The Madman's Room

by Paul Halter

  He started by examining the furniture. Next, he activated the pivoted panel and took a quick look inside the storage room. After that he examined the chimney, quickly coming to the conclusion that no one could have got in or out that way. He stood with his back to the door and scanned the floor. His gaze automatically fell on the part of the carpet in front of the fireplace. He stood there for quite some time, motionless, his mind teeming with questions. What had Sarah seen? And Francis, had he seen the same thing? Come to think of it, what had Harvey and Harris Thorne seen, standing in the same spot—because each had been found at an equal distance, but in opposite directions: the former writhing in agony on the sill and the latter outside, defenestrated. “Something wet” was probably the only detail one could be sure of. The important thing was to determine whether that wet element was—or was not—made of flesh and bone. Meadows and Bessie were sure that the circumstances of Sarah’s collapse precluded the possibility of human presence or intervention. The same went for Francis’s situation, but with less certainty. So, a “thing” but not a very big one—or, more accurately, not a very tall one—taking into account the direction of Sarah’s gaze….

  Patrick gave a long sigh as he realised his attempted process of elimination wasn’t yielding results. Try as he might, he wasn’t making any progress. And, to cap it all, there were Brian’s predictions about the incidents, which left his poor brain floundering.

  In one final effort, he went over to the fireplace again and examined the carpet. Once again, no traces and no clues. In fact, he’d learnt nothing from his nocturnal investigation except the conversation he’d overheard, which had only served to confuse the situation even more.

  Closing the service door behind him, he thought about the unbolted door which would be discovered the next day. But he wasn’t worried: one of the servants would be accused of negligence, and that would be that.

  It was still drizzling as he hurried along the central driveway. He stopped half way, in approximately the same spot where he’d stopped an hour earlier to double back. This time, he noticed a paved path crossing the lawn to his right. Despite the mist he could make out the ghostly silhouette of the chapel above a ring of trees. It was a sober and elegant construction which nevertheless seemed curiously disquieting, even forbidding. Generations of Thornes had been buried there, in the family vault. He felt a shiver run down his spine and stood there thoughtfully until the hint of a smile crossed his face. After taking a precautionary look around, he set off along the path.

  The chapel door squeaked as he opened it. The damp cold seemed more intense than outside. The only sound was the gentle pattering of the rain. In total darkness, Patrick lit a match, a feeble firefly quickly swallowed by the shadows. He advanced cautiously and noted a small altar. He turned to his left and struck another match. He looked around and changed direction. As he did so, he stubbed his foot against a pillar lying full length on the ground and let out a curse. Once more a flickering light dispelled the silent, creeping shadows of the ancient chapel. Patrick, who had stood up, now knelt down to examine the floor, where he had detected the outline of a large slab. His face lit up: it must be the entrance to the crypt. Nearby, he located a solid stake, no doubt placed there for the same purpose he himself was planning: to insert it into the ring embedded in the slab and shift it to one side. The operation, although not easy, was accomplished in under ten minutes. He descended the narrow steps leading down and came face to face with a heavy chestnut door. To his dismay, he discovered it was locked and was forced to retrace his steps. After putting the slab back in its place, he was drenched in sweat, and it was with a sentiment of utter frustration that he took the direction of Bessie’s house.

  The following day, Friday, he spent the entire time in the warmth with Bessie, who was beginning to recover from her cold. A deliciously idle day in front of the fire, defying the rain pattering against the windows.

  Saturday arrived with no break in the weather and no sign of Bessie and Patrick setting foot outside. At around five o’clock, Brian turned up with an invitation to a bridge party. Bessie, still in the grip of a stubborn migraine, declined politely but told her fiancé there was no reason he shouldn’t go. Patrick declared gallantly that there was no chance he would leave her alone a second time. A perfectly reasonable attitude at the time, but one that he would come to regret later. In fact, what would happen later would turn out to be of special importance: an evening during which Brian would distinguish himself in a particularly sinister manner.

