by Paul Halter
Patricia recounted her meeting with the boy the previous evening and repeated it at her visitor’s request. He asked her a number of questions and it was clear his mind was working feverishly.
‘We have to tell the police,’ he concluded. ‘You’re obviously the last person to see him alive, except for the murderer. Your testimony, even though it might not provide any clues to the murderer, is crucial. Once again, I can’t help reproaching the young fool. Playing at detectives with a homicidal maniac at his age... and shouting it from the rooftops! Such foolishness is unforgiveable.’
‘I’m the one who’s acted unforgivably,’ sighed Patricia. ‘I should never have let him leave like that. I didn’t take him seriously. In fact, I thought he’d just made the story up on the spot to cover up something else.’
‘Naturally. I would’ve made the same assumption. How can anyone be so stupid? Obviously I was completely wrong about the boy.’
‘Wrong? But you’ve always....’
‘I thought at the time, given all the mischief he was up to, that the Devil had taken his soul. But everyone knows that the Devil never recruits imbeciles.’
A few minutes later, after having partaken of a small libation, the vicar seemed more mellow. The conversation took a different turn and eventually Patricia found herself talking about her parents.
‘It’s all pretty vague, but I remember my father being big and strong, rather like you. He met my mother just after the First World War in a small village in Transylvania whose name I’ve completely forgotten, at the end of an incredible journey he often talked about.’
‘So your father was English? What about your mother?’
‘Hungarian. But she was lucky enough to learn our language at a young age. Her family had been well off until those terrible events occurred. To cut a long story short, they married and fled to England.’
‘Your mother was very devout, I seem to remember you saying?’ asked the clergyman, looking up at the crucifix over the door.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Patricia. ‘Just about the only thing she brought with her from Europe was a crucifix like this one. She kept it very close to her as a souvenir of her father.’
‘It’s a very beautiful object,’ observed the vicar, getting to his feet and going to the door. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, raising his hand towards the crucifix.
‘Please.’
The clergyman took it down and examined it with interest.
There was a distant look in Patricia’s eyes as she observed:
‘She would never have given it up for anything in the world.’
‘To that point?’
‘It’s a sacred object. You of all people should know.’
‘Of course.’
‘A sacred object which protects us. Protects us from....’
The vicar turned round.
‘From what?’
‘From... everything.’
The gleaming light from the metal cross was reflected in Patricia’s eyes and seemed to hypnotise her.
‘Yes, it is indeed a sacred object which protects us from everything,’ repeated the clergyman softly as he walked slowly towards Patricia. ‘From everything... but above all from Evil!’
Without breaking his stride he raised the crucifix, as if to show it to the young woman. Patricia recoiled with a start.
‘Stop... stop, I beg you,’ she implored him, with a gesture of self-defence.
At two o’clock in the morning, beams of light swept the woods near the village under the supervision of an increasingly frustrated Inspector Hurst.
‘Nothing, nothing and nothing,’ he growled. ‘It’s hopeless in these conditions. We could be overlooking a vital clue and never know it.’
‘I think you’re right,’ agreed Dr. Twist, noting that the battery of his own torchlight was staring to fade.
‘We’ll start again tomorrow. In the daylight, something’s sure to turn up.’
‘Maybe, but it’s not certain. These woods aren’t very dense, but they cover a wide area. I’ve also heard there’s a rocky escarpment and a patch of marshland very difficult to navigate.’
‘You’re full of good news, Twist,’ grumbled the policeman.
‘I’m just being realistic. We know our killer has already moved the bodies of some of his victims, several miles in one case.’
Hurst grudgingly acknowledged the validity of his friend’s remark. Noting that his own lamp had started to fade, he decided to call off the search.
‘Don’t you get the impression that events are speeding up, Archibald?’ observed Twist.
‘Only too clearly, but what can we do? I thought we had our man this morning—yesterday morning, I should say—but then that young featherbrain had to pour out her troubles.’
‘You’re talking about Maude Rellys? It’s not her fault we were barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Of course it is. If she’d come clean at the beginning, we wouldn’t have gone on that wild goose chase. And don’t forget the other one, that Sheridan, who refused to give himself an alibi. If it wasn’t for those two nitwits, we wouldn’t be stuck where we are.’
‘Do you really think so? Maybe you wouldn’t have arrested him, but I doubt you would have avoided this latest murder. And if they’d both come forward to say they’d been together that night, would you have believed them?’
‘My career’s on the line, Twist, do you realise? At the rate things are going—.’
‘By the way, you haven’t told me about the autopsy report.’
‘Because there’s nothing new there.’
‘What about the neck wound? No traces to report?’
‘No. A clean wound made with a very sharp blade and not requiring much force. You’re still following your vampire theory, I take it? If you were expecting to find bites from someone with abnormally developed canines, you’re out of luck.’
Dr. Twist didn’t respond immediately. Unhurriedly, he continued to study the dirt path they were on. The dying light from the policeman’s torchlight created a halo illuminating the sylvan branches framing the dark tunnel ahead of them.
