The Vampire Tree

by Paul Halter

  Gladys went hesitantly along the corridor but stopped half-way to the stairs. Wanting to be sure, she turned back, opened the door again and turned on the light. At first sight she couldn’t believe her eyes. She approached the old man and her face twisted in horror as she let out a terrified scream.

  Downstairs in the bar, all conversation suddenly ceased. The bewildered customers looked at each other as the long scream of terror resonated throughout the building.

  Patricia kept a firm grip on the little pistol in her pocket. She was scared stiff. She had to keep the conversation going and make enough noise herself to cover Roger and David, who were following her. At the same time, she had to watch the vicar while making sure that they stuck to the chosen path and make it all appear natural. Not so easy. She’d begun to sense that the vicar had already spotted the incongruous nature of the nocturnal promenade, which the winding circuit only served to emphasise. To cap it all, the trees hardly let in any of the moon’s pale light, which made surveillance particularly difficult.

  She no longer had any doubts about the guilt of her companion, whose conversation confirmed David’s theory with every word. He obviously considered himself to be on a divine mission: to eradicate Evil from the face of the earth. Evil which, he believed and she did everything to encourage, had taken possession of her.

  ‘I’m afraid, Mrs. Sheridan, that you’re the victim of a double personality,’ he said in a solemn voice.

  ‘Don’t say that or I’ll begin to believe it... I’ve been told, ever since I can remember, that I have two people living inside me.’

  ‘So you can see that I’m not inventing anything. The important thing is to discover just who is that other person... and cure you. I won’t deny that it can only be done by the elimination of your double.’

  ‘But who could it be?’

  ‘Someone who is undoubtedly committing reprehensible acts, without you necessarily remembering anything about them.’

  ‘My goodness, I can hardly believe it,’ moaned Patricia, treading hard on the ground, for she had noticed a slight sound on her left which was probably caused by David snapping a branch.

  ‘To start on the right path, think about the crucifix which you pushed away so brusquely the other day. That must have been your double acting. Think about your country of birth as well, in central Europe, and all the legends they tell there. I’ve read many books on the subject and I’m considered an authority on the subject.’

  ‘But what subject? What are you talking about? I don’t understand!’

  She’d adopted a hysterical voice, consistent with her role, but didn’t need to try very hard, because her heart was already beating furiously.

  It was then that she saw, straight ahead, the pass between two rocks she’d been told to look for. The path narrowed so that two people couldn’t go through side by side. She noted that, if the vicar didn’t go through first, she’d have to hurry in order not to let him out of her sight for too long.

  ‘Do you know how our ancestors fought vampires?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Vampires? With an axe, I believe.’

  ‘No, not with an axe, with a stake. A stake driven through the chest of those fiends who nevertheless appeared to be dead when their coffins were opened.’

  ‘Now you mention it....’

  ‘But vampires go through several stages of transition, which you have to be aware of if you wish to combat them effectively... Please go ahead, we can’t get through side by side.’

  Patricia hastened forward, clutching the pistol firmly in her hand. Her heart was practically in her mouth and she protected her throat by holding her coat collar firmly. Suddenly she heard a noise behind her. Turning quickly, she let out a scream and aimed her pistol at the figure which she could vaguely see in the narrow passageway.

  She fired several shots, dropped the weapon and ran away as fast as she could.

  She could hear Roger’s strident voice not far away, followed by David’s. The two of them shouted at the top of their lungs, calling her name repeatedly. But she could no longer hear them as she ran as fast as her legs could carry her.

  27

  Tuesday, July 1

  ‘We’ve finally found Billy Marten’s body,’ announced Archibald Hurst at the meeting he’d convened in his office on a beautiful summer morning.

  Apart from Dr. Twist, who was practically part of the furniture, those present were: Roger and Patricia Sheridan, David Hale and another Scotland Yard man, Inspector Briggs. Close to retirement and with a mischievous look in his eye, he sat apart leafing through a magazine.

  ‘It was late afternoon yesterday,’ confirmed Hurst in the professorial tone he adopted towards the end of a difficult investigation. ‘My men were starting to get discouraged. But I’ll spare you the sordid details. All you need to know is that little Billy’s throat had been slit, just like the others... What a grim story... Happily, the perpetrator has been put out of action, thanks to you, lady and gentlemen, and principally you, Mrs. Sheridan. You’ve shown great courage and excellent reflexes.’

  Patricia found herself blushing under the admiring looks of all present.

  ‘But we’ll get to all that later,’ continued the inspector, ‘because I’m going to hand the meeting over to Dr. Twist and my colleague Inspector Briggs who have something interesting to tell you... about an old story regarding noises, shining objects and crosses.’

