by Paul Halter
4
At the wheel of her convertible, Sarah Thorne followed the winding road leading to Hatton Manor at high speed. She had just driven through Withington, followed by admiring and envious looks. The inhabitants of the village were not accustomed to see such a beautiful sports car, with such sparkling chrome, nor such a beautiful driver.
Sarah was wearing a bright red dress of a deceptive simplicity, which suited her perfectly. Her luxuriant black hair trailed behind her in the wind. She filled her lungs with the pure air, as exhilarating as the speed of the little Bugatti. Happy at the thought of finally exploring her new home, she felt tempted to push harder on the accelerator, but decided otherwise when she heard the squeal of the tyres as she rounded the latest curve.
Harris had wanted to show her the place himself that very day, but had been detained by important business in Coventry, much to his annoyance. No longer prepared to wait, Sarah had decided to go there alone: Harris would join her that evening, along with her parents, Francis, and Paula.
Far from being upset, she was thrilled by the idea of discovering, all by herself, the property her husband had described in such glowing terms. Of course, there would be Brian, strange Brian, but from what little she knew about him she felt sure he would not make a nuisance of himself.
At the sight of the sign for Hatton, her eagerness intensified. But as she left the village behind, she was obliged to stop. The road forked left and right ahead of her, but there was no indication in which direction the manor lay. ‘Turn left just after leaving Hatton, you can’t miss it,’ Harris had assured her.
After a brief hesitation, she made a random choice and proceeded along a narrow, rocky road, but stopped a second time as she saw a couple coming towards her. She switched off the engine and waited for them to draw level. The man, dark-haired, slender and of medium height, was tastefully dressed and about the same age as Harris. Sarah found his regular features and discreet but engaging smile quite attractive. His younger companion, with her striking golden hair and charming profile, would have been very beautiful but for the rather vacant look in her pale blue eyes.
Sarah asked for directions to Hatton Manor and the couple looked at her in surprise.
‘Would you, by any chance, be Brian’s sister-in-law?’ enquired the man.
‘Well, yes,’ replied Sarah, charmed and a little confused by his admiring regard.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ said the man, bowing slightly, ‘Mike Meadows, at your service, and this is my fiancée, Bessie Blount.’
‘Delighted to meet you,’ said Sarah, in response to Bessie’s friendly smile. After an awkward silence, and not knowing quite what to say, she added:
‘So you know Brian?’
The couple exchanged amused looks. Mike Meadows cleared his throat and continued:
‘Yes, we’re from the village. Brian’s a friend of ours, an excellent friend. And we owe him a lot.’
‘Oh, yes!’ exclaimed Bessie, laughing heartily. ‘You could say we owe him everything!’
Sarah tried to make sense of their strange words and hilarity, but failed.
‘You see, Mrs. Thorne, as the village doctor—.’
‘Doctor!’ Sarah blurted out, having a completely different image of the medical profession in her mind.
Meadows smiled.
‘I can understand your astonishment, madam. Obviously, I haven’t yet acquired the same experience as my colleague Dr. Allerton, whom I shall replace a couple of years from now. But what I meant to say was that, as a man of science, I bow before your brother-in-law’s powers.’
‘His powers?’ repeated Sarah, stupefied.
There was another silence. Bessie Blount turned to her fiancé:
‘Obviously Mrs. Thorne doesn’t know… Brian isn’t the sort of person to shout from the rooftops that he’s capable of….’
‘So you really don’t know?’ asked Mike Meadows.
‘I don’t understand. What powers are you talking about?’
‘Your brother-in-law possesses a particular gift and one that’s very rare. A gift which I, as a man of science, refused to admit… until I met Brian. Prophecy, divination, clairvoyance, call it what you will, your brother-in-law is capable of predicting the future.’
Sarah was about to burst out laughing, but the serious looks on the couple’s faces dissuaded her.
‘Predict the future? But that’s impossible!’
Mike Meadows nodded solemnly.
‘I won’t spend any time on facts which don’t personally concern us and which we haven’t personally witnessed. But be aware that Brian told Bessie and me, just a few weeks ago, about a happy event in the near future which would be of great importance to both of us. He literally told us that we would know great love in the coming weeks. And the very next day we fell madly in love with one another.’
