by Paul Halter
20
In many ways, Dr. Alan Twist was an enigma to the Scotland Yard inspector. Perhaps the biggest mystery was his ability to tuck away gargantuan quantities of food in that thin frame, twice as much as Hurst—himself no slouch in that department. Where did he put it all?
He wasn’t the only one to ask himself the question. Hector Redfern watched in astonishment as the criminologist ordered his fifth lamb cutlet. It was seven o’clock and the three men were dining in the Black Horse, where Hurst and Twist were staying. An hour earlier they had questioned Dr. Meadows, whose house was on the edge of the village.
They had learnt very little from the young doctor, but had detected a barely-contained fury behind a mask of convention. The great catch that Sarah had been was now only a memory and he hadn’t hidden the fact that he found Brian’s disappearance suspicious. He’d changed his opinion of the man as well: the clairvoyant of dazzling powers was nothing but a harbinger of bad luck and there was no doubt in his mind that his prophecy about Sarah, by plunging her into a state of anxious hysteria, was directly responsible for the tragedy. Had he any idea where Brian could be found? No, and it would be best for him if he, Meadows, didn’t find out. Before coming to the inn, the three men had stopped by the Blount residence and Bessie had invited them to partake of coffee there after eight that evening.
‘My dear friends,’ said Hurst solemnly, after having lit a cigar, ‘I don’t know whether you realise it or not, but there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, to justify the use of the term “murder.” An anxious woman during a trying period, and with a weak heart to boot, dies from a heart attack. Except for a few drops of water found on the carpet—and can they really be considered a clue?—there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, to support the murder theory. And I know you well enough, Hector, to be certain that that damned room was searched with a fine-tooth comb.’ Redfern nodded. ‘All that’s left is Brian’s prophecy.’
‘You surprise me, my dear Archibald,’ replied Twist, looking up from his plate. ‘You talk as if nothing else happened.’
‘I haven’t forgotten anything!’ thundered the inspector, pushing the rebellious forelock back from his pink forehead. ‘I’m simply trying to pose the problem calmly and without any other distractions!’
The hubbub in the bar ceased for a moment as the locals stared at the stranger who dared to shout louder than they, then recommenced.
‘You’re right,’ said Redfern, pushing his plate away. ‘And I’m beginning to wonder whether I didn’t exaggerate the business, and whether I was right to call you in.’
‘There’s good reason to doubt it,’ growled Hurst. ‘The Yard’s not used to dealing with clairvoyance, divination and all the rest of it. And, to be honest with you, Hector, I doubt that I’ll be allowed to carry on my investigation for much longer. That said, I still have a few questions.’
‘Let’s be thankful for that,’ sighed Twist. ‘I’d have been disappointed if—.’
‘My dear friend,’ said the inspector through gritted teeth, ‘I’m going to cut the ground from under you by resuming the affair, as you’re dying to do. Only I’m going to do it impartially, without exaggerating certain aspects for the sole purpose of disorienting the audience and making them doubt their sanity, as you are wont to do.’
‘We’re all ears,’ replied the criminologist, a mischievous gleam lurking behind his pince-nez.
‘Here goes. In the last century, a certain Harvey Thorne died under strange circumstances. It must be said that he was someone not in full possession of his mental faculties and who passed his time cloistered in his room writing horrible stories of an apparently divinatory tendency, because in one of them he accurately predicted the death of his own father. He was found dying on the sill of his door, in the grip of terrifying convulsions. Before he died he made a few disconcerting utterances such as “will perish by fire,” or something like that. One peculiar detail is that the carpet was wet where it touched the hearth. And, curiously enough, several members of the family did die in a fire, which led to his den being sealed off.
