by Paul Halter
‘But what was he writing that was so fascinating?’ asked Sarah, lighting a cigarette.
Harris, who had been waiting for just such a question, paused for effect, then continued:
‘There we have it. What was he writing? What was it that absorbed him day and night?’
The clock struck half past ten. Looking at Mr. and Mrs. Hilton, Harris asked:
‘Maybe it’s too late to continue? I imagine after such a busy day, you’d rather retire.’
‘Harris!’ protested his wife, ‘don’t play your little games with me! You’ve started your story, now you have to finish it. Mother and father aren’t tired.’
‘Even if we were,’ replied Howard Hilton, ‘we wouldn’t be able to sleep without hearing the end… Would we, Dorothy?’
Mrs. Hilton replied with an amiable wink. Only her husband knew that her silence was indicative of disapproval.
‘That was the question the members of his family were asking themselves,’ continued Harris, stroking his ginger beard. ‘And then the day arrived when he presented them with a thick manuscript, the fruit of more than two years’ work.’ He looked regretful. ‘You might as well know right away that the manuscript, to my knowledge, doesn’t exist anymore and we don’t really know what was in it. What we do know, however, is that his father was the first to read it and, when he’d finished it, an extraordinary change came over him. He refused all food and quickly lost all his strength. A few days later he became very ill and died. Our grandfather Stephen and his brother Thomas took turns to read it and remained in a state of shock for a while. I hasten to add they didn’t suffer their father’s fate. The manuscript was returned to its author with strict instructions never to take it out of the room again. The only information we have about the contents were imparted to us by our mother, who got it from her husband, who had been told in confidence by our grandfather Stephen. Apparently it’s something unbearably atrocious, a slow and inexorable descent into madness which seizes hold of the reader and drags him into a state of unspeakable nausea. It’s an account of unparalleled evocative power: evil, not to say diabolic. As for the theme, it’s about reflections on life, its origins… and its future. I can’t tell you any more,’ he added, after a slight hesitation.
‘But you do know more, darling,’ interceded Sarah. ‘I can tell!’
Harris glanced thoughtfully at his wife, then looked down.
‘Well, yes. But I don’t know whether one should place too much confidence on a testimony passed along by three people, one after another. It seems that the principal character in the book is none other than Harvey’s own father, the time and manner of whose death were predicted precisely.’
A ripple ran through the audience. Harris coughed and continued:
‘The attitude of his family hurt Harvey profoundly. He treated them as ignorant and illiterate: how could they ignore and despise a genius like himself? His father’s death? It had been written, he could do nothing about it. He shut himself up for good in his room and wrote many other books. The years went by. Stephen and Thomas did everything possible to conceal the existence of someone they considered to be unbalanced and who brought dishonour to the family name. Here, I need to mention that Thomas had been decorated by the queen for services to the crown and any hint of scandal would ruin his career. Their brother was mad, so be it, but as long as nobody else knew, there was no reason to be alarmed. The bombshell exploded when a London publisher sought them out to talk to them about manuscripts which their brother Harvey had submitted for publication. Needless to say, there was no question of him printing them, but he wished to draw their attention to the fact they had been written by someone who was clearly mad, which could turn out to be dangerous if they were indeed published, given that they had been sent to several other publishers as well. Thomas and our grandfather took all the necessary precautions: enquiring of other editors and increased surveillance of their brother. After a while, the panic died down and became nothing more than an unfortunate memory.
‘A few more words before I finish. It was rare for anyone to go into Harvey’s study—he slept and worked there—but if they did cross the threshold, they were immediately seized by a curious and indefinable sense of unease, as if the premises were really and truly unhealthy. Another curious fact: Harvey stocked up with large quantities of water every day. He filled two or three bottles which he took back to his room and one might assume it was purely to quench his thirst. Except that, every time anyone entered his room, whether he was there or not, there at the centre of the table was a sort of large glass full to the brim with water!’
‘Hardly surprising,’ observed Sarah, ‘if he liked to drink so much.’
‘I don’t know,’ retorted Mr. Hilton, tongue in cheek. ‘Why would a heavy drinker of any kind leave behind a full glass?’
‘Of course not,’ said Francis with a shrug of the shoulders aimed at Sarah. ‘But I assume that detail is important somehow?’
‘Yes, indeed. Which leads us to the last act. One day, cries and moans were heard coming from Harvey’s room. He was found on the floor, on the sill of the open door, suffering from atrocious convulsions. He was rolling around on the floor, wild with rage and pain. His suffering ended just a few minutes later: he was dead. The doctors who examined the body were uncertain as to the cause of death. Heart attack? Due to a fit of anger or fear? They certified he wasn’t poisoned or victim of any other kind of foul play and that he died of a heart attack. There were no clues to be found in his room which could explain the mysterious circumstances of his death. The only peculiar thing—and, if my memory is correct, it was told to my mother by one of the maids, not my father—was that there was a wet patch on the carpet in front of the fireplace. And that’s not all: just before he died in agony Harvey had babbled out strange and disconcerting words: “Will perish… sinned… will perish by fire… will perish by fire.”’
