Mr Lynch's Prophecy

by Evelyn James

  “Morning Peterson,” O’Harris said briskly, managing to cast off his apprehension for the moment. “I would like a word. This is Tommy Fitzgerald, you have met before.”

  Peterson’s eyes looked dull, only the fact they moved saved them from appearing lifeless. He stared between Tommy and O’Harris, seemingly oblivious to what had been said. This made O’Harris even more restless; Tommy grabbed a chair for him and placed it by the bed, to try to settle him. He grabbed another for himself. O’Harris wanted to pace, Tommy could see that, but it would not be helpful if he started. Tommy felt they needed to keep the conversation calm if they were to get anything from Peterson, and that meant preventing O’Harris’ anxiety from becoming obvious.

  “How are you feeling?” Tommy asked once he had convinced the captain to sit down.

  Peterson’s eyes drifted to him, there was a sense that he was not entirely aware of where he was, or even entirely awake.

  “Fine,” he murmured in a weak voice.

  “You know what happened to you?” Tommy asked tentatively.

  Peterson hesitated, then he screwed up his eyes.

  “Someone stabbed me… in the back.”

  “Yes,” Tommy replied. “We are trying to find out who did it.”

  “I don’t remember,” Peterson said rather quickly, in a way that made Tommy uneasy. The denial was too quick, too firm.

  “You went to the picture house last night?” Tommy changed direction.

  “Yes,” Peterson answered.

  “What was playing?”

  Peterson grimaced.

  “Nosferatu,” he said. “I didn’t like it.”

  “Not my sort of thing either,” Tommy told him. “Did you watch the whole film?”

  “No,” Peterson said quietly. “Slipped out early…”

  He shut his eyes and for a moment Tommy thought he had drifted off, but then he looked at them again and there seemed a new determination in his eyes.

  “I want to know who did this to me,” he said.

  “Naturally,” Tommy agreed. “Do you remember encountering anyone on your way from the picture house?”

  “No,” Peterson said, and he seemed to realise how unhelpful this was and groaned in despair.

  “Why were you in the alleys?” O’Harris jumped in. “The quickest route from the picture house to the Home is by the main roads.”

  Peterson sucked his bottom lip into his mouth and chewed on it. He was holding something back, not wanting to speak it aloud. That made Tommy even more worried.

  “Why did you go that way?” O’Harris persisted. “There has to have been a reason. We are trying to help you Peterson, this is serious!”

  Peterson cringed at the captain’s harsh tone. Tommy placed his hand on O’Harris’ arm to quieten him. The captain did not mean to be fierce, he was worried, that was all – and he was worried as much for Peterson as for his convalescence home.

  “We want to help you,” Tommy told Peterson. “You may not be aware, but another person was found hurt in the alleys. A woman. Sadly, she died. The police think you may have stabbed her.”

  Peterson’s eyes flashed with fear and he let out a moan.

  “Did I?” He asked, though Tommy was not sure if he was seeking an answer from them, or whether he was questioning himself.

  Tommy chose to answer him.

  “We don’t know, not without unravelling the situation in that alley last night. We need you to help us, so we can help you. O’Harris is certain you are not a dangerous man. He doesn’t think you would kill someone.”

  Peterson’s eyes were more alive as he turned them on O’Harris. There seemed a hint of gratitude in them, as if he had never imagined someone else would believe in him.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, again it was not clear who he was speaking to. “I try to remember, but there is this big blank.”

  “Let’s start with why you went into the alleys,” Tommy nudged him.

  Peterson took a deep breath, preparing himself for saying what he didn’t want to.

  “I was having one of my… episodes,” he said.

  Tommy glanced at O’Harris for clarification.

  “Peterson suffers from occasional hallucinations,” he said.

  “No, not that,” Peterson said softly. “I wasn’t hallucinating. It was the other thing. The one where I feel so afraid and scared.”

  “Oh, a panic attack,” O’Harris guessed. “They are nothing to be ashamed of, old man. As the doctors have told you, they happen quite a lot to men who served in the war.”

  “I have them,” Tommy added, trying to build some trust and camaraderie with Peterson. “They are a horrid thing, makes me feel like I need to run away, but I am trying to run away from myself, which is impossible.”

  “That’s it,” Peterson said grimly. “When I get like that, I don’t want to be around other people. I don’t like how it makes me behave. I don’t like people seeing me in such a state. I think it was that film that set me off.”

  Peterson gave a slight sniff as the events of the previous night began to come over him again. He might not remember the details, but he did remember how he felt.

  “I should never have watched that film. But I thought I was better…”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it,” O’Harris said. He had calmed down now and was able to respond to Peterson without sounding hard or scared. “That’s why you went into the alleys? To avoid people?”

  “Yes,” Peterson responded. “I thought I could avoid everyone. I don’t know what happened after that, I swear. If I could remember I would tell you. I wish I knew what I did. All I recall is trying to walk, knowing I had to get away from something, and having this pain in my back.”

  “Did you take a knife with you last night?” Tommy asked him.

  “Whatever for?” Peterson said in surprise. “I don’t even own a knife.”

