by Paul Halter
‘Not a single day more! Do you hear me, Howard? I’m not staying here a single day more.’
Mr. Hilton hesitantly watched his wife empty the two wardrobes in their room. The three suitcases open on the bed filled at an impressive speed. He’d seldom seen Dorothy in such a state, nor pack her clothes with so little care. He thought about saying something, but his instinct warne him against it.
‘And when I say not a single day, we’re going to be on the road by half past ten at the latest.’
Howard Hilton studied his wife closely. It was the first time he’d seen her eyes betray her, flashing as they were with anger and open wider than usual.
‘Of course, darling, of course. But do you think we need to be in quite such a hurry?’
‘I know what I’m doing, Howard. In a few hours we’ll be a long way away and we’re never setting foot in here again. Never.’
‘But we can’t take everything with us today. We have to—.’
‘It’s useless to argue. I repeat, I know what I’m doing.’
‘But do we even have the right? Won’t the police want to question us?’
‘They can. But not here. And don’t stand there idle. Help me.’
‘Is it too much to ask where we’re going?’
‘To any hotel far enough away. We have the means now, don’t we? Now that I think about it, there’s a second cousin of mine who runs an excellent establishment near Rochester.’
At that moment, their son came into the room, his face ashen.
‘Francis, dear, you don’t look at all well. Do you think you’ll be able to drive us to Rochester in the next couple of hours?’
Francis nodded listlessly and looked at his mother in a manner devoid of any expression. Mrs. Hilton thought she knew what was on his mind.
‘You’d like to go as well, but Paula doesn’t want to, isn’t that it?’
‘No mother, not at all.’
‘Surely you’re not both going to stay here? After everything that’s happened? Without even talking about last night. That would be sheer madness. Sooner or later, the “other” will leave the hospital and come back here. God only knows what will happen then. I beg you, Francis, try to convince Paula.’
Howard Hilton made a discreet sign to his son not to respond.
Mrs. Dorothy Hilton interpreted her son’s silence in her own way and asked him in acid tones:
‘So Paula won’t be coming with us, is that it?’
‘No… She promised Bessie she’d go to see Brian with her this afternoon.’
An hour later, Francis loaded his parents’ luggage into the car and got into the driver’s seat. His mother sat down beside him.
‘What are you doing, Howard?’ she said in annoyance. ‘We have a long road ahead of us.’
Howard Hilton stood with his hand on the handle, taking one last look at the manor. Despite all that had happened, he had a certain amount of nostalgia on leaving. They had, after all, enjoyed some good times there. And who would look after the roses on which he had lavished so much care?
‘Howard, we’re waiting!’
He stood there with a lump in his throat for a few more seconds, his eyes riveted on the old house. He had a distinct feeling he was looking at it for the last time.
And he was right.
26
At around four o’clock, Patrick, Paula and Bessie saw Dr. Twist coming out of Brian’s room. The criminologist greeted them briefly and said he’d see them later, during the course of the evening. He seemed preoccupied but excited, and was holding a piece of folded paper in his hand which Patrick took to be a telegram.
Brian was lying in his bed with his head entirely swathed in bandages except around his eyes, which lit up at the sight of his three visitors, and around his mouth, which welcomed them with a courageous smile.
‘My dear friends,’ he said in a feeble voice. ‘I shall regret leaving this bed. I’ve never had so much attention in my life.’
‘What are you saying, Brian?’ replied Bessie, in a tone of amiable reproach. ‘It was you who never noticed our existence. What does your doctor say? When will he let you go home?’
‘He told me I was very lucky, but I still need to stay here for another two months.’
Which was true, for the visitors had met with the doctor before running into Dr. Twist. Fortunately, the victim’s face bore only superficial burns, but his arms and legs had sustained more damage and would take longer to heal. Two months more in hospital was the minimum. Nevertheless, despite appearances, he had a robust constitution, he suffered stoically and his morale was excellent.
