The Vampire Tree

by Paul Halter

  ‘In other words,’ said Roger as he refilled his guest’s glass, ‘the vicar has become a kind of Dark Angel, exterminating young children who exhibit the first signs of wandering from the straight and narrow path.’

  ‘Exactly. Remember how he ceaselessly berated the child and denounced him in public? As for the others, I didn’t know them personally, but one of them was a gypsy, which right there is enough to warrant being “purified.” So, not only did he combat evil by eliminating young potential transgressors, he was also able to pursue the ritual aspect at the same time. A child is, by definition, pure and innocent: the ideal victim for sacrifice on the altar of sin. Ritual sacrifices of animal were common in the Old Testament. Perhaps our vicar sought to emulate Moses and the sacrifice of the lambs?’

  ‘Eliminating evil by sacrificing its victims? It’s quite a novel concept...’ replied Roger, looking thoughtfully at his friend.

  ‘Who knows what happens in the mind of a maniac?’

  ‘Now you’ve pointed it out, it seems so obvious. By the way, as recently as this afternoon, Miss Pickford also talked about her personal conviction as to the murderer’s identity. She wouldn’t name him either, but I’m pretty sure she was alluding to the vicar. Pat, what do you think?’

  Huddled in her armchair, his wife shivered.

  ‘I think he’s the one... particularly if the murderer was amongst our guests.’

  ‘I believe I understand what happened the other day, Patricia’ said David, lowering his voice. ‘It wasn’t by accident that he brandished that crucifix in your face.’

  ‘He—he thought I was possessed as well?’ stammered Patricia.

  ‘Certainly. And I’ll go further. Going back to that evening where he brought up the subject of vampires, I’m pretty sure he thought you were one of them.’

  ‘Good heavens! Now I understand why he wanted to know where I was born.’

  ‘Now it’s all clear,’ said David with a sigh. ‘The problem is we have no proof. And I get the feeling we’re going to have to act fast. That’s why I’m here. Roger, it’s vital that we act.’

  ‘Like David challenging Goliath?’

  ‘In a way. Listen, I have the beginnings of a plan.’

  Patricia’s recollection of the discussion which followed was vague, for two reasons. First, the reverend’s suspicions of her had shaken her to her core. And, secondly, the discussion between the two men about what to do next lacked clarity, to put it mildly. But at last there came a point when David succeeded in convincing Roger of his plan.

  ‘...And, catching him that way, we will formally establish whom we are dealing with. After which, the police can do their job. The problem is to find someone to be the goat.’

  ‘It’s too risky with a child,’ said Roger pensively.

  ‘Do you plan to set a trap for him?’ asked Patricia, joining in the conversation.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed David with a determined look in his eye which surprised her. ‘Just as they hunt big game. Tying an innocent goat for him to seize... and be caught in the act.’

  ‘And you’re planning to use a child?’ asked Patricia indignantly.

  ‘No that’s too risky,’ replied David. ‘We have to find someone satisfying several selection criteria, so to speak. Someone whom he believes to be possessed by Evil, but who is as innocent and weak as a child... a defenceless lamb.’

  ‘Look no further,’ declared Patricia. ‘I know just the right person. A frail young woman, innocent, fearful, and representing Evil in his eyes. In other words...me!’

  25

  Thursday, June 26

  The weather in Lightwood was mild on the following morning as the Sheridans’ sports car drew up in front of Maude Rellys’ bungalow. Roger got out, looked furtively around and pressed the doorbell. A few moments later, Maude appeared, looking like a shadow of her former self.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked in an unrecognisable voice.

  ‘Just checking to see if all was well.’

  ‘You’ve come to admire her work, is that it?’

  ‘Her work? What are you talking about?’

  Maude looked him up and down, then asked him to follow her.

  As he stood in the gallery of Maude’s favourite paintings, he knew his instinct had been right. He’d sensed that Patricia was preparing a dirty trick when he’d seen her slip out, and suspected it was something to do with Maude. Which is why he’d brought her to the cottage that morning, in order to be sure.

