by Paul Halter
‘Gosh! I’ve just remembered something. About a month ago, I was looking through some of Sarah’s theatre accessories. She’d stuffed them into a chest in the attic and had shown them to me proudly last summer when she told me about all the roles she’d played as an adolescent. There were three wigs in there, I’m sure of it, with assorted beards, one black, one blond and one red. I remember her putting the red one on to imitate her husband and we’d both been in stitches. And now she’s no longer with us.’
Mike Meadows, with a smile which was a mixture of triumph and fury, turned to Hurst. The inspector brought his fist down on the palm of his hand:
‘We’ll flush him out before dawn, I guarantee it!’
And he was right. But the capture of the fugitive didn’t lift the shadows from the extraordinary affair. Quite the contrary….
23
At around four o’clock in the morning Patrick was in the grip of a terrible nightmare which had taken him back three centuries in the past, to the time of the Great Fire of London. The spectacle was terrifying but magnificent. The city was just an immense brazier and the bridges were arches of fire over the Thames. He, Patrick, was standing on a hill overlooking the scene, standing behind Harvey Thorne, who was shouting: “They will perish by fire.” The face of great-uncle Harvey appeared and then disappeared again behind a curtain of flames floating towards Patrick, who screamed… and woke up bathed in perspiration.
He lay there a long time, getting his breath back and convincing himself it was only a dream. He tapped the bedside table, consulted his wristwatch, put on his dressing gown and went over to the window, which he opened wide. Breathing in the freshness of the night, he contemplated the Blount property. Despite the darkness, he could make out the wisteria, the wide hedge, the vegetable garden, Bessie’s grandfather’s workshop and even the woods beyond.
His thoughts went back to Padstow and the little cove, in the days preceding Paula’s departure. He remembered very clearly that afternoon when Paula had asked him where and when the Great Fire had started. A tender smile lingered on his lips and disappeared. “How will this all end?” he thought, evoking the extraordinary situation in which he found himself. Faces paraded in front of his eyes: Bessie, Paula, Francis, Mr. and Mrs. Hilton, Dr. Meadows, Brian, Sarah… Harris Thorne with his flamboyant beard and sonorous laugh… He had to stop thinking about the man or he would end up believing that… He dismissed that image, but now it was the shadowy figure of great-uncle Harvey which appeared in front of him, smiling. It sat at his desk, picked up his pen, dipped it in the ink and began to write: They will perish by fire….
The words flared up in front of Patrick, then became nothing more than a very small glimmer. The window of the workshop was lit up. Brilliantly lit up now. Black fumes were escaping and Pak could hear the characteristic roar. Just as he realised that the old workshop of grandfather Blount was aflame, a cry of terror rent the night.
Paralysed, Patrick watched in horror as the workshop door was flung open and a human torch staggered out.
Recovering in a flash, he tore the cover from his bed, bestrode the window sill, grabbed the wisteria and landed on the ground outside. He leapt up and rushed to the screaming figure battling with its flaming clothes. Instinctively he gave it an uppercut, flung the cover around it, threw it to the ground and rolled it over and over. A few seconds later, the flames were extinguished and he bent over to look at the blistered face. By the flickering light from the brazier crackling a few feet away, he could identify the figure without any possibility of error: Brian.
At half past eight in the morning, Archibald Hurst and Dr. Twist knocked on the door of the Blount residence. The inspector looked grim. He’d been up late going over every detail of the case with his friend and had barely gone to sleep when the innkeeper woke him to say Miss Blount needed to see him urgently. Accompanied by Twist, he’d followed the ambulance taking the injured man to Cheltenham. Hector Redfern had joined them at the hospital but it wasn’t until seven that they’d been able to talk to the doctor in charge.
Bessie hastened to open the door.
‘Well?’ she asked in an imploring murmur.
‘He’s still alive,’ replied Hurst tersely, ‘but he’s in bad shape. Third degree burns. They’re not sure he’ll survive.’
She led the visitors into the kitchen, where Patrick was sitting with a steaming cup of coffee. They didn’t refuse when she offered them refreshments.
Hurst repeated to Patrick what he’d told his fiancée.
‘… but the doctor wouldn’t allow us to interview him for the time being.’ He turned to Bessie. ‘Isn’t your mother here?’
‘She’s gone to work.’
‘And your grandfather?’
The young woman pointed to the ceiling.
‘He’s just gone back to bed.’
‘Well then,’ said the inspector with a smile that was anything but amiable, ‘we’ll be able to put our cards on the table. Mr. Nolan, can you repeat to us what you saw earlier this morning?’
Patrick did so without omitting the slightest detail.
‘If Brian comes out of this alive,’ observed Hurst, ‘he’ll be deeply indebted to you. In your view, how did the fire start? Did you see anyone go in or out of the workshop? Other than Brian, of course.’
‘No, but that can’t be ruled out. It was very dark and it would have been very easy for someone to throw a lighted match through the window on the north side, near the woods, without me seeing them. If I remember correctly, two of the panes of glass were broken, weren’t they, Bessie?’ His fiancée nodded. ‘Besides, I’d only been at the window a short time.’
