by Paul Halter
The old aspen is situated some six or seven yards from the house, just in front of the window of the room where I passed the night, a window which is brushed by the tips of its branches whenever the wind blows in that direction. Otherwise, it stands in isolation in the field, the nearest other tree being about ten yards away. Within that radius there were no traces of any kind except Eric’s own prints. That includes the roof of the house, the gutters, and even the window sills, all of which the police had examined painstakingly. All to no avail—and much to their regret, because one of them had postulated an acrobatic leap from the house to the tree. That theory was now ruled out.
It was that blanket of snow, of course, which was the cause of the mystery, for Eric had been killed after the snow stopped falling. The murderer had operated as if by magic, without leaving the slightest trace.
Another officer had suggested that the murderer had waited in the tree, perched on a branch before the snow had started. He based his theory on the fact that a branch had been found which seemed to have been broken fairly recently. But it was an already sickly branch which had probably yielded to the harsh assaults of the wind, for no other suspicious trace was found on the tree. And, in any case, it didn’t solve the problem. Even if the murderer had been able to strangle, from that frail, low branch, a victim stupid enough not to realise what was going on, how had he left the scene of the crime without leaving any trace? The puzzle still remains.
And how to interpret my dream? The further the investigation advanced, the more I felt the police were neglecting that aspect of the problem. By the time of my last interview with the police inspector in charge of the case I was sure of it. He had shown his hand by asking me the following question: ‘Don’t you think, miss, that it’s possible—faced with the shock of that horrible sight when you pulled back the curtains and saw your fiancé at the foot of that tree—that you might have imagined, or really experienced, that dreadful nightmare?’
I knew it wasn’t true, but I didn’t bother arguing. I’d had a premonition, just as many others had had before me. I’ve been able to read a book in Papa’s library about visions just as troubling as mine, or even more so—such as the extraordinary case of Swedenborg. But I also understand that’s an area where the police may be reluctant to tread.
The coroner’s inquest produced a verdict of “murder with malice aforethought by person or persons unknown” which, in practice, shone not one iota of light on the affair. Could I have helped justice by revealing to the authorities what I had so far kept to myself? I strongly doubt it. In any case, whatever should happen to the murderer, there is no justice that can bring Eric back to me.
And what did I know, truth be told? That Eric had detected hostility towards him on a previous occasion? It’s true I had suspected one or two people, but they were only suspicions. I’ll probably follow through on a later occasion. But Eric has gone, has gone forever, and I must resign myself to the fact. Or at least try.
10
Saturday, June 14
Big Ben had just struck five o’clock, the sound of its chimes resonating as far as the corner of the smoke-filled saloon bar of the Britannia, where Inspector Archibald Hurst and Dr. Twist were consuming their beers with a conspiratorial air. The sun’s rays, reflected in the little coloured panes of the nearby window, turned the policeman’s already dour face violet as he grumbled:
‘Still no news? Your informant in skirts hasn’t contacted you yet?’
‘Miss Rellys, you will recall, said she wouldn’t call me unless there was something of interest to report. And, since I haven’t heard from her....’
‘So, nothing. You couldn’t be more laconic if you tried, Twist.’
‘I’m simply being precise. But tell me, what do you think of Maude Rellys?’
‘A spoilt child who thinks she’s God’s gift to the world.’
‘That’s rather harsh. You seem to be in a bad mood today. I find Miss Rellys to be easy on the eye, and I don’t regard having a bit of character to be a defect.’
His friend took another swig of beer and wiped a hairy hand across his damp brow.
‘As far as first impressions go, her choice of suspect was rather weak.’
‘You’re twisting her words, Archibald. We asked her who was the most recent arrival in the village and she told us. It was a friend of hers, incidentally, and she swore he wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘Be that as it may, I’ve made a few discreet enquiries. There’s not much to say about Sheridan, other than he was lucky enough to inherit a considerable fortune and he’s just got married. He took possession of the house a few months ago. His wife joined him—here, I’ve got it all written down.’ Hurst retrieved a notebook from his inside jacket pocket. ‘Here we are. I haven’t got much on her, either, as a matter of fact. They were married on the fifteenth of last month and spent a few days in Devon. She arrived in Lightwood on the twenty-third of May.’
‘And when did the murders occur?’
‘On the fifth, twenty-sixth and twenty-eighth of May. Really, how could anyone imagine him killing young children and getting married between two of the crimes? It’s absurd! Apart from that vague description—.’
‘What description?’ asked Twist, looking over his pince-nez.
‘It’s nothing. At the time of the young gypsy’s disappearance, one of the stall-holders noticed someone answering to Roger Sheridan’s description on the outskirts of the fairground: a young man of medium height, wearing a hat and coat. The witness thinks the man had red hair. Needless to say, he couldn’t identify him from photos, and there’s nothing to say he was the killer anyway. The witness had been impressed by his “secretive” attitude. It’s really not worth bothering about.’
Dr. Twist agreed and asked his friend what he planned to do next.
‘What else can I do but wait?’ raged the policeman, banging his empty beer glass down on the table. ‘And, after all, it’s not out of the question that the mysterious killer has realised the horrible nature of his crimes and had a change of heart. Two weeks have gone by without incident. Maybe that’s a good sign. Who knows?’
