by Paul Halter
‘So he or she could be one of us?’ joked David Hale.
‘Why not?’ replied the vicar defiantly. ‘Do we have stronger alibis than the others in the region?’
David narrowed his eyes as he answered:
‘Unless we find out tomorrow that the killer claimed another victim tonight. By being together, we’ve given ourselves watertight alibis.’
There was a brief silence, broken by Mr. Fielding:
‘What you say is true, Mr. Hale, but also very dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘I mean from a psychological point of view.’
‘Why so?’
‘Just suppose nothing happens tonight, which is my fervent wish. Have you thought about that? If nothing happens, each of us will come to the false but painful conclusion that one of the others could be the murderer.’
‘Suppose we change the subject?’ proposed Patricia cheerfully.
‘You’re quite right, madam,’ replied Mr. Fielding amiably. ‘We’re just sinister bores devoid of tact.’
There was a murmur of agreement from all present.
‘How about some music?’ suggested Patricia. ‘Darling, could you put a record on?’
Roger nodded and, whistling, set the phonograph in motion. The marvellous waltzes of Johann Strauss soon filled the room, enlivening an evening which only ended late into the night.
At three o’clock in the morning Roger was sound asleep, barely covered by the bed-sheets, whilst Patricia picked up Lavinia’s diary once again.
Who killed Eric? How did the murderer do it? I would be lying if I said I wasn’t asking myself these questions. Something tells me that if I knew the answer to the second question, I would also have answered the first. Why do I think that? I don’t know. Let’s just say it’s feminine intuition. They say it’s infallible. When it comes to logic, I can defend myself quite well. So, have I got all the cards in hand to solve the mystery? Poor Eric, if he could see me now, attempting to apply cold logic to his own murder! But Up There he must be aware of what’s happening. He must also know that my feelings for him haven’t changed a bit: I love him just as much as before. I won’t stop. I will stay here... By the way, did you know? I’ve moved in with the Sheridans. I didn’t tell them it was forever, but they’ll soon realise. Something tells me Victoria has already guessed. Whenever she visits—far too often, incidentally—she looks at me as if I were an intruder. We’ll see how that turns out....
At first I told Papa that I couldn’t go back because of the shock. I told him I’d like to stay in Eric’s house until I got over my grief. I know it wasn’t very logical, but nobody thought to contradict me. Eric’s father told me that their home was my home. He said that in front of Victoria who, from that moment on—it didn’t escape my notice—started to look at Cromwell with different eyes. She must certainly have imagined me in the role of a schemer who, having accidentally failed in her first manoeuvre—the marriage to Eric—had decided to make do with his brother. If I could be the cause of a happy union—that of Victoria and Cromwell—that wouldn’t upset me a bit.
I know, it’s somewhat surprising, but my room is the one overlooking the old aspen. Mr. Sheridan offered me another one, but I insisted on keeping this one, even if it brings back ugly memories. It’s the room from which I had my last vision of Eric, so therefore that’s where I’ll stay. When the wind blows and the branches stroke the window, isn’t it painful? Yes, but as I said before, my happy days are behind me, and what happens from now on won’t affect me because I’m no longer the same person.
I think the month of February is the gloomiest of the year. The sky is grey; it’s cold; it snows; it rains; the wind blows; there isn’t a single note of gaiety in a morose and listless universe. Today, just like yesterday and the day before, I spent a good part of the day in the rocking-chair in the lounge. There’s an open book in my lap but I don’t read it. I watch the snowflakes fall on the other side of the window. Outside, everything is white, just like that day, the day when Eric....
Victoria brought Cromwell over in order to build a snowman. They amused themselves like madmen. My God, how that woman is stupid! As if she thinks I can’t see through her. Her little giggles when Cromwell chases her to throw a snowball at her... He doesn’t seem to have any idea what’s going on. Still, it’s amusing to see him laugh, he who habitually is as cheerful as the month of February.
