by Paul Halter
‘Is something the matter?’ he asked.
‘That laugh. The way he threw his head back. It reminded me of—.’
She didn’t finish her sentence. Bessie asked for everyone’s attention, in order to drink a toast. All present raised their glasses in anticipation of their hostess’s announcement.
‘Let’s drink a toast,’ said Bessie with a mischievous smile, ‘to my health and that of my fiancé.’
A stunned silence greeted her words. Meadows, apparently the most taken aback of those present, spluttered:
‘Your fiancé? But who is he?’
‘It’s a surprise,’ replied Bessie. ‘At least for some of you. Would you like to meet him?’
A murmur ran through the small gathering. Suspicious glances were cast which eventually settled on a startled Brian, who made frantic gestures of denial.
Bessie, clearly enjoying the situation, turned and called out:
‘You can come in now, darling.’
The lounge door opened and a figure entered the room.
‘Patrick!’ gasped Paula, who looked as if she were about to faint.
Francis and his sister looked surprised, in a different way from Paula. Sarah put down her glass and rushed to embrace the newcomer:
‘Well, we certainly didn’t expect this,’ she said, her eyes sparkling.
Francis, who had come over to shake Patrick’s hand, said with a wink:
‘You old rogue. You kept it to yourself the last time we met.’
‘Bessie and I had decided to keep it a secret,’ said Patrick lamely.
Francis looked enquiringly at Bessie:
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Several months… but I seem to remember telling you about it.’
‘That’s right,’ he acknowledged. He turned to Paula, who was still rooted to the spot. ‘Darling, aren’t you going to congratulate your old chum? Don’t just stand there.’
‘It’s—It’s the emotion,’ she stammered, trying to recover from the shock of seeing Patrick.
Her mind was a mass of contradictory feelings. She saw Patrick coming towards her, relaxed and smiling and nearly slapped him when he said:
‘Paula… how long has it been since we met? One year? Two? Let me think…Yes, it must be two years since you left Padstow.’
It was all she could do not to bite him, a sentiment which increased as he leant towards her in a falsely fraternal embrace. And the comedy continued:
‘Let me look at you… You haven’t changed a bit.’
Whereupon, Francis introduced Patrick to Brian and Meadows—the latter tight lipped, for he had not appreciated the way Sarah had rushed to greet him—and explained how he and his sister had come to know Patrick.
Half an hour later, the evening was in full swing, thanks in no small part to the punch which had coloured everyone’s cheeks. White Camellia had got a grip of herself and presented the happy face of one glad to have met a childhood friend again. Bessie, holding tightly to her fiancé’s arm, smiled frequently at Meadows, who smiled back tensely. The doctor, who seemed to be lacking his customary verve, seemed to have been taken aback by events. Patrick was undoubtedly the centre of attention and Sarah, who seemed transformed, hung on his every word, reliving the good old days of the Padstow cove as if a breath of youth and gaiety had brushed the dark thoughts from her mind. The same change had seemed to come over Brian, who found in Patrick an attentive listener.
Needless to say, Paula was asking herself a thousand questions, notably whether Blue Reed’s visit to Hatton was entirely a matter of chance. Nevertheless, she played the game.
‘It’s incredible, Patrick, I can hardly believe it,’ she prattled, her fluttering eyelashes only partly concealing her malicious stare. ‘Incredible. Are you planning to stay a while?’
Patrick cleared his throat and was about to answer when Bessie interrupted:
‘Mother and I will be taking care of him for three weeks,’ she declared, with a radiant smile. ‘Maybe four. Isn’t that so, darling?’
Sensing White Camellia’s eyes upon him, Blue Reed agreed with a distinctly embarrassed air.
16
Bessie and her fiancé were invited to a bridge party two days later, but only Patrick turned up, Bessie having come down with a cold. The early October evening was cold and wet and he entered quickly when Mostyn opened the door for him.
