by Paul Halter
‘I’m all ears.’
‘After that, you need to know how to interpret certain facts, taking into account the age and personality of the author. For example, the passage where Lavinia’s father announces that she should marry his partner’s son for purely financial reasons. It sounded like some horrible Victorian novel with wicked guardians. Such things did happen, but in this case I believe her father already knew of her feelings about Eric through his father.’
‘Pat, please spare me the details.’
‘That’s just it: it was through the details that I began to understand. As you yourself pointed out, towards the end of the diary she stopped talking about the mystery of her fiancé’s death. It was as if she’d solved it... So, can you work it out?’
Roger stayed silent.
‘Read the last few pages again,’ continued Patricia, ‘they’re very eloquent. Lavinia is miserable and desperate. No longer is she posing questions about a presumed murderer, now she’s only asking why he left her. Don’t you understand? And when she talks of rejoining him and taking the same door to paradise, what does she do. She hangs herself! On the same tree and at the same spot. It’s as clear as daylight, Roger... Eric’s death was a suicide! He hanged himself on that tree with his father’s yellow scarf.’
There was a long silence. Roger seemed thunderstruck. When he started to object, Patricia continued with her implacable reasoning.
‘There was a strong wind that night. And remember there was a broken branch in poor condition found close to the body. That was where Eric hanged himself, but the weight of his body, buffeted by the wind, was too much for the branch he happened to choose. It’s reasonable to assume someone in his mental state wouldn’t be paying much attention to the quality of the branches. He must have made preparations for the sinister act by climbing to the branch above, slipping the running knot over his head, and tying the ends around the branch below—which happened to be rotten. When he launched himself, the branch below held just long enough for Eric to give up the ghost and then snapped. It’s quite possible that his final convulsions were what caused the branch to finally break. By then it was too late. He lay on the virgin snow “strangled.” The rest is easy to guess. The element which would give his death its supernatural aspect was none other than Nature itself, in the form of a violent wind.
‘The tied ends of the scarf are freed by the branch breaking. The running knot is still around his neck, but now it’s slack—slack enough for the tied ends, shaken and billowed by the gusts of wind, to free themselves from the loop. Now it’s just a folded length of rope under Eric’s neck. It’s not long before it’s picked up by the violent wind and deposited in the faraway bushes amongst a tangle of branches and thorns. Some of the threads of the yellow scarf are later found near the victim’s neck. Admit it, Roger, the solution is simplicity itself. It’s the surrounding circumstances which have misled everyone: Lavinia’s dream, the tree’s twisted branches and the witch... they all combined to convince the whole world, including the police, that the victim had been strangled. And you can’t blame them, for in a sense he was strangled—not by human fingers but by the tightened scarf. Which is what happens in a hanging. Last but not least, add in the supposed improbability of suicide, which led the investigation astray. Nobody foresaw that Eric might have ended his own life.’
‘Exactly,’ cut in Roger, his face flushed under the effect of the shock and a certain degree of humiliation. ‘And I’d like you to explain that. Why would a dashing young man who had everything and was about to marry a ravishing beauty... why would such a man go out in a freezing winter night, clad only in a shirt and his father’s scarf, and hang himself on the nearest tree?’
‘That,’ said Patricia, shooting her husband a sly look, ‘is a question of psychology, which women understand much better than men. And I have another advantage over you because I’ve worked in hospitals treating depressed patients, whose symptoms closely resembled Eric’s.’
‘Let me remind you that Eric was always described as the life and soul of the party. He spent his time making people laugh.’
‘Exactly. Only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches. Lavinia kept stressing what a jolly fellow Eric was, to the point of excess. But sometimes such people are the most miserable in the world. Their desire to make people laugh can hide mental distress, often accompanied by persecution mania. It’s easy enough to understand: if someone goes out of his way to be noticed and make everyone laugh, that’s because he has little confidence in himself and his self-doubt is proportional to his output of jokes. Go back to certain passages in Lavinia’s diary where she finds him on the doorstep at the end of a joyful party. He’s sad and claims that someone doesn’t like him. Lavinia assumes it’s one particular individual, and later events tend to confirm that. But that’s a posteriori: Eric could have meant that people in general didn’t like him.’
‘I must admit I didn’t catch the subtlety,’ said Roger, scratching his head. ‘So he killed himself during a moment of depression?’
‘That’s right. A moment of depression which came after a riotous party where wine was flowing freely. But that’s not all. There’s also the tragedy of Lavinia. Eric liked her a lot, but that’s all. He found her charming and saw no objection to marrying her to please his parents. But he wasn’t in love with her... not in the sense of a profound emotion which gives lovers the force and courage to confront the trials of daily existence.’
‘I see,’ said Roger. ‘If he’d really and truly loved her, he would never have taken his life, even if he was depressed.’