The following evening, whilst Patricia was serving her guests coffee after a copious cold buffet, Roger’s thoughts went back to the night before and the incident which, fortunately, had not lasted for long.
His wife had remained several seconds without reacting to his repeated prompting, and he had started to get seriously worried, when she had turned to him to announce that she had a headache. Afterwards, she had explained her problems with lights, a childhood memory from the Blitz, which she had already spoken to him about. Roger scolded himself for failing to remember and promised himself he would henceforth show more circumspection and gentleness towards his wife. The next morning he had found her more distant than usual, but had not thought much about it because they had both been busy preparing for the reception that evening. By the afternoon, she was once again the smiling, radiant person he knew and everything went well—except for a minor quarrel about the refrigerator, because she’d moved some of his bottles to make room for the trays of food the caterer had brought. Roger had raised his voice, but it was due to nothing more than the usual nerves when a couple is preparing for guests.
The evening itself had been convivial up to this point. Miss Pickford was listening to Mr. Fielding’s juicy anecdotes with rapt attention, as were David Hale and Maude Rellys. The Reverend Benjamin Moore, on the other hand, was taking his time to unbend. He was a large, sturdily-built man with a proud bearing and stern features, almost bald but for tufts of white hair above his ears. The more Roger refilled his guests’ glasses, however, the more the vicar’s cheeks gained colour and his frown dissipated. A gleam of interest came into his little grey eyes when Mr. Fielding started to talk about his “vivid impressions which he would henceforth pursue.”
‘I led a very active life as a surgeon,’ declared the old man, ‘which left very little time for metaphysical interests. It’s only
recently that I’ve come to realise that I have a sort of sixth sense which enables me to detect certain kinds of atmosphere. Certain places, such as ancient sites, monuments and old buildings cause me to have vivid impressions, while leaving most of my peers unaffected. It’s hard to explain... It’s as if I were under the yoke of this curious phenomenon, which directs my movements. I let the vivid impressions come to me and, in a manner of speaking, I taste them little by little, as one sips a good wine.’
‘But what are they, exactly?’ asked Maude, elegant in a close-fitting, wine-coloured taffeta dress.
The old gentleman repeated what he had already told Patricia in the train, adding that it was Lightwood which had attracted him, starting a few weeks ago. In answer to Maude’s question as to whether one spot in particular attracted his attention, he replied:
‘Yes, I think so. I’ve been wandering the streets and the paths through the woods, and I’ve always been led back to the same place... this house.’
There was a long silence, during which the guests looked at one another, before David exclaimed:
‘It’s because of that damned Liza! Liza Gribble, the old witch.’
The young sculptor recounted the famous tale of the witch buried under the tree and concluded, mockingly:
‘My dear Roger, I have a feeling the old story will follow you and even outlive you. You know what they say: legends never die.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Roger, ‘but with too much repetition they lose their impact. It’s practically part of the furniture!’
‘If ever we decided to sell the house,’ added Patricia, ‘we’d include the legend and raise the price. Wouldn’t we, Roger?’
Amidst gales of laughter, Roger replied with a straight face that ghosts such as theirs were worth at least ten-thousand pounds and he would throw in a certificate of authenticity.
‘But that,’ continued David, ‘answers your question, Mr. Fielding. Patricia also, on arriving here, strongly sensed the atmosphere and even had a vivid nightmare when she slept in the room overlooking the old aspen.’
Mr. Fielding put down his coffee cup and nodded his head:
‘That’s surprising, but at the same time not really surprising. By which I mean I expected a similar explanation, but I always marvel at such phenomena, for which I can see no rational explanation. One can talk about particular kinds of waves emanating from a given spot and use other scientific vocabulary, but that doesn’t explain the mystery: the mystery of that marvellous gift called instinct. Because that is absolute proof of—.’
‘The existence of Evil.’
In the deathly silence which followed, all eyes turned to Reverend Moore, the author of the words.
After clearing his throat, the vicar, under the enquiring gaze of six pairs of eyes, proceeded to explain:
‘I don’t mean instinct, of course. I’m talking about the seemingly indestructible power of Evil, which Mr. Sheridan referred to just now. Only Evil, in the form of the malevolent force emanating from that witch, has survived until today, just as indestructible as the weeds which have plagued the churchyard for centuries and invaded the cemetery. For what is certain, ladies and gentlemen, is that Evil, by which I mean the Devil, exists. And he is everywhere.’
When the vicar had finished, he happened to be looking at Miss Pickford, who reacted in embarrassment:
‘Why are you looking at me like that, Reverend?’
‘Please excuse me, Miss Pickford. Of course, that remark wasn’t addressed to you. In fact, I was thinking about that rapscallion Billy Marten, who sowed disorder at the community school, which is in the same building as your library.’
‘I see,’ replied Miss Pickford, suddenly very pale. ‘You’re quite right, he’s a veritable vandal. He takes my flowers when my back is turned. I’m sure it’s him.’