The manor’s game room was vast and full of heavy furniture. Only the chandelier above the large central table was lit, leaving the billiard table in semi-darkness. Near the fireplace where a cheerful fire was crackling stood three armchairs, probably for players awaiting their turn.
The cut of the cards paired Blue Reed and White Camellia, Sarah and Mike Meadows, and Brian and Francis—a fairly balanced result, given that Francis was an experienced player and Brian, despite his Tarot expertise, was a neophyte. Ordinarily, he only participated to make up the numbers—and then only if pressed to do so—for he believed that cards had a higher purpose. That evening, curiously enough, he’d turned up voluntarily and raring to play.
Whilst the first four were taking their place at the table, Francis and Brian sat by the fire while the expert gave the novice some advice. It must have paid off, because two hours later they had a handsome lead over the other pairs. Patrick claimed it was only because they’d had good luck with the cards. Meadows agreed:
‘When Francis is on one of his lucky streaks, it’s best to be his partner.’
Patrick gave a sympathetic smile, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Brian seemed happy, but he seemed to be the only one. Francis, looking thoughtful, dealt the cards, while Paula sat quietly with her head down. Meadows, after looking at his watch, went over to the fireplace to join Sarah. He murmured some words in her ear, but she sat motionless in her armchair staring into the distance. Patrick found her unrecognisable: he’d never seen her like that. With her haggard appearance, empty stare and deathly white complexion, she looked as if she belonged in Madame Tussaud’s.
Meadows, claiming he’d had a hard day, took his leave after wishing Patrick good luck for the rest of the evening. Sarah went with him. Half an hour later it was Brian’s turn, and shortly after that Francis stood up.
‘I still have some paperwork to do before tomorrow,’ he told Patrick.
The latter, surprised and embarrassed to find himself alone with Paula, stammered:
‘I ought to make a move as well.’
‘Come, come,’ said Francis paternally, ‘I’m sure Paula has lots to tell you… You’re not going to bed for a while, are you, darling?’
‘No, of course not,’ she replied unconvincingly, making a show of collecting the cards to hide her blushes.
After the door closed behind Francis there was a heavy silence in the room. Blue Reed went to sit in one of the armchairs and started whistling Somebody Loves Me. Despite the melody the silence seemed even heavier. After five minutes had gone by, Paula went over to join her companion. She planted herself in front of him with arms crossed, frowning:
‘Dear friend,’ she said with heavy irony, ‘I’d like to know the meaning of this farce.’
Patrick feigned wide-eyed innocence:
‘Farce? What farce?’
‘Please don’t try to tell me you met Bessie by accident.’
Patrick lit a cigarette and closed the lighter with a sharp click.
‘As far as I know, I’ve a right to befriend anyone I want. I met Bessie in London and….’
‘I know how you met her. She told me, without saying who, but the extravagant way it happened should have tipped me off.’
‘I don’t follow.’
Paula smiled and sat down in another armchair:
‘How many women between the ages of twenty and thirty would you say there were in England?’
‘Now you’re asking… three million, maybe. I don’t know.’
‘And how many in the little village of Hatton?’
Patrick shrugged:
‘How would I know?’
‘Roughly.’
‘Twenty or thirty.’
‘Let’s say thirty, although that’s on the high side. That makes three million divided by thirty, in other words a hundred thousand. Which means there was a one in a hundred thousand chance of you happening on a girl from Hatton.’
‘It was a coincidence. They happen.’
‘Maybe,’ replied Paula wearily. ‘And in any case, I prefer not to know why… let it drop.’
Patrick, blowing perfect smoke rings, observed Paula out of the corner of his eye. She was slumped in her armchair with a far-off look in her eye, glints from the flames in her chestnut hair.
‘Paula, I have a distinct impression all’s not well with you.’
‘To say the least. But I’m not talking about me. I assume… has Bessie told you what happened to Francis a month ago?’
Patrick, who had noted Paula’s hesitation, nodded.