Patrick asked Brian casually what was the purpose of Dr. Twist’s visit.
The joyful light in the injured man’s eyes went out immediately.
‘We talked for almost two hours. He asked me certain questions about… cards, which I’d prefer not to talk about. Just before you arrived, someone brought him a telegram. He read it and seemed quite agitated by it, but he didn’t tell me what it was about.’
Seeing that Brian was becoming agitated, Bessie changed the subject, but not before frowning at Patrick.
A little later, Paula announced she was going to step outside for a while to smoke a cigarette and asked Patrick whether he would be good enough to join her.
In silence, the two of them reached the garden and sat down on a bench. Paula puffed nervously at her cigarette and then declared, in a dangerously calm voice:
‘Don’t you think it’s about time you told me the truth?’
‘But… what truth?’
‘The truth about your relations with Bessie. Because it’s as clear as daylight that you don’t love each other.’
‘What are you talking about, Paula?’
‘The truth. Nothing but the truth. She doesn’t love you and you don’t love her either. That doesn’t mean that you don’t like each other. It was quite convincing—in the beginning at least. But now, you’d have to be blind not to see she’s in love with Brian, more in love than she’s ever been, even in her time with Meadows.’
‘Where are you going with this?’ exclaimed Patrick, raising his arms in the air. ‘She pities the poor fellow, in the condition he’s in.’
‘Pity? Have you seen the way she looks at him? Either I’m an idiot, or that woman has just realised she’s met the man of her life—or, more precisely, Brian is the man she needs. Forget about the nuances. It can’t have escaped your notice, and yet you haven’t taken offence… on the contrary, you seem relieved. For the last time, Patrick, what’s going on?’
Blue Reed was on the point of protesting, but decided to keep quiet and sat back on the bench, admiring the park. He thought for a moment and then decided to come clean. He took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to dive:
‘I can explain in three words, Paula: I love you.’
‘That’s what I was afraid of.’
Her tone wasn’t very warm, nor was it very convincing. Her pink cheeks (from the cold?) contrasted with the paleness of her skin. Her hair, dishevelled by the wind, fell in disarray on her coat collar as she, too, stared into the distance.
‘Very well,’ said Patrick, ‘I see you’re not going to make it easy for me, but I’m going to tell you everything.’
‘And not before time.’
‘Do you remember last summer, and our last rendezvous the night Harris Thorne died?’
‘Perfectly. And you promised me that it would be the last time and you would never try to see me again.’
‘Well, since that moment I’ve never stopped thinking about you. I… what’s the use. I’m not sure you could understand. Suffice to say, I didn’t keep my promise—and I started to think. How to get close to you without it appearing pre-meditated? I did some searching and—.’
‘You arranged to make the acquaintance of Bessie. How charming!’
‘Paula, I beg you. I wouldn’t want you to think—.’
‘Think what? That you used her as a pawn on the chessboard? It�
�s disgusting! An easy prey, a poor girl bewildered by the break-up of her engagement.’
‘I know it wasn’t very elegant, but I couldn’t see any other way. And I’ll tell you something: Bessie was very happy to meet me at that moment. She needed someone. She never admitted it, but I learnt afterwards that the separation had been very painful for her. It was her self-respect which suffered more than anything. And I’m sure it was Meadows who broke it off, so he could pursue one of her best friends.’
‘It wasn’t very elegant, I concede. But I notice you’re quick to climb on your high horse when other people’s principles are involved.’
‘She came to see me in London once or twice a week,’ continued Patrick after an embarrassed cough. ‘And we really did amuse ourselves. There wasn’t much between us, if you want to know, just comradeship.’
‘As far as comradeship is concerned, there’s nothing you have to learn from anybody.’
‘Paula, please. Listen to me. We saw each other once or twice and then she suggested I spend a few days with her, in order to meet her family and friends.’
‘If it was comradeship, I don’t see why—.’