  In front of him were all the paintings which Maude had resolved never to sell, lacerated in a destructive rage and with a barbaric cruelty. Shredded strips of painted canvas hung down from their frames under the lifeless gaze of a Maude who looked like a ghost.

  ‘She wasn’t lying,’ she said, ‘when she stated she’d come to look at my paintings and wanted to express herself. And to think that I encouraged her to explore her sentiments more forcefully! I didn’t understand until after she’d left. She did it while I was preparing tea.’ She looked at the young man. ‘Roger, she’s destroyed everything dear to me. I don’t exist any more, I’m dead. No, that can’t be true because I can still feel pain.’

  With great patience, Roger tried to console her, telling her that her best lay before her and stressing her undeniable talent. The act of vandalism, shocking as it was, paled in comparison to what had been done to those poor victims of the monster whose lives, unlike the paintings, could never be replaced. Life is more important than mere matter, even the creations of a talented artist. Patricia, he explained, must have suffered in silence after his excuses and this act should be seen as the result of pain and distress. For Patricia was a courageous girl.

  By way of example, he decided to tell her of the plan David and he had put together to ensnare the reverend, which was to be put into effect that same night.

  ‘That does sound risky,’ agreed Maude, who suggested they return to the lounge so as to avoid looking at the sad spectacle. ‘Particularly since it’s the reverend who’s the killer.’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Roger, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘He has the physique for the job,’ she said with the flicker of a smile. ‘I’m not talking about his job as a vicar, obviously. He’s as strong as an ox, which is why I’m surprised that you and David would allow Patricia to serve as bait.’

  ‘I won’t be far away. Nothing will happen to her,’ replied Roger with typical male assurance.

  ‘Had you been drinking when you decided on this plan?’

  ‘That’s not the point. We have to bring this to an end.’

  ‘And how exactly are you going to deal with him?’

  Roger stubbed out his cigarette nervously.

  ‘We haven’t worked out all the details,’ he confessed. ‘We’ll be doing that this afternoon. But don’t tell anyone about it, Maude. Not a word to anyone. Do you promise?’

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ replied the young woman distantly.

  In the early afternoon, Maude went to the library to return the voluminous tome about demonology. Miss Pickford was pleased to see the book because, as she said, quite a few people were waiting to read it, which was understandable in the circumstances. The vampire of Lightwood was on everyone’s lips and Maude was not surprised when the librarian dropped a heavy hint:

  ‘The French for “don’t judge a book by its cover” is “l’habit ne fait pas le moine,” which translates to “the habit doesn’t make the monk”—if you see what I’m getting at.’ When Maude asked if she meant the vicar, Miss Pickford nodded solemnly. A few moments later, the young artist, after extracting a promise from Miss Pickford to keep the information strictly secret, told her that she was aware of a plan to confront the guilty party in the hours to come....

  At five o’clock, David took tea with the Sheridans. Once again, Patricia noticed that he didn’t once look at “Baucis.” But today there was a reason, even though Patricia herself felt confident about the evening’s plans. The two men again tried to
dissuade her, but her mind was made up. They spent the next hour going over the details of the plan, and it was decided that Patricia would go to find the vicar at around nine o’clock, playing the role of someone who had lost her will to live. After a while, she would suggest they go out for some air and go into the woods, where there was peace and calm, to better discuss her problems. They were to follow a pre-arranged path under the tight surveillance of her two bodyguards. She was to wear a coat with a thick collar which she would hold tight around her neck, in one pocket of which was a small Browning pistol belonging to Roger’s uncle. She was not to drop her guard for a moment and to cry out at the first sign of trouble. Patricia rehearsed her role several times in front of her two very demanding professors.

  At about the same time, Inspector Hurst was seated at his desk at Scotland Yard, looking at a Dr. Twist who appeared to be asleep, save for the curl of smoke emanating from his pipe.

  ‘It’s got to be one of them,’ growled the inspector. ‘We’ve said over and over again that the killer was one of seven people: Roger Sheridan, his wife Patricia, old Mr. Fielding, Reverend Moore, Miss Pickford, Maude Rellys and David Hale.’

