The Madman's Room

by Paul Halter

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s a locked room problem,’ he said, forcing himself to remain calm. ‘Not that, Twist. Anything but that. Last month’s kept me from sleeping during the entire investigation. I spent a whole week racking my brains for a solution—which turned out to be so simple I spent another couple of nights wondering why we hadn’t found it earlier. Frankly, I’m not ready for another one so soon.’

  ‘If that were all… The affair I’m thinking about seems to be much more complex than a simple locked room. Don’t pull that face, Archibald, and listen before you drink my tea. It’s just occurred to me that you know about it already. It was you yourself who told me about the Thorne case a year ago!’

  ‘Thorne… Thorne,’ repeated the policeman, frowning. ‘I remember: the strange suicide, the clairvoyant and the sealed room.’

  ‘That’s the one. There have been some recent developments. No murders, as of yet, just new prophecies that have come to pass. Do you know Patrick Nolan? The young detective who has an agency near Piccadilly?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ grunted Hurst. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘Well, he came to see me yesterday evening.’

  Whereupon Alan Twist repeated the details of what Patrick had told him.

  He didn’t mention the idyll with White Camellia for the simple reason that Patrick hadn’t confessed to it.

  In the silence which followed, Hurst lit a cigar, a sullen expression on his face.

  ‘Thoughts can’t kill,’ he growled. ‘It’s impossible.’

  ‘That’s a strange maxim, my friend,’ teased Twist. ‘In the first place, the young woman isn’t dead yet. And secondly it’s a prophecy, not a thought… and one that only announces misfortune—a grave misfortune, admittedly, but a misfortune nonetheless.’

  ‘Whatever the case may be, I’m sticking to my first impression: that Brian is a shady character.’ Hurst brought his fist down on the table and Twist winced as the porcelain rattled. ‘Hell’s bells, don’t tell me you’re taking that charlatan’s tall tales seriously!’

  Still holding up to ridicule all prophets and soothsayers, Hurst, after having crumpled up an empty envelope which was lying on the table, got up and started pacing the room, kneading it with his large hand. He finished his speech by throwing the rolled-up ball of paper into the fire. His expression changed to one of alarm when he saw his friend Twist watch with amazement as the flames devoured the mistreated envelope.

  ‘Good grief,’ he stammered. ‘Excuse me, Twist, but with these damned soothsayers, I got carried away. Nothing too serious, I hope?’ he added contritely.

  ‘Archibald, you’re a genius!’

  ‘But the envelope…’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, you deserve a medal.’

  The inspector had become accustomed to his friend’s enigmatic remarks, but this one took the cake. Twist was mocking him! Once again, he brought his great fist down on the table, this time ending the days of one of the cups which spilt its contents over the immaculate tablecloth. Catastrophe! He closed his eyes, his features tense, and couldn’t believe his ears when he heard:

  ‘It’s extraordinary, Archibald, extraordinary.’

  He opened his eyes to see the criminologist looking in delighted surprise at the scene of the disaster.

  ‘Extraordinary,’ repeated Twist. ‘Fabulous! My dear Archibald, I don’t think you realise the full extent of your discovery.’

  ‘My… discovery?’

  ‘You’ve lifted the veil on one part of this mysterious affair, and not the least important. Come, come, don’t play the innocent. You know very well what I’m talking about. Your first gesture may have been just pure luck, I admit, but not the second. Your double indication….’

  ‘I can assure you I don’t—.’

  ‘Really?’ said Twist. ‘Well, it’s quite possible. You have the gift of pointing me in the right direction without knowing it. Forget everything I said, then. In fact, it was only a detail. An important one, but a detail nonetheless. Now, let me think.’

  Archibald Hurst settled his considerable bulk into his chair and watched his friend puff on his pipe. Several minutes elapsed before the eminent detective spoke.

  ‘If we consider all the facts, nothing but the facts, it seems undeniable that Brian Thorne has the gift of prescience. Although it seems beyond belief, the facts are the facts. And, for now, the most important issue is that he’s announced a misfortune regarding his sister-in-law. A misfortune, I have an uneasy feeling—.’