  ‘I hope, madam,’ began Twist in a quiet voice, ‘that from now on all this will become just a bad memory for you. Thanks to the human encyclopaedia you see before you, who goes by the name of Inspector Briggs—and who can not only remember every recorded fact since the turn of the century, but can recall it within the hour—we can lift the veil on a mystery of your childhood which must linger somewhere in your subconscious. Everyone here is aware of your phobia of bright lights, but are they aware of your insurmountable fear of touching crosses, particularly when they’re stained with blood? Such details led the killer to believe you were a veritable vampire... One day you were gracious enough to confide in me, and I in turn had the opportunity to talk to inspector Briggs about it. I have to confess my story startled him. He rushed off to consult our collection of newspapers and returned with an article from the autumn of nineteen-forty.’

  Inspector Briggs put down the magazine and smiled at Patricia, who was trembling with impatience and apprehension.

  ‘There wasn’t a photograph associated with the article, but in any case I suspect you’ve changed quite a bit since you were five or six years old. What struck me about the article wasn’t the bombardment or the ruined home—they were commonplace at the time—but the actions of a little girl who had miraculously escaped from a bombed-out street and who insisted on clutching a crucifix to her bosom so hard that the rescuers couldn’t prise it from her. She sobbed while she held it, saying that “little Jesus” had been with her, so she knew she would be saved. It seemed to be true, given that everyone around her had perished. Next to her, partially buried under the rubble, lay the body of her mother, badly mutilated. The crucifix and the little girl herself were covered in blood. The following day—and this is what drew my attention to the article—she had screamed in terror when the well-meaning doctor had brought it to her hospital bed.’

  There was silence in the room. Patricia looked blindly straight ahead.

  ‘That’s the kind of thing it’s impossible to forget,’ continued Briggs, ‘so when Dr. Twist told me about your case I immediately knew you were the little girl in the story.’

  Twist cleared his throat. ‘I know how you must feel, Mrs. Sheridan,’ he declared. ‘You’ve been able to reconstruct what happened, just as I have. But what you must concentrate on is that everyone else who lived on that same floor perished, so even without your disobedience, your mother would have died. You were not responsible. The main thing you have to remember is that your childish reflex saved your life.’

  Patricia fought hard, but in vain. Bombs were whist
ling in her ears. She wanted above all to witness those wonderful lights close up. So what if it was dangerous? Little Jesus was there to save her. With one swift movement she grabbed the crucifix and ran up the stairs to the roof. The fireworks were magnificent. She felt light-headed and even a little mad. Now her mother was shouting at her and coming up after her. There was a deafening noise... She felt pain... Some men tried to take her crucifix away. Her metal cross, which was stained by blood, but not enough to prevent it from shining. The polished metal reflected the flames flickering all around her....

  There was a silence, during which the office seemed to fill with ghosts from the past. Hurst chased them away with his imperious voice:

  ‘And that, by thunder, almost made you another victim of the monster. Because it’s quite clear that the vicar thought he was dealing with a vampire which he needed to eliminate right away. Even so, you had a hell of a nerve setting him a trap like that. It was incredibly risky and I ought to box all your ears for acting on your own. It was the police’s job! But the results speak for themselves. Aside from the testimony of the three of you, there was the weapon he was holding in his hand. The weapon he’d used to murder poor Mr. Fielding a couple of hours earlier, with his blood still on the blade. His throat had been cut, just like the others. And there’s no doubt as to the motive, for Mr. Fielding had been telling anyone who’d listen that he knew who the killer was. He was practically asking for it. The killer had no choice but to kill again. Which reminds me of the letter he sent talking about abby... abboum... the abyss calls to the abyss, one murder leads to another, the famous vicious circle.’

  ‘What a nightmare,’ sighed David. ‘What a nightmare these last few weeks in Lightwood have been. What a relief to know the monster will strike no more. And what a night! I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘Neither will I,’ agreed Roger, looking at his wife in admiration.

  ‘Whereas I, on the contrary, hope to forget it, for I did after all kill a man.’

  The event was nevertheless engraved forever in Patricia’s memory and she was obliged, in the days to come, to testify with the two others as to her legitimate self-defence.

  She’d entered the narrow pass and had almost reached the end when she’d heard the vicar at her heels. She’d shouted out and fired twice before running away as fast as possible. Roger, who’d been close to the entrance, had seen the vicar put his hand in his pocket as he, too, entered the pass, but there’d been a short silence before he’d heard his wife’s shouts and the sound of shots. On the spot he hadn’t had time to stop and examine the inert mass now blocking the passage. David, arriving a few moments later, had helped to find Patricia and had in fact located her, stretched out on the ground and sobbing, at the point where the path crossed the public road. The reverend had only been hit by one of the bullets, but it was in the head—just as Goliath had been hit by David. David had hurled a stone—not a bullet—by means of a catapult and the vicar had a nasty lump on his forehead where he’d fallen on the rocky ground.

  ‘As far as motive is concerned, Mr. Hale,’ continued the inspector with unctuous politeness, ‘I have to say that I also got it right, as my friend Dr. Twist here can attest, but that doesn’t detract from your reasoning as a complete amateur.’

  ‘I did have one advantage over you,’ replied the artist. ‘I attended the vicar’s weekly sermons. His harangues against Evil were utterly excessive, as most of his flock would agree. The rest was simple logic.’