  ‘And you can eliminate the two with cast-iron alibis: Roger Sheridan and Maude Rellys, which leaves five,’ observed Dr. Twist, his eyes half-closed.

  ‘That’s still too many,’ grumbled the policeman, brushing back the unruly forelock which had flopped over his brow. ‘What do you think of young Mrs. Sheridan? I had the impression it was she who suspected the vicar.’

  ‘You can start with her if you like,’ replied Twist without enthusiasm.

  ‘The first point against her is that we’re pretty sure the killer tried to shift suspicion on to her husband: the whistling, the letter denouncing him and the handkerchief with the initials. If he were to be hanged for the crimes, she’d collect a pretty penny, let’s face it. Roger’s the one with the money, she hasn’t got two coins to rub together. How would a girl like her go about killing her rich young husband without attracting suspicion? Dream up a story about vampires, kids with their throats cut... and the criminal turning out to be someone respectable, as convention requires. In other words, behind all this sinister taradiddle there’s a sordid question of money. Do you see what I’m getting at, Twist?’

  ‘Only too well. But I really have trouble imagining—.’

  ‘A pretty girl like her being a criminal? She wouldn’t be the first, or the last—as you well know,’ said Hurst with a grim smile.

  ‘Quite. But what I was about to say was that such a diabolically clever plan doesn’t fit with my idea of young Mrs. Sheridan.’

  ‘I’m sticking to my guns,’ replied Hurst sardonically. ‘I know young Billy Marten’s murder doesn’t fit the hypothesis because it clears her husband, but as we’ve seen, it wasn’t on the programme. Nor was the fact that Sheridan was with his mistress when little Fred was murdered... which also clears Miss Rellys.’

  ‘That all sounds reasonable,’ agreed Twist. ‘What’s next?’

  ‘I’m ruling out the librarian for several reasons,’ continued Hurst, making notes on a piece of paper which listed all the suspects’ names. ‘I can’t see any motive and I can’t imagine her committing such horrible crimes. And I feel the same way about the young sculptor, who seems to lack energy. As for Fielding, his age speaks for itself... And a man like that, who’s saved countless lives in the past, suddenly turns his hand to killing young children? It makes no sense.’

  ‘Well, that seems to leave Reverend Moore, by my calculation,’ replied the criminologist. ‘Speaking of whom, I didn’t appreciate your interruption the other day. I’d laid a trap for him regarding that Latin inscription and you spoilt everything!’

  ‘I admit it,’ conceded Archibald Hurst, with a rueful smile on his ruddy face. ‘But, concerning the vicar, I have a theory I’d like your advice about....’

  At around half-past seven, Thomas Fielding returned to his room after having dined at the bar below. A few minutes later, someone knocked at the door. At the sight of the person paying him a visit, the old man gave a strange smile and let his visitor in. After a few minutes of conversation, he let his guest know that he’d been waiting several days for the visit.

  ‘And why’s that?’ asked the other, going over to the open window.

  ‘To speak to me,’ replied Fielding with an ironic smile. ‘I’m sure you have lots to say.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you. But I’ll make the first move. Let me start by saying I know perfectly well why you’re here.’

  The person by the window turned to give the old man a peculiar look, but said nothing.

  ‘Furthermore,’ continued the retired surgeon, ‘I think you already know I have a kind of sixth sense... And that’s why I stayed on, here in Lightwood, because I knew a certain someone was still in danger. But I was wrong. Or, rather I was wrong without being wrong.’

  ‘What you’re saying is not clear.’

  ‘What is clear is that you are the person all the police in the county are looking for. Is that clearer?’

  The person in question gave a tight-lipped smile.

  ‘You still won’t say anything?’ continued old Mr. Fielding. ‘Mind you, I do understand. But, believe me, there’s no doubt in my mind. Your present attitude is proof enough in itself. I admit that, at one point, I began to have doubts. It was well played, but not well enough to fool me. You had no chance anyway, because the very first time we met my instinct detected something cloying, noxious and unpleasant emanating from you. Your madness.’