  “Peterson, if you can remember anything, it is absolutely vital you say so. Maybe it is something vague or seemingly random, that you don’t think important, but it could be the key to all this for us,” O’Harris said softly, but with urgency in his tone.

  Peterson frowned.

  “I… everything is gone, I…” he let out a hiss of air through his teeth. “I honestly don’t remember a woman, you have to believe me, and I don’t remember a knife.”

  “We believe you,” O’Harris reassured him. “But, is there anything, anything at all that might give us an insight?”

  Peterson fell silent again, his gaze settled on the corner of the bedside cabinet by his hospital bed and there was a moment when Tommy wondered if he had slipped into a sort of daze. Then he blinked and looked at them.

  “I think I might be going mad, it was perhaps because of the film I had just watched…” he trailed off.

  “You can tell us anything,” O’Harris insisted.

  Peterson took a deep breath.

  “I just keep remembering this word over and over in my mind. I can hear it being shrieked as if by a woman. But it makes no sense,” Peterson shut his eyes tight and gave a groan. “I see snatches of the film too, when I close my eyes, I see that monstrous creature again. I… I think I may have started to hallucinate.”

  “Old fellow, don’t say that to the police,” O’Harris said quickly. “They will interpret that as a confession of guilt. They will say you attacked this woman while you were hallucinating, and you will not be able to argue against it. I have seen you hallucinate, Peterson, you have never been violent during those episodes. I have never been fearful that you would cause harm to anyone. Don’t assume your own guilt before you know what happened.”

  “But this blank in my memory,” Peterson was becoming tearful, “it has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

  “It means you were scared,” Tommy interjected. “It means that something bad happened and caused you such shock you have erased the memory. It does not mean you were responsible for a murder. There had to be someone else there, someone who hurt
this woman and you. The trauma of it all has created this amnesia. You must have heard about that happening to men at the Front?”

  Peterson tried to nod his head, but couldn’t while he was lying on the pillow. Instead he spoke.

  “Yes. I’ve heard about it.”

  “You were vulnerable because you were having a panic attack. Whatever happened was so upsetting in the context of the situation that your mind has consigned it to some back space of your memory to protect you. Only, it has made things more complicated,” Tommy wasn’t sure he was explaining things correctly, he was no psychologist. He just wanted to help Peterson and cause him to relax enough to recall something more of that night. “It was like with my legs. You know, they stopped working after I was shot, I just could not feel them at all. They seemed to not exist. The doctors told me there was nothing mechanically wrong, but I refused to believe them. I did not want to admit it was something to do with my mental state. And then a very clever doctor persuaded me that it was true, and that it was nothing to be ashamed of. Because of him, I can walk again. My brain had created this block in my mind, because of the horror of my injuries, and we had to break that block. It will be the same with your memory, Peterson.”

  Peterson was listening, but he did not seem convinced. He had spent a lot of time with various doctors, some more sympathetic to his plight than others, over the last few years. They had talked about a lot of theories, tried to explain what was wrong with him; the problem was, none of them had fixed him.

  “I don’t think I can help you,” he said at last.

  “It’s about helping you,” O’Harris gently corrected him. “What was the word you thought you heard? The one that keeps repeating in your head?”

  Peterson cringed.

  “I don’t want to say. It really is crazy.”

  “Let us decide that, we are not going to judge you. We are here as friends,” O’Harris paused. “I don’t want to see you forced into a lunatic asylum for the rest of your days because of a lapse of memory. I stand by my conviction that you are not dangerous. In all the time since you have been home and suffering these problems, you have never once been violent. Your own doctor and mother assured me of that, and I have seen enough of your problems in the last few months to concur with that opinion. Please, Peterson, do not give up on yourself.”

  Peterson buried his head into the pillow. His fingers closed around the corner of the bed sheet and crumpled it up in his fist.

  “I want to believe you, but I don’t trust myself. When you can’t remember what you did, you start to doubt your own actions,” he mumbled.

  “I don’t doubt you,” O’Harris leaned forward and touched his arm. “I have never doubted you. I want to help, give me the opportunity to do so.”

  Peterson winced, but he slowly turned his head back towards them.

  “What does it matter anyway? They say I am crazy, so if I tell you what I heard and it sounds mad, well, you will not be surprised.”

  “You are not mad or crazy,” Tommy promised him. “No more so than myself or Captain O’Harris.”

  “Trust me, old boy, I know about amnesia,” O’Harris added. “I forgot who I was after my crash, for a whole year.”

  Peterson let out another hiss.

  “As I say, it is probably something from that film. I just keep hearing this woman shouting in my head over and over a single word,” Peterson gave out a tense laugh, that had no joy in it. “Monster.”

  He paused and then held O’Harris’ gaze.

  “She yells monster.”

  Chapter Seven

  Clara returned home in time for tea. She hung her coat and hat on the hall stand and hummed to herself as she wandered into the front parlour, where she found Tommy and O’Harris deep in conversation. O’Harris leapt up at the sight of her and pulled her into his embrace, which surprised Clara for a moment.

  “I am so glad you are here,” he said. “We have to talk; a terrible thing has happened.”