‘Everything seems to suggest that his great-nephew has inherited his powers and that he, too, is able to make prophecies which become reality. Just consider those where we have tangible evidence. Early last year, he predicts to Miss Bessie Blount and Dr. Mike Meadows that they will shortly fall in love and it happens the very next day. That summer, his brother Harris, who has just moved into Hatton Manor with his in-laws, decides to reopen the sealed room and use it as a study. Brian makes a new prophecy, far more sinister than the first. It’s worth noting that unsealing the cursed room seems in itself to create an atmosphere of unease, particularly in the case of the newly-wed Thornes. And, sure enough, a few days later, Harris Thorne dies from defenestration. Half an hour after that, Sarah Thorne faints upon opening the door to the damned room, apparently terrified at what she sees when she looks towards a patch on the carpet adjacent to the hearth which, once again, turns out to be wet. We can be almost certain there was nobody in the room at the time. Questioned about what she’d seen, Sarah declares she can’t remember anything.
‘The following year, meaning this year, our clairvoyant, having predicted love and death, now turns his talents to money. The lucky beneficiary will be Sarah’s brother who, following his advice, places a big bet on the horses and wins. That’s in early September. But our soothsayer has also predicted an incident, a fall perhaps, and—just as night follows day—Sarah’s brother does indeed himself faint and fall upon opening the door to the famous study, just like his sister a year earlier. The carpet is once again wet in the same spot and, needless to say, he doesn’t remember anything. And, apparently, there was no one in the room either. Sarah, who has meanwhile become engaged to Dr. Meadow, now gets another warning from Brian: “a misfortune, a truly great misfortune.” And what must inevitably happen does: she collapses in the doorway, in the same place, with the same terrified look in the direction of the carpet as in the previous year. This time, she dies. Of a heart attack. The carpet, needless to say, is damp. It’s worth noting, however, that between the time the maid sees her collapse and the time she returns with Mostyn, a good five minutes elapse. So, if there had been someone in the room, he would have had the time to escape. That’s merely an observation, for it’s hard to imagine that the mere sight of someone could kill the viewer on the spot.
‘The problem couldn’t be clearer: on the one hand, victims taken ill, always at the same spot and with traces of water near the fireplace; on the other hand a soothsayer who predicts the future, and in particular, their misfortunes.’
Inspector Hurst nodded his head, visibly satisfied with his summary. His radiant features were in stark contrast to those of the chief superintendent, who was mopping a brow damp with perspiration.
‘Remarkable,’ gushed Dr. Twist. ‘Quite remarkable! What conciseness, what impartiality! You’ve presented all the facts with a rare objectivity, Archibald.’ Hurst, glowing with pleasure, made a self-deprecating gesture. ‘Even so, my friend,’ he pursued gently, ‘I can’t help wondering whether what you’ve just reported wouldn’t have caused the best investigators of the genre to lose their reason.’
The inspector’s expression changed as he began to realise how incredible his account must have sounded, resembling as it did more of a macabre and fantastic fairy tale than the kind of case he normally encountered. He shot a hostile look at his friend whom he suspected of taking pleasure in underscoring the contradictory propositions of his account, but could detect nothing behind the pince-nez. He gave a deep sigh:
‘In a way I’m quite relieved that our clairvoyant hasn’t turned up. Who knows what new catastrophe he would have announced? We’ve quite enough on our plate as it is.’
(Fortunately for him, Archibald Hurst did not possess the gift of foresight, for what had happened up to that point would pale in comparison to what was to follow.) He turned to the chief superintendent:
‘We’ve talked about
a lot of things, Redfern, but you haven’t yet given us the vital facts.’
His colleague looked dumbfounded.
‘Yes,’ continued Hurst with a cunning smile. ‘Who stands to inherit? I imagine you’ve already done your research?’
Redfern cleared his throat.
‘Well, yes. I saw Peter Higgins, the Thornes’ solicitor, yesterday evening. And I have to admit that what he told me was rather curious and doesn’t get us very far… Allow me to explain. The first strange thing is that Sarah went to see him a few days ago to make her will… as if she’d had a premonition. Higgins, surprised by the unexpected visit, thought she looked tormented and anxious. He was even more surprised when she asked him to keep the visit a secret, to which he retorted that it was against professional etiquette to do anything else. According to the terms of her will, half her fortune goes to her immediate family—in this case her parents and her brother—and the other half goes to her brother-in-law Brian Thorne.’