  Twist was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. He got up and lifted the receiver.

  ‘Hello… Yes, he’s here. I’ll pass him to you.’ He turned to Hurst. ‘It’s for you… Scotland Yard.’

  Hurst grumbled to himself as he stood up and took the phone from his friend.

  ‘Hello,’ he growled. ‘A friend from Cheltenham? Yes, put him on. Not a moment’s peace in this damned profession,’ he groused to Twist who, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, didn’t appear to be listening. ‘Hello? Hector Redfern? To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  During the next two minutes, the inspector didn’t utter a word. Then:

  ‘Very well, Hector. I’ll work it out with my superiors as quickly as I can. It’s very likely we can be there tomorrow.’

  As Hurst replaced the receiver, Twist stopped and looked up enquiringly. The inspector’s hand was still on the receiver and his face was grim. A wayward lock of hair fell across his furrowed brow.

  ‘That was the chief superintendent at Cheltenham, whom you met last year, Hector Redfern. The news is not good. Our clairvoyant was right again: Sarah Thorne is dead.’

  Dr. Twist looked down and took off his pince-nez. The light in his blue eyes grew more intense.

  ‘It happened last night,’ continued Hurst. ‘Where and how? Exactly the same as before… In front of the study door. There’s even a witness who saw her at the very moment she slumped to the ground. It was a heart attack according to the initial medical examination. Oh, and the carpet in front of the fireplace was wet. Redfern is out of his depth and quite happy to let Scotland Yard handle the affair.’

  ‘It’s incredible,’ murmured Twist. ‘Brian Thorne….’

  ‘Speaking of whom,’ said Hurst tersely, ‘nobody has seen him since last night.’

  19

  The following day, Wednesday, the chief superintendent, Dr. Twist and Archibald Hurst met at the scene of the tragedy. Hector Redfern, a plump little man with an inscrutable regard behind thick horn-rimmed spectacles, did not share Alan Twist’s predilection for imbroglios. It was obvious he was not keen to tackle a case of sudden death in suspicious circumstances and was only too relieved when he found that Scotland Yard was ready to take over.

  ‘I’ve just received the medical examiner’s report,’ he announced. ‘It confirms what I told you yesterday: Mrs. Sarah Thorne died of a heart attack. No suspicious marks except for a couple of bruises sustained in the fall. Everything points to the attack being the result of a violent emotion. Her heart was weak, but not to the point of stopping without the intervention of an external agency. Her face shows signs of her being subject to intense fear: convulsed features, glassy eyes… but the report remains discreet on the matter.

  ‘In view of the testimony of the maid, Cathy Restarick, it’s the most obvious hypothesis. But in fear of what? That’s the question.’

  Hurst pointed a thick finger towards the base of the fireplace, but Redfern didn’t give him a chance to speak.

  ‘My men examined the carpet there when they first arrived. It was damp… from water, at first sight. But we’ve taken the precaution of sending some threads for analysis. The results aren’t back yet.’

  ‘Damp, you say,’ mused Dr. Twist. ‘That’s curious. In the previous incidents it was plain wet.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I was told.’

  ‘At what time did your men arrive?’

  ‘Within an hour of the incident. Ah, I see what you’re getting
at. But the ones who discovered the body will tell you that it wasn’t “plain wet,” to use your expression.’

  ‘And what was the extent of the damp area?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. A stain longer than it was wide, four or five feet I would say. Besides which, the dampness wasn’t uniform.’

  ‘Tell me, Redfern,’ asked Hurst, as if struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, ‘are there any lakes in the area?’

  ‘Lakes? No, why?’

  ‘Nothing,’ growled the policeman, clearly disappointed.

  Alan Twist adjusted his pince-nez and suppressed a smile. His friend had clearly been entertaining thoughts of an aquatic monster. He asked if there had been any news of the fugitive.

  ‘Nothing for now,’ replied the chief superintendent, ‘but it’s only a question of time. There have been no bicycle or vehicle thefts reported, so he must still be in the area, probably in the woods, which we are in the process of searching.’