‘Yes, vaguely. The funny thing is, I ran into Francis a few days earlier, after his big win on the horses. I assume you know about that?’ Paula nodded. ‘He explained to me about how he’d come to make such a big bet on a single horse. He told me about Brian’s predictions, including “something else,” and was even joking about it as he boarded the train. I had no idea that prophecy would come true as well. It’s almost unbelievable… It seems the carpet in front of the fireplace was wet, just as on all the previous occasions?’
‘There’s no doubt about it.’
There was a moment’s silence, then Patrick asked Paula to go through everything in detail, as Bessie had left a lot out.
‘It’s enough to make you doubt your sanity,’ he observed, throwing his cigarette into the fire. ‘Francis doesn’t remember anything and neither does Sarah. It’s incomprehensible. In the extreme case, one might think it was a prank.’
Paula shook her head in disagreement.
‘That’s not their style. Not everyone’s like you. And anyway, Francis tried to minimise what had happened, as if it had been a fainting spell… and that’s not all.’
Patrick looked at her wide-eyed.
‘Oh, nothing really extraordinary, just a host of weird little things.’
‘Yes?’
‘In fact, almost all concerning Sarah. Haven’t you noticed how she’s changed?’
‘Of course. She seems a bundle of nerves and weary, so weary. Maybe she’s still thinking about her husband?’
‘I’d be surprised. Mike’s done his best to make her forget about him. In any case, that doesn’t explain her nervousness. And when I say nervousness, I mean hysterical. She loses her temper over trifles. Just the other night, she created a fuss about nothing. It was around half past nine and she went up to the study, where someone must have smoked.’
‘Smoked?’
‘Yes, a cigar. One of Harris’s, according to her. She tried to discover who was the guilty party. Everyone in the place was interrogated. In vain. And the more people denied it, the angrier she became.
‘A few days earlier, she attacked me. We were out for a walk together near the woods. Suddenly she grabbed my arm and started asking me questions, pointing at the trees: “Paula, what was that?” I asked her what she was talking about. “The shadow there, behind the trees, there was someone…” I told her I’d seen nothing and we continued on our way. A quarter of an hour later, it was the same thing: she’d seen “someone” when there was clearly no one there. I was so irritated at her trying to convince me about something non-existent that I snubbed her. She wouldn’t talk to me for days.
‘Another evening, it was Brian’s turn. The fuses had blown and she’d found herself alone in the corridor. She let out a terrible scream which aroused everyone. When the lights came back on, we found her in front of her bedroom door with Brian, whose teeth were almost chattering because of the screaming. She accused him of running his fingers through her hair in the darkness, which he vigorously denied. She ranted at him for half an hour. Poor Brian, he almost went down on his knees to beg her to stop.
‘And there we are,’ she concluded with a sigh. ‘Has the great detective any ideas?’
‘None, and it’s not for want of trying.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Good lord! It’s past eleven. Bessie will be starting to get worried.’
Paula, somewhat surprised, watched him get up. She was about to say something, stood there with her mouth open for a moment, then said:
‘All right, I’ll come with you to the door.’
On the doorstep, the night cold caused Patrick to raise the collar of his overcoat and jam his hat down over his head. He smiled at Paula, who was standing in the open doorway.
‘See you soon, White Camellia, if I’m still allowed to call you that.’
Paula couldn’t help giving a small nod of agreement, and she watched him disappear into the night after one last wave to her.
Despite a light drizzle, Patrick walked slowly along the gravel, whistling Tea for Two. Halfway between the manor and the entrance gate he turned round. There was not much inviting about the silhouette of the imposing construction half hidden in the mist, but the flicker of a smile crossed his face. He crept stealthily back towards the west wing of the manor and stopped in front of the service exit. He looked up and frowned when he saw a light behind the drawn curtains of the study.
“That wasn’t part of the plan,” he grumbled to himself.
He stood there for a moment, lost in thought, looking at the door which he’d unlocked earlier under the pretext of a pressing need.
