by Paul Halter
The couple moved slowly forward. Patricia, anxiously clutching Roger’s arm, stared doubtfully at the straggling array of gravestones as Roger appeared to hesitate. He did nevertheless find Lavinia’s grave, which appeared to have been affected by the elements and the passage of time even more than the others. The inscription of her name was barely distinguishable in the twilight.
Sombre and silent, Roger stopped in front of it. When he spoke, it was very quietly:
‘Don’t you feel anything, Pat? Don’t you have the impression she’s there?’
‘I feel something... but it’s difficult to say what. I always get the same impression whenever I visit a cemetery.’
‘If only she could speak to us. If only she could tell us her secret... her terrible secret....’
‘Was she pretty?’ murmured Patricia hesitantly.
‘Very pretty... like you, my darling.’
‘Did you find her photograph?’
‘Not yet. But it won’t be difficult.’
‘I want so much to look at her.’
‘Soon, darling.’
‘Once I’ve finished her diary and seen her face I’m sure I’ll know her secret.’
‘I’m sure of it. And I’m counting on it!’
Patricia, still pressed against her husband, rubbed her hands. Her eyes were glued to the grey tombstone, marked by stains and patches of moss.
‘But, frankly, I still have no idea yet how poor Eric came to his end and how. Do you know what I thought at one point? That it was Lavinia herself who had killed him... Not intentionally, of course, because she loved him so much, but maybe in a nightmare or during a fit of sleepwalking.’
‘I thought the same thing myself,’ confessed Roger, approaching the tombstone. ‘You can readily imagine her acting under the malevolent influence of that tree—in other words, under the influence of Liza Gribble—entirely against her will. But even if you accept that, extraordinary as it might seem, the problem still remains, because she physically could not have committed the crime.’
‘Nor could anyone else.’
‘Which brings us back to where we started: how could any human being have trodden a dozen yards in that snow without leaving a trace?’ He knelt down and spoke to the tomb in a begging, reproachful voice. ‘Lavinia, help us, please. Show us you are there. Give us a sign!’
‘Roger....’
Her husband turned towards her.
‘Yes, Pat?’
‘She’s there.’
‘You—you mean Lavinia?’
‘Yes. She’s there.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but she’s there... I can feel it.’
Roger stared long and hard at his wife, who stood motionless and very pale under the light of the stars. Only her lips moved:
‘She’s very close to us. I can feel her getting nearer.’
Roger peered anxiously around in the twilight:
‘But there’s nobody there, Patricia.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Let’s go home.’
At about the same time, Inspector Hurst and Dr. Twist were listening with interest to the testimony of young Tom Curten. They were in the living room of the boy’s parents, who had withdrawn at the policeman’s request.
‘So,’ Hurst summed up, ‘the two of you fought because he wouldn’t exchange the penknife he’d just won for a magical fishing rod. Is that it?’ He’d been uncharacteristically gentle with his interrogation thus far, although it must be said that Tom was only ten years old.
‘Yes,’ said the child, looking down. ‘And I hit him. I’m sorry about that now, but I was very upset because he kept saying no to everything. But I am sorry.’
‘And afterwards, what did he do? Did he go over to join the gentleman that you’d noticed? Think carefully, lad, because it’s very important.’
‘I can’t really say. I saw Fred get very upset and turn his back on me and walk away, but that’s all.’
‘Tell us about the man.’
‘But I already told you all I know a hundred times. I didn’t really pay much attention to him. I only noticed him because he wasn’t joining in the fun... and maybe because his hat was down over his eyes.’
‘What was he like? Young, old? Tall, short? Thin or...?’
‘Not too old, I think... But I couldn’t really tell. Nothing special about him or I’d have noticed.’
‘What about his hair?’ continued the policeman, pulling a box of cigars out of his pocket. ‘Didn’t you say it was red?’
‘No, you said it, not me.’
‘So it wasn’t red?’
‘I didn’t say that. I don’t know anything!’