‘Exactly. He liked to amuse people and have a good time, but he didn’t love her. And I think that, deep down, he didn’t want the marriage, or marriage in general, which would have put a brake on his life as a partygoer. The imminence of the event, a moment of depression and a large quantity of alcohol all contributed to him going out to the cursed tree. And, little by little, Lavinia understood in her subconscious mind that he didn’t love her. But she couldn’t admit it and fought against it, accusing the tree of everything until she finally went mad. She even said, shortly before she went out to hang herself, that she was taking the same path as Eric: the tree was calling her and she would go to find him.’
Roger nodded his head silently. He looked at “Baucis” and at the tangle of roots in particular.
‘And how do you explain the premonition in her dream?’
‘I think that, even then, she was beginning to realise her fiancé’s true feelings for her. She was young and outwardly full of hope, but at night her subconscious troubled her and gave her nightmares. Add to that the view of that tree. I can testify to that from personal experience. Go and look at it on a windy night. The knotty branches seem to attack the window... It’s an awesome sight for someone about to fall asleep. A tree that wanted to strangle her, a fiancé whose comportment wasn’t what it should be... both combined to cause the nightmare she had that night.’
‘You’ve explained everything, darling,’ conceded Roger with a tender smile. ‘I don’t know what to say. Your logic was impeccable. But, tell me, do you still see Lavinia the same way?’
‘Yes.’
Patricia turned her big blue eyes towards the old snapshot.
‘I see her as I see myself. How could it be otherwise? She’s my alter ego, physically as well as mentally. Darling, could you put some music on? I want to dance.’
30
At the beginning of autumn of that same year, Dr. Twist was strolling along one of the paths by the lake in St. James’s Park. It was one of his favourite spots and he was particularly fond of that time of year. After purchasing a couple of sandwiches and parking himself on a bench from which he could observe the ducks, he began to think about old Mr. Fielding who had been murdered three months before. He’d respected the elderly man, but had hardly known him long enough to be considered a friend, so why was he thinking about him?
That was when he noticed the familiar figure of his old f
riend Archibald Hurst bearing down on him.
‘I knew I’d find you here, Twist,’ said the policeman, breathing heavily.
‘Were you looking for me?’
‘Not really. I just needed to get some fresh air. It’s good for the little grey cells, apparently.’
The two men chatted amiably for a few minutes before invoking the notorious affair of the Lightwood Vampire and recalling the visit Patricia had paid to the Yard to explain her theory about the puzzling death of Eric, Lavinia’s fiancé.
‘I’d already worked it out, actually,’ confided Twist, ‘for it was a relatively simple problem. But that doesn’t detract from her achievement. That young woman has a very logical mind. What are you thinking about, Archibald? Weren’t you satisfied with her solution?’
The inspector was turning his hat round and round in his podgy fingers.
‘Yes, of course. It was very convincing, just as the fact it was the vicar who committed all those atrocious crimes. Nevertheless, there’s something bothering me.’
‘I’m all ears.’
His friend pulled out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow.
‘I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with that sordid business in Lightwood, but a young boy was found last month in Kent with his throat cut. It’s over three hundred miles from the Lightwood hunting ground, so I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. But now there’s been another one. Still a long way from Lightwood, but nevertheless... As I say, it’s probably nothing.’
‘Then why did you bring it up?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied the policeman, getting to his feet. ‘But it doesn’t feel right.’
Dr. Twist arrived back in his Chelsea flat in the late afternoon, no longer thinking about the inspector’s news or old Mr. Fielding’s death. He was surprised to find a large envelope with a notary stamp in his mailbox. Opening it, he found another sealed envelope inside. He was surprised to find it had been sent in accordance with Mr. Fielding’s will.
Night had fallen by the time Dr. Twist finished reading the old man’s letter. It consisted of half-a-dozen pages detailing his suspicions about a certain person whom Twist himself had suspected at the time. But the criminologist had found his own theory too far-fetched and it had later appeared to be invalidated by the facts. Now he regretted not having pursued the matter. Fielding himself had not made the same mistake, even as he foresaw his own likely death as the outcome.
I can’t rule out the possibility that this very sick person, completely abnormal despite appearances, will do away with me. I recognise that I have indirectly laid down a challenge. If anything should happen to me, I hope that this testimony is not too late to result in the arrest of...
The name written on the bottom of the page would have surprised most people who had followed the affair from near or far, but Dr. Twist no longer had any doubts. The only question remaining was what strategy to employ, for the situation appeared most delicate.
He had no way of knowing the urgency involved, or he would have immediately dispatched his friend Inspector Hurst to Lightwood with the utmost speed.
31
‘STOP!’
Patricia jumped as Roger’s voice hit her like a whiplash.
Trembling, she almost dropped the bottle of milk she was holding. She placed it carefully in its proper refrigerator compartment and straightened up.
Her husband’s face was twisted in anger.
‘Why do you insist on rummaging around in that corner?’ he continued, in a voice full of recrimination.
‘To put things in order.’
‘Order? Everything’s in its proper place here. Or almost.’
‘Roger, I don’t understand why you fly into a rage every time I want to take something out.’
‘At this hour?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Quarter past nine. It’s not the time to start thinking about cooking.’