  ‘Were you able to interview him?’

  ‘No, he’d already disappeared by the time we arrived. But he was seen half an hour before that.’

  ‘So,’ said Hurst, ‘he left shortly after his sister-in-law died?’

  ‘Roughly, yes.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s talk to the principal witness.’

  Young Cathy Restarick was distinctly ill at ease. The predominant expression on her plain face was that of anguish. Rubbing her hands together nervously, she looked furtively at the famous carpet. Nevertheless, the gentle, reassuring voice of Dr. Twist succeeded in eliciting a relatively clear account of what she had witnessed on Monday evening.

  ‘It was at about ten o’clock when I realised I’d forgotten to put my ring back on. I always take it off when I’m doing the dishes. I knew where I’d left it and that it would still be there the next day, but I decided to go downstairs anyway. My room is in the mansard attic near the spiral staircase, which leads down to the kitchen and the outside.’

  ‘We understand,’ said Hurst, ‘you went down that staircase to get your ring.’

  ‘When I reached the first floor I heard footsteps in the corridor.’ She blushed. ‘I know that’s nothing unusual, but…well, I went to take a look, I couldn’t tell you why.’

  ‘We understand,’ said Hurst, smiling broadly, congratulating himself on the curiosity of the domestic staff which he always claimed was one of a policeman’s principal sources of information.

  ‘I was still on the stairs when I heard the door creak. A few seconds later I stuck my head into the corridor. And that’s when I saw… the space isn’t very well lit, but I recognised Mrs. Thorne. In fact, I think there was light in the study, which is how I was able to see her face. She was standing on the sill, with her hand still pressed against the door which she’d just opened. She suddenly went white and her mouth opened as if to cry out… in vain. I think she also put her hands to her chest and her eyes rolled up, then she fell backwards. There was a heavy thud. She didn’t move. It was horrible… I almost fainted myself. I… I thought about all the things that had happened in that spot… and I ran back to my room. I stayed there for a few moments, then I went to tell Mr. Mostyn. We—.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ interrupted Hurst, with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. ‘Can you tell us where Mrs. Thorne was looking?’

  ‘A-At the floor,’ stammered Cathy.

  ‘Where the carpet was damp?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  The three men exchanged sombre looks, then Hurst continued:

  ‘According to you, then, Mrs. Thorne was frightened, not to say terrified by “something” in that room?’

  Cathy nodded her head, shivering.

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘I went back down—with Mr. Mostyn this time—and we confirmed that Mrs. Thorne was dead. We knocked on Mr. Brian’s door but there was no answer. I ran down to the salon. Mrs. Paula was there and we went to get her husband from the game room. The door to the library opened and we saw Mr. Brian… I think he knew already before we told him the tragic news… in any case, it had a strong effect on him. We went upstairs. Mr. Hilton was kneeling next to his daughter. After that, I don’t know… I must have told him what had happened…then Mr. Francis took the car to find Dr. Meadows. Fifteen minutes later they were back. Dr. Meadows told us nothing could be done—which we knew already. He looked very upset.’

  ‘He’d just lost his fiancée,’ observed Hurst.

  ‘Yes, he was distraught… But he seemed angry as well. He said he’d phoned the police… Afterwards, Mr. Mostyn drew their attention to the carpet near the fireplace. They had a discussion and afterwards, Mr. Brian went to his room… and we haven’t seen him since.’

  Cathy Restarick was excused and it was Philip Mostyn’s turn to be questioned. He confirmed the maid’s account and said he’d taken a quick look in the study after she’d gone downstairs to tell the others. The lamp was lit, the windows were closed and there was no one there at the time. Naturally, he hadn’t forgotten to examine the carpet and hadn’t been surprised to find it was wet, or rather damp, where it touched the hearth.