‘Very well. Therefore there are two possibilities. Either the fire started accidentally, or there was a criminal hand behind it. Are we agreed?’
Patrick and Bessie both nodded.
‘And in either case,’ continued the policemen in a different tone of voice, ‘that must mean that Brian was sleeping there. Are we still in agreement?’
Bessie sat stony-faced.
‘Mr. Nolan, I assume you had no idea he was there?’
‘Correct.’
‘And I imagine, Miss Blount, that neither your mother nor your grandfather were aware either?’
A heavy air of suspicion hung in the kitchen, before Dr. Twist broke the silence.
‘Miss Blount, I think you’d better explain yourself.’
The young woman gritted her teeth as her eyes welled with tears, then burst out sobbing. When she confessed that she’d been hiding Brian since Monday, Dr. Twist remarked that there was more anxiety and sadness written on her face than on the faces of those present at Sarah Thorne’s funeral.
‘He knocked at my bedroom window at midnight… He told me Sarah had just died and everyone regarded him as having been responsible. He couldn’t face them and he asked me to help him. I… I was really touched. I’d never seen him like that, like a little boy lost and abandoned. I told him nobody had set foot in the workshop for donkey’s years and I gave him blankets and food.’
‘Every day?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he tell you after that?’
‘We never really had time to talk. I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. But he always said the same thing, that he didn’t want to see anyone but me for the moment… and he was very grateful to me for helping him. I think he felt responsible for his sister-in-law’s death, too.’
‘Did you tell him the police were looking for him?’
Bessie hung her head.
‘Yes, I kept him informed.’
Hurst cleared his throat loudly and continued.
‘Miss Blount, do you know that this could cost you dearly?’
‘I know,’ she said resolutely, ‘and I don’t care. But I hope you at least realise that Brian has nothing to reproach himself for and he wasn’t the one passing himself off as his brother yesterday after the funeral.’
‘And why is that, Miss Blount? Can you prove
he was in the workshop at that time? You were at the manor, if I remember rightly, when Mr. Nolan met the impostor?’
‘It wasn’t him… I’m certain. If I were you, I’d be questioning certain individuals as to their whereabouts at four o’clock this morning.’
‘We’ll be sure to do that,’ replied the inspector, surprised and almost amused by the spunk of the young woman. ‘But at that time of the morning, I’d be surprised if anyone can furnish an alibi. So, according to you, last night’s fire must have been a criminal act?’
‘What else could it have been? If Brian had accidentally started the fire, he wouldn’t have been caught by surprise, would he?’
The three men looked at her in silence as she fought back tears. Hurst was on the point of suggesting a suicide attempt due to Brian having lost his reason, but dropped the idea after a sign from Twist.
‘And you never told your fiancé about it?’ he asked sceptically.
‘No, she never told me about it,’ retorted Patrick, stressing every syllable. ‘She’s already told you that and so have I.’
Hurst, not well versed in the psychology of sentiment, nevertheless knew enough to realise that the couple’s behaviour was peculiar. The young woman had, without her fiancé knowing, sheltered another man whose condition affected her deeply—yet that same fiancé didn’t appear to be concerned and had even come to her defence, as if she were his sister or simply a friend. He was about to say something when, once again, that devil Dr. Twist, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts, shook his head almost imperceptibly.
After they’d finished breakfast—during which Twist had helped himself several times and complimented Bessie—the amiable detective declared in a soothing voice:
‘Brian hid in the workshop and, because it was very rarely used, it’s not surprising that he wasn’t discovered, was it, Hurst?’
The inspector mumbled something indistinct and Bessie shot a look of gratitude at Alan Twist. Then she asked:
‘Do you think we could see Brian?’
‘See him?’ repeated the inspector, raising an eyebrow. ‘Possibly, but not for very long.’
Whereupon the two detectives left, saying they would check on the victim’s condition and would be sure to keep them informed.
As they were leaving Cheltenham Hospital, Hurst and Dr. Twist saw Bessie and Patrick for the third time that day, as they were getting out of their car. When she noticed them the young woman rushed over to meet them.
‘He’s out of danger,’ declared the inspector in a paternal tone of voice. ‘We’ve just talked to him. Not for long, of course.’
‘And what did he tell you?’ asked Bessie.
‘The same thing as you and that he was sleeping like a log when he was awakened by the crackling of flames.’
‘So, according to him, the fire wasn’t started accidentally by a badly extinguished cigarette or anything like that?’
‘He’s sure of it. He told us he didn’t have a lighter or any matches and there wasn’t an oil lamp of any other form of lighting in the workshop. Is that so, Miss Blount?’
‘Yes. There used to be electricity, but it was shut off after the death of my father.’
‘So someone set fire to the place,’ said Patrick thoughtfully. ‘By the way, didn’t he say anything about… about his brother Harris?’
The look in Hurst’s eye hardened.
‘No. But why the question, young man?’
‘Nothing. Just a thought.’
