The Madman's Room

by Paul Halter

  A cold sweat covered his brow. Irritated, he groped around in the dark for the box of matches on his bedside table. The gentle glow from the opaline globe revealed the details of the room and Brian, just as every other time he lit his oil lamp, congratulated himself on resisting his brother’s wishes to convert to electricity. And it was at that precise moment that he thought of the king of France.

  ‘Louis XIV!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good heavens! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?’

  He scanned the several bookshelves which lined the walls and stopped, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. With a trembling hand, he pulled out a volume on the Memoires of the Duc de Saint-Simon. The book opened all by itself on the page he was looking for, where he found a passage he knew by heart.

  ‘The glass of water,’ he murmured a few moments later in a euphoric state. ‘Incredible! I must have been blind or feeble-minded not to have made the connection before! The glass of water!’

  7

  The month of August was already well under way and the heat wave which had descended on the region several days before showed no signs of abating. It was just past ten o’clock in the morning and the temperature was already climbing.

  Mrs. Dorothy Hilton looked out of the corner of her eye at her at her son-in-law who was tapping the arm-rest of his armchair nervously. His red hair was soaked in perspiration.

  “What an idea to wear a jacket in weather like this,” she thought to herself. “And why those perpetual blue-checked suits? As if there were no other colour.”

  She was about to make a comment about wearing a jacket in summer, but contented herself by merely observing:

  ‘It’s quite hot already….’

  ‘Yes, very hot,’ agreed Howard Hilton. ‘You know, Harris, you shouldn’t worry. Sarah has always been highly-strung, we’ve never known her otherwise. Those little heart murmurs don’t occur often, thankfully, but she can’t bear it when it’s very hot. You need to be watchful, of course, but there’s no need to get alarmed.’

  Harris Thorne didn’t appear to have heard his father-in-law. His eyes scanned the sky. Even though there were no clouds on the horizon, he sensed they were inevitable. Two months had gone by since his in-laws’ arrival at Hatton Manor. Two happy and peaceful months, except for the last ten days. He had to admit that the pleasant atmosphere had largely evaporated since he’d opened up the “sealed” room to turn it into his study and Brian had almost spat out the words he didn’t care to remember any more than his recent quarrels—not to say brawls—with Sarah.

  Even though he tried to forget it, what had happened the previous Saturday kept coming to mind. Sarah had invited Dr. Meadows and Bessie Blount for a game of bridge with Francis and Paula. Was it because he’d had too much cognac that he’d accused Francis of cheating and Meadows of being a lousy partner? He couldn’t say for certain. But what was certain was that his furious outburst had cast a chill over, and put an end to, an evening which had started out so well. What had happened afterwards had been disastrous. Before turning out the bedside lamp, he hadn’t been able to resist telling Sarah that even a blind man could have seen the smiles which she and Dr. Meadows had been exchanging. What followed was an altercation of such intensity it had probably kept the entire household awake for most of the night. By morning, all had been forgotten, but another row had flared up two days later. The whole week had been filled with tears, heartbreaks and reconciliations, which had taken a severe toll. And, just when he’d thought things could get no worse, Sarah had woken him up. Doubled over, with her hand clutching her chest, she’d been unable to utter a word. He’d rushed to her parents’ room, where they’d been able to reassure him.

  He’d asked his butler Mostyn to call the doctor—he’d stipulated it must be Dr. Allerton and not the other one. But Mostyn had returned to inform him that Dr. Allerton had been called out on an emergency to a remote village and would not be back soon. Frustrated, he’d been obliged to call Dr. Meadows, who was now in his room with his wife.

  Sarah’s condition, his own jealousy and feelings of guilt—he was clear-headed enough to acknowledge he was at least partly responsible for the quarrels—were the reasons he found himself in a continuous state of agitation he wasn’t used to.

  He jumped up out of his armchair when he heard someone approach, but it was only Philip Mostyn bringing him the mail.