  17

  That same Saturday at around eleven o’clock, Bessie and Patrick were still awake. The Blounts’ house was shuddering under the assault of the wind and a fire was roaring in the lounge. Patrick was savouring a whisky, trying to look interested in what his fiancé was saying. After a number of circumlocutions, she had succeeded in steering the conversation to a subject which was obviously still troubling her: Dr. Mike Matthews. At great length he learnt that behind the elegant exterior and warm smile lurked a completely different person and that, beneath the veneer of civility, was an insufferably complacent individual, a frightful egoist full of good counsel which cost him nothing, an individual as vain as a peacock, a quibbler for detail, and who knew what other target of opprobrium.

  Her animosity towards her ex-fiancé seemed to Patrick to have clouded her judgment, but having no desire to pick a fight, he rapidly lost interest in the subject.

  ‘… and it won’t be long before Sarah finds that out for herself, if she hasn’t already.’

  Patrick nodded, yawned discreetly and sneaked a glance at his watch, which showed half past eleven. He pricked up his ears suddenly and looked at Bessie.

  ‘Didn’t you hear anything?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll take a look.’ She went to the window and pulled back the curtains. ‘There’s someone… but who?… Francis and Paula!’ Exchanging an enquiring glance with her fiancé, she went to the door.

  While quickly serving himself another whisky, Patrick told himself that such a late and unexpected visit could only be bringing bad news. He was not mistaken.

  The pale faces of their two visitors showed anxiety and confusion. After Bessie had taken their coats and ushered them to the warmth of the fireside, Francis began to speak:

  ‘We fear the worst.’

  He looked insistently at Patrick whilst he lit a cigarette and continued:

  ‘It’s about Brian.’

  Patrick, after hearing the alarming words and looking at Paula and her husband in turn, muttered:

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s made another prophecy?’

  Paula nodded and Francis continued:

  ‘A prophecy of misfortune and maybe even… death.’

  For long seconds the only sound was the howling of the wind.

  Patrick, who couldn’t stop looking at Paula’s anguished eyes, trembled at the thought that came into his head.

  ‘Against… her?’ he asked hesitantly, pointing a trembling finger at Paula.

  ‘No, against Sarah,’ replied Francis tersely. ‘Here’s what he said verbatim less than half an hour ago: “There’s misfortune in store for you, Sarah, great misfortune … You are in danger.” After that he ran a limp hand across his brow and continued in a fading voice, like a litany: “A misfortune, a great misfortune, a truly great misfortune.”’

  ‘Patrick,’ intervened Paula, ‘you’ve got to help us. You have to do something.’

  ‘That’s why we’ve come here to alert you,’ declared Francis, ‘not simply as a friend but above all as a detective.’

  Patrick chewed his lip pensively. He studied his visitors, then asked them under what circumstances Brian had made his prediction.

  ‘We started to pay bridge shortly before eight o’clock,’ said Paula. ‘I say “we,” although I wasn’t playing, merely watching, because… well, that doesn’t really matter. Brian was playing with Sarah against Francis and Dr. Meadows. Everything went smoothly at the beginning, but little by little the atmosph
ere changed. Sarah had been nervous from the start with brusque and hasty gestures. She dropped her cards a couple of times when she was trying to pick them up.’

  ‘She’s always like that,’ said Francis, shrugging his shoulders. ‘That’s nothing unusual.’

  ‘Maybe, but tonight she appeared particularly agitated. In fact, it was Brian’s attitude, in my opinion, which cast a chill on the proceedings. He was perky at the beginning, much more talkative than usual, but as the evening wore on we heard less and less from him and he became paler and paler.’

  ‘It’s true,’ agreed Francis. ‘He looked out of sorts.’

  ‘It wasn’t just him,’ continued Paula, irritated by her husband’s constant interruptions. ‘There was Meadows as well. But in his case, it was more the lay of the cards which upset him… At the beginning he was only too pleased to have you as partner, Francis. But he changed his mind after that, because you have to admit, you weren’t at the top of—.’