  The testimonies of Francis and Paula did little to shed light on the circumstances of Sarah’s death. Even so, the Scotland Yard inspector and the criminologist were able to form an accurate idea of the movements of each individual on that tragic night. After the meal, at around eight o’clock, Mrs. Hilton retired to her room with a severe migraine. Brian had also left the table to go to the library—at least, that’s what he claimed—and apparently stayed there until the maid came down to announce the tragic news at around ten o’clock. Francis went up to the study and Mr. Hilton, his daughter and Paula found themselves in the salon. What was Sarah like at that moment? Slightly nervous, certainly, but no more than usual. Between a quarter past eight and a quarter to nine, Mr. Hilton went out for a walk, just as he did every night when the weather allowed it. A quarter of an hour after that, at nine o’clock, Paula took a cup of tea up to her husband. Another regular habit whenever Francis worked in the study, usually until ten o’clock. But that night he drank the tea and left the study almost immediately.

  Paula and he had left the room at about five past nine. They’d extinguished the lamp and there had been no one in the room when they’d left. Was the carpet already damp? No. But they weren’t ready to swear to it. When they’d gone back down to the salon, they’d found Sarah there alone. Mr. Hilton had gone up to bed. Sarah, Francis and Paula had talked for a few minutes, then Paula had gone into the kitchen to prepare some coffee and Francis had headed for the game room, leaving Sarah alone in the salon again between twenty past and half past nine. For half an hour after that, Francis returned and the three of them didn’t leave each other’s sight, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. At ten o’clock, Sarah stood up. She didn’t tell them she was going up to the study, but they suspected it because she was in the habit of going there at that hour when there weren’t any guests. Francis went back to the game room and Paula stayed in the salon until the arrival of Cathy Restarick ten minutes later.

  Hurst made copious notes of their depositions, then thanked the young couple and ask them to call Mr. and Mrs. Hilton.

  Only Howard Hilton turned up:

  ‘My wife isn’t feeling well. She would be very obliged if you would question her another day.’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Hurst, full of indulgence for the poor man who’d just lost his daughter and was trying to put a good face on it.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. It’s a grave misfortune for us… and to think she was about to get married….’

  ‘Had the date been set?’ asked Hurst, looking at Twist out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘No, she’d only just announced it, or rather talked to my wife about it, no later than last week. Dr. Meadows and she hadn’t fixed the date, but it would have had to be before Christmas anyway, because they planned to spend their honeymoon in Venice and then extend it through other trips to India, South Am
erica…’ He swallowed hard and then recovered. ‘Her luck ran out.’

  After a silence, Hurst asked:

  ‘Do you know if the young couple planned to stay in Hatton Manor after that?’

  Howard Hilton lit a cigarette and Dr. Twist noticed his hand was shaking.

  ‘I… I don’t think so. They were thinking of selling the property, which couldn’t be done without Brian’s consent… and I don’t think she’d asked him. To be truthful, my wife and I didn’t like the idea. It’s a very pleasant spot and very quiet… but that’s of no importance now.’

  Hurst nodded then leant towards him:

  ‘It seems that your daughter’s nerves were on edge recently. Do you know any particular reason for it?’

  Hilton gazed at the window and took his time to answer:

  ‘Sarah was always a very excitable child. She was very upset by the death of her husband, much more than she showed. There was a period of calm at the beginning of the year, so to speak. … then she fell for Meadows. A happy idyll on the surface, but hardly beneficial for her nerves. I don’t want to blame Michael, but it’s a fact that after they started seeing each other, things became more intense—at least as far as she was concerned. But to answer your question, during the last two weeks she was at the end of her tether. She lost her temper about nothing and became scared if anyone so much as looked at her…As to why that was, I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘One last question, Mr. Hilton. Have you any idea where to find Brian Thorne?’

  ‘No idea whatsoever.’

  ‘And what do you think of his disappearance?’

  ‘Strange—although Sarah’s death did affect him profoundly. He more or less predicted it.’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘Well, if you want my advice, I think he felt himself responsible in a way and that caused him to lose his head… as though he’d just realised his power, and the danger it represented.’

  ‘You say “power,” so do you believe in his gifts as a clairvoyant?’

  ‘I don’t think there can be any doubt about it.’