‘He or she who is committing these vile deeds qualifies as a vampire, no matter what the motive is for their acts,’ he said eventually. ‘And let me remind you about the strange absence of blood at the crime scenes.’
‘Don’t you think things are ghastly enough as they are? We’re already up against the worst kind of maniac in our experience, without you dragging in vampire overtones.’
‘You’re forgetting the story of the old witch buried under the tree. She was accused of being a vampire who killed young children, just like the present case.’
‘Twaddle! You’re surely not going to start believing old wives’ tales dating from centuries ago!’
‘Ask Mr. Fielding. Ask him what he thinks of those old stories. The past is his speciality.’
‘Maybe I will. I’m planning to question him tomorrow, as it happens.’
‘You appear to have a full day ahead of you. Continuing the search, checking the alibis of the suspects... There’s something else, come to think of it. We need to locate young Billy’s cabin. Do you remember that several people told us he had a sort of retreat in the woods, known only to himself, where he hid the spoils from his petty thefts?’
‘Very well,’ sighed the inspector wearily. ‘We’ll add the search for Ali Baba’s cave to the list.’
Eric, come back. Come back soon!
I’m the saddest person in the world since you left. I know you can hear me Up There. I know you can follow my every move. I know you can see me when I dance alone in the lounge. It’s a pity I can’t see myself, for I must be very graceful....
Eric, hurry up. The years are rushing by. I’ll be thirty years old next month. Almost ten years without you, my love.
Victoria and Cromwell seem happy together. They were married last spring. But you know that, for I sensed your presence there. The others, the idiots, didn’t notice. And they called me cra
zy when I danced with you the whole evening. They said I was dancing alone. My father even suggested I see a doctor. And he’s talking about bringing me back to live with him, which I shall not do.
The only person who really cares for me is your father, who says I can stay with him as long as I like and do what I want. But he’s getting weak and hasn’t fully recovered from the bronchitis he suffered last winter. As for the others, I prefer not to repeat what I hear. It seems they consider me a “problem” regarding the inheritance....
But tell me about yourself, Eric. I’ve thought a lot about what you told me that evening, when I found you so sad sitting on the doorstep. When you told me that you’d detected hostility towards you. I remember you telling me someone didn’t like you. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what you meant by that. At the time, I thought you were talking about one particular person, but now I’m not so sure.
Darling, I want you to tell me the truth....
Come quickly. I’m tired of waiting.
All my love.
P.S. Sometimes I feel I’m growing wings and will soon be able to fly to you.
20
Friday, June 20
Roger Sheridan was pacing anxiously up and down the lounge, his hands behind his back and a cigarette dangling from his lips. The sound of his steps melded with the more discreet but equally regular noise of the rocking-chair. Patricia seemed deep in thought. It was nine o’clock at night and he had returned home late that same afternoon.
In some ways, Patricia’s welcome had surprised him. Her comportment had seemed to be almost too nonchalant to be natural. He’d been expecting either more warmth or a cold shoulder, for he had no idea whether she’d learnt about him and Maude. That question had tormented him during his entire absence. Billy Marten’s disappearance had occurred while he was in police custody, so his innocence was no longer in doubt. That alone was enough to justify his release, so he’d deemed it unnecessary to reveal his other alibi—and who can blame him?
During the afternoon, together with other volunteers from the village, he’d helped the police to comb the woods—without success—until tea-time, when he’d returned home tired and dripping with sweat. Dinner had taken place in an almost religious silence, which he’d taken as a bad omen. Patricia had informed him about the brief visit of Inspector Hurst and his friend Twist, but that was all.
Now he sensed that the moment for explanations had arrived. He had the painful impression that, although his tennis partner’s name had not been mentioned since his return, it was hovering in the air and on Patricia’s lips. Why had he lost his head that day and accepted Maude’s invitation to tea? He should have been much more firm. She meant nothing to him compared to Patricia. If he lost her, his world would fall apart.
“The die is cast,” he said to himself as Patricia started to speak.
‘Tell me, Roger, where were you on Sunday night? And why was it so important that you couldn’t talk about it to the police?’
He made an effort to appear casual:
‘It’s rather complicated, but at the same time quite simple. It was a business dinner, in a manner of speaking, but not the usual kind—.’
‘Were you with her?’ interjected Patricia, without looking up.
‘Her?... Who are you talking about?’
‘That Maude Rellys, of course.’
She looked him up and down as he attempted in vain to affect an air of astonishment.
‘So that was it,’ she said. ‘I thought as much.’
‘But wait,’ he gulped desperately. ‘Yes, I was indeed with her, but not for the reasons you think. We were discussing an old matter about some land and—.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
There was no room for discussion. Roger stood transfixed as she advanced slowly towards him and looked at him with ice blue eyes.
‘I don’t want to hear any of your explanations. Any. The matter is closed and I don’t want ever to talk about it again.’
Roger stood frozen in disbelief. Was he going to get off so easily? After delivering her ultimatum, Patricia appeared almost jaunty and he could hear her humming in the kitchen. Still not entirely convinced, he went to join her.