‘And her friends,’ stressed Blue Reed vehemently.
‘I see, she wanted to parade you in front of her ex-fiancée as a sort of revenge. I imagine her reaction was anticipated in your plan?’
‘More or less,’ confessed Patrick, looking down. ‘But at that time I had a lot of work and couldn’t leave it all to L… my associate. Likewise, I told Bessie that, by an extraordinary coincidence I knew you… so we put off my surprise visit until later. You must have had a shock when you saw me last week?’
‘I’ll say. But I immediately suspected something fishy was going on. You’ve always had that guilty look when you were preparing a dirty trick.’
‘And I’ll admit that at that moment I was scared stiff, and later, too. You were there next to me, but Bessie and Francis were there as well and… well, I don’t have to draw a picture, do I?’
‘So you’re remorseful. All is not lost. And did you manage to sleep at nights?’
‘Not very well. I was always thinking about you, about that evening in the cove, about our midnight swim, about—.’
‘That’s enough.’ She cut him off. ‘And afterwards?’
‘There were Brian’s predictions, which intrigued me enormously. I didn’t know what to think, everything was bubbling around in my mind. And then there were Sarah’s death and Brian’s disappearance. I had no idea that Bessie was hiding him in the workshop. I’d noticed a change in her attitude recently, without knowing why. Yes, Paula, she’s really taken a liking to Brian, but I don’t know if she realises it. Be that as it may, it’s a very good thing for Bessie and, in addition, it takes a weight off my shoulders.’
The sound of flapping wings punctuated with shrill cries interrupted the peace of the park. A swarm of birds flew up towards the clouds, in an operation confusing at first, but which White Camellia and Blue Reed eventually realised was a disciplined flight with variable geometry.
‘The great departure,’ observed Patrick, at once admiring and nostalgic.
‘What I don’t understand is what you want from me. That I leave Francis for you?’
‘That was part of my plan at first: to approach you gently at first, then try and convince you. Sheer madness, I admit. But I’m honest and I confess it to you.’
Paula gave a long sigh.
‘You’re starting to sound reasonable, Patrick. But because we’re sharing confidences, I must tell you that I get on well with my husband and I’m very happy with him.’
‘Paula….’
‘Do you know who you remind me of, Patrick? A spoilt little child who only wants what’s forbidden to him. In real life—.’
‘No lectures on morality, please.’
‘Very well. What do you plan to do now?’
Patrick pursed his lips and brought out his cigarette case.
‘Continue your investigation?’ continued Paula in an incisive tone. ‘You’re scared stiff, aren’t you? Do you know who it was who looked like Harris and whom you discovered in the coffin?’
‘It was Harris’s body….’
‘Have you all lost your minds! You, your police friends and even Francis. For Brian to believe in ghosts is understandable. But for the rest of you—and you above all, Patrick! You’ve always told me that there’s a rational explanation for every mystery. Have you changed your mind?’
Patrick shook his head and crushed the cigarette he’d just lit under his foot.
‘I—that is, we—know nearly everything, Paula. There’s no ghost or anything like that. Dr. Twist even has an idea about Brian’s prophecies.’
Stunned, Paula looked at him wild-eyed.
‘Harris died last year. And the body you discovered is his?’ she mumbled.
‘Yes. But let’s leave that for the moment. For my part, I’ve learnt quite a lot since last Monday, since the death of Sarah, since I saw a certain person in the process of… the penny didn’t drop at the time, but later it did. And afterwards I didn’t behave very well with regard to the law or anything else. I was in an awkward situation, because if I’d revealed what I’d seen, you… one could have thought that… Well, anyway I kept quiet and acted on my own—which wasn’t very clever, now I think about it. And that brilliant devil Twist worked everything out. He even guessed there was something between us.
‘The situation is worse than you can possibly imagine, Paula, because we know almost everything but there’s not a shred of proof. And things can’t stop here. I thought I was doing the right thing, Paula, I swear. I didn’t want you to think that… There was probably some other way I could have acted, but you know me… I always want to dramatise everything.’
