The Vampire Tree

by Paul Halter

  ‘Who is it?’ roared Hurst, beside himself.

  The reverend turned back towards them, looked his companions up and down, then said, with an air of finality:

  ‘Hold a crucifix up to his face.’

  23

  Wednesday, June 25

  The doorbell rang for the fourth time and Maude put down her palette and paintbrush. The frown on her face expressed her displeasure at having been disturbed during a creative moment.

  Did whoever was there have any idea of the irreversible effect of their action, she asked herself as she went resignedly to open the door. Did they realise that the simple act of ringing a doorbell could dramatically affect the finished work? No, they never thought about that... Anyway, who could it be? Roger?

  Opening the door, she couldn’t help but show her surprise. It wasn’t Roger, but his wife, Patricia....

  ‘Oh, you,’ she said.

  ‘May I come in?’ asked Patricia in a non-committal voice, which disconcerted Maude as much as her presence.

  ‘But of course. Please sit down. What good wind brings you here?’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to pay you a visit since a few days ago,’ said Patricia with an enquiring smile. ‘But you know how it is: one keeps putting it off.’

  ‘You’re telling me! I can’t count the number of friends I’ve promised to visit. It would take me a month to recover.’

  Why is she appearing so friendly? Maude asked herself. Such an obsequious attitude must be suspect.

  Had Roger confessed his indiscretion to his wife? Maude had no idea, not having spoken to the police since he’d been released. What an uncomfortable situation! Really uncomfortable, she thought, as she offered her visitor a refreshment whilst she was showing polite interest in her paintings.

  It was two o’clock and the sun was flooding through the wide-open windows of the cottage. Maude observed how beautiful the weather was and how she hoped it would last.

  ‘Don’t we all,’ replied Patricia. ‘But that wasn’t what I came to talk about.’

  Maude was hard put to suppress the spasm of fear which she was experiencing. Had the moment of reckoning finally arrived? Was Patricia about to throw herself at her and scratch out her eyes? Was she about to announce her impending divorce from Roger and tell her scornfully that she was welcome to him? While all these thoughts were running through her mind, she was stunned to hear Patricia say:

  ‘I came because of your paintings.’

  ‘My paintings?’

  ‘Yes, I like them a lot. I’d very much like to....’ Patricia’s words hung in the air as she looked around the room.

  ‘I must say, this is a very nice room, rustic and comfortable at the same time. It must be very agreeable....’

  Once again, her visitor didn’t complete her sentence and Maude was subjected to a further digression:

  ‘By the way, did you know that the police have found poor Billy Marten’s secret hideaway? Right next to the marsh....’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘Dr. Twist and Inspector Hurst told us about it this morning. They seem pretty sure that he was killed there. The bloodstains they found there match the blood type of the victim. The murderer must have dragged him to the marsh afterwards and lost Billy’s cap on the way. The police don’t know exactly where in the quicksand the boy’s body is, but they are proceeding methodically and the inspector says they’re sure to find it in the next couple of days. Apparently, it’s a delicate and difficult task.’

  ‘Anyone who knows the area will understand. It’s a real quagmire and best avoided.’

  ‘Quagmire. That’s what the inspector called it,’ replied Patricia with a smile. ‘A veritable quagmire is what he called it. Then he talked about the investigation, which seems to be treading water. They still have no idea... which is bad news for us.’

  Maude waited expectantly and contented herself with nodding her head.

  ‘For us,’ continued Patricia. ‘For Roger and me, particularly... It was very difficult for me while he was under arrest, even if it was only for a short time.’

  ‘I understand perfectly.’

  ‘And I can’t help thinking that, if it weren’t for you, it might not have happened. Roger told me about your business meeting and your reluctance to testify, lest I get the wrong idea about your evening together.’

  What story had Roger invented to evade responsibility? Maude cursed him silently for not having told her what his story was. Now she was in a real pickle. If her response didn’t match Roger’s lies, then everything would have to come out.

  ‘But, anyway, that’s all over now,’ said Patricia. ‘Or almost.....’