Sarah’s mind was empty as she drove the remaining three hundred yards to the manor. The road ended outside the wide open gate to the property. A wide gravel drive traversed a park of ancient trees, in which the birds were greeting the arrival of a warmer season. If the cracked, moss-covered pillars of the entrance showed signs of abandonment, the lawn, on the contrary, had obviously been carefully maintained. Halfway along the drive, a paved path to the left led to a wooded hillock on which stood a chapel. A thick hedge inside iron railings encircled most of the park, in the middle of which stood the manor. It was a well-proportioned XVIIth century stone construction consisting of an imposing main building, in the centre of which was the front entrance, and a small wing to the left.
Sarah eased her foot off the accelerator, causing the sound of the motor to be drowned out by the noise of the tyres crunching on the gravel. As she approached the manor, with its windows sparkling in the sunshine, she began to appreciate the peaceful charm of the place.
She had hardly cut the motor when the front door opened. She immediately recognised Brian. Thinner than his brother, he looked old for his age. Was that due to his weary manner, his bony face with its premature wrinkles, his balding head with its long russet hair, or the disillusioned look in his pale, deep-sunken eyes?
He came over to Sarah with a smile on his lips. But sadness clouded his otherwise warm and welcoming look.
‘Greetings, Sarah,’ he said as he extended a brotherly hand. ‘I trust your journey went smoothly?’
‘Perfectly. And the weather is beautiful. I’ve been thinking of nothing else but the pleasure of discovery and I’m not disappointed! So spacious and so calm… Now I understand why you’re so attached to the place, and I hope that our arrival won’t disturb the peaceful life you’ve led until now.’
‘Rest assured, Sarah, my solitude can sometimes be a burden. Welcome inside these old walls, which will be rejuvenated by your graceful presence and that of your family.’ His expression darkened. ‘Even as I wonder whether it’s a good thing….’
Brian noticed Sarah’s eyes widen in astonishment and lowered his head.
‘I… I was talking about all the modernisation work, which is an affront to the past. But didn’t Harris come with you?’
‘He was detained at his company headquarters in Coventry, but he’s promised to be here before nightfall.’
‘Good!’ he exclaimed pensively. ‘But come, allow me to show you around. I’m sure you’re dying to see the place.’
On entering the main hall, Sarah was first struck by the imposing staircase of dark wood whose balustrade extended all round the balcony, where the wide landing gave access to all the rooms on the upper floor. Next, her admiring gaze fell on a magnificently ornate Gothic bench.
‘That’s a period piece, isn’t it?’ she asked.
Brian smiled indulgently.
‘It’s an artful copy, commissioned by Harris. The tiled floor is original. I had to fight to save it.’ There was a vaguely damp smell which mixed with the more agreeable one of the freshly waxed wood. ‘Harris wanted to replace it with marble.’
Sarah mused priva
tely that it was a pity Harris had yielded to his brother’s wishes, but she kept her thoughts to herself so as not to upset Brian, who seemed to get considerable pleasure from acting as guide. He ushered her into the salon to the right of the hall.
A wide opening revealed a spacious room bathed in sunshine from the large mullioned windows. Deep leather armchairs of a more modern style faced the monumental stone fireplace, mixing audaciously with much older pieces of furniture: a remarkable French Renaissance chest; another one of English origin lacquered in black with chinoiserie; English baroque chairs; several delicate Louis XVI chairs; all standing on an oriental carpet. The walls were panelled to head height and whitewashed above.
‘Harris had the door and a good part of the wall removed, thinking to make the room lighter. Which is what happened.’
Sarah detected a note of regret in her brother-in-law’s voice, but she was too excited by the visit to attach any importance to it. She discovered the library and the game room, with its billiards table and congratulated herself for having given Harris a free hand for the renovation: the modern touches he’d introduced didn’t clash with what was there before, whatever Brian might think.