  ‘What does that matter,’ snapped Francis. ‘Patrick’s not interested in all those little details.’

  ‘Very well,’ she replied in resignation. ‘The game ended at half past ten or thereabouts, by which time Brian had a disturbing expression on his face. That happens quite often, but in this case he’d seemed so happy at the start.’

  ‘Stick to the facts, Paula.’

  ‘We all went out into the hall. Sarah went to accompany Meadows. Brian started up the stairs, more slowly than usual, stopping still at the seventh or eighth step. His behaviour had attracted our attention. He turned around just as slowly and gave Sarah a strange look, piercing yet at the same time distant. He was very pale and as motionless as a statue. His thin figure was back-lit against the stairs, but his eyes, strangely enough, gleamed in the darkness. At least, that’s what it looked like to me… Then he solemnly pointed a trembling index finger in Sarah’s direction. And that was when he… when he….’

  Paula was unable to continue. It was useless. But Bessie and Patrick had understood and had no trouble imagining the scene.

  ‘And afterwards?’ asked Patrick, breaking the silence. ‘How did Sarah react?’

  The question seemed to upset Paula, who let her husband take her place. Francis seemed equally embarrassed.

  ‘In fact,’ he began, ‘I had the distinct impression that Paula and I were the most frightened. Sarah had changed colour, of course. As for Meadows, he rushed towards her and gave Brian a wrathful look accompanied by an ostentatious shrug of the shoulders. He didn’t say anything, but he looked daggers. Thereupon, Brian went up to his room. Paula and I went into the salon and Meadows and Sarah went out. A few moments later we heard a door slam and the doctor’s car drive furiously away. Sarah came back in and crossed the hall without a word or even a look at us. As if we were responsible for Brian’s words.’

  ‘I have to say,’ added Paula, ‘that she’s hardly spoken to us at all recently. Nor to anyone else either, by the way.’

  ‘So that’s it,’ said Francis, turning to Patrick. ‘We came here straight away. Now I think about it,’ he added reflectively, ‘maybe we were too hasty. I’m starting to become wary of Brian’s predictions.’

  ‘Wary?’ echoed Bessie in astonishment. ‘You’d have to be crazy to ignore them. If he spoke about great danger, it’s because—.’

  Francis cut her off:

  ‘What do you think, Patrick?’

  Patrick replied with a question of his own:

  ‘What exactly do you want me to do? Shadow her? Watch her night and day?’

  ‘Of course not,’ retorted Francis. ‘That’s out of the question. That would only frighten her more. She’s at the end of her tether and that kind of surveillance, far from reassuring her, might have the opposite effect and provoke a regrettable incident.’

  Patrick, who was starting to feel uneasy, reached for his glass and emptied it in a single gulp. The situation was confused and becoming tiresome. Francis kept staring at him. Francis, who had a blind confidence in him because of their friendship, which he had betrayed… with Paula. Paula, in whose wide-open blue eyes he could detect fear, remorse and another sentiment whose flame seemed still to be burning… And, next to her, Bessie, his fiancée. A strange trio, all hanging on his word as if he were able, by waving a magic wand, to dispel the menaces and spells placed upon Hatton Manor. As if he could lift the veil from this absurd affair, over which hovered the shadow of a seer whose prophecies always seemed to come true… An affair which only a detective of the impossible could unravel… A detective of the impossible… a light bulb went on in his head.

  ‘I don’t really know what to tell you,’ he declared prudently. ‘I do happen to have investigated a criminal case—although it only concerned threats and slander—but this affair is quite out of the ordinary. And, when you get down to it, aside from Brian’s predictions and a few incidents, what is there? Nothing. Nothing that would justify an investigation, in any case, even a private one.’

  Bessie and Paula started to protest, but he silenced them with a gesture.

