by Paul Halter
‘My dear Francis, I’m not sure this is the best method for determining your future.’
Francis Hilton squinted in the darkness.
‘The best method? What method are you talking about?’
‘I sense you’re incredulous… You don’t believe in this science, am I correct?’
‘Well, let’s just say I’m not entirely convinced.’
Brian nodded, then asked Francis to take a seat opposite him, after which he took a deck of cards out from a drawer and spread them out on the table. The soft light of the lamp revealed many beautifully coloured figures: a cleric absorbed in a book, a woman holding a sword and a set of scales, a naked woman pouring the contents of a pitcher into a lake, a skeleton scything grass, a hanged man, a man falling from a tower, two dogs looking at the moon, and a host of others. Some of the cards only displayed symbols, crossed wands, swords, cups, coins, numbers from one to ten.
‘Do you know these cards?’ asked Brian.
‘It looks like a Tarot deck… but not quite.’
‘That’s right. It’s the Tarot of Marseille.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Francis in surprise. ‘I assume they’re cards specially made for predictions?’
Brian smiled.
‘Yes, even today the introduction of Tarot in Europe is the subject of much controversy. The French claim it was a court painter, Jacquemin Gringonneur, who… but I don’t think that would interest you very much. Ah! I notice you’ve been studying the skeleton with the scythe.’
Francis looked up anxiously.
‘It represents death, doesn’t it?’
‘Not necessarily. It depends on the adjacent cards.’
This last observation hardly seemed to reassure Francis, who, at Brian’s request, shuffled the cards and cut them into six stacks. Brian took the top card from each stack and placed them face up in front of his visitor. After a moment’s reflection, he stared at the glass of water. The operation was repeated three times. There followed a long silence which seemed interminable to Francis.
‘Well?’ he said eventually.
Brian gave him an impenetrable look.
‘So,’ he announced, ‘there’s not a shadow of doubt. I did say beforehand that, in view of your scepticism, the outcome wasn’t assured, but… the message from the cards is quite clear. As you have no doubt noticed, we frequently turn up the same cards... the four of wands, the king of coins and the eight of swords followed by Death….’
‘Yes,’ said Francis in a quavering voice, ‘I noticed that last one. Please don’t tell me that….’
Brian stared thoughtfully at the glass of water before he spoke:
‘The eight of swords wasn’t turned up, so there’s no need to fear the worst… But beware of some kind of incident like a fall. But there’s also good news… Francis, you play the horses, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes, but without much success, I have to say. That’s why I only place small bets.’
Brian smiled broadly.
‘In your shoes, I’d be more adventurous next time: the king of coins next to the eight of wands indicates significant winnings!’
At a quarter to twelve, Patrick Nolan, a newspaper under one arm, pushed open the door of one of the pubs in Regent Street. He made a beeline for one of the few empty seats and was about to get himself a drink when he heard his name being called:
‘Patrick!’
He looked round to see someone making his way towards him, someone he hadn’t seen for quite a while and whom he didn’t particularly wish to see now. He feigned a pleasure he was far from feeling and replied:
‘Hello, Francis.’
They didn’t quite fall into each others’ arms, but almost. In the days when the Hiltons spent their holidays in Padstow, Francis and Patrick had got on well enough to become firm friends.
Blue Reed felt a sense of unease, of breathlessness, and of shame as the blood rushed to his cheeks. Frequently in his dreams—and in reality, for that matter—Francis had stood between him and White Camellia. Francis, with his blue eyes and his smile.
‘It’s good to see you again, Patrick,’ he said, as he lined up two beers on the counter.
Blue Reed ordered a second round and, cursing himself for being a hypocrite and a traitor, proposed a toast:
‘Here’s to….’
The name which was always in his mind stuck on his lips.
‘To Paula!’ exclaimed Francis joyfully, raising his glass.
The two men drank, each with a broad smile on his lips, although the sincerity of Patrick’s was highly questionable.
Francis, who had emptied his glass in a single gulp, made a confession:
‘I owe you everything. I owe you… Paula.’
‘I don’t see what there is to thank me about,’ protested Patrick, starting to choke.
‘Paula told me the role you played in our marriage. She admitted she’d been indecisive. Without your advice….’
‘All I did was—.’
‘Whatever it was, I shan’t forget that it’s to you that I owe my happiness.’
Pierced by a fiery sword, Patrick said nothing and lit a cigarette.
‘It’s been two years since we were married,’ Francis continued, ‘and two years since we last saw you, Patrick. You should have contacted us, Paula would have been so happy… Her parents gave you our new address, I imagine?’
“Two years since we last saw each other isn’t quite correct,” thought Patrick bitterly, thinking of White Camellia. He’d seen Francis two weeks ago, in the north of London, while he had under surveillance one of the department heads of the Cope Refrigerating Company, whose wife suspected him of adultery. He vividly recalled the polar equipment he’d had to wear in order to spend a few hours in the refrigeration unit, in order to snap photographs of the department head and his secretary engaging in a passionate embrace, despite the Siberian temperature. He’d almost caught pneumonia. It just so happened that afterwards he’d seen Francis getting into his car, but since he was pretty sure Francis hadn’t seen him, he decided not to bring it up.
