by Paul Halter
Under normal circumstances, the scene which followed would have appeared curious, if not comic. But no one was smiling. The “examination” lasted just over a minute. A vein throbbed in Meadows’ temple. Francis was unrecognisable, Paula very pale, and Mr. and Mrs. Hilton too hard-boiled to react in any way at all.
‘It’s impossible for it to have been any of these people,’ declared Louis Thurlow at the end of the inspection.
‘Absolutely impossible,’ agreed his wife.
‘Very well,’ said Redfern, obviously disappointed.
‘Are there any photographs of the late Mr. Thorne?’
The wedding album was brought out once again, this time for the Thurlows’ perusal. In an oppressive silence, they combed through every page. Then Louis Thurlow turned towards Hector Redfern:
‘Unless he has a twin brother, I’m prepared to swear that the husband here was indeed the man driving the sports car.’
‘I’m prepared to swear to that as well,’ added Mrs. Thurlow.
24
‘It’s impossible! Impossible!’ shouted Archibald Hurst, banging the table with his fist.
It was half past seven in the evening and he and Dr. Twist were dining in the Black Horse with Redfern, Bessie and Patrick. The young couple had returned from Cheltenham an hour earlier. Brian’s condition had improved, because he had even managed to smile at Bessie and his saviour. But this latest news didn’t seem to have made Hurst happy, for he continued to rage:
‘… and I don’t believe in the impossible.’
‘Meaning?’ enquired Patrick.
The inspector lowered the volume a few decibels:
‘None of the people involved in the affair could have played the part. Strictly none. The accident happened after half past one and the vehicle was seen at ten to two returning to the fold. Those who were in the manor at the time are ruled out because of their mutual alibis and the testimony of the Thurlows. So, who’s left?’ Hurst started to count on his fingers and stopped at three, with a small smile at the couple. ‘Forgive me, but I have to envisage every possibility.’
‘I see,’ replied Bessie, who didn’t appear to appreciate the inspector’s allusion. ‘But you seem to have a short memory, because we met outside the hospital at two o’clock. How do you think Patrick and I made the journey to Cheltenham in ten minutes?’
‘It’s not feasible, I agree. That leaves Brian… who was in front of us in his bed at ten to two. Twist, allow me to use your favourite maxim: “Eliminate the impossible—.”’
‘Once again, my friend, it’s not my maxim. It belongs to the celebrated—.’
‘Please,’ thundered Archibald Hurst, ‘this is no time to split hairs. So: “Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”’
A gleam of hope flickered in Redfern’s eyes. Patrick looked sceptical:
‘And what might this last, highly improbable, hypothesis be?’
Hurst allowed a short silence to elapse, then declared:
‘Harris Thorne isn’t dead. Don’t pull faces, there’s no other explanation.’
‘But,’ gasped Bessie, ‘I saw him with my own eyes when we found him at the foot of the wall… and I wasn’t the only one. Everyone saw it. He was dead, there’s no doubt about it.’
‘It’s possible to play dead, Miss, believe me,’ replied Hurst with exaggerated courtesy. ‘There are plenty of examples. Also, one can be dead for a few moments, then recover consciousness, that’s also happened.’ The chief superintendent started to protest but Hurst cut him off with a gesture. ‘Don’t say anything for the moment, Redfern, I have my own ideas and we can talk about it later.’
‘I’m starting to think you may be right, Inspector,’ declared Patrick. ‘The fellow I saw after Sarah’s funeral was indeed the same as the man in the photo I was shown, I’m certain of it. Admittedly, at the time I started to doubt myself, but now… In any case, there’s a simple way to find out where we are.’
‘I think we’re on the same track, young man,’ agreed Hurst, with a knowing look. ‘A very simple way, in truth.’
Hector Redfern, already intrigued by the cryptic interchange, sat dumbfounded before the extraordinary attitude of Dr. Twist, who had continued to dig into his meal as if he’d heard nothing. After wiping his moustache, the detective turned to him and asked:
‘By the way, have you had time to question the Hiltons and Dr. Meadows about their alibis for the time that the Blounts’ workshop caught fire?’
