“Miss White,” he said with great formality, “allow me to present my old friend Achilles Stock, who became aware of your predicament, and to whom I owe the pleasure of this meeting.”
She turned to me and nodded her head in acknowledgement.
“Papa told me it's thanks to you that I am here. A thousand thanks, sir, for your noble gesture, particularly since you don't even know me.”
“It's nothing, my dear Miss White. The fact is, my friend would never have forgiven me for withholding such a delectable mystery.”
The young woman turned to Owen and considered him with respectful admiration.
“Papa told me about you as well, sir. It appears you have helped Scotland Yard on many an occasion.”
Owen raised a hand in false modesty.
“I may have been able to make a humble contribution to justice—”
“And always successfully!”
“My motto is ‘simplicity is everything.’ It's been the secret of my success. Having said that, my logical gifts, keen though they may be, cannot alone explain my victories. I have auxiliaries as precious as they are gracious.”
Smiling, he pointed to the nine statuettes of Greek divinities which graced the mantelpiece. Miss White looked at him in utter bewilderment.
“Those are the nine Muses of Antiquity,” he explained. “The famous muses of inspiration.”
“Oh, I see,” said the young woman, nodding her head vigorously. “The statues help you think. But I'm afraid they won't be able to help you much in this case. It's a frightening business, totally incomprehensible. And anyway, the culprit isn't human.”
Owen Burns frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Miss White's big blue eyes, riveted to Owen's, filled with tears. She swallowed hard.
“Well,” she said, “its face, for example. It isn't human.”
“Have you seen it?”
“Yes, it's frightful and horrible.”
So saying, she buried her face in her hands and her body shook with sobs.
Taking her by the hand, Owen sat her down in an armchair.
“My dear Miss White, do not fret so. I shall have solved your problem before you leave here. My goodness! How cold your hands are. Would you care for a cup of tea? It'll do you a world of good.”
After she nodded her assent, Owen turned to me and said:
“Achilles, would you be good enough to take care of that while I comfort our friend?”
When I returned with the teapot, I had no greater desire at that moment but to see him fall flat on his face. Although I was consumed with curiosity about the case, my fervent wish was that he would fail to solve it. He had taken advantage of my absence to play the white knight coming to the aid of the damsel in distress, and the colour had returned to the young woman's cheeks. After a few sips of tea, she began her story.
“About two years ago, I was engaged as a maid in the service of Sir Jeremy Cavendish. I sometimes took over duties from the old cook, who was frequently sick. The trouble started with the return of Sir Jeremy, three months ago. He had been away for more than a year with his younger brother on a dig in Iraq. Archaeology was Sir Jeremy's passion. The recent discoveries by a certain Smithson regarding the Deluge intrigued him greatly. Yes, that Deluge: the Great Flood of the Bible. But it appears that people were writing about it even before then, in ancient Persian texts.”
“Mesopotamian, actually,” said Owen, coughing discreetly.
“Exactly. Mesopotamian. According to this Smithson, who had read about it on clay tablets covered with signs like nail heads—”
“That would be cuneiform. . . .”
“Yes, that's it. I don't know why, but I always forget the word. Well, those old texts apparently confirmed the existence of a great cataclysm just like the one in Genesis. Anyway, there was a big row about the discovery, and Sir Jeremy decided to conduct his own research so as to be clear in his own mind. He had the time and the money. So for a year I was in the company of Chloe Cavendish, his wife, who was young and pretty and patiently awaiting his return. She had just turned twenty-two and Sir Jeremy was twice her age, but he was an energetic man who loved action and adventure, and they seemed to make a well-matched couple—although Chloe did prefer the creature comforts of the Cavendish estate to exotic expeditions in the Middle East.