Harris Thorne’s name dominated the inspector’s thoughts as he drove back to Hatton, hands clenched to the steering wheel, in the company of Dr. Twist. The latter, tormented and pensive, had been tight-lipped since Cheltenham and his silence was beginning to get on Hurst’s nerves. In vain did the policeman ask him what he thought about the strange fire and the no less strange question from young Nolan. He was used to his friend’s long periods of silence, but that didn’t make them any easier to bear. They arrived at Hatton Manor just before four o’clock. The butler Mostyn led them to the salon where the Hilton family was gathered, together with Dr. Meadows and two police officers. Hurst immediately sensed from the sombre looks and haggard faces that something was wrong. He put it down to what had happened during the night and the subsequent questioning, because he’d asked Hector Redfern a few hours earlier at the hospital to take care of it. There were indeed two police officers there but, curiously, not the chief of police himself.
He looked around the room and his gaze settled on one of the officers.
‘What the devil’s going on here?’
‘A car accident, or rather a collision,’ replied the man uncomfortably. ‘Two tourists complained. A vehicle from here is responsible for the incident, but apparently no one was driving it at the time. The chief will explain. He’ll be back soon. He went to pick up the two witnesses.’
‘A vehicle no one was driving? What on earth are you talking about?’
‘No one from here,’ explained the officer. ‘Although….’
The sound of a motor could be heard. The officer turned to the window.
‘They’re here.’
Hector Redfern came in, followed by a policeman and a young couple. The chief superintendent’s face mirrored those of the other occupants of the room, pale and haggard. For a brief moment his expression changed on seeing the two detectives:
‘Ah, there you are. Good job, too, because we’re jumping from one mystery to another. But let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow.’
In some ways, Louis Thurlow resembled Dr. Twist, but much younger—about twenty-five years of age—and much shorter. He had the same moustache and the same eyes glinting behind silver-rimmed spectacles. But at the moment he seemed quite upset, as was his wife, Celia, a determined young redhead who looked like a college student.
The introductions complete, Redfern continued:
‘Before I let Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow speak, let me summarise the statements of those present. They may feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.
‘At around noon, the small red sports car, which witnesses have identified by its licence plate number, was parked in its usual place behind the manor. The vehicle belonged to Sarah Thorne—a gift from her late husband—but was occasionally used by other members of the household. During the day, the keys are left on the dashboard, which means that anyone can use it.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Hilton were having lunch with their son and his wife and their guest, Dr. Meadows. Few words were exchanged, as they’d just learnt about Brian’s condition following the fire. At a quarter past one, Dr. Meadows and Francis left the table to go into the salon. A quarter of an hour later they saw the car leave the property. The top was down, but they couldn’t see the driver. Francis assumed it was his wife. She, for her part, still with her parents-in-law, thought it was her husband. At ten to four—twenty minutes later—the car returned and was seen by Dr. Meadows, who wasn’t paying attention and didn’t see the driver. The car was found in its usual place, but with a dent in the left front wing with traces of paint from the Thurlows’ car.
‘Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, you live at 18, Curzon Street, in London. You had been visiting friends in Winchcombe and were on your way back to the capital. At approximately one thirty-five you were about to drive through Hatton. Can you describe to us what happened next?’
Louis Thurlow took up the story:
‘Yes. I was slowing down on the approach to the village when a car came at us from the right. I stamped on the brakes in vain and it hit us. Nothing serious, but the bodywork was damaged nevertheless. My wife and I got out of our car and he did, too. He came towards us smiling, which was already surprising. “So, tourists, admiring the countryside, were you?” he asked mockingly. It was too much. Not only had he come out of a side road onto the main road at high speed, but he was blaming us for the collision. I pointed that out to him and he burst out laughing, as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. My wife intervened and told him she was going to go
to the nearest police station. He threw his head back and started laughing again, even more loudly than before, after which he asked us if we knew who we were talking to, as if he was the King of England himself. Then, still laughing, he got into his car and drove off in the direction he’d come from. We’d made a note of his number, and at Withington police station the officer recognised the vehicle, which is apparently the only one of its kind in the area.’
‘Mr. Thurlow,’ intervened Hector Redfern in a calm voice, ‘can you identify the spot which I just showed you, namely the beginning of the road leading to this property, as the scene of the accident?’
‘Of course,’ said the young man, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Can you describe the driver?’
‘He was of medium height, solidly built, with red hair and beard, wearing a blue-checked jacket.’
Hurst went crimson.
‘Are there any other details you can add?’
This time it was Mrs. Thurlow who answered:
‘Yes, he had a small scar on his right temple.’
A shiver went through those present. Meadows looked like a zombie and the others weren’t much better.
‘We have good reason to believe, Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, that the man driving the car was wearing make-up and a false wig and beard, and that the jacket was padded. Is that your impression?’
The young couple looked at each other. Louis Thurlow declared:
‘I’d find that very surprising. What about you, darling?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But you never know.’
‘Very well,’ said Redfern testily. ‘Now, Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, I’m going to ask you to look at every single person in this room and tell me if any of them could have played the part of the driver.’ Then, in an aside to Howard Hilton and the doctor: ‘I know your reciprocal testimonies prove that you were either here or in the dining room at the time of the accident, but to rule out the hypothesis of a conspiracy… You understand: it would clear you of all suspicion.’