  The butler, a tall slim man in his forties, was undoubtedly the most stylish and imposing figure amongst the staff of Hatton Manor. Discreet, with pleasant features framed by short, black hair, he’d gained Harris Thorne’s confidence by suggesting certain changes in the organisation of the manor and effectively acted as his personal secretary as well. Amongst the other staff, Simon Minden was responsible for the maintenance of the premises and also assisted the cook, Mrs. Ariane Minden, his wife. They were a middle-aged couple,discreet and friendly. Cathy Restarick, the maid, a timid young woman, took care of the laundry and helped with the maintenance. There was only one gardener, old Mortimer, whose two sons occasionally assisted him.

  Harris looked quickly through the mail, set aside a letter addressed to Mrs. Hilton, and opened the newspaper—which he must have read at an extraordinary speed, judging by the rapidity with which he turned the pages.

  Howard took the letter marked “Mrs. Hilton” and handed it to his wife, who looked intrigued. It was at that precise moment that Mike Meadows came into the room.

  Paula left her room, looking ravishing and apparently in a good mood. On leaving the bathroom a few moments earlier, she had run into Mike Meadows, who had reassured her about the condition of her sister-in-law. She descended the stairs jauntily, wondering what she would do on such a promising day, and entered the salon. Dr. Meadows had just left and Harris had accompanied him. She greeted her parents-in-law and went over to the window, where she drew in deep breaths while watching a bee land on a flowering bush to gather pollen. The insect’s buzzing was drowned out by the far more disagreeable sound of Mrs. Dorothy Hilton, which annoyed Paula before it froze her to the spot.

  ‘White camellia! Blue reed! What’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘It’s probably a wrong address,’ suggested Howard Hilton.

  ‘A wrong address? But there’s a name on the envelope, and it’s mine. That’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

  ‘Actually, there’s another Mrs. Hilton in the house. Isn’t there, Paula?’

  Paula took a deep breath, turned round and gave her parents-in-law what she hoped was an innocent look:

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Dorothy’s just received a letter,’ explained Howard Hilton. ‘A rather curious letter which doesn’t seem to concern her. Nor you, probably,’ he added with a broad smile. ‘But take a look anyway.’

  Paula took the letter and blood rushed to her cheeks as she read it.

  ‘White Camellia,

  Meet this afternoon at 3 o’clock at the entrance to the fortress.

  A question of life or death.

  Blue Reed.’

  White Camellia. Blue Reed. The words resonated in Paula’s brain. They were the names Patrick and she used when they amused them- selves by sending secret messages. She recognised the handwriting: there was no doubt it was from him and addressed to her.

  Even though she was in the grip of a mixture of anxiety and excitement, she managed to declare in a calm voice:

  ‘No, I don’t see….’

  At half past two, a door opened on the upper floor of Hatton Manor. A head appeared to take a precautionary look at the corridor and “White Camellia” tiptoed out of her room towards the wing of the manor, descended the spiral staircase leading to the service door, and waited a moment to listen to the voices of Ariane Minden and Cathy coming from the kitchen. Closing the door behind her, Paula told herself she was stupid to draw attention to herself by acting furtively.

  She reached the western perimeter of the property and climbed over the railings, which she then followed to the front gate. There
, she concealed herself behind a tree and waited in the undergrowth which was an excellent observation post. She had no doubt that this was “the entrance to the fortress” specified in Patrick’s letter, the fortress in question being Hatton Manor. It would have been easier to walk down the drive, but that was visible from the salon and, more importantly, from Mr. and Mrs. Hilton’s room, which was in all probability where they were currently. With a mother-in-law as suspicious as hers, it wasn’t worth taking any risks, particularly since she’d read the letter and would be on the lookout.

  She had just checked her clothes—she was wearing a simple cotton dress which suited her to perfection—when she felt a pair of hands covering her eyes.

  ‘Blue Reed?’ she asked laughingly.

  The hands went down to her waist and she turned to face Patrick, who said, simply:

  ‘Hello, White Camellia.’