‘It’s been quite a while since I left Cornwall for the capital. I thought about you a lot, obviously, but you know how it is. What with work and everything else, there’s no time left for other things.’
Francis nodded his agreement and asked:
‘By the way, what do you do?’
After Patrick explained, Francis remained thoughtful.
‘I don’t suppose you ever met Harris Thorne?’ he asked eventually.
‘No, never.’
‘Well, you won’t be able to do it now, because he died last year.’
Patrick was about to feign surprise, but changed his mind. He clapped his hand to his forehead and exclaimed:
‘What was I thinking? Of course I’d heard about it. Either someone told me or I read about it in the newspapers. Jolly hard luck on poor Sarah… How’s she dealing with it?’
‘Pretty well, actually. She’s just got engaged to Mike Meadows, the village doctor.’
Once again, Patrick had to stop and think. It was a delicate situation, for he could hardly pretend not to have known Meadows. He decided to follow the old adage: attack is the best form of defence:
‘If I remember correctly, Harris Thorne died in rather strange circumstances, didn’t he?’
‘Exactly, and I wanted to talk to you about it. As a detective, I imagine you’d find it interesting.’
Just as Francis finished his account of the facts, two men seated not far away called out to him. He went over and introduced Patrick to them. The conversation ranged over other subjects and the four of them decided to have a bar meal there. From the following discussion, which was exclusively about horse racing, Patrick gleaned that Johnny and David were avid punters and that Francis also seemed well versed in the subject.
There followed much friendly banter, wherein Johnny and David chided Francis for his timid betting habits. ‘How can you win anything if you risk nothing?’ a
sked David, at which Johnny shot Francis an amused look.
‘Actually, our student made a big bet yesterday, but the sly fellow didn’t think to tell us about it. Isn’t that so, Francis? Don’t deny it, I saw you at the window. What did you win?’
‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t dared to look. Patrick, can I borrow your newspaper?’
He thumbed rapidly through the paper to reach the sporting pages. In the silence which followed, his companions saw him go pale. He plunged his hand into his inside pocket and brought out a ticket, which he examined at length before placing it on the table. Johnny and David looked at each other and leant over to inspect it. They recoiled in astonishment and stared at Francis.
‘Little Joe,’ murmured David. ‘He put twenty pounds on Little Joe.’
‘Which was at thirty to one,’ added Johnny, almost falling off his chair.
The happy event was duly celebrated and the four of them left the pub at closing time. After saying goodbye to the two punters, Patrick and Francis stopped by the tote office to collect the latter’s winnings. Because Francis’s train didn’t leave until six o’clock, the pair decided to take a stroll in St. James’s Park first.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Patrick, sitting down on a bench. ‘Winning such a huge sum in so short a time… I’d love to see Paula’s face when you tell her.’
Francis sat down beside him without a word. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and looked thoughtfully into the distance.
‘What’s up, old boy? You don’t look like someone who’s just won six hundred pounds.’
‘If you only knew how I won it….’
‘By betting on a horse, and as far as I know, that’s not illegal. Anyone would think you’ve got something else on your conscience.’
‘It’s not that,’ replied Francis, shaking his head. ‘Just now I told you about Harris’s brother. He calls himself a clairvoyant. I don’t really believe in that stuff, but since my brother-in-law’s death, which he predicted, I can’t dismiss it completely.’
‘Pure luck.’
Francis smiled sceptically and took his time lighting a cigarette.
‘Pure luck,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not so sure. It wasn’t the first time he announced an event which came to pass. Besides, he had a great-uncle with the same gift.’
As they walked to the station, Patrick listened to Francis’s account of the life of great-uncle Harvey, which he knew already. The end of the recital took place on the departure platform because Francis had added all the strange events which had occurred since their arrival in Hatton Manor.
‘And it’s the same Brian,’ he concluded, ‘who as recently as last week told me I would soon collect a large sum as the result of a bet.’
‘It’s scarcely believable,’ said Patrick, lost in thought and seemingly unaware of the voyagers rushing past.
Francis appeared troubled.
‘That’s not all. He also predicted an incident, a sort of accident, I’m not sure precisely what. That’s why I’m not exactly jumping for joy about…’ He tapped his inside pocket. ‘What does the great detective think?’
‘To be honest, there’s nothing to say, except to be careful… You never know.’
The sharp blow of a whistle made them jump.
Francis, smiling again, extended his hand to his companion:
‘Don’t worry, Patrick. There’s a lucky star looking after me and you know her.’
‘Ah! Paula,’ replied Patrick, looking downcast.
‘Promise you’ll come and see us.’
‘Of course.’
‘I hope I’ll still be there to greet you!’ exclaimed Francis with a roar of laughter, before turning on his heel and climbing into the compartment.
Patrick stayed to watch the train leave and Francis make a last wave from the window, then retraced his steps. His mind was full of questions. He ordered a cup of coffee at the station buffet and sat down to reconsider the plan he’d been hatching for weeks, if not months.
