by Paul Halter
‘Sceptical, but not deaf. When he told me, I decided to have a go, and I bet on a real outsider.’
Steps sounded and Meadows turned round:
‘Ah, Sarah darling. Francis and Paula have been telling me the news. Extraordinary, isn’t it?’
Howard Hilton watched the rain through his bedroom window.
‘It’s been like that for the last twenty-four hours and they say there’ll be no change in the next few days. It’s a real quagmire out there. I was planning to do the flower beds, but it doesn’t look as though that’s going to happen before next week… and maybe not even then. Wait a minute….’
Mrs. Hilton, sitting up in bed, shut her book and asked:
‘Yes, Howard, what is it?’
‘Mike Meadows just left, and it’s only a quarter to ten.’
‘That’s not an unreasonable time to retire.’
‘I agree, but he normally doesn’t leave before eleven o’clock.’
Mrs. Hilton had wanted to keep reading, but now she put her book down on the bedside table.
‘I’m tired, dear.’
Howard Hilton knew his wife well enough to know she was about to turn off the light.
‘So am I,’ he said with a yawn, ‘but I think I’ll have one last drink.’
He cleared his throat and made his way to the door, taking care not to look at his wife, and left the room. In the corridor he noticed Paula who had just come up the stairs. She gave him a little wave and disappeared into the bathroom. As he reached the top of the stairs he almost collided with Sarah, who was taking the steps two at a time.
‘Good evening, darling. Is everything all right?’
Sarah nodded with a brief smile and continued on her way.
In the salon, Howard Hilton found his son slumped in one of the armchairs, smoking a cigarette and looking worried. He served himself a whisky, sat down opposite him and asked:
‘You’re looking thoughtful, Francis, having problems?’
‘No, I was thinking about the money I won.’
‘I can well understand. It doesn’t happen every day.’
‘Quite so, but I was thinking about how it happened, not the result. Or, rather, about Brian. I’ve just been talking about it with Meadows, Sarah and Paula. We compared notes about all his predictions. It’s pretty surprising. I’m beginning to wonder whether he doesn’t indeed….’
‘Have a gift?’ replied Howard Hilton, contemplating his glass. ‘You know, Francis, the one thing that has surprised me is that no one has yet discovered Brian’s true nature. But that’s where we have to look to get to the bottom of all these mysteries. Brian may be shy and introverted, but that doesn’t stop him being an acute observer of human nature. People talk about a sixth sense, which is a convenient way of avoiding discussion about what might be another form of intelligence. Be that as it may, what’s undoubtedly true is that some people possess a flair for future events, even if they can’t explain it themselves. They seem to be able to process every slight detail about people they meet: their attitudes, their reactions their emotions, their thought processes, and somehow synthesise it all so they may announce a future event….’
‘Maybe,’ replied Francis dubiously. ‘But being able to predict that someone will be able to place a winning bet… I can’t see any explanation for that.’
His father responded with a smile. He emptied his glass and served himself another one.
‘There’s another thing. All the professional gamblers talk about “beginner’s luck.” It may be a trap to lure novices into the game, but apparently there’s quite a lot of evidence to support the idea. I know you’ve always liked the horses, but you’ve never placed a big bet, so in that sense you’re a beginner.’
‘If I understand you correctly,’ observed Francis, ‘I was condemned to win from the start!’
The conversation continued until half past ten, when the two men got up. They climbed the stairs—in Howard’s case, rather unsteadily—and stopped on the landing to wish each other goodnight.
‘Aren’t you going to see Paula?’
‘Not right now. There’s something I have to do in the study.’
Mr. Hilton watched his son walk down the corridor and decided he would have one last cigarette. He lit up and was leaning over the balustrade enjoying the peace and quiet, when it was suddenly interrupted by the distant creaking of the door to the study. Several seconds elapsed, and he was beginning to ask himself why Francis hadn’t closed the door behind, when he heard a muffled thud.
He turned round. The badly-lit corridor was empty.