If only Eric were here...I’m sure he’d laugh like a drain if he could see them.
Evening falls, slowly, and the snow seems to sparkle, as it did that night ... Eric, are you there? I think I can hear you laughing...Eric, tell me what happened... Tell me, I beg you... Tell me who stopped you laughing forever....
11
Sunday, June 15
That morning—probably still energised by the previous evening’s discussion—the Reverend Benjamin Moore was in top form, delivering a bellicose sermon against Evil. A veritable harangue, complete with challenges, threats, and a thunderous “Get thee behind me, Satan,” it almost went as far as to say the days of the Devil’s reign were numbered. His words had an effect but, as Patricia left the church, she couldn’t help wondering whether the vicar’s menacing tone would frighten away Evil or stimulate it. She would have liked to discuss it with Roger, but he hadn’t accompanied her. Was he still in bed? she asked herself in amusement, remembering the moment earlier that morning when she hadn’t dared rouse him from his deep slumber, despite the sun’s rays illuminating the bedroom.
The gentle warmth of the air, the soft carillon of the church, and the serenity on the faces of the vicar’s flock at the end of the service caused Patricia to reflect that life could be good in Lightwood and she would probably adapt well to her new existence. A familiar voice hailed her from behind. She turned to see the amiable Mr. Fielding coming towards her. He cut an impressive figure with his impeccable grey suit and his natural air of distinction.
After greeting her, he declared himself impressed by the sermon.
‘Impressed?’ replied Patricia, her beautiful blue eyes wide open. ‘I was asking myself all the way through whether it wasn’t more of a provocation than a sermon. If I were the Devil, I don’t believe—.’
‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Thomas Fielding with a smile, ‘but I have a difficult time imagining you in that role.’
Patricia didn’t know what to say and, blushing, lowered her eyes.
Fielding coughed discreetly, looked around and sighed:
‘My goodness, what a charming spot. It’s a pity, I was beginning to like it here.’
‘You mean you’re leaving us?’
‘Alas, yes! As you know, that’s my life style. There’s no reason for me to stay here any longer. Now that I know more about the “vivid impression” which guided my steps towards this village and the tree behind your house, it no longer exercises the same attraction for me. I’ll be on my way.’
‘In the quest for new impressions? You seem disappointed.’
‘Not at all. The story of the witch buried under the tree was fascinating. Not to mention the strangeness of your dream.’
‘How do you interpret it?’
Thomas Fielding looked into the distance.
‘It all reinforces the theories I’ve held from the beginning. The influence of places and the events of the past on people is much more important than is generally realised. It’s actually a real force. In the present case, for example, it’s undeniable that there’s some kind of link between the witch with hands as rough as sandpaper, the knotted branches of the tree, the mysterious tragedy of your husband’s ancestor, the premonitory dream of his fiancée and your own nightmare....’
‘A link?’ repeated Patricia, fiddling with the clasp of her little white handbag. ‘Yes, but what kind of link?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. But I’m certain there is one.’
‘So do you think my nightmare is premonitory as well?’ asked Patricia anxiously.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he repeated. ‘I think it’s a question of the last throes of these sombre events. As if the past, before disappearing forever, wanted to appeal one last time to the memory of man.’
‘It’s all very strange... I don’t know what to think.’
‘The past,’ repeated Thomas Fielding dreamily. ‘We forget about it too often. Men have short memories. Take the human race, for example. It took century after century, despite failures and vain and tedious trials, to create the common-sense rules necessary for harmonious existence in society. Yet all that gets swept away by a stupid word which, under the guise of Reason or some other utopia, sweeps away the obsolete principles of the “blinkered old fossils” and chaos ensues shortly thereafter. At a stroke the work of centuries is wiped out in less time that it takes to tell. It happens over and over again, without the lesson being learnt. Better yet, we congratulate ourselves on cultivating such amnesia. This contempt for the past, the memory of beings and things, makes one start to think.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not following you.’