After having shown her the closets and cloakrooms accessible from the hall, their doors concealed in the panelling, he pushed open the door of the dining room. Like the salon, the windows opened to the south. Two Dutch chandeliers sparkled in the sunshine above an immense table. The room was connected by a corridor to the kitchen located in the wing, which also contained an office and a laundry room. The vast kitchen, with its old earthenware and copper pots, combined modern comfort with ancient charm and pleased Sarah enormously.
‘And what about that door there, Brian?’
‘It leads to the service entrance, and also to an old stone staircase which goes to the floor above and the attic, where the servants’ rooms are located. Take a look….’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘A spiral staircase!’
‘It’s the oldest part of the manor, the only vestige of the original construction built by a knight who fought in the Hundred Years’ War. He witnessed Joan of Arc being burnt at the stake and was appalled by the horrifying spectacle, after which he returned to England. The nightmare vision haunted him and he was often heard to say “We burnt a saint.” He began to lose his reason and one day the castle he had built went up in flames. Some said it was God’s punishment. Others insisted it was the knight himself who burnt it down, taking his own life at the same time.
‘The castle was never rebuilt and fell to pieces, with only the staircase left standing. The manor was only constructed much later. My dear Sarah, don’t try to climb these steps in your pretty high heels. We’re better off taking the main staircase.’
Once they were on the upper floors, Brian showed her the rooms destined for her parents and those for Paula and Francis, together with the two luxurious bathrooms, leaving to Harris the pleasure of showing Sarah their own rooms with adjoining boudoir. He pointed out his own bedroom and study, situated at the angle of the corridor, but without showing them to her on the pretext they were too untidy. Sarah looked down the corridor leading to the wing of the manor. There were two doors, one after the other. It was the closer of the two which attracted her attention. The door wasn’t set back in the frame as was the case with the other doors, but was flush with the wall. She noticed it didn’t have hinges or a handle either.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, intrigued.
‘The door at the end just before the staircase? A storage room, full of old junk.’
‘No, the one in front of it. But….’ She went to look at it and seemed bewildered. ‘But it’s not a door! It’s just a wooden panel built into the wall! Is this one of Harris’s modifications?’
‘No, it’s not one of his modifications and never will be. I’ll make sure of that.’
Surprised by the cold determination in his voice, Sarah turned to look at him. She was struck by the fixed stare in his almost translucent blue-grey eyes which seemed to look at her without seeing.
‘I-I beg your pardon?’ she stammered in alarm.
‘It’s an old story,’ he said, still with the same absent look. ‘This room has been sealed up for various reasons.’
‘Various reasons? By someone who, like Harris, wanted to modify….’
‘No. This room was sealed so that nobody could ever get in again. It’s no longer part of the house.’
‘But why?’
Brian fell silent and Sarah sensed him shiver before he finally answered:
‘To protect the Thornes.’
5
It was just before ten o’clock when, the meal finally cleared away, Sarah, Brian and the new arrivals got together in the salon. If Mr. and Mrs. Hilton were tired by their journey, they didn’t show it. A smiling Howard Hilton looked very much at ease in a stuffed armchair. As for his wife, not even a trained observer could have detected her real feelings. Paula, whose blue dress matched the colour of her eyes, was her usual ebullient self, laughing heartily at Harris’s jokes—which seemed to irritate Francis, who obviously felt that the circumstances warranted a more serious demeanour. Paula’s husband was one of those men who easily pass unnoticed, due to their regular features and conservative dress, but his eyes held a steely expression.
Seated between his sister and Brian, he forced himself to listen attentively to the comments his brother-in-law was making, punctuating his speech with forceful gestures. The contrast between the two men was striking. Francis, with his dark, curly hair, small pointed beard and discreet manner, practically disappeared before the overpowering personality of Harris Thorne, whose red hair and beard contrasted with the checked suits in every shade of blue which he customarily wore. Authoritarian yet likeable, he had his own distinctive way of talking, punctuated with loud roars, facial expressions and gusts of laughter. Sometimes the good-natured joviality froze on his face, most often when Sarah talked about some previously unknown episode in her past, which was the case now.
‘What? You were in the theatre?’ he asked tersely. ‘When and with whom? I don’t remember you telling me about it!’
Sarah laughed daintily.