‘Nothing to her fiancé?’ asked Hurst in astonishment.
‘Nothing. Needless to say that intrigued Higgins, who knew about her matrimonial intentions with the young doctor. After beating about the bush, he managed to coax out of her the reason for her generosity to Brian. To paraphrase: “It’s natural, in the event of anything happening to me, for a large part of my late husband’s fortune to go to his family. Brian is the only living descendant of the Thornes. This way he’ll be able to conserve and maintain the manor.” She left it at that, and the will was prepared and signed.’
‘Bizarre,’ growled Hurst, scratching his chin. ‘In other words, everyone involved in this business benefits, except the fiancé.’
‘As I said before, it doesn’t get us very far,’ replied Redfern prudently, ‘particularly since we don’t know whether any of them was aware of the terms.’
‘You’re thinking of Brian, I assume,’ said Hurst pensively.
Redfern nodded.
‘Yes. Let’s just suppose that “someone” was the instigator of “something.” The only thing we can be certain of is that Mike Meadows is the clear loser in all this and therefore had nothing to do with the “something.”’
Hurst, thinking hard, his fingers drumming furiously on the table, regarded Twist, who had just picked up the menu again, with annoyance.
‘Twist!’ he exploded, point-blank.
‘Hmmm….’
‘We’ve forgotten something. There is someone who should have an idea of why Sarah was in such a state.’
At that very moment, an officer in uniform appeared at the table.
‘What is it, Johnson?’ asked Redfern.
‘Nothing positive to report, sir,’ replied the man. ‘But I thought you should know we’ve found no trace of the fugitive. In my opinion, he’s hiding somewhere in the village, even though he doesn’t seem friendly enough with anyone for them to offer him asylum. We’ve questioned everyone without success. Should we carry out a search?’
Redfern pursed his lips and replied:
‘Yes, with kid gloves for the time being. Notify me if anyone refuses. Is there anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. In fact, that’s why I took the liberty of coming here. They’ve just called through the results of the carpet analysis. There’s no trace of anything on the sample. So it was certainly water and nothing else.’
The policeman saluted and the three men watched him leave the inn.
‘What were you saying, old friend?’ asked Twist gently.
‘Do you remember the conversation which your friend Nolan overheard? The mysterious conversation between Mrs. Sarah Thorne and her brother?’
‘I see what you’re saying.’
‘Hell’s bells! Francis Hilton knows something. He must have at least some idea about what was causing his sister to be frightened. He himself confessed to seeing that “something.”’
Dr. Twist shook his head:
‘He talked about a fleeting vision, a blurred image, a reminiscence, something that “wasn’t possible” and which seemed more like the fruit of his imagination.’
‘If I understand you correctly, they were just words to soothe his sister? Maybe. But I still can’t help thinking he knows more or less what was tormenting his sister.’
‘Granted. And I assure you I haven’t forgotten. Now please let me order my dessert.’
21
A short while later—Redfern having left them—Hurst and Dr. Twist were listening to Bessie Blount’s grandfather giving them his opinion about one of the rare criminal cases that Scotland Yard had failed to solve. He was a well-built man, despite his age, and not at a loss for words. Francis and Paula were also there and, together with Patrick, they listened attentively to the old man’s monologue, whilst Bessie looked at the ceiling when she was not emitting exasperated sighs.
He rambled on about having seen Jack the Ripper with his own eyes, how he’d witnessed the carnage in Mitre Square and how the police had ignored his description of the killer because he was only fifteen at the time.
‘Grandpa,’ implored Bessie, ‘we’ve heard the story a hundred times and you’re boring our guests.’
‘Boring our guests? But it’s about the most celebrated mystery of all!’ He looked wearily at the two detectives. ‘Gentlemen, my granddaughter and her mother take me for an old fool who’s off his rocker and makes up stories. Only yesterday, I pointed out that someone had moved the wheelbarrow in the garden.’
‘Don’t start on about the wheelbarrow,’ said Bessie crossly.
‘Well, somebody unknown must’ve touched it, because you and your mother denied it was either of you. I’d left it under the vine the previous evening and the next day I found it near the hedge.’