13
Sarah pushed the director’s report away in annoyance. As always, there was nothing new and business was fine, so she attributed her bad mood to the gloomy wet weather. She looked at the clock: almost a quarter to nine already. She sighed, turned towards the window and, pressing her forehead against it, watched the night engulf the greyness of the day. As she listened to the rain pattering on the window she allowed her thoughts to wander. In the first place, she wondered why she’d habitually come there, Harris’s old study, to conduct her business. After all, it was so oppressive. Not only was it a sinister reminder of her husband’s death, there was something else she couldn’t put her finger on. Could it be the old furniture and carpet, and those old books whose pages had blackened during the years great-uncle Harvey had lived there? Possibly, but the place was a haven of silence and peace, unlike anywhere else in the manor. And calm and tranquillity was what she was most in need of, as Mike kept telling her. The room seemed to hold a secret attraction for her. Maybe she would end her days there, like great-uncle Harvey… and Harris.
Feeling suddenly tired, she decided to lie down. Extinguishing the old oil lamp, she wondered whether it wasn’t about time to install electricity. If Brian refused every attempt to modernise his room, that was up to him, but there was no reason for her to live in the last century. She would speak to Mostyn about it the next day.
She reached the divan and lay down. As she was about to close her eyes, she remembered that Mike had told her he’d drop by at around nine o’clock. She’d go downstairs in a few minutes, just a few short minutes—enough time for a short nap….
The monotonous sound of the rain against the windows was fading and drowsiness was overcoming her when she suddenly heard the door creak.
She froze as the feeble light of the corridor gradually penetrated the room.
Who could it be?
The deformed shadow thrown on the wall offered no clue.
Advancing gingerly towards the door, she closed it behind her. Darkness reigned again in the room. She opened her mouth to ask the figure to identify itself, but no words came out. The only details she thought she had seen were red glints in the figure’s hair. A picture of Harris flashed into her mind.
She heard muffled footsteps on the carpet and saw a silhouette at the window, outlined in the dying light. The sound of a match being struck broke the silence and, to Sarah’s intense relief she recognised Brian, who was lighting the lamp. How could she have mistaken him for Harris? His dull brown hair had none of the flamboyance of her late husband’s. She must have been thinking about him at that very moment, that was the only possible explanation. Decidedly, she hadn’t been her normal self lately.
‘Oh! Sarah!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘Excuse me, I didn’t know you were there… How pale you are. Anyone would think you’d seen a ghost.’
The light-hearted manner in which he uttered the words didn’t stop Sarah from shivering. But she recovered with a shake of her head.
‘I was about to take a nap,’ she replied, telling herself she didn’t owe him any explanation. ‘Brian, can you tell me what you’re doing here?’
‘I-I…’ he stammered, looking down. He thought for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I wanted to do some research.’
‘Research, here? Ah, I understand,’ she added, looking around the room at all the books on the shelves.
‘It’s not exactly that. I think I mentioned it already: I believe there’s still a manuscript by my great-uncle in existence.’
‘You did. But I’d like to know why you think that.’
Brian looked straight at her, then opened his hand as if something was written there.
‘No particular reason, really. Just an impression. How can I explain it? As you know, I believe our great-uncle’s writings should be considered a masterpiece. A masterpiece unique in its own way. Admittedly, I haven’t read a single word myself, but several different testimonies confirm the genius of the author. I refuse to be
lieve that every single thing he wrote has disappeared. It’s not possible, do you understand? All the….’
Sarah wasn’t listening. She was looking at Brian’s hand. It was pale and large. Very large, even. When her brother-in-law had finished, she agreed, vaguely:
‘I see what you mean.’
Silence.
‘So you think there might be a manuscript hidden in this room?’
Brian turned to look at the shelves bracketing the chimneypiece.
‘It’s not out of the question. Think about the door hidden behind those shelves. Why wouldn’t there be a secret drawer or some such thing. I’ve been thinking about thoroughly examining this room for a long time.’
‘Well, if that’s what you want, go ahead. And, while you’re at it, look at the storage room next door. Cathy sweeps it from time to time, but that’s all. Everything’s still as it was and I don’t think anyone’s touched it since we arrived.’
‘That’s a good idea. I’ve already looked once, but maybe not hard enough.’
They heard three discreet knocks and Mostyn appeared in the doorway:
‘Dr. Meadows is here, madam.’
Mike Meadows looked at Paula in astonishment:
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Six hundred pounds,’ repeated the young woman, pronouncing each syllable carefully. ‘Francis won it the other day at the races.’
Dr. Meadows placed his glass of port on the low table, paused for a moment, then looked questioningly at Francis:
‘Does that happen often?’
‘Unfortunately not. And, by the way, I’ve never bet that much before.’
‘A hunch, was it?’
Francis and Paula exchanged amused glances. She explained:
‘Francis went to see Brian a few days ago and he predicted a large sum of money in the future.’
Francis shook his head:
‘He did more than that. He more or less told me I’d win on a bet.’
Meadows took a sip of port and lit a cigarette:
‘That man has some astonishing gifts. But I thought you’d always been sceptical about him?’