‘Don’t listen to the rants of an old man, they’re not important. By the way, is there any word of a new victim for the monster?’
‘No, but—.’
‘Rest assured, I haven’t heard anything either. I was merely asking.’
Patricia looked anxiously at the old man:
‘I understand what you’re trying to say; because no killing occurred yesterday evening, one can conclude that those around the table had no alibi and, as a consequence, any one of them could be the sinister maniac.’
‘Mr. Hale should never have said what he did,’ observed Thomas Fielding, in a tone which intrigued Patricia. ‘I repeat, his comment was dangerous. He shouldn’t have said it... No, really, he shouldn’t.’
‘He shouldn’t?’ repeated Patricia, intrigued. ‘But it was only a simple observation on his part. To hear you talk, one would think it could affect the past somehow. That’s what you’re implying, isn’t it? If he hadn’t said anything, we would have nothing to fear. But because he did, one of us could now be the monster.’
Fielding moved his head in such a way it was impossible to say whether it was in agreement or disagreement. He was staring at the cemetery by the side of the church. The vicar was right about the weeds invading the area. Only the tops of the tombstones were visible; many were lopsided, buried beneath the luxuriant vegetation. The iron gate at the entrance had long ago succumbed to an invasion of ivy. The gravel path leading to it looked equally abandoned. Yet the overall impression was still of calm, with the soft sunshine and the gentle chimes of the carillons. It was the same impression of serenity evoked by Patricia and Mr. Fielding during their train ride together.
‘He shouldn’t have,’ repeated the old man. ‘I can’t tell you any more than that... Besides....’
He stopped, and the sound of his footsteps on the gravel ceased. He turned to Patricia with a look of indefinable intensity. Patricia did not look away. She tried to understand what he was saying, but to no avail. He took her hands in his reassuringly and said:
‘I’m wondering whether I shouldn’t stay a little longer.’
Patricia replied as if hypnotised:
‘That—that would be an excellent idea. But what made you change your mind?’
She felt the old man’s hands press slightly harder.
‘Call it a hunch. It’s better if I stay.’
‘A new “vivid impression”?’
‘If you like. One which is not to do with the past, but the present. A present about which I have considerable misgivings.’
‘Tell me, Pat, who’s the culprit, in your opinion?’
Roger’s question aroused Patricia from her torpor.
‘Culprit? What culprit?’ she repeated, getting up from the rocking- chair. ‘Are you talking about the madman who’s attacking the children here?’
‘No, I’m talking about who killed Eric Sheridan. You must have some idea by now. Judging by the bookmark in the diary, it looks as though you managed to read quite a bit this afternoon.’
‘The diary? Oh, yes,’ she replied, looking at the sheets of paper on the table next to her. ‘I brought them over with me to read, but I didn’t actually read much. But tell me, what time is it?’
‘Just after half past six.’
‘My goodness. Did I sleep all the time? Did I spend the whole afternoon in the rocking-chair? It’s incredible! I sat down there after lunch... and didn’t get up. I haven’t recovered yet from that evening....’
‘If you’d slept in this morning, like me, you’d be feeling a lot better. But what about Lavinia’s story? What did you think about the murder?’
Patricia rubbed her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts:
‘Well, you can count the suspects on the fingers of one hand. Apart from “Cromwell,” Victoria and Eric’s father she hardly talks about anyone. I really haven’t got any theories for the time being. I think the most important thing is to work out how the crime was committed.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Roger, lighting a cigarette.
‘That’s the starting point. Once we determine that, the identity of the murderer will probably be obvious.’
‘Excellent, darling,’ replied Roger, looking at his wife admiringly. ‘Your reasoning is impeccable.’
‘I think you should congratulate Lavinia, because I got the idea from her.’
‘But that’s what you think, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think like her.’
Roger went behind the rocking-chair and started moving it gently.