Patricia let out a long sigh. She looked around the kitchen. The food reserves were stacked away in one corner. The rest of the space was occupied by Roger’s tools. She stood motionless and silent for several seconds, then announced in an expressionless voice:
‘I’ve had enough of this.’
Immediately afterwards, she left the room, leaving Roger gaping in surprise. He was already regretting his overbearing manner when he heard the door slam.
When he reached the front door, he could barely make out Patricia’s silhouette disappearing into the night. The night was cool and damp and it was already very dark.
‘Lavinia!’ he shouted. ‘Lavinia darling, come back!’
He was about to go after her when he suddenly became aware of a presence to his left, near the corner of the house. As he turned to look, the hesitant figure came closer.
‘David!’ he said in surprise, when the light from the corridor revealed the face of his friend. ‘What were you doing out there?’
Adjusting the collar of his trench-coat, David cleared his throat before answering:
‘I was about to ring when the door opened and Patricia rushed out without seeing me. I stepped aside. It seems as though there’s thunder in the air, in a manner of speaking.’
With a bitter smile Roger agreed.
‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’ asked David diplomatically.
‘No, of course not. We were arguing about trifles. Come in and have a drink.’
Shortly thereafter, the two friends were drinking like two bachelors.
‘We’ve had a few good evenings together, my old friend, and I don’t intend for that to change.’
‘You know where to find me,’ replied David, bringing his third glass of whisky to his lips. ‘My door’s always open.’
‘I know, David, I know. Just as I know that women can never understand a simple camaraderie between two men friends. And it’s quite a while since we’ve got together.’
‘Nearly two months, in fact. You spent the month of August in Greece and I was in Kent for a few days just when you returned.’
‘We must have crossed each other! And now it’s already the end of September.’
‘So how was your trip to Greece?’
‘Every bit as well as expected. The country is beautiful, just as described by Miss Pickford—who’s never been!’
‘It was practically your honeymoon.’
‘Yes, although it was a bit late. We’ve been married four months already. How time flies. But there was all that sordid business in between.’
‘Speaking of which, has Patricia recovered? I’m thinking about those sad memories of the Blitz which perturbed her so much. Now that she knows exactly what happened....’
‘She’s much better. And I’m sure that in a few months she’ll be back to herself again.’
The sculptor frowned:
‘Back to herself? What does that mean exactly?’
Roger seemed disconcerted for a few moments.
‘Well... I mean she’s rediscovered her true self, in other words, her equilibrium. As you know, she’s always been a bit unstable.’
David nodded thoughtfully.
‘And you captured that very well in your sculpture,’ added Roger.
‘Her instability?’
‘No, no. I mean her general character. The look in her eyes. Everything that makes her who she is.’ The effects of the whisky were starting to affect his speech. ‘To have chiselled that masterpiece, David, you must have understood her as well as I did. But... but she’s changed since then. Now she’s becoming her true self. Do you understand?’
David didn’t answer immediately and almost seemed not to have heard his friend’s words. After another silence, he asked point-blank:
‘Why did you call her Lavinia just now?’
Roger smiled vaguely.
‘Because... because sometimes I confuse them. You know they look very much alike.’
David looked up at the snapshot on the wall.
‘Eerily similar, in fact.’
‘It’s more than that, David. I’
ll explain some other time,’ said Roger, his eyes on the floor. ‘It’s not easy... She should be back soon, in fact, otherwise I’ll have to go and look for her.’
When David left at eleven o’clock Patricia still hadn’t returned, but Roger was in no shape to look for her. David had partaken more moderately than his friend and the night air cleared his head further on his way back. He was wondering whether Patricia had made her way back when he noticed a figure in front of the door to his workshop.
Was it Patricia? At his residence?
‘David, is that you?’ came a voice from the darkness.
‘Yes,’ exclaimed the sculptor, taken aback and wary.
‘I knew it would be you. I’d like...I’d like... My God, I was just about to say something really stupid!’ Her voice became suddenly hysterical. ‘I was about to ask you if I could pose for you again. But your statue’s finished. It would be absurd to pose again, wouldn’t it?’
‘Well, yes, in a way.’
‘David, I think I regret that time.’
‘When?’
‘When I posed for you.’
Patricia had come closer and was looking him in the eye. David, very embarrassed, took her arm, not quite knowing if it was to support her or to bring her closer to him.
‘That time?’ he said, teasingly. ‘It’s not that long ago.’
‘I know, but it feels so far away. David, I have good memories of that time because... I felt good. You listened to me, I could confide in you... I’d very much like to talk to you, David. Can we take a walk?’
‘A walk? At this hour?’ replied David, who felt a shiver down his spine.
He wanted to add that she wasn’t wearing a coat and Roger would be waiting for her, but what he actually said was:
‘But of course, it’s no trouble. I’m in no hurry.’
Shortly afterwards, they were traversing the woods in the direction of the marsh. Patricia remarked on the coolness of the night and he sheltered her under his coat. He felt a growing sense of guilt with regard to his friend, but a strange reluctance prevented him from doing anything about it. Patricia, too, seemed to have conflicting feelings, appearing playful and despondent at the same time.