by Paul Halter
‘Sincerely, Roger, I don’t think they took me seriously.’
‘Well, that’s a bit of luck!’
‘I told them you were my friend and that you weren’t capable of committing such abominations.’
‘If they knew you as well as I do, that would be a strike against me!’
Maude went over to her painting to look at it critically. The short dressing-gown showed off her shapely legs, which Roger had already admired at his leisure during their games of tennis. But now, Maude’s movements were slower and, together with the curves enhanced by the blue velvet, made it difficult for Roger to concentrate on the painting.
‘So tell me what you think.’
‘Not bad. There’s a touch of Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows about the menacing sky, which gives a clear insight into your own soul. I’d say it was a success.’
Maude stared at him with a sombre look in her eye. Her intractable character could be seen in the strange light behind her dilated pupils.
‘You’re a hard man, Roger. But you’re right, I can be dangerous in certain cases. And when I set my heart on something, I’ll stop at nothing.’
I wonder what gives me the strength to write after all these sombre events. For I am not the same since Eric passed away. The sun, the colours and the flowers are no longer part of my universe. Shadows have chased away the light: I am dull, grey and lifeless.
And yet that famous evening was so promising at the beginning. It was organised by Eric, who claimed that many of his friends had been unable to attend the engagement party due to its inconvenient date. In fact, it was simply a pretext for a wild party, but Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan offered no objection. Everyone, including Papa—particularly Papa—looked favourably on anything that might contribute to our happiness... or our union, to be more precise. Well, almost everyone, there are always exceptions, if you see who I mean....
Victoria probably thought that evening was her last chance. She had so obviously thrown her cap at Eric—she’d invited him three times in a row to dance!—that I’d been obliged to talk to her. And Eric himself had intervened. I saw him say something to her in a low voice that evidently did not please her, to judge by her sullen expression. Afterwards, she became drunk on the punch and feigned a fainting fit. I say “feigned” because there’s no other way to describe the underhand attempt to make Eric feel sorry for her. It didn’t work out quite the way she wanted, because it was Cromwell who took care of her, the poor fellow. All he got for his pains was a tremendous slap in the face which made his ears ring.
But those were only trifles to amuse the crowd. As for me, I danced round and round with Eric until I was giddy. And Eric was even wilder than usual, which is saying something. I was almost dead from fatigue when I reached my bedroom. Because of the bad weather, it had been agreed that I spend the night at the Sheridans’, as sometimes happened.
My head was spinning as I got into bed. The room was freezing, but it felt good to snuggle under the covers and watch the snow falling in huge flakes. The wind, too, was blowing in great gusts. To cap it all, there was the old aspen, the cursed tree which seemed to launch itself against me. It was giving out terrible groans, as if it was writhing in pain and seemed to hold a personal grudge against me. Nevertheless, I remember falling asleep quite quickly, and no later than one o’clock in the morning.
I experienced a terrible nightmare which, as is so often the case, appeared real at the time. The groans of the tree had woken me up. Its sinister and insistent complaints went right through me. I was immediately struck by how its sombre and twisted shape stood out against the background of a completely white countryside sparkling under the light of the moon. It was as clear as broad daylight. Suddenly I saw Eric! He was coming from the house and walking towards the fields. What was he doing there at that hour? There was something peculiar about his walk, which was slow and resigned, as if he was going to his doom. It was as he passed the tree that I understood what was so strange about it. It seemed human, terribly human. I could make out a sneering smile in the middle of the trunk. Suddenly I saw it move! It started to walk in Eric’s footsteps. It followed him furtively for a few yards before seizing him round the neck with two branches which had turned into knotty arms. Eric was fighting desperately on the ground when I woke up. I was covered in perspiration and oozing fear.
In an angry gesture, I closed the curtains so as not to see that cursed tree, the cause of such a frightful nightmare. I can’t say whether or not I peeped out, nor precisely what time it was. One thing I’m certain of: there was no noise. The party was over. This is an important point, for it should determine—supposing, for example, that Eric’s body was not yet at the base of the tree—if my nightmare occurred before or after the crime.
“Before” would mean that I’d had one of those premonitions which science has so far failed to explain.
“After” would mean that I’d woken up and, half-asleep, had noticed Eric’s body and created my nightmare from that fact.
But there was also the possibility of “during,” which attracted the most attention from the investigators, and which offered the most possibilities. I could, for example, have had the nightmare while wide awake and watching Eric’s death as it happened, my foggy mind transforming the real live killer into a murderous tree. Another possibility was that I committed the murder myself: either unconsciously, in which case the dream would be a manifestation of my conscience; or consciously, in which case I created the dream to mislead the investigators and put me above suspicion.
Me, kill Eric! If they could experience even a tenth of what I feel, the idea would never even occur to them. I recognise, however, that the dream, coupled with events already mysterious in themselves, could have set them on the wrong track. Not to mention the old legend about the witch buried under the tree. They didn’t want to hear about that, and who can blame them?