Hurst took his time lighting a cigar, then continued in an abnormally soft voice:
‘But you previously told us that you’d passed by close to him two or three times....’
‘That’s true.’
‘But you didn’t look at him?’
‘No, not really.’
Dr. Twist, who had maintained a discreet silence up to that point, intervened just as Hurst had opened his mouth to speak again.
‘Do you like barley sugar, Tom?’
The boy’s eyes gleamed:
‘Yes! How did you know?’
‘Because you mentioned them earlier. You told us you bought one just before you went near that man.’
‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘Now, I want you to close your eyes and think about that barley sugar. Imagine you’re still at the fair, you’ve just bought it and you’re enjoying it... Next to you there’s the noise of the children and the music... and the man you don’t take much notice of... Are you there?’
Tom had closed his eyes and there was a happy smile on his chubby face.
‘Yes, I remember very well.’
‘Isn’t that barley sugar you’ve just bought delicious?’ continued Dr. Twist, making a gesture to keep quiet to the policeman, whose incensed gaze showed what he thought of his friend’s initiative.
‘Mmm, yes, it’s very good.’
‘You’re walking past the man, not paying much attention to him... you’re enjoying the barley sugar....’
‘Mmm, that’s right....’
‘He’s very ordinary, you’re not looking at him.’
‘That’s right. I’m not looking at him. He’s whistling, that’s all.’
‘Whistling?’ repeated Dr. Twist.
Tom opened his eyes.
‘Yes, he was whistling. I just remembered. And it was always the same tune... Gosh! I never thought about that.’
‘Do you remember the tune, Tom?’
‘No,’ replied the child, looking contrite.
‘Don’t you have any idea?’ insisted Dr. Twist, leaning towards him. ‘Try to remember.’
‘I don’t know the name, but the tune’s still in my head.’
‘Could you whistle it for us, Tom?’ interjected Hurst clumsily, his ruddy face smiling like that of a child in front of a Christmas store window. ‘If you can, I’ll bring you a whole bag of barley sugars tomorrow. I promise.’
Tom took a deep breath, pursed his lips and whistled, just as his father came back into the room. Hurst made an imperious gesture for him to stay where he was, as Tom continued his musical exercise. Mr. Curten looked surprised, knowing his son to have little musical talent. The experience was, indeed, laborious, despite the obviously sincere efforts of young Tom, who was clearly not destined for the concert stage. But eventually, their efforts were rewarded. Hurst, tense and perspiring, announced:
‘I know that tune. It’s a classic from who knows what opera or symphony. We’ll find it, Twist, even if we have to spend days listening to classical music.’
‘There’s no need,’ replied the criminologist. ‘The idea’s appealing, but totally unnecessary. It’s a well-known passage from Edvard Grieg’s Peer Gynt. It’s In the Hall of the Mountain King.’
At ten o’clock Patricia found herself alone in the lounge. Shortly after th
eir return from the cemetery, David had turned up, asking Roger for help in moving a voluminous piece of furniture which he’d promised a customer for the next day. Roger had gone with him, leaving her with her thoughts and cutting short a strange conversation they’d been having. Patricia had tried without success to explain to her husband the curious, but vague, impression she’d had in the cemetery. Roger, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, observed:
‘I feel you’ve changed in the last few days, Pat.’
‘I think so, too.’
‘Ah! And what do you think has changed?’
‘I don’t know exactly... My attacks... I did warn you.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Maybe... I sometimes have the impression....’
‘Yes, Pat?’
‘It’s silly. You’re going to make fun of me.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘Well... I sometimes have the impression of being someone else.’
‘Someone else?’
Roger, startled, had repeated the words several times, looking at his wife as if she were a stranger, then lapsing into a thoughtful silence. Just as he had been about to say something important, to judge by the expression on his face, the doorbell had rung.
