The Madman's Room

by Paul Halter

  ‘I’m going downstairs,’ announced Brian in a weary voice.

  ‘I understand,’ replied Francis. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t have seen Paula, by any chance?’

  ‘Paula,’ repeated Brian, absent-mindedly. ‘No, I haven’t seen her since dinner.’

  So saying, he went on his way. Thoughtfully, Francis watched him go down the stairs.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hilton left the salon at around half past eight, bidding goodnight to Brian, Meadows and his fiancée.

  The three of them couldn’t help noticing how upset Sarah’s mother seemed to be. It was about the same time that there was a sudden silence upstairs. A quarter of an hour later, Mike Meadows suggested to his fiancée that they leave. She was about to reply when her eyes wandered to the open entrance leading to the hall.

  ‘Sarah and Harris,’ she murmured in amazement.

  The three remaining occupants of the salon watched the couple walk, arm in arm, towards the front door, which shut firmly behind them.

  ‘Incredible!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘A moment ago, they were ready to kill each other and now there they are going out for a stroll, as if nothing had happened.’

  ‘Love is a funny thing,’ said Mike Meadows quietly, as he was lighting a cigarette. ‘It’s an extraordinary force which—.’

  He didn’t get any further. Through the open window they could hear Sarah’s almost hysterical voice which didn’t mince her words, nor apparently spare the person to whom they were addressed. Then the door opened suddenly on a deathly pale Mrs. Thorne who rushed into the salon, threw herself into an armchair, took a cigarette out of the first packet which came to hand, and lit it.

  Everything about her indicated a state of extreme emotion. Hardly had she taken a puff when the door opened again, just as suddenly as before. Three pairs of eyes—Sarah, staring at the ground, hadn’t moved—watched the familiar figure of Harris Thorne stride towards the staircase. Once he had disappeared from sight, Brian turned to his sister-in-law, thought for a moment, and left the salon.

  Mike Meadows and Bessie Blount watched him go up the staircase in his turn. Once the sound of his footsteps could no longer be heard, Sarah asked in a hoarse voice:

  ‘My dear Bessie, would you care to take a stroll outside with me?’

  ‘Of course,’ Bessie replied hastily. Turning to her fiancé, she asked: ‘Are you going to stay here, Mike? We won’t be long.’

  Meadows, ensconced in an armchair, nodded his agreement. The two women stood up, Bessie took Sarah’s arm and they went out.

  Mike Meadows allowed a few seconds to pass, then went over to one of the open windows. He leant on the sill, inhaling the balsamic fragrance of the woods in the fading twilight.

  The lights of the salon cast a beam across the lawn, revealing the silhouettes of the two young women receding along the gravel path. He couldn’t help comparing them, with an auctioneer’s eye that was, at the same time, lecherous.

  Bessie’s beauty came principally from her long, blonde hair, although her curves were pleasing enough. But, next to her, the supple and graceful Sarah, with her swan-like neck and feminine allure, made Bessie suddenly seem drab.

  The clock was striking a quarter past nine when Sarah and Bessie returned. Back in his armchair, Mike Meadows smiled at them:

  ‘I think we can consider our bridge evening over.’

  Sarah stopped, looking thoughtful. Bessie ignored her fiancé’s remark and announced:

  ‘It’s a pity you didn’t come with us, Mike. We surprised a prowler.’

  ‘A prowler?’

  ‘Someone with something on his conscience, at least. We’d hardly been out there five minutes when we heard a branch crack behind one of the bushes, followed by the noise of someone running back into the woods. But it was too dark to see who it was.’

  ‘No, our bridge evening isn’t over,’ declared Sarah suddenly, with grim determination.

  Meadow and Bessie looked at her, surprised and slightly uneasy.

  ‘Come on,’ she continued, ‘we’re going to start by finding Harris.’

  Bessie and Meadows followed her upstairs without a word. They watched apprehensively as she knocked on the study door. In vain.

  That part of the upstairs floor was badly lit, the only light coming from the wall lights in the main corridor, which ran at right angles to the wing where the little group was standing, meaning that it was an indirect light which shone on the anxious faces. After knocking again without result, Sarah opened the door.