The chief superintendent looked at Dr. Twist’s smiling face in astonishment. How could such an eminent detective waste time on such trifles at such a moment?
‘Yes. Everyone was sleeping like a log, which isn’t all that surprising at four o’clock in the morning.’
Twist nodded in agreement, then proceeded to pose another question:
‘Have you taken a look at what was left of the workshop?’
‘One of my men looked into it. Except for a handful of tools, there are only ashes. An old carpenter’s workshop: you can imagine how quickly it caught fire.’
‘True enough,’ said Twist. ‘By the time we got there, the fire was almost out.’
‘It’s a miracle Brian got out alive,’ sighed Bessie. ‘There was nothing but sawdust and wood inside: old planks, a chest full of wood shavings and even two bales of straw… a veritable miracle. Patrick….’
‘Yes?’
‘You talked about a “simple way” before. What did you mean?’
‘Yes,’ echoed Redfern. ‘What did you mean?’
The young detective looked around before leaning forward. As he spoke, certain faces changed colour.
‘But we haven’t got the right,’ stammered Redfern.
‘It’s a drastic measure, agreed,’ declared Hurst. ‘As a matter of fact, I was about to propose the same approach. What do you think, Twist?’
‘It’s the logical thing to do. The facts being what they are, there’s not much else we can do. Incidentally, it’s not the first time we’ve used this method of verification and it won’t be the last. Isn’t that so, Archibald?’
Redfern didn’t allow Hurst the chance to reply:
‘When are you thinking of doing it?’
‘It would be better not to put it off until tomorrow,’ said Patrick, ‘if you see what I mean.’
‘Tonight?’ said Redfern, wincing. ‘As you wish, but I don’t need to be there. What exactly are you hoping to find, by the way?’
A curious smile spread across Hurst’s ruddy face, as he replied with unaccustomed gentleness:
‘Nothing, Redfern. Precisely nothing.’
At half past nine that same evening, Dr. Twist and the inspector found themselves in the salon of Hatton Manor. Francis was pacing up and down the area in front of the fireplace. He’d lit and extinguished three cigarettes in the space of five minutes. Seated in one of the armchairs, Mike Meadows, calmer but no less thoughtful, stroked his moustache. Mr. and Mrs. Hilton had already gone up to bed. Paula had, too, to the intense relief of Patrick, because the last thing he would have wanted was for his friend to accompany them, which she would most certainly have done if she’d known about it. He knew her only too well.
‘I understand you, my dear Francis,’ declared Meadows, ‘but in view of the situation, these gentlemen are right. Better to get the verification over with right away.’
Francis turned a distraught face to his companions and said through trembling lips:
‘I don’t disagree. But I’m apprehensive.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Hurst. ‘But we’ll be there,’ he added boastfully, ‘and we’re used to such things. So, what do we need? The key, of course, a heavy screwdriver, a few crowbars and two lanterns… or preferably electric torches: with the possibility of escaping gas, one can’t be too sure.’
Hurst’s confidence started to fade as the five men set out in the direction of the chapel; it had almost evaporated by the time they saw the sma
ll edifice through the swirling mists; and it vanished completely when the rays of the torch-lights converged on the stone slab leading down to the crypt. Patrick had had considerable trouble moving it previously, but this time they were five, and the narrow stairs leading down to the chestnut door appeared relatively quickly.
Francis inserted the key in the lock, gave it a turn, and the door opened with a sinister groan. The air inside was typically stale and sickly-sweet. The lights from the lamps scanned the walls and revealed a central ribbed vault supported by four pillars. The walls, in dressed stone, sweated dampness. Niches had been cut into each side, in most of which lay coffins. In an oppressive silence the lights searched for that of Harris Thorne. They located it next to Sarah’s, easily recognisable by the faded roses which had been placed on it, whose dying perfume mixed strangely with a penetrating foulness which was becoming more and more apparent.