  He stopped for a moment, lost in thought, then continued:

  ‘There is one thing I do find rather strange. It’s a small detail, no doubt, but it doesn’t quite fit with the personality of the vicar. The man was out of control, yes. But why did he try to pin the crimes on someone else? To cover his tracks? Possibly, but I find that harder to believe than that he committed those atrocious murders.’

  ‘That, as you say, is a detail,’ replied Dr. Twist. ‘For me, there’s another area of doubt. It’s directly relevant to the case, perhaps, but it’s no less intriguing for all that. I’m talking, of course, about that inexplicable murder of the previous century, where the young man was strangled by a tree, just as his fiancée had seen in a dream at the exact same moment. That’s something which needs clearing up.’

  28

  Saturday, July 5

  The affair of the Lightwood Vampire had disrupted the daily lives of the protagonists considerably. The atmosphere of suspicion, which had quickly dissipated with the death of the villain, had weighed particularly hard on Patricia, who had subconsciously realised that there were some who doubted her soul. And she hadn’t been entirely sure she could trust herself, either, until Dr. Twist had shone a light on that painful period of her childhood. Without fully admitting it to herself, her aversion to crucifixes had been a source of torment to her.

  Hence, it was with a sense of well-being that she approached the days which followed. Roger also seemed more relaxed. They allowed themselves a few days of complete relaxation, walking, talking and partaking of the Lord of the Manor’s excellent cocktails.

  One evening, as she was re-reading a part of Lavinia’s diary, she looked up at the old photo. Once again, she experienced the troubled feeling, which irritated her because she continued to feel she had the solution on the tip of her tongue. She looked at “Baucis,” then up to the photo, then returned to look at her image in wood... Suddenly she froze.

  ‘Good Lord, it’s not possible. How could I not have seen it before?’

  She ran to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror, came back to take the photo down from the wall, and returned to the bathroom mirror to compare her face with that of the dead woman.

  They were as like as two peas!

  It was extraordinary. And what was even more so was that nobody had noticed. Obviously her hairstyle and make-up modified her appearance to some degree, but her features and the expression in her eyes were extraordinarily similar.

  Patricia was thunderstruck. But not unhappy, because she liked Lavinia a lot. Besides, she often identified with her and occasionally became her in certain moments. And Roger helped, in a way, because he often confused their names, calling her “Lavinia, my dear,” before excusing himself and repeating “Patricia” several times... and then making the same mistake in the next sentence.

  Alas! Roger wasn’t there. She would so much have liked to talk to him.

  Patricia... Lavinia... Patricia... Lavinia... The two names danced in her head to the point she became utterly confused. Feeling tired, she went back to the rocking-chair to think quietly. She ran Lavinia’s story through her head several times, but with a different vision because now she identified herself totally with her.

  And the truth appeared to her with an implacable logic.

  29

  Roger had spent the evening helping David organise his workshop. It was tiring work which involved a lot of moving and finished later than expected in the evening. He was surprised to find Patricia sitting wide awake in the lounge. Despite her obvious fatigue, he was surprised to see an unusual expression on her face. She seemed changed, happy and ironic, all at once. She asked him to study Lavinia’s photo, then her own face and tell her what he thought. Suddenly, it was Patricia’s turn to be surprised when her husband’s examination turned out to be very brief.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’ve finally noticed.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she demanded, unwilling to concede so easily.

  ‘Your resemblance to her, of course. Or hers to you.’

  ‘What? You’d noticed?’

  ‘Of course, darling, since the very beginning. Since I met you, in fact.’

  ‘And you never said anything?’

  ‘I wanted you to realise it yourself.’

  ‘You should have shown me the photo earlier.’

  ‘There was no hurry, my darling, we have our whole lives ahead of us.’

  Roger’s calm and relaxed smile only served to irritate her further. She
could have strangled him! She’d expected to give him the shock of his life and it had turned out he’d known all the time. But she had another ace up her sleeve.

  ‘What’s curious,’ she said, trying to calm her inner tumult, ‘is that nobody else noticed.’

  ‘We’ve hardly had any visitors since we hung the photo up on the wall.’

  ‘What about David?’

  ‘Ah, David!’ repeated Roger with a smile. ‘That’s different. He knew already. I asked him not to say anything until you’d discovered it for yourself.’

  ‘You’re two-faced liars, both of you. Just for that, I’m not going to tell you the solution I just discovered to the mystery.’

  Roger’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  ‘What? You know how Eric was murdered?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Lavinia’s premonitory dream?’

  ‘That, too. But I’m not going to tell you anything.’

  It took several minutes of pleading and cajoling before Roger persuaded his wife to condescend to explain to him, a common mortal, the solution to the mystery which had tortured him night and day.

  ‘You’ve read Lavinia’s diary, haven’t you?’ she began.

  ‘Darling,’ replied Roger, struggling to remain calm, ‘if your goal is to drive me mad with frustration, you’ve succeeded. Of course I’ve read the diary—countless times.’

  ‘The solution’s in there. All you have to do is read between the lines and understand Lavinia’s character. Which I’m more qualified to do than you are.’