  There was a silence and then….

  This time, the malevolent influence of the moon could not be responsible for the passionate kiss they exchanged. After which, deeming their present position to be insufficiently discreet, they went farther into the woods.

  ‘You’re completely crazy to come here, Patrick. We swore never to see each other again.’

  Lighting a cigarette, Patrick went over in his mind the day in February when he’d gone to London to see Paula again. He’d waited close to her home for Francis to leave, then slipped in to see the girl who had haunted his dreams since she’d left Padstow. They’d spent an afternoon together that he would never forget, which had made their separation even more cruel.

  ‘I know, but one can’t always help oneself. I tried hard, but I couldn’t resist.’

  ‘You could at least have announced your presence more discreetly. It was my mother-in-law who opened the letter!’

  ‘What should I have done? Written your name on the envelope?’

  Paula didn’t reply.

  ‘There you are! … Anyway, let’s forget about it.’

  ‘And the question of life and death?’

  ‘I was talking about me,’ he confessed with a shy smile. ‘I had to see you. It was vital for me.’

  Paula leant back against a tree and shook her hair, which spread in silky waves over her shoulders.

  ‘If I understand things correctly, my friend, you’re still in love with me?’

  ‘Yes, although it’s a rather special kind of love.’

  ‘I should hope so, because it’s an impossible love, as you well know.’

  ‘An impossible love,’ repeated Patrick, looking unseeingly into the distance. ‘Maybe it’s that very impossibility which….’ He bent down to pick up a twig which he examined at length before going on: ‘When I saw your train leave the station almost a year ago, I had a strange, hollow feeling inside. It was only several days later that it dawned on me I would never see you again. You had been part of my universe, of my life… Since that day, everything has become grey. Even the sun. I’ve thought about it, I’ve spent entire nights asking myself why I missed you so much… and why I’d been so blind all those years when you’d been by my side and so close to me, yet I’d never seen you.’

  Patrick looked up and saw tears in the beautiful eyes watching him.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ he continued. ‘I thought about all the advice I’d given you—and which I thoroughly believed in at the time—about your future husband. And that was the worst thing of all… As if I’d announced my own death sentence. Because I have the strong impression that, without my insistence, you would never have married him, am I right?’

  ‘That’s quite correct,’ she replied in a firm voice.

  Once again they found themselves in each other’s arms.

  ‘We mustn’t see each other any more,’ murmured Paula, pressing herself closer to him. ‘It’s not good… for me, nor for you. But… I’m glad you’re here. There are some very bizarre goings-on.’

  ‘Bizarre? To do with Francis?’ asked Patrick, holding his companion at arms’ length.

  Paula shook her head and proceeded to recount everything that had happened since she’d moved into Hatton Manor.

  ‘What an extraordinary story!’ exclaimed Patrick after a few moments. ‘Making prophecies is one thing, but seeing them come true is something else again… Everything points to Harvey having been a seer and having transferred his gifts to that strange Brian.’

  Paula watched Patrick in amusement.

  ‘I see that your passion for mysteries hasn’t waned.’

  ‘No, because it’s also my profession. I’ve just opened a detective agency near Piccadilly, together with a colleague. Our door hasn’t exactly been beaten down so far, but we haven’t lost hope.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful!’ exclaimed Paula. ‘In any case, I never imagined you as anything else: detective—official or private—writer of detective stories, or… criminal!’

  ‘That’s true,’ admitted Patrick. ‘I’ve always been fascinated by anything involving mysteries, tragedies or strange situations.’

  He stopped when he realised that Paula was looking at him curiously. She replied with a mischievous smile:

  ‘Mysteries or strange situations, you said?’

  Patrick stood still and took White Camellia’s hand.

  ‘Let’s leave it at that, for now, and go back to your story. Obviously, the predictions are mysterious enough, but….’

  ‘But?’

  ‘It’s Harvey’s death which intrigues me the most. What with that damp patch in the carpet and the water in the glass as well….’