“Nimroud, Mosul, Baghdad . . . all those exotic names. Chloe spoke to me about them each time she got a letter. Then, as I said, in the autumn Sir Jeremy came back. He had changed a lot. Not physically: He was still an attractive man. But he had become cautious and wary, and constantly on the lookout, as if he were being hunted. I didn't know the results of his research, because he'd been very guarded about it. All I knew was that William Cavendish, his brother, had had an accident. Then, during the month of October, Sir Jeremy fell victim to a whole series of accidents. Luckily, he himself remained unharmed.
“It started with a fire in the garden shelter, a small wooden construction at the bottom of the garden, where he sometimes took a nap. He was sleeping there when it caught fire, and was awakened by the heat of the flames. He managed to escape unscathed. But why had the shelter caught fire? It was a mystery. The following week, he almost fell under the wheels of a cart as he was walking with Chloe by the side of a road. He hadn't seen anyone, and he hadn't stumbled, but he'd had the distinct impression of having been pushed by an invisible force. And a few days later, while visiting the local zoo with Chloe, he had come within a whisker of being bitten by a cobra which had escaped from a cage which had been mysteriously left open.
“I thought there had been far too many accidents in the brief time since his return. Strange things must have happened during the time of the excavations in Iraq. But I didn't dare raise the subject, because Chloe and her husband were so obviously worried themselves. Then, one day, I read an article in the newspaper about the master's research activities in the Middle East. All kinds of suspicion surrounded the work he did there.
“The entire Iraq excavation site had caught fire in the middle of the night, destroying almost everything. It was a terrible tragedy: Aside from the material loss, two native workers had been killed. The local authorities had accused Sir Jeremy of deliberately starting the fire in order to mask the disappearance of certain important discoveries which he wanted to keep for himself and which he had hidden away beforehand. In his defence, it was stressed that the charges were unproven and could well have been trumped up by the authorities, who seldom missed an opportunity to undermine the British administration. The political climate may also explain the curse put upon Sir Jeremy by an ancient Iraqi on the day of his departure: He predicted that he would suffer for his blasphemous acts and would be cursed by Ishtar, one of the goddesses of ancient Mesopotamia.
“You can imagine what I was thinking! An old beggar puts a curse on Sir Jeremy and straightaway he becomes the victim of a string of accidents as mysterious as they are deadly.
“One evening, as I was cleaning Sir Jeremy's study, I happened to notice, over his shoulder, a folder marked ‘DELUGE’ in capital letters.
“He noticed the direction of my gaze and smiled:
“'Yes, Miss White. An explosive dossier, one which could well cause another cataclysm.'
“That evening, in confidence, he told me a lot about Mesopotamia, whose vital importance as an ancient civilisation was only recently becoming clear. He told me the story of Gilgamesh, mankind's first hero, who lived long before the celebrated Ulysses. Gilgamesh knew the story of the Great Flood. Was that the same deluge the Bible talks about? Was the holy book inspired by the Gilgamesh epic? All very sensitive questions with great consequences, he said, as much for the religious community as the scientific. I listened carefully, without understanding all he was saying, but I remember him specifically talking about the ancient civilization's gods, nightmarish figures, as I could see for myself: Right there on the table were a winged lion and another creature just as disturbing.
“'Do you realize, Miss White, that the Mesopotamians believed we were all made from clay? Take a small piece, mould it into shape, breathe the holy spirit into it, and you have one more man on earth!'
“He was smiling as he said it. I pointed to the winged lion:
“'If that's the result, I'd say it needs more work.'
“He looked at me as if he was amused.
“'Does that creature frighten you?'
“'Yes, a little, I must admit. Because I can imagine it much bigger and more crudely shaped, made of mud or clay.'
“'And flying,’ he said, teasing me.
“'Obviously, because it's got wings.'
“'A flying creature, made of mud . . . Strange, I never thought of it like that,’ he said thoughtfully.
“After he said that I left. He seemed amused by my remarks, as if they had taken his mind off his worries. Nevertheless, my instincts warned me that something bad was going to happen and, unfortunately, I was right.