‘Francis?’ he called out in an anxious voice.
The only reply was an echo. Without further ado, he followed his son, but stopped at the angle with the west wing of the manor.
The study door, a yellow rectangle in the surrounding half-light, was open. Lying on the sill was an inert mass he identified at once.
‘Francis!’ he shouted, rushing to the body.
At that very moment, the door to the room beyond the study opened and Brian appeared.
‘What is it, Mr. Hilton? Oh, My God!’
The two of them leant over Francis, who was lying on his side with his head near the door jamb and the rest of his body in the room. There was a bruise on his temple from which a thin stream of blood was flowing. Brian knelt down to take his pulse, then looked up:
‘Nothing serious, by the look of it.’
A look of relief spread across Howard’s face and the two men peered into the room, which was softly lit by the oil lamp. It was obvious there was nobody there.
Steps sounded in the corridor and Sarah appeared, with Paula just behind. Their faces pale, they listened to Howard Hilton’s explanations, which failed to reassure his daughter, who continued to tremble. Just at that moment, Mostyn arrived and was sent to fetch Dr. Meadows, after which Francis started to recover. Despite Paula’s protests, he stood up. Puzzled, he looked at the worried and questioning faces around him.
‘Francis,’ murmured Sarah in a quavering voice, ‘what happened?’
‘Well…,’ he started to say and frowned as he tried to concentrate.
Then he stopped, looking around in bewildered fashion, until his gaze alighted on the fireplace. There was an agonising silence, during which everyone could see his face grow paler and paler before freezing in an unspeakable expression of horror. The he shook his head in bewilderment.
‘I don’t know… I opened the door and went in and… I don’t remember anything else.’
‘Francis,’ cried Sarah in a hysterical voice, ‘what did you see?’
‘Nothing, Sarah, nothing,’ he replied in an unconvincing voice. ‘I think I got a bit sick, that’s all.’ He rubbed the bruise on his head. ‘I must have hit it against the doorframe.’
Sarah started to reply, but stopped as she saw Brian go towards the fireplace. He stopped in front of the hearth and examined the floor at that point. Then he stood up, looked at his companions, and announced in an expressionless voice:
‘The carpet’s wet.’
14
Dr. Meadows arrived at Hatton Manor at eleven. He examined Francis in his room, then went to give an injection to his fiancée, who seemed in a much more alarming state than the victim. After that, he went to find Brian and Howard Hilton, who had stayed behind in the study. He placed his bag on the table and regarded the two men while stroking his moustache.
‘Nothing serious in Francis’s case,’ he said after a moment. ‘As for Sarah …she was close to a nervous breakdown.’ His expression hardened and he punched his open hand with his fist. ‘Dammit! I’d really like to know what there is about this room. I assume you haven’t forgotten what happened here last year. Why did Harris Thorne throw himself out of the window? Why did Sarah faint from fright? And now Francis!’
‘What’s equally curious,’ offered Howard Hilton, ‘is that nobody can remember anything.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ replied Meadows with an inscrut
able look. ‘If you want my opinion, I rather think they know something but are afraid to talk about it. At least in Sarah’s case. I’ve often asked her about the frightful thing she saw, thinking it was a case of loss of memory. But recently I’ve changed my mind. The mere mention of that night makes her go pale and change the subject.’
With a sombre look on his face he lit a cigarette, went over to the fireplace and knelt down to examine the wet carpet.
‘We’ve already looked,’ commented Brian. ‘It seems it’s just water.’
The doctor stood up and nodded his head.
‘It does seem like it. But what does it mean? A few drops of water shouldn’t cause people to drop like flies.’
‘Of course,’ sighed Howard. ‘There must have been someone there. Someone standing in front of the fireplace, dripping wet. Someone, therefore, who came from outside….’
Deep in thought, Meadows leant on the marble mantelpiece and tapped on one of the pewter pots there with his fingers.