  Over the next half-hour, while Annie brought in scones and tea, O’Harris laid out the saga of Private Peterson and the murder in the alley. Clara listened without interruption, a frown on her face that grew deeper as the sorry affair was laid out before her.

  “So, you see the pickle we are in,” O’Harris finished.

  “I like Private Peterson,” Annie said quietly. She had poured out tea and was now sat in a chair near them. Annie served as housekeeper and cook to the Fitzgeralds, but she was more like a friend and had recently become engaged to Tommy. The circumstances sounded complicated on paper, but had taken such a natural and logical progression that neither Clara, Tommy nor Annie found anything odd about them. “I’ve met him at the Home when I take the cookery class. He has a light hand for pastry. I don’t think a violent man could be so good at it.”

  Annie had volunteered to run a cookery class at the Home, much to everyone’s amazement. She had explained that she wanted to be helpful and to feel she had a purpose. The classes had proved extremely popular, because Annie had a knack for bringing out the best in even the worst cook.

  “Peterson didn’t kill anyone,” Annie said firmly.

  No better recommendation could come for the man than from the quiet, humble, but utterly honest Annie. There were few people in this world she would give such a staunch defence to. Annie did not make such statements lightly.

  “The trouble is proving that,” Tommy said. “Peterson can remember nothing, and I think it unlikely that will change. Even if it did, the police will probably not believe him. From what they can see, there were two people in that alley and one of them is dead. Peterson’s guilt seems certain to them.”

  “Poor man,” Clara said sympathetically. “And all he can recall is the word monster?”

  “Yes,” O’Harris nodded, “and I am inclined to agree with him that the word is something from the film he watched and of no importance.”

  “I don’t rule anything out until I am absolutely certain,” Clara corrected him with a smile. “It does seem odd though. Why would anyone be yelling ‘monster’? You might call someone a monster, I suppose, but as your last words? Why not call for help? Scream murder? It’s puzzling. Anyway, have you spoken to the police further?”

  “No,” O’Harris admitted. “Other than to have Inspector Park-Coombs tell me where Peterson was and the situation. My priority was getting to him. He is my responsibility.”

  “Of course,” Clara smiled at him to let him know she completely agreed with his decision. “I think there is a lot here we don’t know and that we need to unravel. It is easy to blame a man with Peterson’s problems for a murder without asking the important question of why? Why would he suddenly become violent and attack this woman? It was not in Peterson’s nature. He had never displayed violent tendencies before. Just because the man suffers hallucinations and panic attacks, should not make him immediately considered a violent murderer.”

  “Not forgetting the mystery of the knife,” Tommy added. “Peterson says he did not take a knife with him to the picture house, that he does not even possess one. There is no reason to doubt that. Which then begs the question, where did the knife appear from? If the woman had it, then how did Peterson get hold of it?”

  “There is a lot we don’t know as yet,” Clara observed. “I would like to get a full report on Peterson’s mental state from the doctors at the Home, John.”

  “Of course,” O’Harris quickly confirmed. “You will find nothing to suggest we had any concerns that Peterson was a risk.”

  “I’ll obviously speak to Inspector Park-Coombs and see what the police have so far uncovered. The Inspector might seem brash, but he is not uncaring and he does believe in justice. He will not see an innocent man condemned of a crime,” Clara paused. “That does leave me with a problem over the Professor Lynch case, it will be hard to divide my time. Tommy, could you do the leg work on that case for me?”

  “Well, I am your assistant,” Tommy grinned. “What do you want me to do?”<
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  “Firstly, see if Lynch’s doctor is still alive and ask him about the professor’s illness. Professor Montgomery wants proof that Lynch had lost his marbles in his final days and that explains his obsession with astrology,” Clara said. “Personally, the old man’s papers gave no hint that he was suffering from senility. He started exploring astrology in 1898, at a time when he was still writing incredibly complex scientific papers on the movements of the planets. I can find a paper he wrote on lunar eclipses dated the same day as he drew up a horoscope. Something tells me this man was not going crazy.”

  “There are a lot of people out there who believe in astrology, who you would not call crazy,” O’Harris pointed out.

  “Very true,” Clara agreed. “For that matter, I know of academics who believe a scientist who believes in God is utterly mad. They consider science and religion mutually exclusive. No, I have a feeling I may have to disappoint Montgomery on that front. But we shall see.”

  “What can I do, Clara?” O’Harris asked. “I want to help Peterson.”

  “Have your doctors assess him,” Clara said. “We need a professional opinion on his mental health. It would not hurt to delve deeper into his background and to see if anything like this has happened in the past. I don’t want any surprises.”

  “Of course,” O’Harris agreed. “Anything else?”

  “You might want to start talking to a good lawyer, just in case,” Clara didn’t want to worry him further, but she felt it was best to be prepared.

  “And I am going to make sandwiches and cake for Peterson and take them to him daily,” Annie said firmly, as if someone might try to persuade her otherwise. “Hospital food is not sustaining. He is going to need all his strength.”

  Annie never failed in her staunch belief that good food was the answer to all of man’s woes. Clara knew she would keep a good eye on Peterson and if anyone was going to find a way to break that memory block, it would be Annie with her cucumber sandwiches and caring manner.