  ‘Wait to hear what comes next,’ said Paula with a sigh. ‘I saw that glass of water myself….’

  Patrick opened his mouth to speak but Paula cut him off.

  ‘It must have been around two o’clock in the morning. Everyone was asleep. At least, that’s what I thought as I left my room. I’d just woken from a nightmare and my throat was dry. I was making my way to the bathroom when I saw a light under Brian’s door.’

  ‘And, curious as you are by nature, you looked through the keyhole!’

  ‘Yes, and guess what I saw. Brian, seated at his desk, staring at a large glass in front of him, filled to the brim with water!’

  8

  ‘Obviously,’ continued Paula, ‘I can’t be sure it was water, but that’s what it looked like.’

  ‘Strange,’ murmured Blue Reed.

  ‘Up until then, things had been going relatively well,’ said Paula, her voice changed. ‘About a fortnight ago, at dinner, Harris announced his intention to open Harvey’s old room and turn it into a study.’

  Patrick thought for a moment.

  ‘And I imagine Brian didn’t exactly bless the project?’

  ‘You should have seen him, he went as white as a sheet. He stood up and gave Harris a look which put fear into all of us. In a deathly silence, he pointed a trembling finger at his brother: “Don’t do it Harris, don’t ever do it, or you’ll bring misfortune down on you.” At the time, Harris didn’t flinch. It was obvious that he must have remembered the sinister prophecies of his great-uncle, however, because after his deafening outburst of laughter he made a curious remark: “And even if I did die, Brian, that wouldn’t necessarily mean that I was dead.”

  ‘In any case, he moved into his new study a few days later without making any modifications, other than the door, of course, to replace the sealed panel. The Mindens spent two days airing it, cleaning it, and removing the cobwebs.’

  Paula paused and pulled a face.

  ‘And since that day, everything’s gone to pieces at Hatton Manor. Nothing specific, but you can sense everyone’s on edge. Sarah and Harris can’t stop quarrelling, to the point that Francis almost intervened one night. No, it’s not what you think. Harris isn’t a tyrant. He has a strong character which clashes with Sarah’s: impulsive, jealous for no good reason… but he’s a decent man, sensitive, warm and even funny. This morning Sarah was taken ill—apparently she’s always had a heart murmur—so Fra
ncis left for Coventry by himself. Dr. Meadows confirmed that there was nothing to worry about: that she needed rest, but it was above all the extreme heat which had affected her. Harris was beside himself, convinced that he was responsible for his wife’s condition. But by lunchtime all was well and Sarah was her usual smiling self.’

  There was a silence, except for the birds twittering.

  ‘Hm!’ exclaimed Patrick. ‘That’s not much help. I don’t know how to begin to formulate any kind of hypothesis about the presence of that mysterious glass of water. How long did you watch Brian through the keyhole?’

  ‘Twenty or thirty seconds, maybe.’

  ‘And what was he doing? Can you describe how he looked at it?’

  ‘He sat completely still and looked at it… how to put it? With great intensity, as if there was something vitally important to see there.’

  Patrick though for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders.

  Whereupon White Camellia and Blue Reed changed the subject.

  An hour later they arranged one final meeting for the following night at eight o’clock, after which Patrick, who had taken a room for two nights at the village inn, was due to return to London.

  The next day, Saturday, was humid and stormy. The evening meal was over by half past seven and Paula was the first to leave the table. At eight o’clock sharp, Mostyn announced Bessie Blount and Mike Meadows, who had been invited for a game of bridge, and led them into the salon. Twenty minutes later Francis was looking for his wife. On the upstairs floor he ran into Brian in the corridor, which echoed with the sound of loud voices being raised.

  ‘They’ve been fighting for more than a quarter of an hour,’ declared Brian uneasily. ‘They’re in Harris’s study.’

  Francis understood full well what he meant by that last piece of information. Brian’s room being adjacent to the study, he’d been able to follow every detail of the row between Sarah and Harris, whose echoes even reached the floor below.