Harris struck a match and contemplated the flame before finishing his story:
‘And, some time later, at a party given by some friends, Thomas, Stephen and Agatha all perished in a terrible fire. Only our grandmother Rosemary—Stephen’s wife—escaped. She was pregnant at the time. But before she delivered our father, she gave orders for Harvey’s room to be permanently sealed. Grandmother lived long enough to see us both born, Brian and me, but we have no personal memories of her or our father, because they both perished in a ship that went down... as the result of a fire.’
6
‘Well,’ sighed Sarah, ‘what a story! And you said there was nothing extraordinary about it… What’s more, you told it as if you had no doubts about its accuracy.’
‘I did get a bit carried away,’ admitted Harris, ‘but you have to try and treat the story seriously, don’t you think?’
‘Even so,’ observed Howard Hilton thoughtfully, ‘your great-uncle must have had the gift of clairvoyance. First, the death of his father, then his last words about death by fire—.’
‘Hang on, Mr. Hilton,’ cut in Harris. ‘As I said, one has to be wary of any testimony that’s not first hand. Changes can occur in the retelling: details, nuances, additions and omissions reflecting subconscious desires. In addition to which, dying words are often indistinct. Maybe Harvey only uttered the single word “fire.” As for fire being responsible for the death of some family members, that could be sheer coincidence. Unless anyone has another explanation?’
No one said a word.
‘Good,’ said Harris, stretching his arms. ‘Nevertheless, I won’t hide from you that there are several points I do find peculiar. So peculiar, I can’t imagine they could have been invented.’
‘The strange atmosphere in the room?’ asked Paula eagerly.
Harris smiled indulgently:
‘No. That’s exactly the kind of retrospective impression created by the appropriate atmosphere, evil in this case. What I was thinking of, in the first place, were the circumstances of Harvey’s death. From what we know about him, he was the q
uiet type. Which in and of itself, obviously, doesn’t rule out a heart attack. But how does one explain that convulsive state, and the fact that he was found on the sill of the room? That last point is what bothers me the most, because it’s not the kind of detail that’s likely to have been invented. After all, it’s hardly dramatic.’
‘So, if I understand you correctly,’ interjected Mr. Hilton, ‘the more absurd the detail, the more you are likely to believe it?’
‘Exactly. And then there’s that other detail: the damp patch on the carpet.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Mr. Hilton. ‘It seems highly unlikely anyone would graft such a detail on to the story to make it appear more sinister.’
‘Maybe there’s a simple explanation,’ suggested Francis. ‘The glass on the table and the bottles he’d brought in. He just knocked them all over during his convulsions.’
Harris shook his head:
‘My mother asked the same question of the maid, who was categorical: that explanation wasn’t possible because of the position of the table—against the wall opposite the fireplace. At least, it couldn’t have happened accidentally. Of course, one can’t rule out that Harvey deliberately splashed water on the carpet, for whatever reason… to amuse himself? But I don’t believe so. He was mad, but not to that point.’
‘Water,’ repeated Paula dreamily. ‘Water whose presence can’t be explained in two specific places: on a carpet and in a large glass. But was it really water?’
Harris, amused by his sister-in-law’s interest, shrugged off the question. Paula returned to the attack.
‘Another thing: just now you spoke of an evil spirit hiding in the shadows and the possible existence of an actual ghost.’
‘My goodness!’ exclaimed Harris with a broad smile. ‘My dear Paula, you and Brian make quite a pair. You both believe in ghosts.’
‘But so do you, by your own words.’
‘Yes, but I was speaking on behalf of my brother who, as you saw, is convinced that that room is haunted. I also suspect that he believes great-uncle Harvey isn’t altogether dead. He’s often told me he senses his presence….’
‘There’s an easy way to find out,’ retorted Paula.
‘And what would that be?’ asked Harris, his eyes narrowed.
‘Why, open up his coffin. It must be buried there under the chapel.’
Francis drew in a sharp breath, Mrs. Hilton sat bolt upright and Harris’s deafening laugh shattered the silence of the rest of the audience.
‘Well, why not, if that’s what you want,’ he spluttered. ‘But we’d have a death on our conscience: Brian would never survive. My God, what an evening!’
Out of the corner of her eye, Paula noted the furious look from her husband and the reproachful one from her mother-in-law, but pressed on regardless.
‘And what happened to the manuscripts?’
Harris lit a cigar and drew deeply on it before replying:
‘According to my mother, they were all destroyed immediately after Harvey’s death, although she couldn’t be absolutely certain. Brian believes there must be at least one in existence.’ He raised his eyes to look at the ceiling. ‘His theory is that no one would ever destroy the entirety of a work of such genius. Because, to Brian, that’s what our great-uncle was, a genius, a truly exceptional being, the greatest seer of his century. He insists that each of the manuscripts described an episode in the history of the Thorne family, but in the future!’