‘Grandpa, this is not the time….’
‘I understand. I’m going to bed.’
After he’d left with Mrs. Blount the conversation took a different turn and, once again, it was about the deceased. Hurst led the discussion and declared to Francis a quarter of an hour later:
‘Mr. Hilton, there’s every reason to believe that you’ve a good idea what was tormenting your sister during her last days. Yes, walls have ears….’
Patrick almost dropped the cigarette he was smoking, but Francis was too upset to notice. Like a cat playing with a mouse, Hurst dropped a few hints about the famous conversation overheard by Patrick the week before, finishing with a masterly: ‘Please don’t ask how we know. We’re listening, Mr. Hilton.’
Clearly the shot had struck home. Francis was as white as a sheet. There was a heavy silence in the room. He got up from his chair and started to pace back and forth in front of the fire, his hands behind his back. The flames illuminated his tense features, and with his tailored beard, he resembled Mephisto from Faust.
‘You’re not going to believe me,’ he said eventually, not bothering to hide his irritation.
‘Tell us anyway,’ purred Hurst. ‘Tell us what you saw in the study.’
Francis turned and almost spat in the inspector’s face.
‘But I didn’t see anything! It was Sarah with all her stories who—.’
‘Calm down, Mr. Hilton, calm down. What stories are you talking about?’
Francis shrugged his shoulders.
‘It’s so absurd… but, since you insist. Sarah was starting to lose her mind in her last few days. She thought she’d seen… her husband.’
‘Her husband! Harris Thorne?’ bristled the inspector.
‘Yes. Obviously she was having visions.’
‘So that was it!’ exclaimed Paula. ‘One evening, I remember, we were walking close to the woods, and she told me on two occasions that she’d seen someone… when there was manifestly nobody there.’
Francis gave her an eloquent look, then continued:
‘It had almost become an obsession. She wanted to convince me, too, that I’d seen him in the study the evening I’d fainted.’ He looked Hurst straight in the eye. ‘I’m telling you again, Inspector, and I’m perfectly c
lear about this: I just felt faint and there was nothing, absolutely nothing in the room.’
‘And the water on the carpet. How do you explain that?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ve told you what I know. But there’s definitely a bizarre atmosphere in that study and I’m not the only one to have noticed. A sensation of calm, of tranquillity, but also of anxiety.’
‘Like a cemetery,’ observed Hurst.
Francis shivered.
‘Yes, rather like that. But I imagine it’s all to do with our imagination and our thoughts going back to the last century when Harvey Thorne wrote his novels in that very room… Where was I? Ah! Yes… Sarah was pestering me to say something that wasn’t true. It was like a cry for help; she was trying to reassure herself she wasn’t suffering from hallucinations. She insisted, she insisted and then… for a brief moment I finished up doubting. By dint of recalling my brother-in-law in that room with its peculiar atmosphere and listening to Sarah shouting in my ear, I saw his shadow pass in front of my eyes. A fleeting image, a thought mutating into an image, that was all. But I’ll say it again, she wanted to drag something out of my mouth that I didn’t want to say. She was in such a state….’
‘In short,’ interjected Dr. Twist, ‘you simply wanted to calm her down.’
Francis nodded his head. Hurst muttered to himself because the explanation, coherent though it was, shed no light on the investigation. He extinguished one cigar and lit another one straightaway:
‘We’re going round in circles. Now that I think about it, what had she seen the first time she’d fainted?’
Francis stroked his chin.
‘She pretended she couldn’t remember. Which isn’t out of the question. In fact I just don’t know.’
‘What is certain in any case,’ observed Archibald Hurst, ‘is that it wasn’t Harris Thorne. For two reasons: firstly, testimony proves there was no one in the room at that time and, secondly, Thorne was already dead, the medical examiner confirmed it. In any case, it’s hard to believe that the simple view of her husband would be enough to cause her to lose consciousness. So what did she see, if indeed she saw anything at all?’ He stopped before adding grandiloquently: ‘“To see or not to see, that is the question.”’