‘Quite a case, that Billy Marten,’ sighed the vicar, turning to the Sheridans. ‘He’s hardly ten years old but he causes all kinds of trouble in the village. He’s blond, with angelic features... He hasn’t even got the excuse of coming from a poor family. His brothers and sisters have been very well brought up, and nobody has a bad word to say about the parents, who are honest and respectable citizens. I feel really sorry for Mrs. Marten. She’s doing what she can.’
‘I saw her yesterday, in fact,’ said Miss Pickford. ‘It’s starting to dawn on her that her little brat has been stealing from her purse.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ replied the vicar. ‘Several people have reported petty thefts and young Marten is the prime suspect. Not much money involved, but a theft is a theft. It seems he hides his boodle in a secret place in the woods known only to him, a sort of Ali Baba’s cave. A real rapscallion!’
He stopped, nodding his head several times, then continued in a different voice:
‘But, of course, there are other cases, much more serious and much more sinister, to prove that Evil is here amongst us....’
There was another silence.
‘I presume you’re talking about the monster who attacks children in the area?’ asked Miss Pickford, blushing.
‘Yes, and it’s the Devil who guides the unfortunate fellow’s hand. There’s no doubt about it.’
‘Unfortunate fellow?’ exclaimed Patricia. ‘He’s more like a monster.’
‘A vampire like Liza Gribble, the witch,’ exclaimed Maude, who seemed very pleased with her discovery. ‘The events are centuries apart, but there are similarities between the places and the manner, which is very worrisome.’
‘Not if you accept the existence of the Devil,’ retorted the clergyman. ‘Evil takes pleasure in manipulating events in such a way, so as to preserve a certain unity in his diabolical work. For those who know him well, it’s not at all surprising. In any case, the fact the cases are four centuries apart rules out any other possibility.’
‘I think, if we want to tackle matters in a practical manner,’ declared Maude seriously, ‘we’d better start to document everything. That’s what I’ve done. Isn’t it, Miss Pickford? I borrowed a book on the subject from the library, to try and determine the mental profile of this famous vampire.’
‘That’s a good first step,’ agreed the vicar, with a flicker of a smile. ‘For we mustn’t overlook the practical aspects of the problem. So, what have you learnt from your studies?’
For a split second Maude appeared disconcerted, which was rare for her.
‘Ah... I’ve only thumbed through it so far. But, from what I can make out, these kinds of crimes are exclusively masculine in nature.’
‘Really?’ exclaimed the vicar, his smile broadening. ‘I believe we should look to womankind for the origin of these blood-sucking beings. If we exclude a couple of vague references from the ancient Middle East, we find that they appear for the first time in Greek mythology. For example Medea, who didn’t hesitate to sacrifice her brother to make younger the one she loved—Jason, the celebrated adventurer. Not to mention other divinities like Lamia, who transformed herself into a monster, so as to drink the blood of children.’
‘You’re forgetting to mention, Reverend,’ interjected Miss Pickford, her eyes gleaming, ‘that she did so because she’d lost her own children, victims of Hera, the wife of Zeus. She did it for revenge!’
‘That’s correct, Miss Pickford,’ agreed the clergyman with satisfaction. ‘I note once again that it’s impossible to wrong-foot you when it comes to Greek mythology. Let me see... There’s also Empusa, the diabolical creature which transformed itself into a beautiful young girl to seduce men... or again the striges, half-bird half-woman monsters which sucked the vitality of young men while they slept by sucking their blood. So you can see that, long before their heirs, the Transylvanian vampires and Dracula—who sprang from the fertile imagination of one of our compatriots—vampirism was a strictly feminine domain. Come to think of it, the Middle-Eastern digression was dominated by the queen of evil spirits, Lilith, who also sucked the blood of children to steal their vitality for herself.
So, given the foregoing circumstance, it seems to me to be a bit rash to assert that the miscreant in the present case must be a man, especially since, to my knowledge, there aren’t any clues pointing to the monster.’
‘If I were to put myself in the police’s shoes,’ declared Miss Pickford solemnly, ‘I’d start by making the rounds of all the gypsy camps in the area.’
‘I’d be frankly astonished if the culprit were to be found amongst them,’ retorted the vicar. ‘First of all, the last victim was one of their own. And, secondly, they are very close-knit and would quickly realise if there were a black sheep amongst them. They move around constantly and couldn’t fail to notice if there were a trail of bodies in their wake! Do you think they’d protect someone like that?’
‘You’re thinking like a true professional,’ said Maude, looking at him with admiration.
‘But the reverend is a professional,’ interjected Miss Pickford. ‘A professional of the human soul.’
The vicar cleared his throat. ‘The problem remains, nonetheless. Who is the murderer? Where does he come from? And why did he appear so suddenly?’
‘It’s someone from the region,’ said Miss Pickford. ‘That seems obvious to me, given the close proximity of the murders.’
‘But people know each other here as well!’ exclaimed Maude. ‘They’re all tiny villages, where everyone knows everybody.’
‘The conclusion,’ said Reverend Moore, ‘is that the murderer is hiding himself well. It must be someone of ordinary appearance who smiles and acts normally amongst his friends, just as we are doing.’