‘I assume,’ said Paula disappointedly, ‘that you’ve looked everywhere in vain.’
Harris nodded grimly.
‘Darling!’ exclaimed Sarah. ‘Guess who I saw coming down here. Dr. Mike Meadows and… a young woman who’s his fiancée.’
‘Don’t you remember her name?’ asked Harris absently.
‘No… although she did tell me.’
‘Bessie Blount,’ he said, stressing each syllable separately. ‘Strange that you couldn’t recall her name, whereas that of the handsome doctor tripped daintily off your lips… Well, so what?’ he added brutally.
Sarah’s eyes flashed with anger as she replied: ‘They told me about Brian’s gift. He predicted they would fall in love just the day before they fell into each others’ arms.’
‘If you keep issuing predictions non-stop, sooner or later one of them will turn out to be accurate. But there’s another explanation: that skirt-chaser Meadows took advantage of the situation to get little Miss Blount into his clutches. I can well imagine him, with his mousquetaire’s moustache, saying: “Darling, we must love each other. It’s written in the stars….”’
Several pairs of eyes were looking at the stars that night. Not to see what was written there, and probably not even seeing them, but simply because certain people couldn’t get to sleep.
‘Paula, when are you going to learn to behave in polite society?’
‘What did I do now?’
‘What did you do? Don’t you even realise?’
‘I’m listening, Francis, I’m listening. Tell me what I did wrong.’
‘Darling, you exhibited a morbid interest in that… sinister story. When you suggested visiting the crypt to… I thought my mother was going to faint.’
‘So nobody’s allowed to make jokes any more. We’re not in Queen Victoria’s time now. I am who I am. And I’m beginning to ask myself whether you truly love me as much as you say….’
‘I love you more than anything else in the world, my darling. How could you doubt that?’
‘What do I find so special about Dr. Meadows? Nothing at all. Unless it’s that he seems a bit young to be a doctor.’
‘I note nevertheless that you were able to remember his name quite clearly, but you couldn’t do the same for his fiancée, more pity to her.’
‘Harris, when will you stop these stupid scenes of jealousy? You see a rival in every man I speak to. I was flattered at first, but now it’s become intolerable. Do you understand: intolerable.’
‘And I’m not going to stand for being ridiculed in public, is that clear?’
‘Ridiculed in public? Good grief, the things I have to listen to… Don’t you think you went a bit too far tonight?’
‘Forgive me, Sarah, I… it’s in my nature to get carried away. If there hadn’t been that detail of remembering one name and not the other….’
‘What are you afraid of? You’re holding me prisoner in your own castle!’
‘Frankly, my dear, I’m beginning to wonder whether we did the right thing by moving in here.’
‘And I’m beginning to wonder if Francis did the right thing by marrying that girl. I’m not holding my tongue any more. She went too far tonight. I’ve never seen such cheek in my life. She seemed to revel in the details of that tragic business….’
‘Dorothy, you’re being too hard on Paula. She’s a good-natured young woman who likes a bit of fun….’
‘Likes a bit of fun. That’s just it! You have to know when to do it. One thing’s for sure: Francis disappointed me enormously by picking her.’
‘If I had to compare Harris to an animal….’
‘Howard, don’t try to change the subject. We were talking about Paula and her complete lack of….’
‘… it would be a bear. Yes, a bear. I’m not saying he’s always in a bad mood—far from it, he’s always laughing—but he nevertheless makes me think of a bear. Maybe it’s his physique, which is on the heavy side.’
‘You’ve never liked him. Why don’t you just say so?’
‘What do you mean? Bears are quite nice creatures, don’t you think?’
Brian couldn’t sleep either and watched the stars through leadlight windows, a fascinating spectacle which he never tired of watching, although usually not so late at night. And without seething emotions, as was the case that night. His brother’s strident voice had reached his ears when he had come down to the library to look for a work and had been about to go back upstairs. What he had heard had hardly astonished him, after all he’d known Harris’
s opinion on the subject for a long time.
The two brothers had always had a curious relationship. Despite diametrically opposite characters and ideas, there had always been a respect and a sort of affection for one another, which assured that their fierce discussions never ended in bitterness and quarrel.
Even so, overhearing the tale Harris was telling had made him upset. Returning to his room, he had become aware of a tightness in his throat which he initially attributed to anger with his brother. It was only later that he realised his unease had a different origin. The words pronounced by Harris came back to him: “… there at the centre of the table was a sort of large glass full to the brim with water!”
Three hours had gone by since then, during which he’d thought ceaselessly about that large glass of water, the mysterious glass of water which had haunted him for so many years, ever since his mother had told him the story of his great-uncle. And he’d never discovered the slightest explanation. But now, he felt certain he’d heard speak of it… somewhere, but where? He knew from experience that any concentrated attempt to rack his brains would end in failure.