No, he hadn’t been mistaken. She had regained her calm, almost amused air. When she casually suggested they pay a visit to his friend David, he didn’t know what to think.
At that very moment, in the Red Lion, the inn where Mr. Fielding was staying, Inspector Hurst and Dr. Twist were in deep conversation with him. They had chosen the quietest spot in the room, but inevitably the noises from the more raucous and thirsty customers still reached them. The grim expressions on their faces contrasted sharply with the gaiety around them. Hurst, his rebel forelock once more over his forehead, was speaking like a conspirator.
‘It was just before nightfall when we found the cap near the marshland,’ he explained to a very attentive Thomas Fielding. ‘It was later formally identified by young Billy’s parents. If the murderer has disposed of his victim in the marsh, as we now have reason to think, it might be very difficult to find the body.’
‘I know the spot,’ said the old man, nodding his head. ‘There are large pools of stagnant water covering quicksand. A veritable trap for the unwary.’
‘Perhaps, but little Billy didn’t get bogged down by accident. We know now that he was on the trail of the murderer.’
‘On the trail of the murderer?’ repeated Thomas Fielding, intrigued. ‘How did that happen?’
Stroking his fine grey moustache, the old man listened attentively to the policeman’s explanations.
‘Very strange,’ he observed. ‘Very strange. But what was young Mrs. Sheridan doing out at that hour?’
‘She was coming back from a visit to a friend, the sculptor David Hale, whom you probably know.’
As Fielding was nodding his head again, Dr. Twist cut in:
‘Do you have any particular reason for finding it unusual for a young woman to be out at night? I would have thought it more beneficial for her than sitting at home wondering about her husband’s fate.’
‘Quite so,’ replied the old man in embarrassment. ‘But that wasn’t my point. I’m worried for her.’
‘Worried for her life?’ asked Hurst, sceptically. ‘Do you think she’s being threatened by the killer?’
‘I—I prefer not to answer that question.’
Hurst and Twist exchanged surprised glances.
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Mr. Fielding,’ said the policeman stiffly. ‘I had understood that you were willing to help us.’
‘But of course.’
‘Then what have you to say regarding that young woman, particularly if her life is in danger?’ thundered the policeman.
Before replying, Thomas Fielding looked thoughtfully at his surgeon’s hands. His embarrassment was evident and his hands were shaking when he responded:
‘I’m not the man I was, but I’ve tried to stay true to my principles. As I told Dr. Twist, I’ve spent most of my life taking care of my fellow men as a surgeon, notably during the last war. I operated on hundreds of victims with, I have to say, considerable success. Some of my more jealous colleagues attributed that success to luck, but the principal reason was that my patients had confidence in me because I listened to them and understood them. I knew what they were feeling. In fact, nature has blessed me with great intuitive power, which makes me extremely sensitive to people and things. And, although my hands aren’t what they were, that faculty has stayed with me.’
‘And what are you sensing regarding Mrs. Sheridan?’ asked Hurst impatiently.
‘Danger. I can’t be more precise, but of that I am sure.’
Hurst ordered another round of beer before he continued:
‘But if your perceptive powers are so great, you must have some idea of the identity of the murderer?’
‘Are you trying to catch me out, inspector?’
‘No, I’m trying to put away a wild beast
, a monster who has just claimed a fifth victim, and who will continue to kill until he’s dangling from the end of a rope. That’s my only wish at the moment.’
‘I understand.’
‘It appears not! If you know something about the murderer, it’s your duty to inform us.’
‘Do you usually rely on impressions to get your man, inspector?’ asked the old surgeon ironically. ‘I thought you usually relied on other methods.’
Hurst, who looked ready to burst a blood vessel, was about to respond when Twist interjected in a soft, calm voice:
‘To sum up, Mr. Fielding, you suspect a certain individual because of your powerful instincts. But, because it is only a suspicion, you prefer not to reveal it, in what might appear to be just a vulgar denunciation?’
‘That’s part of it,’ agreed the old man with a nod to Dr. Twist. ‘But there are other nuances. In the first place, I only have a vague impression about this person. A vague impression telling me this person is not entirely stable. I’ve concluded, perhaps wrongly, that they’re the maniac you’re looking for. But there’s no impression of the savage cruelty you would expect from such a killer. Just something bizarre which I can’t yet put my finger on. That’s why I don’t want to say any more at this stage.’
‘Someone who’s not quite stable?’ asked Dr. Twist, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. ‘I assume that’s not the impression they give initially.’
‘No, of course not. And it’s nothing in the conversation or the comportment. Just something in the eyes. Something which shouldn’t be there in a person such as they. That’s what I feel, but I’m not infallible. All the less so because there’s something else which doesn’t fit the facts.’
And, as if to indicate that the subject was now closed, Thomas Fielding took a long swig of beer—and was immediately followed by the others, who were looking questioningly at each other.
‘I think we’ll stop there for tonight,’ declared Inspector Hurst. ‘I hope we can revisit the matter at another time. But before we go, I would like you to answer one final question. We’ve reason to believe that the murderer was amongst those present at the Sheridans’ gathering on Saturday evening. Was the person you suspect one of them?’