A heavy step crunching the gravel interrupted them.
Archibald Hurst was coming towards them, head down. As he drew level he gave them both a sombre look and slumped down on the bench next to them.
‘Have you seen Dr. Twist?’ asked Patrick. ‘A telegram came for him.’
‘I know. Redfern sent it from Newbury. I’ve just talked to him on the phone. Twist left immediately after he received it.’
Silence. The inspector took his time lighting a cigar, obviously delaying what he had to say. Then he grasped the nettle and spoke.
‘I have very bad news for you, Mrs. Hilton. You need to brace yourself. Your husband and his parents have been killed in a car accident on the road to Newbury. Apparently the driver lost control of the vehicle and it caught fire. They all died immediately.’
Which was true for the parents, but not for Francis who, according to witnesses, fought in vain to get out of the car. The inspector had decided to tell a white lie.
Paula appeared not to have grasped the situation at first, but then she broke down in convulsive sobs. Patrick wanted to take her in his arms, but resisted the impulse.
‘That’s not all, unfortunately, Mrs. Hilton. We’re practically certain that your husband killed his sister.’
27
The following evening at eight o’clock, a number of visitors were seated in the lounge of Hector Redfern’s bungalow. Paula, sombre and silent, was sitting on the sofa next to Bessie. Since yesterday, the Blounts had taken her in, and she was likely to stay there for the foreseeable future. Bessie had been trying to take her friend’s mind off the tragic and cruel epilogue to her marriage to Francis as best she could. Patrick had been keeping them company without intruding in their conversations. He hadn’t stopped looking at White Camellia, waiting in vain for a look or the shadow of a smile, unable to penetrate her thoughts. Blue eyes wide open, but not a single tear. An impassive countenance, which he took as a bad omen as far as he was concerned. For now, he was seated in an armchair, nursing a whisky and torturing himself with the question: “Can she ever love me again?”
Archibald Hurst, enthroned on his seat, was relaxed, far more so than usual on such occasions—Twist had confided most of
the key to the mystery already. Which was far from the case with the chief superintendent, who was pacing back and forth in front of the chimneypiece, hands behind his back, with the regularity of clockwork.
After extinguishing his pipe and adjusting his pince-nez, Dr. Twist started to speak.
‘Before I begin, I want to make it clear that what I am about to say will be strictly confidential and must have no other witnesses than you and these four walls. I leave you to imagine what the press would make of it if they learnt about it. The Thorne and Hilton families have suffered enough without being delivered to the unhealthy curiosity of the gutter press. Are we all in agreement? The same goes for a certain London detective agency.
‘That said, I shall, without further ado, get to the heart of the matter and attempt to explain each event in this imbroglio in chronological order. We shall start with the case of Harvey Thorne. A very strange individual, the details of whose life come to us via several successive testimonies, which doesn’t help us very much. As an aside, I must tell you that quite often an obscure case has, as its point of departure, another obscure case which was the result of an incredible sequence of coincidences. That’s the only explanation I can offer for finding a shred of logic in this extraordinary story of the premonitions of great-uncle Harvey. He announces to his family and his descendants that they will perish by fire and, as bad luck would have it, some of them do die in that manner. A coincidence—but it will be the only one—which will be turned into a curse and result in the sealing of the writer’s room. It’s possible to interpret the words of the dying man: “Will perish… sinned… will perish by fire… will perish by fire,” which probably changed through time, but I remain convinced that they were indeed a warning about death by fire. Which is what most people thought, and is quite understandable.’
Twist paused for a moment to re-light his pipe and continued:
‘Harvey Thorne was found dying on the door sill of his room, mad with rage and pain. The victim of a heart attack, according to the doctors. I draw your attention to the fact that the testimony about the wet carpet was not provided by the family, but by the domestic staff.’