  At that moment, Mike Meadows and Bessie were standing back, slightly embarrassed, fearing the predictable reaction from Harris, whose strange silence did not bode well. They were watching Sarah’s face, as if it were a mirror reflecting the mood of the master of the house.

  Hardly had the door opened than her eyes rolled up and her features became distorted in an indescribable expression of terror. Despite the feeble light, Meadows and Bessie saw the blood drain out of her face and her knees start to buckle under her. It had all happened in the space of a few seconds and Meadows was just in time to catch her before she fell. His first instinct, as was Bessie’s, was to take a quick look inside the room. What was it that had terrified Sarah so much that she had lost consciousness? That was the question they were asking themselves as they stood, Meadows with the inert Sarah in his arms and Bessie shivering behind him, on the threshold of the room whose walls had already witnessed one mysterious tragedy.

  But there was nothing there. At least, nothing out of the ordinary. Shelves stacked with old books covered every wall of the room. In front of the wall to their right was a large oak table with a lamp standing on it, giving out a gentle golden light through the lamp-shade. The wall to their left was nothing more nor less than a large bookcase with a red brick fireplace in the middle of it. The left window of the two in the wall facing them—opposite the door—was open. Night intruded through the half-open curtains, undisturbed by any draught. A narrow divan had been placed against the wall nearest the corridor, beneath shelves framing a painting of the battle of Trafalgar. The carpet which covered the entire floor was the same dark red as the curtains.

  After several seconds of an oppressive silence, Dr. Meadows looked down at the woman he was holding in his arms, entered the room and placed her gently on the divan. Bessie rushed to the window. She could barely distinguish the drive and the trees in the park, but was able to make out more clearly a hedge closer to the main building. As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she was able to see two figures walking through a gap in the hedge towards the manor. She strained hard and was able to recognise the voices of Francis and Paula:

  ‘Going out for a walk, all by yourself at night? I’ve been looking for you for almost an hour! Couldn’t you have told me?’

  ‘You’re beginning to annoy me. I don’t have to tell you about every single little thing. And you gave me quite a shock, jumping out of the dark like that, without warning.’

  ‘By the way, you haven’t explained why you decided to climb over the railings on your way back… And another thing: did you forget about the bridge game we’d planned?’

  Paula was about to reply when she caught sight of Bessie. Francis looked up in turn and stopped.

  ‘Something strange has happened,’ declared Bessie, ‘and your sister’s been taken sick.’

  ‘We’ll be right up there,’ replied Francis.

  Bessie went back to join Mike, who was kneeling by the side of Sarah. Her face was white and her forehead was covered with perspiration.

  ‘For a moment there I feared the worst,’ declared Meadows. ‘She had almost no pulse. But things are improving. She’s had a severe shock. Look, her lips are still open, as if she wanted to shout out from….’

  ‘From fright?’

  The doctor grimaced sceptically.

  ‘I can’t say for sure… but you saw her as well.’ He looked around the room and growled. ‘What was she afraid of? Everything in the room is normal. And there was no one there
.’

  ‘Mike,’ murmured Bessie in a trembling voice, ‘there was something in this room, something which terrified Sarah. Admittedly she was already nervous before she opened the door, but afterwards? You would have thought she’d seen the Devil in person, the way her eyes popped out of her head. She was looking….’

  Mike stopped with a sign of his hand.

  ‘She was looking straight in front of her, but downwards.’

  He turned to look at the part of the carpet in front of the fireplace, and shot a questioning look at his companion.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘it was in that direction.’

  Immediately, they both thought of the death of Harvey Thorne, which Brian had told them about some time before. Meadows stood up and went over to the fireplace. He bent down and looked startled. He patted his hand over the part of the carpet directly in front of the hearth and froze.

  ‘Darling,’ he said in an expressionless voice, ‘there’s water. The carpet is wet here.’

  A sensation of terror took hold of them, leaving them speechless and frozen to the spot. Then hurried steps sounded in the corridor and Francis appeared at the door, his face haggard:

  ‘Dr. Meadows, come quickly! Harris is down below… and I fear he may be dead.’