The five men approached the interior niche which was supposedly the last resting place of Harris Thorne. His name was there, inscribed on a marble plaque. Hurst’s grimace stretched into a grotesque mask under the glare of his lamp.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ he ordered. ‘Hilton, pass Dr. Meadows the screwdriver. After all, bodies are his business.’
‘Bodies?’ replied the doctor in astonishment. ‘What do you expect to find there? Either he isn’t there—which is what we’re assuming—or he is, in which case not much identifiable will be left. In either case, I think we’d better place the coffin on the ground to remove the screws.’
Hurst and Patrick did the honours.
‘It’s pretty heavy,’ muttered the inspector.
‘It’s solid oak,’ said Patrick, grunting with the effort.
Meadows leant over the coffin and removed the screws one by one. Once the operation was over, he turned to his companions, one or two of whom had taken a step back.
There was a long silence. The rays from the lamps converged on the polished oak. “What are we going to find there?” was the silent question everyone was asking.
‘Go on, Meadows!’ roared Hurst. ‘What are you waiting for?’
The doctor nodded and slid the coffin lid to one side.
The first sound was the inspector breathing a sigh of relief. And it was indeed the body of Harris Thorne lying there in the velvet-lined coffin, with his blue jacket, his red hair and beard, and even the scar on his right temple. But then Hurst’s features froze and his eyes seemed on the point of popping out of his head.
Meadows, fascinated and, at the same time, terrified, leant over the body and declared:
‘What the Devil? I swear that this man has only been dead for a few days!’
25
Hector Redfern had spent a sleepless night and had risen early to eat a rapid breakfast. His humour did not improve after listening to the account of the previous night’s events, as reported by Hurst, Patrick Nolan and Dr. Twist, who had come to visit him that Sunday morning in his Withington bungalow.
He remained still for a long moment without saying anything, then looked at Hurst, whose crumpled face indicated he’d slept even less than the chief superintendent, if at all. Patrick appeared tense, but in control of himself, and Twist looked worried and pre-occupied.
‘It’s absurd,’ he said finally. ‘The man’s been dead a year and I was present at his funeral. I’m willing to swear it was he and no one else in that coffin. If need be, you can always question the undertakers….’
‘There’s no need,’ cut in Hurst. ‘Meadows and young Hilton also confirmed everything. ‘But there’s been some fishy business somewhere, that’s for sure. Alas, if I may put it this way: that’s not the question.’
‘You must be joking,’ retorted Redfern. ‘That’s the whole question. And, speaking of Meadows, what did he have to say about the body—in his capacity as doctor, I mean.’
‘First of all, there’s not the slightest doubt it was Harris. Young Hilton confirmed it as well.’
‘We’ll get to the bottom of it,’ fumed Redfern, normally considered the calmest of men. ‘What did he die of? And when exactly?’
‘Without a thorough examination, he seems to think that the injury to the temple was what caused it.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Redfern, on the brink of apoplexy. ‘A man dying twice isn’t enough for you? You’re trying to tell me he succumbed a second time to the same injury as the first? It’s utter madness!’
Hurst grimaced disconsolately.
‘I’m trying to stick to the facts. Meadows might be mistaken about the cause. We didn’t spend a lot of time down there, you understand. But he’s adamant about the date, which he says was only a few days ago—a week at a maximum. And I know enough about the subject to tell you he’s right about that. And Dr. Twist agrees.’
‘So he died at about the same time as his wife, last Monday to be precise?’
‘More or less. But you don’t know the half of it, Redfern… He was seen near the cemetery on Friday afternoon, and yesterday at the junction of the Hatton main road and the drive up to the manor. Ah! I see it’s sunk in: a man dies last year, then a second time about a week ago, and now has been resuscitated again, four days later and….’
‘Stop it!’ moaned the chief superintendent. ‘You’ll drive me mad.’
