believed, but she was mistaken. Half-drunk, and under the influence of a sleeping draught Roger had slipped her during the meal, she fell sound asleep during the ride back home. She remembers it as having dozed off for a few seconds. In fact they took over an hour to travel the distance. An hour which allowed Sheridan time enough to ambush young Fred Hutson and kill him in the woods near the funfair. The road from Lawshall to Lightwood runs behind the woods. Even if Maude had had doubts about her drowsiness, her pride wouldn’t have allowed her to admit it. All he had to do was turn Maude’s watch back so that it read five minutes to ten when he woke her up in the car, then put it forward to the correct time while he dallied in the cottage with her afterwards. It was as simple as that.’
‘Diabolically simple,’ observed David with a grimace.
‘It’s not finished yet. I almost forgot the handkerchief with the embroidered initials, more or less hidden at the scene of the crime, but not so much that it couldn’t be discovered. It was such an obvious clue that it would instantly arouse suspicion, which was just what he wanted. Then there was the letter he sent accusing himself, but stamped with the personality of the vicar in the form of an eloquent citation in Latin. And we fell for it.’
‘And then there was the whistling.’
Dr. Twist smiled.
‘Yes, but that wasn’t deliberate. He gave himself away with that melody which, incidentally, I can’t hear any more without getting the shivers. Although that didn’t actually change his plan, he was caught by surprise because he was arrested earlier than he’d planned and only just had time to lay the groundwork for his second delayed alibi: Billy Marten, a little brat, a pickpocket and a sworn enemy of the vicar. For a modest reward, he’d had little trouble enrolling young Billy in his scheme. It was the simplest trick in the world, but we all fell for it. At the appropriate moment, the child would disappear which, given the climate of fear and anxiety in Lightwood at the time, would create the assumption he was the maniac’s latest victim. Patricia had surprised him just after he’d disappeared from his home. His reply to her question about what he was doing outside at that time was both bold and crafty.’