  ‘Or almost?’ repeated Maude apprehensively.

  ‘Yes—I’m talking about the murders, because the killer hasn’t been found. But I’m wandering off the subject. What I wanted you to understand is that I’ve been under a lot of stress lately and have experienced all kinds of emotions, some violent enough to wish to express them. That’s why I thought of painting, and particularly your work... But do I hear the water boiling? For the tea?’

  ‘Water? Tea?’ mumbled Maude. ‘Of course, what was I thinking?’

  She got up and was about to go to the kitchen when she asked:

  ‘Are you planning to take up painting?’

  Patricia ran her finger along the edge of a spatula she’d picked up from a table near the easel.

  ‘Yes, in a manner of speaking.’

  When Maude returned with tea and biscuits, Patricia explained how she’d always sought to express herself in various ways, but it was only when she’d seen David’s sculpture of her that she’d really understood what art meant, particularly for its creator.

  Maude couldn’t help but agree and confessed that she personally could never sell her best work, which she kept apart in a separate room.

  ‘I took a look at them while you were in the kitchen. I thought they were remarkable. How I would like to do the same.’

  ‘Well, what’s stopping you?’ asked Maude, who secretly thought that Patricia was too weak-willed to express herself forcefully.

  ‘I tried once, but I was ashamed to show it to anyone,’ admitted Patricia.

  ‘Don’t mind what others think,’ scolded Maude. ‘The most important point is that a painting must provoke emotions.’

  ‘I’ll think about that,’ replied Patricia as she got up to leave.

  Roger was wondering what had happened to Patricia as he listened for a good half-hour to Miss Pickford speculating on Agamemnon’s role in the Trojan wars. Normally he would listen attentively to the librarian’s theories, but right at that moment he was more intrigued by Patricia’s furtive departure.

  ‘I’m going out to get some fresh air,’ she’d announced after lunch, with such an air of indifference that he’d immediately become suspicious. ‘I shan’t be long.’

  ‘So it’s obvious that, had Agamemnon and Menelaus not been brothers, things would have turned out differently. Don’t you think so?’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Roger, trying not to lose track of what the librarian was saying.

  Patricia was up to something, he was sure of it, recalling the determined expression on her face as she left—and the glimpse he caught through the window of her starting the car. Where was she going?

  As she cleared up the tea things, Maude thought about the strange discussion she’d had with her visitor. She remembered the shock she’d had finding Patricia on her doorstep. Roger’s wife was the last person she’d expected to see. She ran through in her mind some of the things Patricia had said, batting her eyelashes innocently and babbling on about coming to see her paintings. How she wished she could express her sentiments as clearly and, most sinister of all, talking about taking up painting “in a manner of speaking,” spoken while stroking that spatula. What did it all mean?

  She froze suddenly as a terrible thought crossed her mind. She ran to the back room where she kept her favourite paintings....

 
From the bloody wars of Troy, the subject changed to the no less bloody series of murders haunting Lightwood and the surrounding countryside.

  ‘You know, Roger,’ said Miss Pickford, leaning forward confidentially, ‘when I heard the police had arrested you I never for one moment believed you were guilty.’

  Roger smiled ironically:

  ‘Thank you for your confidence in me, Miss Pickford, but they were only doing their job. I must admit being under arrest wasn’t much fun, but at least it gave me the time to think.’

  ‘Roger,’ implored his visitor, ‘please call me Emily.’

  ‘All right, Emily,’ Roger gave an embarrassed cough. ‘As I was saying, I didn’t hold it against the police. They were just following the evidence. I don’t want to say too much, but they did receive a letter from someone accusing me of being the maniac.’

  ‘Someone!’ exclaimed Miss Pickford, shocked. ‘Who?’

  Roger shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘It was anonymous, naturally. Someone was trying to hurt me. And I can’t for the life of me work out why. I have the feeling that it’s someone I know. The police think the author of the letter and the murderer are one and the same.’