The seeming absence of motive baffled them as well. The only one who might have benefitted from Eric’s disappearance was Peter, nicknamed “Cromwell,” whose inheritance would have doubled on the death of his parents. But that would have been a long-term bet, for Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan both seemed to be in good health. I have refrained from bringing certain of Eric’s words to their attention, because I fear they could be harmful to certain people. I’m referring to the feeling of hatred that Eric had detected and had spoken vaguely to me about. If he hadn’t wanted to tell me more, why would I mention it to anyone?
But the police are obviously concentrating on the modus operandi of the crime, because the hypothesis of a murderous tree or a murderer not subject to the laws of gravity isn’t going to get them very far. But I shall write another time about the sordid details, because today I no longer have the energy.
9
Friday, June 13
‘Not that one, that’s mine!’ exclaimed Roger as Patricia picked up one of the two “Red Devils” on the drawing room table. ‘They haven’t got the same amount of....’
The warning came too late. Patricia had already taken a mouthful and her eyes started to glaze.
‘...rum,’ concluded Roger.
‘Ugh! How can you drink that? It’s much too strong. If you serve that to our guests tomorrow... Oh, I forget to mention, there’ll be one extra. I went to see the vicar this afternoon. He was just about to leave, so we didn’t have much time to talk. Do you remember Miss Pickford suggested I see him? Well, I invited him over tomorrow. He was only too pleased to come. I think he could be very interesting.’
‘Then that makes seven,’ said Roger, counting on his fingers, ‘because I also invited Mr. Fielding, whom I saw this morning. So: the two of us, the vicar, Mr. Fielding, Miss Pickford, Maude and David. That makes seven.’
‘It’s rather late for a house-warming, darling, don’t you think? How long have we been here?’
‘Today, it’ll be exactly three weeks you’ll have been here,’ said Roger, going over to the phonograph. ‘Shall I put a waltz on?’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes, if you like... three weeks? Is that all?’ said Patricia in surprise. ‘I feel I’ve lived here for centuries!’
As the first strains of the Emperor’s Waltz sounded, Patricia got up and danced a few steps, to her husband’s delight. He contemplated her for a moment before taking her in his arms and dancing with her. The waltz over, they laughed joyfully and sat down to finish their cocktails.
‘By the way,’ Patricia asked suddenly, ‘didn’t the police come to question you today?’
Roger gave a start:
‘Police? What police?’
‘The ones trying to find the maniac! Aren’t you the number one suspect?’
After an incredulous silence, Roger seemed to relax:
‘You’re thinking about that nitwit Maude who, as I told you, couldn’t find anything better to do than to tell them I was the last person to settle in the village. What an idiot!’
‘Come to think of it, you spent quite a while with her yesterday afternoon. This denunciation of her wouldn’t be a subtle ruse on your part to cover something up, would it?’
The astute observer might have noticed Roger’s discomfort as he reached for his glass and took a hearty swig from it.
‘Not at all. That woman is capable of saying anything.’
‘But it’s true isn’t it? We are the most recent newcomers.’
‘Let’s change the subject. Tell me, how’s the Baucis project coming along?’
Patricia went over to the phonograph. She picked up a record without looking at it and placed it on the phonograph.
‘I think it’s going to take quite some time.’
‘That was to be expected, wasn’t it?’
‘And he won’t let me see what he’s done. He covers it up quickly as soon as I’ve finished posing.’
‘It’s supposed to be a surprise.’
‘I think he’s concentrating on my face at the moment.’
‘Let’s hope he stops there.’
‘Don’t be silly, Roger... David isn’t a....’ She paused for a moment’s thought. ‘What’s nice about your friend is that....’
‘Here we go!’
‘... he’s a good listener. Which is a rare quality. It’s almost relaxing to spend an hour there.’
‘You know, if I were an artist and had the chance to look at you whilst I worked, I probably wouldn’t talk much either....’
‘Has he got a girl friend?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ replied Roger, frowning. ‘You know, I’m starting to get concerned. I’m wondering whether I should continue to allow you to go there.’
‘He must know Maude, I assume?’
‘Yes, as far as I know. Although....’
‘We’ll seat them next to one another.’
‘I didn’t know you were a matchmaker.’
‘It’ll be fun to observe them.’
‘Darling!’ exclaimed Roger, pretending to be shocked.
‘And if they do hit it off, I’ll be more relaxed when you see Maude.’
‘Darling,’ sighed Roger, shaking his head wearily. ‘Now, suppose we talk about you?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You’re beautiful, very beautiful, darling, but....’
‘But?’ repeated Patricia, obviously vexed. ‘What do you mean, “but”?’
Roger cleared his throat before answering carefully:
‘I like that outfit you’re wearing, but why don’t you try the cotton dress I showed you before?’
‘The violet one with flounces on the sleeves and at the throat? It’s not bad, but it’s a bit old-fashioned. And where did it come from? It isn’t new.’
‘I think it belonged to Lavinia. I believe I saw her wearing it in an old photograph.’
‘You have a photo of her, Roger?’ exclaimed Patricia. ‘I’d be very interested to see it. I’m working my way through her diary. Can you show it to me?’
Roger shook his head sadly.
‘Not for the moment... I seem to have mislaid it. I found it right at the start, as I was rummaging around. I must have put it somewhere, but I can’t remember where. In any case, it isn’t lost. We’ll come across it soon.’