Patricia sat several minutes trying to get her thoughts in order, but soon came to the conclusion it was futile. The more she tried to think, the more she felt her reason failing. Suffocating visions crowded her mind. Those of Mr. Fielding, his solemn face and his peculiar warnings. That of the Saturday party and the music... And that impudent Maude who had invited her husband to dance. She could have slapped her. The way she pressed herself against him was pure provocation. Luckily, she’d managed to keep her poise. But the pulse in her temple had been throbbing and she’d been a whisker away from intervening... Why hadn’t she spoken to Roger afterwards? It certainly wasn’t his fault, he’d been embarrassed for her... Roger... Maude... Mr. Fielding... David... Miss Pickford... Reverend Moore... All the faces of that evening were swimming before her eyes. Suddenly, she needed oxygen.
She stood up, put on a dark jumper, and left the house, forgetting to turn off the lights and lock the door.
After walking briskly for ten minutes or so and filling her lungs with fresh air, she realised what an idiot she’d been and started to retrace her steps. She’d practically traversed the whole village. She walked more slowly on the way back, eyes wandering and an empty feeling inside. In the nocturnal silence, the sound of her steps and the moaning of the wind resonated with increased intensity in her ears. There were no lights in any of the windows and all the houses seemed asleep.
Not far from home, she detected a movement in the shadows. Instinctively she stopped and her eyes searched the darkness.
A man? An animal? Something moving in the wind? Impossible to tell. It seemed to be coming from the cluster of trees in front of the house. Just as she told herself she’d been dreaming, she heard the sound of a dead branch snapping. The shadow of the terrible killer insinuated itself into her thoughts. She walked stealthily forward and stopped when she was level with the trees. Her heart was in her mouth, but her curiosity overcame her fear. Eyes and ears on full alert, she stared for a moment at her house. The windows at the front were full of light, but the rear of the house was plunged in darkness. The pale moon could be seen above the rooftop, imparting a silver light to the surrounding vegetation. The wind murmuring gently in the branches caused Patricia to wonder whether she’d imagined everything. But her ears detected a new noise, which she was able to locate more accurately. She concentrated on the old part of the house opposite the mysterious old aspen. It was definitely coming from there.
Then, by the clear light of the moon, a figure appeared at the corner of the wall. A human figure moving cautiously and holding in its hand an object which Patricia had no trouble identifying.
15
Tuesday, June 17
It was a smiling Inspector Hurst whom Dr. Twist found upon entering his Scotland Yard office the next day.
‘How are you, Twist? Here, have a seat. It would be better if you were seated when you hear what I have to tell you.’
‘Something new?’ asked the criminologist, adjusting his pince-nez.
‘You might say that... But tell me, you’re later than usual today... it’s nearly four o’clock.’
‘I dropped by earlier this morning, but they told me you weren’t there.’
‘Ah, yes. That’s right,’ replied the policeman, nodding cheerfully. ‘I was at Lightwood all morning. I couldn’t wait for you, Twist, circumstances didn’t permit it. That matter of the whistling had to be cleared up, and...’
He stopped suddenly and fished a cigar out of a box which he pushed towards his friend. He lit it unhurriedly, took several hearty puffs, and continued:
‘I spent the morning playing the nightingale.’
‘Ah, yes, the Grieg melody.’
‘Yes, that famous whistle which betrayed the murderer.’
Dr. Twist removed his pince-nez to look at his colleague.
‘You’ve found him already?’
‘Yes, my friend. We don’t mess about at the Yard, as you know. I even amazed myself.’
‘Then you must be the only one who doubts your flair. Even abroad....’
‘No more of that, Twist,’ replied the inspector feigning an air of indifference. ‘No, what surprises me is that I haven’t yet made an arrest....’
Twist stopped in the middle of lighting his cigar:
‘So his identity is known?’
‘Without a shadow of doubt,’ replied the inspector, picking up a letter from his desk and handing it to Dr. Twist. ‘But first take a look at what we received this morning. Anonymous, admittedly, but not without interest....’
Lightwood, June 16, 4.30 p.m.