  ‘I think they’re right,’ replied Miss Pickford. ‘It’s criminal to accuse one’s neighbour of such acts. I can’t see why anyone would want to do you harm, but there is one possibility....’

  Roger looked up in surprise. Behind the thick lenses of her glasses the librarian’s eyes looked enormous. She continued:

  ‘The murderer used you to deflect suspicion from himself. He chose you because you’re one of the most recent arrivals. Obviously Mr. Fielding and your wife came after you, but since you’re young and in good health, you make a better suspect.’

  Roger sat silent for a moment, then got up and paced around the room before sitting down again in his armchair, facing his visitor.

  ‘If that’s the case, and I haven’t heard a better idea, that means that the killer is someone I know well. The inspector and his friend Dr. Twist believe that it’s someone who was at our party that Saturday night. What do you think, Miss—excuse me, Emily?’

  The librarian nodded her head solemnly in agreement.

  ‘The question is who?’

  ‘Who,’ repeated Roger, stroking his chin. ‘That’s the question. And you can almost count the number of suspects on the fingers of one hand.’

  ‘Do you remember what Mr. Fielding said at the time? He said that if the monster didn’t strike that evening and, in so doing, provide us all with an alibi, then we could infer that the killer was indeed one of us. And that’s the situation we find ourselves in now.’

  Roger shook his head and asked abruptly:

  ‘Emily, tell me frankly, have you any idea?’

  Miss Pickford’s long fingers worked nervously.

  ‘Please don’t ask me that, Roger. Yes, I have an idea, because I surprised the person I’m thinking of behaving very strangely. But please don’t ask me to name names. I think you know who I’m talking about.’

  24

  I wrote not long ago that that tree was evil.

  It’s true, I still believe it.

  It’s the tree which killed Eric.

  I hate it.

  And I’m going to make use of it.

  At least that way it will have been useful somehow. I spent a very instructive afternoon at the window looking at it and the surrounding area and didn’t see a single human being. Except for Cromwell who came to ask me if I needed anything. But is Cromwell human? That’s the question. He talks to me as if I’m sick, but he’s not the only one. The others are the same. Or, rather, he’s like the others. I’m not talking about Victoria, who has hardly changed for the better since she married Cromwell. Anyway, I said I wouldn’t talk about her. She’s not worth reporting in my diary.

  I was happy just to contemplate nature, to see the face of life and appreciate its thousands of nuances of shape and colour, the fruit of an all-seeing painter-sculptor, master of harmony and good taste (I sometimes wonder how those same fingers could have created Cromwell’s features.) My eyes feasted on the glorious tableau knowing that soon I may no longer be able to. At least in the flesh I currently inhabit.

  Eric, come back, tell me that you exist and that you still love me....

  Eric, I beg of you, answer me.

  That cursed tree is taunting me. It stands there motionless, but it’s looking at me. And I understand its message. It’s calling me. It killed Eric and it knows that I know. And it knows that I shall come to find it... one evening.

  But not this evening, because I’m going to dance. To dance in Eric’s arms the whole night long until I can dance no more; until I faint... No, Eric, I shan’t lend you to anyone else. Not Victoria, not anyone. Tonight you’re mine and mine alone.

  Patricia closed the diary and let out a sigh. She’d finally finished reading Lavinia’s notes, with mixed feelings: regret at leaving Lavinia’s universe which she had entered almost every night before going to sleep; and sadness, knowing the tragic end to the story, and why it had ended so abruptly. Lavinia had gone to the cursed tree and hanged herself in order to join her lover in heaven.

  And emotion. A great deal of emotion. The story had overwhelmed her, as if she herself had been Lavinia for a few hours.

  She looked up at the old snapshot which Roger had framed and hung next to “Baucis.” She thought about the mystery of Eric’s death and her rash claim that she would solve it when she’d finished the diary.

  The lounge door opened and her husband came in. Roger’s smile was friendly, but there was that same inquisitive undertone she’d noticed during dinner, and even when she’d returned home in mid-afternoon. He’d questioned her several times about her absence and her responses hadn’t seemed to satisfy him. Obviously he suspected something. He’d learn sooner or later, she thought to herself with satisfaction, savouring the image of Maude discovering her favourite paintings after she’d left.