‘That’s a pity,’ sighed Patricia, looking vague. ‘I’d have liked to have seen it. What did she look like?’
Roger rubbed his chin:
‘I didn’t really pay much attention at the start, and the photo is rather blurred. I believe Lavinia—if, indeed, it is she—must have been about thirty when it was taken. It’s amusing, all the same,’ he added, looking around the room, ‘to think she spent most of her time here. Sometimes I try to imagine what it must have been like. Look around: the dresser, the old oak table with the chairs around it, the wall lamps with their glass globes—there was no electric lighting at the time. The sofa and the armchairs in buffalo hide... No, I’ve no difficulty imagining her here, moving back and forth between the four walls or leaning her elbows on the window sill to stare at another grey day... as grey as her wounded heart.’
‘It’s where she spent her last days of happiness,’ said Patricia in a lifeless voice, staring at the dark red tiles covering the floor. ‘This is where her fiancé held her in his arms and danced, as we just did.’
‘And do you see that oil lamp on the chest of drawers? If you look carefully, you can see that one part of the stand is missing. Lavinia writes in her diary about it being knocked over. When those old oil lamps are lit the light is very different from today. I’ll show you. There must be a little oil left.’
A few moments later a soft golden light suffused the room, revealing the details of the old pieces of furniture and casting a gentle glow on Patricia’s face as she stared at the light.
‘Can you imagine her better like that?’ asked Roger, seemingly very proud of his initiative. ‘There, where you’re sitting at the moment... or perhaps in the rocking-chair over there in the corner, dreaming of her happy days with Eric; soothed by the gentle movement, asking herself melancholically whether there would ever be colour in her life again. Or again—Patricia, are you listening?’
The young woman appeared not to have heard her husband. The light, which seemed to have taken over her body, was reflected in her distant stare. Her hands, placed on her knees, clenched imperceptibly.
‘Patricia?’ repeated Roger several times.
I’m in dazzling form today—or as much as a girl like myself can be under such circumstances. By that, I mean that I feel strong enough to confront the sombre chapter consisting of the inquest into Eric’s murder, provided that no one be allowed to ask too much of me. I’m incapable of sending my mind back to the moment the tragedy was discovered: that terrible morning when I was roused by the sounds of voices unexpected at such an hour; when I had drawn back the curtains to see, just as in my dream, Eric lying frozen at the foot of that cursed tree. People around me were speaking, but I couldn’t hear them. I was living a nightmare—at least, I wanted it to be a nightmare... I remember having taken a long time to admit the cold reality of the facts.
I shall try to adopt a purely formal tone, as if I were a police officer writing his report.
There’s no doubt it was death by strangulation. The police have even found the scarf used by the murderer. He had hidden it rather clumsily in the thickets enclosing the field behind the house, at about a hundred yards from the tree. It was a scarf belonging to Eric’s father, which anyone could have taken during the course of the evening, since it had been draped over the coat rack in the corridor. But because it had only disappeared that same evening, the field of suspects was reduced to only those people resident in the house and their guests.
Unfortunately, the scarf had only been found late in the day by a couple of bystanders who had, just like everyone else, obliterated any original traces there might have been on the field behind the house by their constant to-ing and fro-ing.
The scarf was without doubt the murder weapon, for strands of the same wool had been found around Eric’s neck. The marks
showed that the murderer must have suffocated him by pulling on the scarf, which might have led one to conclude that only a man of great strength could have committed the crime. That, however, was not the case for, just before his murder, Eric was inebriated—as several witnesses confirmed. He was almost staggering, having drunk heavily after I left at one o’clock in the morning. The last guests had left at around two o’clock and Eric had casually accompanied them to the door in his shirtsleeves—despite the freezing temperature—to see them on their way with a merry quip. That was also the time the snow stopped. At half past two, the whole household was asleep, except for Eric and the murderer. The last person to have seen him alive was his father as he was going to bed—just before the clock struck the half hour. Eric was still in the lounge at that time, slumped in an armchair with a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Mr. Sheridan had asked him if he was going to bed soon and was greeted by an affirmative grunt.
Was there anything, at that time, to warn him of the events which were to follow? Assuredly not. Eric had simply spent a joyous evening, well lubricated to be sure, but there had been no gesture nor any reaction on his part which would have justified an intention to harm him. It was half past two and, from that moment, nobody would see him alive.
The medical examiner fixed death at approximately a quarter of an hour later. In addition to the murder itself, there were several other points which were puzzling. What could have prompted Eric to go to the old tree between half past two and a quarter to three in his shirtsleeves? His footprints were not very clear. He left by the back door and took a diagonal path towards the tree. He didn’t run: his steps were quite close together. There are several prints at that spot, as if he’d stamped the ground impatiently whilst waiting for someone. A rendezvous? But with whom? Nobody could answer the question. The police examined the footprints at great length and were confident there was no trickery. For example, the victim hadn’t walked on top of smaller prints previously made by someone else, in order to hide them. And, conversely, no one could have hidden his own tracks by carefully walking in Eric’s. The footprints in the snow were his and his alone.