‘But there are more questions still,’ continued Hurst, who was obviously deriving considerable pleasure watching someone else grappling with the whirlwind of impossibilities. ‘For example, why did he return to his coffin? And how did he manage to screw the lid down? Unless someone helped him… Unless, before putting him back in his coffin someone killed him—for the second time—by hitting him on the head on the identical spot where he was hit the first time when he fell out of the window… And, if so, why? And don’t forget all the other stuff going on, such as the prophecies of Brian—whom I’m starting to think might be innocent—and the room which makes people feel uneasy when it’s not killing them, the wet carpet, not to mention the frightful death Brian escaped by a hair’s breadth and which confirms great-uncle Harvey’s prediction….’
As the inspector recited the list of questions and suppositions, his voice started to falter and he didn’t even try to push his rebellious forelock back or wipe the perspiration from his brow. He looked like a beaten man.
‘That’s where we stand, Hector. That’s the situation I’m going to have to present to my superior officers.’
Clouds started to gather in the dull sky beyond the large bay window as the bells of the village church started to chime.
Redfern cleared his throat:
‘Am I right in thinking you haven’t told this to anyone else?’
‘Not for the moment. And, quite frankly, we’re not in a hurry to do so. Unless you think….’
Redfern was quick to assure them that he shared their opinion.
‘And what about the autopsy?’
‘I don’t think it will tell us much more than we know already,’ intervened Dr. Twist. ‘Except for… and we can verify that ourselves.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Last night, Meadows conducted a brief examination. He didn’t undress the body. So we don’t know whether there’s a scar on its stomach… from last year’s autopsy.’
‘Good grief!’ muttered Hurst, ‘I hadn’t even thought about that. And if there is, we’re no further forward. Quite the contrary.’
Twist didn’t reply, but instead turned to Patrick, who was looking thoughtfully at him.
‘I think, in fact,’ said the young man, ‘that that explains… Dr. Twist, did you notice something on the body, on the clothes?’
‘What kind of thing?’ asked the detective blandly, with an amiable smile.
‘There was something in the fold of the trousers. I picked it off and thoughtlessly threw it away.’
‘Ah? That’s strange. I don’t remember seeing you. No matter, please continue.’
‘I can assure you….’
‘It’s not importa
nt. What was the object, anyway?’
Patrick had guaranteed the full attention of the others present. He said quietly:
‘A piece of wood. A small piece of wood. A minuscule piece of wood!’
Hurst and Redfern rolled their eyes, but Twist was still smiling. After a while, he declared:
‘My little finger tells me, my dear Nolan, that that minuscule piece of wood has turned a bulb on in your head which could shed light on the mystery surrounding Harris Thorne’s death.’
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘You see,’ continued Dr. Twist, with a sharp look at the young detective, ‘up to now I still had a few doubts, but what you’ve just told me has swept them away. And I congratulate myself even more for asking Archibald to keep the affair under wraps, between ourselves. Do you see what I mean, Nolan? In a way I understand you—even admire you. In my distant youth I also… but here you’ve gone a bit too far.’
As Patrick kept his eyes glued to the floor, Hurst and Redfern were bursting to hear explanations.
Twist’s amiable features took on a worried expression:
‘My friends, I’m going to have to ask you to remain patient. I—Mr. Nolan and I—will give you the solution to this whole bizarre affair soon enough.
‘All I can tell you now is that the death of Sarah Thorne was murder premeditated for a long time. A perfect murder, conceived by a Machiavellian mind, by a murderer who doesn’t even deserve the rope to hang him. The worst of it is, there’s not a shred of evidence to expose him. Negative proof, yes: by which I mean the crime can only be explained one way and that way leads to one particular individual. But the whole truth must be exposed, which won’t be good news for certain of those amongst us. In fact, the truth won’t be good news for anyone. That’s why I’m hesitating. If only fate could give us a hand!’
At that very moment, Mrs. Hilton was bustling about her room with rare gusto. If, after the death of her daughter, she seemed to have been plunged into a state of near-depression, the extraordinary news announced by Francis at breakfast had reinvigorated her.