After a fatalistic shrug of the shoulders he turned the knob and pushed open the door. No creaking noise. So far, so good. He climbed the spiral staircase as quietly as he could and stopped in the corridor at the top, listening carefully. Except for the narrow strip of light under the second door to his left, the whole area was in total darkness. Not for long, because light suddenly appeared at the angle at the end of the corridor and he heard steps on the main staircase.
“That must be Paula going to her room,” he told himself, taking the precaution, nevertheless, to flatten himself against the wall.
A few seconds later, there was the sound of a door closing and the place was once more plunged into darkness. For a brief moment, Patrick’s thoughts went back to that summer night in the cove at Padstow and a smile came to his lips. Reluctantly, he put the thought out of his mind, tiptoed to the door of the study and put his eye to the keyhole.
From what he could see, the room was as he had imagined it, but his attention was caught by the sight of Francis pacing to and fro in front of the window. Someone was talking, and he recognised Sarah’s voice.
‘The truth, Francis, I want the truth.’
‘I’ve been telling you for the last half hour that—.’
‘A simple blackout? You can do better than that.’
Sarah was speaking in a low voice, but each syllable was emphasised. She repeated in the same voice, angrily:
‘Tell me what you saw. I have to know. I must!’
‘Just to let you know, Brian is sleeping next door.’
‘I want to know what you saw. Because you did see something.’
Francis’s shoulders slumped. He looked at the floor in front of the fireplace, then put his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes.
‘I… I don’t know. It’s been more than a month.’
Suddenly Sarah blocked Patrick’s view. She planted herself in front of her brother, eyes flashing:
‘I know what you saw. Francis, I know, do you understand?’
Her brother’s response was disjointed:
‘I… I… I must have been seeing things. It’s not possible otherwise.’
Sarah recoiled:
‘So it really was….’
Francis nodded his head slowly.
‘My God!’ moaned Sarah, hiding her face in her hands.
Francis went over to the fireplace and looked at the carpet at his feet as if it were his worst enemy, th
en came back to his sister:
‘Sarah, listen to me: it’s not possible, not possible! Maybe I thought about it the moment I came in here. Yes, that must be it… I’m not saying I saw… what you’re thinking about. I thought about it, it was one of those fleeting visions one has sometimes….’
‘And which caused you to faint! Ha, ha, ha!’ she sneered hysterically.
Francis caught hold of his sister’s shoulders and shook her violently:
‘That’s enough! If you continue like this, we’ll all go mad! Get a grip on yourself. It’s this house and this room which are causing us to talk nonsense… Now you’re going to go to bed, and I also.’
Without further ado, Patrick withdrew into the spiral staircase. A few moments later he heard the study door open and shut and footsteps fade away in the corridor. After the light went out, he waited a good five minutes in the dark. Should he postpone his inspection of the study to another day? The next opportunity might not come soon. There was, of course, another solution: do it in daylight with the full permission of Sarah and Brian, who could hardly refuse. For several reasons—the principal of which was undoubtedly his adventurous spirit—he rejected that last approach.
But there were other pressing questions, notably what significance to give to the enigmatic conversation between Francis and his sister. What was that curious “thing” to which they alluded? The thing which Sarah had seen and Francis had “thought he’d seen.” If only they hadn’t talked in riddles… But it wasn’t to be….
Francis’s words nagged at him: “Sarah, listen to me: it’s not possible, not possible!” What wasn’t possible, for heaven’s sake?
He pushed all thoughts of postponement out of his mind and made his way to the study. The room looked innocent enough, but there was indeed an indefinable sense of unease which seemed to weigh on his shoulders. Could it be that, by some quirk of nature—the orientation of the room, an underground source of some kind, or other phenomena—the room exerted an influence on its occupants, provoking visions or dizziness? Or was it the weighty legacy of great-uncle Harvey whose oppressive, almost palpable presence could still be felt… there, hunched over his desk, his tortured, feverish brain transmitting his sulphurous prophecies to posterity on page after page of blackened paper… the scratching of his pen… the diffused light of the lamp illuminating the brow wrinkled by the effort. What rubbish! He wasn’t about to let his imagination get carried away!