‘Someone, the very sight of whom can terrify his victims? It must indeed be a creature of nightmare. Standing in front of the fireplace would mean anyone entering the room would see it immediately, which fits the facts. But, as far as I can recall, Sarah was looking down. And it didn’t rain that day. And there was nobody in the room, I’ll bet my life on it.’
‘I hate to say this,’ observed Howard, ‘but it was exactly the same situation just now, wasn’t it, Brian?’
Brian coughed, obviously ill at ease:
‘In any case, the windows were shut.’
‘Come to think of it, the lamp was lit and Francis certainly couldn’t have had time to do it.’
‘It was I who forgot to extinguish it,’ confessed Brian.
Meadows cleared his throat forcefully and declared:
‘It’s about time you explained to me under what circumstances you found Francis.’
Hilton spoke first. Then it was Brian’s turn, and he was at pains to explain the reason why he’d been in the study earlier. The mention of the hypothetical manuscript—and of Harvey Thorne—did nothing to relax the atmosphere.
‘Him again,’ Meadows couldn’t help saying. ‘But please go on, Brian.’
‘Mostyn announced your arrival at nine o’clock. I started to search all the bookshelves until about ten, with no result. I went back to my room discouraged and continued my research, just as Sarah had suggested. I stayed there about an hour….’
Meadows stopped him with a gesture.
‘Sarah showed me something once.’
So saying, he went over to the bookcase to the right of the fireplace, which he examined carefully.
‘I seem to remember there’s a pivoted panel leading to a storage area.’
Brian nodded and came to join him. He removed several books and slid his hand into the resulting space. Part of the shelving swung open and the three of them went into the storage area. Brian crossed the room and turned on a switch near the door leading to the corridor. There was so much furniture stacked there that the walls were almost hidden. Brian pointed to an open wardrobe with half its contents emptied in front of it, mainly books and old newspapers.
‘I was here when I heard the sound of a thud,’ he explained.
His remark didn’t seem to interest the doctor, who closed the pivoted panel. He tried in vain to reopen it.
‘It’s not possible,’ said Brian. ‘You can only activate it from the study side.’
Dr. Meadows gave Brian a thoughtful look and studied the panel again.
‘What happened next?’ he asked.
‘I was surprised, obviously, and I stood still with my ears open. I dimly heard someone call out and, ten seconds later, the call was repeated much louder and I recognised Mr. Hilton’s voice. I opened the door here and you know the rest.’
The young doctor nodded his head silently, crossed the room and opened the door. He went out into the corridor, followed by the others.
‘So the unknown visitor—whatever he or it was—only had about fifteen seconds to escape.’
‘Yes,’ replied Brian hesitantly. ‘But he must have done it on tiptoe. Apart from Mr. Hilton’s shouts, I heard absolutely nothing. And I’ve got very keen hearing.’
‘In any case,’ continued Meadows, pointing to the opening to the spiral staircase, ‘he could only have gone that way. Are we agreed?’
The others nodded and followed him down the stairs to a small tiled area, perfectly clean. Brian opened the door to the kitchen, turned on the light switch and observed that the kitchen, too, was immaculate. He went across the room to a cupboard at the other end which he opened and took out a torchlight which he handed to Meadows.
The doctor took it, unlocked the door to the outside and opened it.
The ray of the lamp swept the area around the door—which the rain had transformed into a mud bath—and the three men noted it was utterly devoid of any footprint.
‘It stopped raining at about ten o’clock,’ declared Meadows. ‘Which means that our fugitive, if he took this way out—and, as we’ve seen, there was no other choice—would unavoidably have left traces in this muck. What’s more, if he’d have tried to come in this way—even though I don’t see how he could have unlocked the door from the outside—he would just as unavoidably have left traces of his passage. Yet the floors are as clean as a whistle and there’s no mat on which he could have cleaned his muddy shoes.’
‘So, no real person,’ concluded Brian. ‘Harris should never have unsealed that room. Never….’
Far more than the damp and the cold, the tone of his voice made his companions shiver.