  9

  They rushed down the spiral staircase at breakneck speed and rushed out through the open service door. Paula, her arms crossed over her chest, was standing there, looking at an inert mass lying under one of the kitchen windows. The west face of the manor towered over them, sombre and hostile. The only lights were from behind the windows of Brian’s room and the study next door. Although the foliage of the trees was illuminated, nothing much could be discerned on the ground below. Approaching the body, Mike Meadows was still able to identify Harris Thorne, lying face down at a slight angle to the wall, arms and legs spread out.

  ‘It was Paula who noticed him as we were about to enter,’ explained Francis.

  ‘Go and fetch a lamp,’ ordered Meadows.

  Francis returned very quickly, a lantern in his hand, followed by Brian Thorne and Mostyn the butler.

  Dr. Meadows examined the victim in total silence, which he himself broke after several minutes:

  ‘There’s nothing to be done… he’s dead.’ He consulted his wristwatch, which showed half past nine, and thought for a moment. ‘For more than a quarter of an hour, I’d say….’

  He looked up at the study window, almost twenty feet above the body, then raised the lifeless head to shine the light from the lantern on it. A wound could be seen on the temple, from which blood was oozing. The path which went around the manor ran the length of a rock garden built up against the west wall. The body was lying on the rock garden.

  ‘The cause of death seems pretty clear,’ continued Meadows. ‘He fell from his study window. Nevertheless, we should alert the police straight away.’ Mostyn nodded and left immediately.

  Brian, who hadn’t uttered a word until then, approached his brother’s body. The flickering light from the lantern illuminated his ascetic features and the strange expression in his eyes.

  ‘You should never have unsealed that room, Harris. I warned you….’

  Dr. Alan Twist was getting ready to butter his toast when the door bell rang.

  “There’s only one person in the world who would ring at such an inconvenient time,” he said to himself, looking desolately at his unfinished breakfast. “Only one.”

  ‘I was waiting for you, my dear Archibald,’ he declared amiably to his visitor, a corpulent individual on the right side of fifty.

  ‘You were waiting for me?’ said the other, adopting a sphinx-like air. ‘Don’t try and play the fortune-teller with me, Twist, because I know someone who could trump you.’

  Dr. Twist knew from past experience that when Hurst was in such a mood, it was best just to let him talk, which is why he invited him to take an armchair.

  It was a pleasant September morning. Outside the open window, the sun was beaming down on London and bathed the two silent men in light.

  Tall and thin, with a benevolent face beneath unruly silver-flecked hair, a lush moustache above a childlike mouth, a fine web of wrinkles in a healthy skin despite being an inveterate pipe-smoker, Dr. Alan Twist looked smilingly at his friend. His blue-grey eyes twinkled with mischief behind pince-nez held in place by a black silk cord. It was difficult to guess his age, and even more so to guess his profession, for this amiable gentleman was a remarkable detective and a renowned criminologist, possessing faculties of detection and analysis which were the envy of the Scotland Yard inspector sitting opposite him. Archibald Hurst, with his sparse hair, heavy respiration and ruddy face, was a jovial enough character whose profession, alas! put his nerves on edge only too often. A malicious fate had decreed that it was he who was inevitably given the most difficult and complex cases. Sadly, the further he progressed in such investigations, the more he inevitably found himself in over his head until, swallowing his pride, he would find himself obliged to call in his friend Twist.

  ‘So, old friend,’ began Dr. Twist, ‘how were your holidays in the land of Shakespeare?’

  ‘Couldn’t have been better,’ replied Hurst, beaming. ‘The weather was fine and Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwick and Kenilworth are charming towns which justify their reputation. The old half-timbered cottages, the castles which take you back to the Middle Ages… everything was most agreeable. But, just as always, it never lasts.’

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Alan Twist, an amused twinkle dancing behind his pince-nez.

  ‘Do you know Redfern, Hector Redfern? He’s a childhood friend and currently detective chief superintendent at Cheltenham. I was ill-advised enough to let him know I was spending a few days in the area and give him the address of my hotel. As luck would have it, one of the richest fellows in the region had an accident. The police were called in right away and my chum decided to rope me in. “Although the case might look straightforward at first, there are certain curious aspects that should interest you.”’