The series of murders which has bloodied the countryside over the last few weeks has now knocked on the door of the village itself. I’ve just learnt the terrible news concerning the unfortunate Fred. But, paradoxically, this tragedy, this atrocious tragedy, which affects me more, possibly, than anyone else except the parents of little Fred, will not be in vain: the monster has finally been exposed. It only remains for you, the police, to collect the evidence and arrest the culprit. For me, his identity is no longer in doubt. I recently had the opportunity, during the course of a social evening, to observe the reactions and attitudes of the culprit out of the corner of my eye when the subject of discussion turned to the aforementioned murders. Certain of them appeared peculiar. But it was not until the next day that my suspicions were confirmed, the evening of the last murder, Sunday. Ask Mr. Roger Sheridan what he was doing then. But don’t wait too long: abyssus abyssum invocat. One misstep leads to another, you don’t want another death on your conscience.
When he’d finished reading, Twist examined the letter before handing it back, pensively, to the policeman.
‘I don’t like anonymous letters much... Have you any idea who wrote it?’
‘No. As you can see, it was typed on ordinary paper, which doesn’t help us much. It was posted yesterday afternoon in Lightwood, just before the last collection, as you can see from the postmark. I’m not a great fan of this kind of letter either, but in this case it adds to the considerable evidence we already have.’
‘And I suppose all the testimonies you’ve just mentioned, concerning the murderer’s habit of whistling In the Hall of the Mountain King, all point to the same man: Roger Sheridan?’
Hurst nodded his head solemnly.
‘Unless he can produce a cast iron alibi, his goose is cooked.’
‘And who are these people who have recognised the whistling?’
‘The daughter of your friend, whom I went to see first. I’d hardly started when she stopped me: “Roger is always whistling that, and I can’t tell you how much it grieves me to say so.” She gave me the names of two of her friends, the vicar and Mr. Fielding, whom I also managed to see during the course of the morning. The
y didn’t react as quickly as Miss Rellys, but they both eventually did so without any prompting from me. And all three told me about an evening at the Sheridans, the night before the last murder, where there was talk of the affair. One David Hale and a certain Miss Emily Pickford were also present, but I haven’t spoken to them yet. I tell you that because that evening may well be the one referred to in the letter, in which case it was written by one of those present. But we can talk to them another time.’
‘In other words,’ replied Dr. Twist, who had been lost in thought with his eyes closed, ‘all that’s left is to question Roger Sheridan himself?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then what are you waiting for?’
‘You, my friend. Are you ready?’
Patricia had hardly slept that night. The sight of the vicar roaming around outside their house carrying a crucifix had boggled her mind. What was his purpose? Why was he brandishing a crucifix? Was it something to do with the legend of that cursed tree which he frequently talked about? Was there a link to the abominable murders? Could the vicar and the monster be one and the same? Judging from his stern, lugubrious look, she was inclined to think so. All these unanswered questions had nagged at her throughout the night. She’d woken up in the morning with that terrible impression of emptiness that was only too familiar to her. There were no colours in her field of vision, which was dominated instead by a jumble of grey shadows, a manifestation of her despondency. Even Roger had been surprised by her attitude—he who had always told her not to worry and who had claimed to find her more desirable in such circumstances. His silence and fixed stare had utterly bewildered her.
At half past six the next day, Patricia had gone to answer the doorbell which had disturbed the eerie calm which now reigned in the Sheridan household, and had led the two detectives into the lounge without worrying too much about the fact that one of them, a fellow calling himself Inspector Hurst, had claimed to be from Scotland Yard.
Half an hour had elapsed since their arrival and Patricia, lulled by the movement of the rocking-chair in which she was inevitably ensconced, hardly listened to what they were saying. The jumper she was knitting seemed far more complex than the case they were discussing. The same could not be said for Roger who, after appearing relaxed at first, was now showing obvious signs of nervousness. When Inspector Hurst produced the famous handkerchief, he raised his voice to declare that it wasn’t his, that he’d never seen it before, and that his wife could attest to that.