  ‘I know the situation looks serious. What should we do? The more I think about it, not very much.’

  ‘I tend to agree, unfortunately,’ growled Francis, clenching his fists. ‘If something really is due to happen to Sarah, then she’s not going to be safe anywhere. But let’s not get carried away.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ announced Patrick suddenly. ‘I know someone in London who specialises in this sort of case.’

  ‘What do you mean by “this sort of case”?’ asked Bessie.

  ‘Bizarre cases which the police are unable to solve on their own, where murderers appear to have walked through walls, or on snow without leaving any footprints. Cases which appear to have no rational explanation. But the person I know always manages to solve them.’

  ‘He sounds like some kind of magician,’ said Francis, sceptically.

  ‘In a sense, yes. Needless to say, there’s no question of bringing him here. But I might go to visit him in London tomorrow, to get his opinion.’

  Patrick returned from London on Monday evening at a quarter past eight and asked the taxi to drop him at the centre of Hatton village. Without knowing exactly why, he felt like walking a little before returning to the Blount residence. To reflect, perhaps, to take stock, to order his thoughts. The first part of his plan had gone well enough, but now he had the disagreeable feeling of wading in quicksand. The goal he’d set for himself was a long way from being achieved. A very long way, in fact. He had to admit he hadn’t progressed an inch. For a moment he felt like giving up. But what had he thought? That his dreams would come true just because that’s what he wanted? Bitterly, he began to foresee a fiasco. He’d never suffered one before. He had a horror of failure and, when he wanted something, he would do anything to get it.

  On impulse, he took a path from the village which he’d never taken before, but which he knew went through the woods, parallel to the main road. It would eventually lead him to the back of the Blounts’ enclosure and allow him another few minutes for quiet thought. He lit a cigarette as he walked and thought about his two days in London. He’d arrived late in the afternoon on Sunday and had visited the person he’d asked to meet that evening. His host had expressed a keen interest without, unfortunately, being able to offer him any specific advice beyond being careful, because the sum of all the events seemed to him to be a bad omen. The next day Patrick had dined with his business associate and sent a message to Bessie announcing his arrival that evening. Bessie, he repeated to himself with a lump in his throat, Bessie….

  The path was only illuminated by the light from the occasional rear window and progress was slow, but after nearly ten minutes he was able to make out, in the near distance, the fence around the Blounts’ property. Seeing the gate open, he approached more quietly and stopped.

  What the devil?

  On impulse he hid behind a bush and kept his eyes open. He had no difficulty identifying the figure that had just set foo
t on the path up to the manor. There was nothing extraordinary about its presence there at that hour. On the other hand, what it was doing….

  Patrick, his breath taken away, watched the spectacle taking place before his eyes in amazement. No, he wasn’t seeing things. Of course, there was one thing he couldn’t see very clearly…but the shape left no doubt. He couldn’t believe it, nothing made sense.

  His stupefaction was such that he was unable to react. He stood there, rooted to the spot—which was a grave error, as he was to realise later—his mind bewildered by events.

  18

  ‘“Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth,”’ sneered Inspector Archibald Hurst. ‘Come on, Twist, you make me laugh with your maxims!’

  ‘That one’s not mine, it belongs to—.’

  ‘In any case, you’ve adopted it. Not a month goes by without you trotting it out.’

  ‘And why does it make you laugh so much, my friend?’ asked Dr. Twist, pouring two cups of tea.

  ‘Why? Because it’s false. Completely false. You know as well as I do that every time we tackle a case, nine times out of ten it’s the “impossible” hypothesis which turns out to be correct.’ The inspector’s ruddy face darkened suddenly. ‘But, come to think of it, every time you pronounce the phrase, there’s a problem you’re mulling over.’

  Twist nodded and Hurst looked as though he’d been slapped in the face. He listened to the clock strike five and turned to look out of the window at the light fog which was settling on London, telling himself that Tuesday evening didn’t look as if it would be much fun.