  ‘When I said that your fame had spread beyond the capital, Archibald… Whenever a case appears out of the ordinary, they call for you straight away.’

  Hurst adopted the air of false modesty which amused his friend so much, and continued:

  ‘To cut it short, I went with him.’ He looked pensive for a moment. ‘A case out of the ordinary? Not really, because it was obviously suicide. We arrived on the scene in the middle of the day. The body of Harris Thorne had been discovered shortly before half past nine the previous night….. ’ Taking a notebook out of his pocket, he added: ‘I suppose I’d better begin at the beginning.’

  So saying, the inspector retraced the events of the fatal evening, up to the testimony of Brian Thorne:

  ‘…and now we come to the last person to have seen Harris Thorne alive—Brian, his brother. I took down his deposition in full, because it seemed interesting,’ said Hurst, with a smile loaded with ulterior motives. ‘Here it is: “As soon as I saw my sister-in-law come back into the salon, obviously on the brink of a nervous breakdown, I got up to meet Harris who had just returned as well. I followed him to the stairs, asking him to listen to me for a few moments, but he didn’t even look round. At the corner of the corridor, I saw him go into his study, slamming the door behind him. He was in a towering rage. Realising I was fighting a losing battle, I was on the point of retracing my steps, but then changed my mind: the incessant quarrels with Sarah couldn’t go on, he had to listen to me. I knocked on his door and, despite the silence, I went in anyway. He was leaning out of the window, taking deep breaths of the night air, clearly beside himself. I tried to talk to him, but in vain. I knew that when he was in such a mood, any discussion would be better postponed to the next day. I left the room and went back to my own, which I didn’t leave until the moment his body was discovered…”

  ‘It was about ten to nine,’ continued Hurst, ‘when Brian left Harris. And at twenty past nine, Mrs. Thorne, Dr. Meadows and hi
s fiancée found the study empty. It was only five minutes later that the body was discovered but, given the circumstances, we can conclude that it was already lying under the window at that moment. According to Meadows, he’d been dead for about half an hour, a diagnosis confirmed by the medical examiner. As for the cause of death, everything seems to point to defenestration. A few bruises due to the fall and a wound on the temple which we can reasonably attribute to one of the rocks in the rock garden where he was found. On top of that, the autopsy established that it was the wound that killed him and there were no other suspicious traces.’

  In the silence which followed, barely affected by the increased traffic in the street outside, Dr. Twist lit his pipe and spoke:

  ‘So, Harris Thorne is a man quick to lose his temper and very jealous. And it’s jealousy—whether justified or not, it doesn’t matter—which is the source of their frequent quarrels. During the climax of one such outburst, he’s seen, for the last time, leaning out of one of the windows of his study. His body is found below the same window. There’s not much to say: a suicide by defenestration whose motives and exact time of death are known. Although… I have trouble imagining a man like that throwing himself out of a window, at least under those circumstances. A height of less than twenty feet, thick tufts of rock plants and a gravel path below are hardly a guarantee of certain death. But stranger suicides have been known.’

  ‘I’m with you,’ agreed Hurst. ‘But that’s not the most bizarre aspect of the case. I need to tell you about that room’s strange past and the no less strange individual who inhabited it.’

  So saying, Hurst related Harvey Thorne’s sinister predictions, the circumstances of his death, and the sealing of the room which followed.

  ‘The madman’s room…,’ observed Dr. Twist dreamily when he finished.

  ‘…And now we come to the case of Brian, who—according to several testimonies—also appears to possess the gift of prediction. Dr. Meadows and his fiancée both certified that he’d “seen” their love one day before it blossomed. But there’s a more serious one: he also predicted the death of his brother after he took the decision to reopen the famous room… A prophecy made in front of several witnesses this time. Just luck, would you say? I would tend to agree with you, but for the case of the ancestor. And that’s where the plot thickens: he died from a heart attack following frenzied convulsions due to a fit of madness, according to witnesses… or extreme fear! And on the sill of the open door! Exactly the spot where Mrs. Thorne, terrified, lost consciousness after looking into that room where there was nothing, and staring at the wet patch on the carpet—exactly as in the case of great-uncle Harvey!