  ‘Words, words, nothing but words. Show me some tangible proof and perhaps I’ll believe you.’

  ‘I just told you I was wrong without being wrong,’ replied Fielding, ensconcing himself in an armchair. ‘You knew full well what I meant by that. I was wrong about the type of threat. It wasn’t violent death you’d planned for your victim, but something more insidious and in some ways worse. The destruction of the spirit. I confess I haven’t worked out all the details. It was your atrocious crimes which put me on your trail, but the rest of your demented plan remains nebulous.’

  A long silence, followed by:

  ‘And you’re counting on me to explain it?’

  ‘That’s practically a confession,’ said Thomas Fielding with a grim smile.

  ‘You know why I’m here, I suppose?’

  ‘To kill me? You wouldn’t take such a risk at the present moment. You told me yourself you came through the bar to get here. If I’m found dead it will be obvious you were the murderer.’

  ‘And because I said that you believed it? I thought you were smarter than that.’

  26

  ‘You were right to come,’ declared the vicar with a paternal smile, after Patricia had poured out a confused and chaotic account.

  Panic had caused her to swallow half her words and she had deviated from her planned story. But her semi-improvised babble had sounded credible, just as her anxiety clearly reflected the personality she had wished to create. A woman who was prey to doubt and depression, for some mysterious reason it would be up to the reverend to discover.

  The clergyman having invited her directly into his office, Patricia hadn’t been able to see the rest of the vicarage except the entrance corridor and a glimpse of the kitchen through an open door. The building itself was fairly humble, in contrast with the room she was now in. The ornate desk behind which Benjamin Moore was now seated was, like its owner, massive and imposing. With its legs in the form of lions’ busts, it was a remarkable piece of carving which would surely have interested David in other circumstances.

  David and Goliath....

  Was it Goliath in front of her at that very moment?

  Was the vicar the terrible Philistine she imagined? For the moment he appeared to be very reassuring and considerate, the model of an erudite ecclesiast completely at ease amongst the works of learning of his vast library.

  �
��Yes,’ he repeated, ‘you were right to come. I believe I can help. That’s why I’m here, in fact. It’s my mission.’

  Patricia pricked up her ears at that last phrase. His tone was unctuous—too unctuous for her taste—but the words were heavy with meaning... What mission was he talking about?

  ‘Do you remember my last visit, Mrs. Sheridan?’ he asked, staring hard at her.

  ‘Er... yes, of course.’

  ‘Since then have you held that crucifix in your hand?’

  ‘No....’

  Benjamin Moore let out a long sigh. After a moment of reflection he continued:

  ‘Your problems, your lapses of memory, your anxiety... I’m afraid yours is quite a serious case.’

  ‘Serious? My word. Tell me what I’ve got.’

  ‘It’s not straightforward... and I want to be sure before I give you my diagnosis.’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me that. I don’t feel very well. I feel as though I’m suffocating. I think a short walk might do me the world of good. Would you mind if we went outside?’

  ‘Not at all. A little exercise never harmed anyone.’

  The church clock was striking half-past nine as they left the vicarage. At the same time, Gladys, the youngest daughter of the proprietor of the Red Lion, was bounding happily up the stairs leading to the first floor. She had just spent a few days away at her uncle’s house, so she couldn’t wait to get back to her own room and her cuddly toys, even though she was already thirteen years old.

  As she passed by Mr. Fielding’s room she remembered that he’d been planning to leave and remembered that she’d hidden her favourite teddy-bear in one of the cupboards there.

  There was no light coming from under the door, so she assumed he must have left. She knocked, waited, went in and turned on the light. As she was going to the cupboard to her right, she realised there was a figure stretched out in the armchair near the window. She went gingerly over to it and recognised Mr. Fielding. She tiptoed hurriedly out of the room, but as she closed the door behind her, the image of the old man remained in her mind. The angle of his head seemed strange, and why was he wearing a red scarf? She was sure of the colour, but was it really a scarf? It seemed too brightly coloured for a scarf....