  ‘So, Pat, did you finish the diary?’

  ‘Yes, just now. And I’m very sad to leave Lavinia.’

  ‘She’s still with us, you know,’ he said, turning to look at the photo. ‘Her spirit has never left the house.’

  ‘You say that jokingly, but it’s exactly what I feel. I can’t see her but she’s everywhere around me. And when I wear the violet dress, I feel as though I become her.’

  Roger’s smile broadened:

  ‘So you must have solved the mystery.’

  ‘The mystery of Eric’s death?’

  ‘Amongst other things, yes, because there’s also Lavinia’s premonitory dream.’

  ‘Not to mention my own nightmare. Did you notice how the story intrigued Dr. Twist this morning? He never stopped asking questions about Eric’s death or Lavinia’s dream... As if they interested him more than the awful goings-on here in Lightwood.’

  ‘It seemed like it, I agree. I think he has a soft spot for the past, rather like Mr. Fielding. They seem to have a lot of things in common. Anyway, getting back to Eric’s murder....’

  Patricia thought for a moment and pulled a face:

  ‘You’re not going to believe this, Roger, but it’s on the tip of my tongue. I feel as though I’ve solved it, but it won’t quite come out yet. It won’t be long, I can feel it.’

  ‘You’ve told me that a hundred times,’ sighed Roger. ‘But I haven’t given up hope. I’m confident in you, Pat, because I love you and I’ll do anything to satisfy you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course, darling, whatever you ask.’

  ‘Then put on some music, take me in your arms and we’ll dance.’

  Roger bowed slightly, but as he was about to go over to the phonograph, the doorbell rang.

  ‘Nine o’clock at night,’ he said, looking at the clock. ‘Now who could that be? Unless something bad has happened, it can’t be the police. They were here this morning.’

  As Roger went to the front door, Patricia was
worried that it might be Maude, and was relieved to hear David’s voice. Once inside, and after being served a whisky, the sculptor dropped into an armchair. Oddly, he failed to comment on “Baucis,” which was right opposite him. She noticed he seemed tense and he wasted no time in getting to the point.

  ‘I saw Thomas Fielding in the pub this evening. We talked for a while about the murders. No one’s talking about anything else, in fact. As usual, he made some interesting observations, but....’ He paused to make sure he had their full attention. ‘I have a strong impression he knows who the killer is.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ replied Patricia calmly. ‘He’s always struck me as being very astute.’

  ‘So,’ said Roger, ‘what’s stopping him from going to the police?’

  ‘I told you it was just an impression. He didn’t expressly say so.’

  ‘But he managed to convey the message, nevertheless.’

  ‘Possibly, but without mentioning any names. Anyway, it only goes to confirm my own conviction. You see, I’m pretty sure I know who the killer is. I’ve had serious suspicions for a few days, but now I’m sure.’

  Roger and Patricia exchanged surprised looks.

  ‘And I believe Patricia knows as well,’ continued the artist, turning to the young woman.

  Roger frowned.

  ‘Reverend Moore?’ murmured Patricia, ashen-faced.

  David nodded solemnly.

  ‘And his motive is fairly obvious to anyone who knows the man.

  I’ve seen him quite a few times now, roaming the properties of his flock at night. You’ve seen him too, Patricia, right here. And you saw he was carrying a cross?’

  Whilst Patricia nodded in silence, Roger described the clergyman’s recent visit and how he frightened his wife.

  ‘I understand,’ said David, his eyes shining. ‘He must think that... But let me explain my reasoning. On the one hand, there’s the ritual nature of the crimes: young children with their throats cut... On the other hand, there’s the vicar who—through flamboyant sermons—exhorts his congregation to fight Evil. And let me draw your attention to young Billy Marten whom he never stopped vilifying as a creature of the devil. Billy is no more... He was murdered.’