‘But it doesn’t make things any clearer,’ continued Patricia. ‘Darling, if you continue to rock me like a baby, I shall fall asleep again. This murder is totally incomprehensible.’
‘That’s the least you can say. I despair of ever finding a rational explanation. I’m counting on you to shed light on the matter.’
‘On me?’ replied his wife in astonishment.
‘That’s right,’ said Roger firmly, rocking the chair harder. ‘You have the same logical mind as Lavinia. And, by the way, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that she did eventually solve it.’
‘She doesn’t reveal it at the end?’
‘Precisely. She doesn’t say anything. Or, rather, she talks less and less towards the end about the puzzling aspect of the crime, as if it didn’t interest her any more. I may be wrong, but I got the impression that she’d guessed something. There’s something strange going on, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe if she’d lived longer she’d have come back to the question. Anyway, I’m counting on you, Pat... But—.’
Roger stopped suddenly, staring at his wife in delighted surprise.
‘Pat, darling... You’re wearing her dress!’
Pat looked down at what she was wearing and appeared as surprised as Roger. In a strange silence her eyes took in the dark violet dress.
‘I—I don’t understand,’ she stammered, going pale. ‘After I came back from church I swapped my suit for the apron and skirt I wear in the kitchen, and then... I have no recollection of changing clothes afterwards... As I told you, I sat down here and... I don’t understand.’
‘You normally take your apron off after you’ve finished doing the dishes, don’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right... But I don’t remember anything, Roger.’
‘Unless you’re a sleepwalker.’
‘Who knows? But, in that case, you would have noticed, wouldn’t you?’
‘That’s true. Another example of your impeccable logic.’
‘Logic or not, at some point I put on that dress and I don’t remember doing so... That’s no laughing matter.’
‘It does suit you very well, though... You look quite adorable. Now that I think about it, after I showed it to you I hung it up with your other clothes, thinking it would please you to wear it. You must have
put in on inadvertently.’
‘Roger.’
‘Yes?’
‘Haven’t you found me bizarre lately? I get the impression more and more that I’m not like other people.’
‘If you were just like the others, Pat, do you think I would have chosen you?’
‘I’m being serious, Roger. There are strange things going on in my head... Like the other day, when you lit that lamp which made all the golden objects shine.’
‘You know it’s because of that childhood memory, Pat. There’s no limit to the number of children, and even adults, traumatised by the Blitz. You’re not the only one.’
‘Darling, stop rocking me like that. I’ll fall asleep.’
‘All right, I’ll prepare you that nice little cocktail to which I alone have the secret, and you’ll soon feel better!’
‘Good idea. My goodness, it’s nearly seven o’clock and I haven’t even started to prepare dinner.’
‘Er, don’t forget you’ll be dining alone tonight, Pat.’
‘Alone? Are you going somewhere?’
Roger gave a tactful cough before replying.
‘Yes. It’s that business dinner I told you about the other day.’
‘You never said a word, Roger.’
‘Well, then, I must have forgotten. I get memory lapses myself sometimes. In any case, I have to go. It’s important.’
Patricia attempted to look her husband in the eye, but in vain. He was busy at the bar, whistling.
‘I hope you won’t be back too late?’
‘I’ll do my best, darling, you know I will. But I prefer not to promise anything.’
The night was warm and peaceful that Sunday. The crowds in the little fairground hardly disturbed the environment and the sound of the church clock striking nine o’clock could be heard. A few stalls, two roundabouts for children and a fortune teller’s tent were the sum total of all the attractions, situated on the edge of the village not far from the woods. The brightly-coloured lights stood out against the violet of the sky and added a note of gaiety in the little village not used to distractions, even the most modest. The children’s eyes were alight with excitement and those with parents in tow dragged them eagerly towards the ticket booth. One of them, Tom, bargained with one of his friends who had just won a superb penknife at one of the stalls.