“It came down in buckets that evening. I thought about the flower beds at the back of the house that old George the gardener had prepared in the last few days. All that rain would transform them into quagmires. There would be mud everywhere, including the house. In other words, more work for me.
“It was just after nine o'clock when it happened. Chloe had just gone to bed, but Sir Jeremy was still at work in his study on the ground floor overlooking the flower beds. Suddenly, the front doorbell rang. As I went to open it, I was wondering who it could be at that time of night and in that kind of weather.
“There was a man standing on the doorstep with rain streaming off him. His coat collar was turned up and the brim of his hat was pulled down over his eyes. In a curiously deep voice, he asked to see Sir Jeremy. When I asked if he was expected, he responded with a grunt. I was surprised and asked him to wait outside. I had a premonition that if I let him in, something bad would happen.
“When I informed Sir Jeremy of the visitor, he asked me rather curtly if I was in the habit of leaving guests out in the rain. I took it in my stride, because I knew he could sometimes be grumpy when he was sorting out his notes. I showed the strange visitor into the room. I still had not seen his face. But just as Sir Jeremy was closing the door and the man was turning to take off his hat, I got a glimpse of his features. I almost fainted.”
At this point in her account, Miss White swallowed hard and paused. From her wide-eyed stare and the pale colour of her skin, it was obvious that she was haunted by the memory.
“I had never seen anything quite so horrible in my whole life,” she continued. “The features were coarse, brownish and shapeless, as if the face were made of clay. An inhuman mud creature, which could freeze the blood with a single glance—I had seen its bulging eyes. I was so worried for Sir Jeremy that I stayed behind to look through the keyhole. But they had moved to a far corner of the room and were talking in low voices. I couldn't hear what they were saying, and so I went into the drawing room.
“I heard voices raised and, after a quarter of an hour, I decided to go and have a look. But the visitor was already on his way out along the corridor to the front door and I only got a glimpse of him before he slammed it and left.
“I felt I should talk to Sir Jeremy so as to reassure myself that nothing was amiss, but the memory of his earlier angry tone dissuaded me. And anyway, I told myself, it was his business, not mine. I could hear his footsteps in the study, pacing up and down. Comforted by the sound, I went to bed; it was nearly eleven o'clock and the rain had stopped.
“I would never see my master alive again.
“Early the next day I was abruptly awakened by the sound of an explosion. After a few moments of stunned silence—I thought I might have dreamt it—I went downstairs. At the end of the corridor I observed Chloe in her nightdress pounding on the door of the study and calling her husband's name in vain. She claimed that he had not come upstairs that night, which was not unusual as he would often stay up late when he was immersed in one of his projects. But she had not been able to find him anywhere else in the house and the door to the study was locked on the inside.
“At this juncture Old George arrived. Apprised of the situation, he bent down to peer through the keyhole, then suggested opening the door with a master key until he realised the door was bolted, not locked. The only thing to do, then, was to break the door down. Despite his advancing years, old George was still up to the task and, after three attempts, the door yielded.
“The three of us found the master of the house in the far corner of the room, slumped over his desk, with the French window which overlooked the rear of the property slightly ajar. There was a revolver in his hand. His head rested at an angle on the leather blotting-pad, where a dark stain was spreading. A rivulet of blood dribbled from a black hole in his temple. The winged plaster lion contemplated him with a frozen grimace. There was a strong smell of powder in the room. Chloe screamed. Old George caught her as she was about to faint and placed her gently in the only armchair. As he left to call the police, he asked me to look after our mistress, adding that a glass of brandy would do her no harm. Chloe, meanwhile, had brought out a handkerchief and was trying hard not to cry. I followed the advice of Old George and went off to find some brandy. I helped myself as well for, after all that had happened, I felt very weak.