‘I did warn him,’ he continued, ‘and now you can see what’s happened since … That room possesses a terrible power. It killed Harvey and Harris and almost drove Sarah mad… and now Francis. It has to be sealed again, and as quickly as possible.’
There was a long silence.
‘If I understand correctly,’ declared Mike Meadows, eyeing Brian sceptically, ‘you predicted tonight’s incident as well?’
‘Correct.’
‘Just as you announced the death of your brother?’
‘As well.’
The night was dark, but at that moment there was a break in the clouds and the baleful moon illuminated Brian’s face and the metallic gleam in his distant gaze.
‘How… how do you do it?’ asked Meadows, apparently impressed by the clairvoyant’s attitude.
‘Things are as they must be. No one can alter the course of destiny.’
15
Sarah stared disconsolately at the mirror. How long had she been there, scrutinising that pale and anxious face? More than half an hour, anyway. And more than half an hour before that, masking those awful bags under her eyes with make-up. A total waste of time, as it turned out. The result was there in the pitiless reflection in the mirror: an anxious woman with many sleepless nights behind her.
She couldn’t keep spending whole nights dwelling on her terrible memories. She felt she was wasting away. If only she could talk to Mike… Mike who was so attentive, so sensitive and who tolerated her changes of mood so patiently.
He’d obviously noticed that something wasn’t quite right with her, just as he’d realised it wasn’t a “physical” illness. He’d questioned her several times—discreetly and skilfully, needless to say. She couldn’t blame him, because he was acting in her best interests, but her response had been complete silence to the point of rudeness. But what could she have said? Certainly not the truth—and she didn’t want to lie to him.
She gave a deep sigh and lit a cigarette to give herself the illusion of comfort. When had this slide towards the abyss started? It had begun with Harris’s death, but she’d recovered from that. Francis’s sickness a month ago? No, it was well before that.
With an effort, she cast her mind farther back and had a flash of insight. She shuddered at the thought which had occurred to her.
Mike Meadows! Since she’d known him in a diff
erent light than friend and doctor… Yes, from that moment on… No… It wasn’t possible! And yet….
As if in a dream, she recalled the elegant figure with the laughing eyes full of reassurance which had overwhelmed her….
There was a knock on the door and the reflection of the man in her thoughts appeared behind hers in the mirror.
She stood up, turned round and melted in his arms. Mike Meadows held her at arm’s length, all the better to contemplate her.
‘How lovely you are tonight, darling. That red dress is marvellous….’
His warm and soothing voice had always had a magical effect on her. The charm was still there, sweeping everything else away. She replied teasingly:
‘Just tonight? And what’s marvellous, the red dress or me?’
The admiring look spoke for itself. Then the expression on the doctor’s face hardened.
‘What is it, darling? Don’t you want to marry me any more?’
‘Don’t be silly. It’s the invitation which bothers me. I saw Bessie this afternoon and she was full of smiles.’
‘She still likes you. I keep telling you that.’
‘It’s not that. I have a hunch that the soirée she’s organised has a hidden agenda. She’s got a surprise up her sleeve. I could tell it from her smile.’
‘Myself, I’m sure it’s an attempt to bury the hatchet. But I’ll keep an eye open, you can be sure of it. It’s already past eight, we’d better be going.’
Bessie, looking radiant, refilled her guests’ glasses with hot punch. Mrs. Blount took advantage of the moment to take her leave, wishing everyone a pleasant evening. The door closed behind her, but not before Paul and Francis had noticed her giving a conspiratorial wink to her daughter.
Brian was unrecognisable in an elegant blazer and flannels with a silk foulard around his neck. As he helped Bessie serve her guests, she commented that he should get out more and get away from his dusty books. He threw his head back and laughed, then replied he would follow her advice if she would accompany him—which made her blush as she laughed awkwardly.
Mike Meadows sensed his fiancée’s hand squeeze his. He followed her gaze: she was staring wide-eyed at Brian.