‘Darling, don’t look at me like that. One would think it was a crime. It dates back to the time I was in college. We created a theatre troupe… I usually played the masculine parts: the Knights of the Round Table, Robin Hood, Richard the Lionheart and others. It was great fun. I’ve kept the costumes and accessories. I’ll put on a show one of these days.’ She looked around the room. The wood panelling seemed to absorb the light from the imposing chandelier made from stags’ horns which cast an ominous, deformed shadow on the whitewashed walls. ‘Maybe I’ll revive some ancient tragedy….’
‘And I’ll disguise myself as a ghost!’ exclaimed Paula.
Harris, who was in the process of lighting a cigar, stopped himself.
‘Ghost, ancient tragedy…’ he repeated with a strange smile, contemplating the flaming match he was holding in his fingers. ‘You don’t realise what you’re saying.’
‘What?’ asked Paula, more excited than afraid. ‘Do you mean to say there’s a ghost haunting these premises?’
Harris took his time lighting his cigar, then continued:
‘Not exactly a ghost, more of an evil spirit hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce at the first opportunity. Although the existence of an actual ghost can’t be ruled out.’
Silence followed his words, then he threw his head back and guffawed.
‘Harris!’ Brian spoke sharply, his face deathly pale. ‘Don’t make fun of such things. You mustn’t do it, Harris, do you hear?’
‘Listen, Brian, it’s time you started being reasonable. Our great-uncle was as mad as a hatter, and only by an extraordinary chance did his threats become realised. I understand it’s always been the done thing in the Thorne family to believe in spirits and occult forces, but we’re now in the twentieth century and science has proved that—.’
; ‘Science has proved nothing whatsoever. You can’t deny that there was something in that room. Nor can you deny the strange circumstances of Harvey’s death… in the same room!’
Harris carefully crushed his cigar in the small bowl he used as an ashtray.
‘I’m not denying the facts. I’m simply saying they weren’t supernatural occurrences, and that therefore there’s nothing at all to fear. And I’ll prove it.’
Brian gave a hollow laugh.
‘Really? How?’
‘By opening up the room again… when I feel like it.’
Brian stood stock still, fixing his brother with an impenetrable look. He got up, wished the assembled gathering goodnight, then turned on his heels and left.
His footsteps echoed in the hall and then on the stairs until only the tick tock of the grandfather clock broke the silence.
‘Poor Brian,’ said Harris, emptying his glass in a single gulp. ‘I’m afraid his long isolation has, let’s say… affected him. Luckily for him we’re here now. That’ll force him to come out of his lair and stop reading those damned books.’
‘What does he do, exactly?’ asked Mr. Hilton in a light-hearted tone, in an attempt to relax the situation. ‘Is he pursuing some kind of studies?’
‘More or less. He’s studying everything that traditional education doesn’t teach, anything weird or out of the ordinary: divination, fortune-telling, astrology and all the rest of it… but the worst of it is, he’s starting to fancy himself as a soothsayer. Mind you, you can see who he takes after!’
‘Harris,’ said Sarah gently, ‘don’t you think it’s time you explained to us why that room was sealed, and what role your mysterious great-uncle played?’
The master of the house shrugged his shoulders.
‘If you insist. Although I hardly think it’s worth it, because there weren’t, strictly speaking, any extraordinary facts. It’s more or less a family affair which has effectively prevented the Thornes from prospering, because Brian and I are the last descendants. In fact we don’t know very much about our ancestors except that the Thornes were once a rich and prosperous family. Rich, powerful and respected, at least until the end of the last century. My grandfather, Stephen Thorne, was already married and lived here in the manor with his sister Agatha and his two brothers, Thomas and Harvey, and it’s the latter who interests us. Even at a tender age he was a gifted writer and his teachers saw in him a future literary genius—a view shared by his parents, who let him choose the room most favourable to inspiration. He installed himself on the upper floor of the wing. In the beginning, he spent two or three evenings a week there, but later… Food was brought to his “lair” and people who saw the light of a candle flickering all through the night behind the windows of his room wondered what he was doing. It’s unlikely they guessed that an indefatigable hand was filling ream after ream of paper.’