“The police arrived quite quickly: three officers, a doctor, and Inspector Charles, who knew the Cavendish family personally. He was in his fifties, tall and well built, with a considerable presence, and very methodical in his investigations. He didn't talk much while he was working, but around noon he communicated his preliminary findings. Before that, he had interrogated me, but it was obvious that he didn't attach much importance to my testimony about the strange visitor the night before, attributing it, no doubt, to the effect of shock.
“'Sir Jeremy killed himself, there's no doubt about it,’ he announced confidently. ‘Everything points to that conclusion: the position of the body, the head wound, and his hand on the revolver which, by the way, is his—'
“'No, it was murder, committed by that strange visitor who came last night.'
“The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I saw the consternation on the faces of Chloe and old George. But the policeman didn't take offence; he even said he understood my point of view. Then, quite calmly, he demonstrated the absurdity of my remark.
“'Please understand, Miss White, that in the case of violent death, we in the police always assume the worst case: that is to say, murder. So I took great care not to rule out that possibility. But let's look at the facts. At half-past seven, there was an explosion. Everyone rushed to the study, only to find the door bolted on the inside. You broke down the door and you found the body of Sir Jeremy. All three witnesses testify to that. The furniture in the room—a sideboard, a table, a chair, and an armchair—preclude any possibility of a hiding place. In any case, all three of you were ready to swear there was nobody else in the room when you broke in. So where did the murderer go? Apart from the door, there is only one other possible exit: the French window, which you found ajar. Up to that point, the hypothesis of a murder is still valid . . . but then things get complicated.
“'I suppose you've already looked outside. Within a radius of ten yards, there is nothing but mud. The flower beds were carefully raked over the previous day, and are only now starting to dry after the deluge. It's very heavy soil, rich in clay and heavily waterlogged, which would preserve the footprints of anyone who walked over it for a very long time. And yet there's nothing! No trace around the French window and no trace anywhere else. Nobody has walked there since last night. Since eleven o'clock last night, to be precise, because that's when it stopped raining. If Sir Jeremy was murdered, it could only have been by someone or something with wings!'
“Mud . . . winged creature. I thought I was dreaming. I thought about the creature I had imagined as I looked at the statue of the winged lion.
“Inspector Charles ha
d been very confident as he summed up the situation, but then one of his officers sidled up to him hesitantly, looking very serious.
“'I'm afraid Sir Jeremy didn't kill himself, sir,’ he announced. ‘In fact, he couldn't have done it.'
“'What's that you say, Evans?’ exclaimed Inspector Charles, sharply.
“'The revolver was the murder weapon, but there are absolutely no prints of any kind on it. The gun was simply slipped under his hand to make believe it was a suicide.'
“From that moment on, the investigation changed course and Inspector Charles lost his air of infallibility. He began to listen attentively to what I had told him.
“'A man with a face of clay?’ he said, in astonishment. ‘But that's impossible. It's pure fantasy, the stuff you get in books.'
“'I don't know if it was really clay, but it's the first thing that came into my head after my conversation with Sir Jeremy. In any case, it wasn't a human face, and I'm prepared to swear that under oath.'
“'And Sir Jeremy received this person?'
“'Yes, but they ended up quarrelling. Afterwards, I saw the individual leaving. Quite suddenly. He slammed the door.'
“'If that person is the murderer, he must have come back this morning to commit the crime, because the medical examiner has confirmed that the time of death corresponds to the time of the explosion, in other words around seven-thirty.'
“Inspector Charles rubbed his chin and continued:
“'The two men argue, one of them leaves in anger, then returns later for revenge. So far, so good. But after that, we run into a brick wall. How did he carry out the crime? How did he cross a field of mud without leaving a single footprint?'
“'It's certainly strange, the more so because Sir Jeremy and I were talking about such a creature. A flying creature made of clay!'
“When he left, the inspector seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit. And his condition didn't improve when he learnt of the curse put upon Sir Jeremy at the moment of his departure from the Middle East, and the mysterious events which had followed.
EQMM, July 2012 Page 7