by Paul Halter
Hurst’s self-satisfied smile was not returned by any of those present. But Dr. Twist himself appeared to be deep in meditation, during which he repeated, in a scarcely audible murmur, the inspector’s last words. His face suddenly lit up:
‘“To see or not to see, that is the question.” Yes,’ he continued, catching his audience by surprise. ‘Because Sarah was supposed to have seen her deceased husband, the question is: “is he or is he not?” What was she afraid of? Who was she afraid of? We know the answer now: him. This afternoon we listened to Dr. Meadows. He’d also noticed his fiancée’s fear… but she never told him what she was afraid of. Which means it must have been of Harris Thorne.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ grumbled Hurst, glowering.
‘While he’s alive, Harris Thorne shows himself to be extremely jealous, particularly of Mike Meadows. Then he dies. And, not long afterwards, his widow becomes engaged to the same Mike Meadows. Don’t you understand? It would be understandable, if she had indeed seen her late husband, that he would hardly be in the mood to congratulate her. On the contrary, he would be making terrible scenes of jealousy! And even threatening her! Of course she felt guilty… and she wouldn’t confide that to her fiancé.’
Everyone’s eyes widened and Francis Thorne burst out laughing. He collected himself immediately.
‘Your reasoning is impeccable. But what are you suggesting, Dr. Twist? Harris Thorne is dead and… Ah! I’m beginning to understand: it’s what my sister would have imagined.’
The detective nodded in agreement.
Suddenly Paula stiffened and caught her husband’s arm:
‘I’ve just thought of something… Do you remember when Harris announced his intention of reopening the sealed room and Brian told him to renounce the project or a misfortune would befall him?’
‘How could we forget,’ said Francis.
‘I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Harris’s answer:
“Even if I were to die, I wouldn’t necessarily be dead.”’
It was Hurst’s turn to laugh. A terse, hearty laugh, utterly devoid of mirth. His rebellious forelock flopped down over his forehead. He declared with thinly veiled anger:
‘Deaths and disappearances, the inexplicable appearance of water, prophets… and now ghosts. We’ve had our fill. Is there anything else? No? Good. My patience does have its limits, and I’m beginning to think that everything we’ve heard so far is just a tissue of lies, a collective crisis of hysteria, a parade of testimonies each more absurd than the other and… .’ His furious look settled on Paula. ‘Do you still insist that what you said was true?’
Francis cleared his throat.
‘What my wife said is correct, but I think I need to explain what Harris meant. Brian made frequent allusion to great-uncle Harvey’s ghost, haunting, according to him, the site of his death. By the way, the Thornes are of Scottish descent. I don’t know whether Brian was joking or speaking seriously. Maybe both at once. But Harris’s reply was definitely a joke, an allusion to that ghost suggesting that the Thornes were immortal. Harris was a practical joker who liked making outrageous statements in a serious manner, so there was always an element of doubt about his pronouncements. I recall very well the tone in which he pronounced those words… He was teasing Brian, it was obvious!’
‘I prefer that,’ replied Hurst, reassured. ‘See how, with a little good faith, we can get to the right answer.’
Dr. Twist and the inspector took their leave at eleven o’clock. The main street of the village was deserted and the illuminated windows could be counted on the fingers of one hand.
‘If our clairvoyant is sleeping under the stars,’ proclaimed Hurst, who had regained his good humour, ‘he hasn’t got much to complain about. It’s not all that warm, agreed, but for an October night, it’s not so bad. The sky is with him, for the moment at least. I must say, Twist, that your reasoning about Sarah Thorne being afraid of her husband wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. Particularly since it fits well with her visit to the solicitor. I wanted to tell you that earlier, but I preferred to keep quiet because of the will. The fact that she left half her fortune to Brian and nothing to her fiancé …do you see what I mean? She acted as if she were in the grip of a terrible fear, as if her husband were still watching her.’
‘That was the basis of my reasoning.’
‘The poor girl must have lost her marbles. It doesn’t surprise me, what with the lugubrious manor and her brother-in-law who thinks he’s the Messiah. Yes, that’s the only explanation.’
‘Tell me, old friend, didn’t you notice some strange things tonight? Certain attitudes?’
‘Well yes… The way Francis Hilton behaved in particular. He seemed very upset when I told him someone had overheard his conversation with his sister.’
‘Actually, I thought he was the only one who behaved more or less normally. Look, Archibald, I know you consider me a confirmed bachelor living the life of a monk—which is not entirely true—but I wasn’t born yesterday. Two couples were present tonight. One couple married for less than a year, the other recently engaged. Well, I tell you that three quarters of them didn’t behave the way they should have done.’
‘Twist,’ exclaimed Hurst, trying to remain calm, ‘what are you talking about?’
‘Well, let’s start with young Mrs. Hilton, Paula. Her comportment with her husband was “normal,” so to speak, but her furtive looks at Patrick Nolan whenever he got too close to his fiancée certainly were not. Nothing much, just a flicker in those blue eyes, but she seemed upset. And you could see the same kind of look from Nolan when Paula got close to her husband, but far more noticeably. And I have an advantage over you because I know the young man. When he came to see me on Sunday to tell me about the case, I noticed he spoke about Paula with a certain reticence, as if he had something to hide.’
‘To be blunt about it, do you think the two of them are carrying on?’
‘I wouldn’t swear to it, one way or the other. But that’s not the worst of it. When Nolan came to see me on Sunday, he was passionate about the case like any self-respecting detective—which he is, by the way—with fervour, eyes gleaming with excitement and dying to know the outcome. Did you notice him tonight? He sat in his armchair, hardly saying a word, like a sleeping cat. How do you explain such a complete change in a case that’s becoming more and more baffling? He must have learnt something between Sunday and today. Don’t ask me what, I don’t know. Something he doesn’t want to talk about. That bothers me, Hurst, and more than you might think.
‘Now let’s talk about Miss Blount, whom I find charming, by the way. Alas! I’ve a feeling she’s also hiding something. Did you notice how quickly she got rid of the mother and grandfather? And that story about the wheelbarrow which changed places doesn’t satisfy me either. It’s so senseless there must be an explanation….’
‘Twist, it’s you that I’m starting to worry about.’
The eminent detective ignored the remark. Walking along the sleepy street with long strides, he continued:
‘Yes, our charming hostess is hiding something. Did you notice how she jumped at the slightest noise and kept looking at the door?’
‘Was she afraid as well?’
‘No, that’s not it. At least, not exactly. She was anxious and on the alert, as if she were waiting for something to happen. It’s not the same thing at all.’
Hurst cleared his throat loudly, trying to keep his mounting anger under control.
‘A year ago,’ continued Twist, ‘you came to see me to talk about Thorne’s death. We went over the night of the tragedy in great detail. I remember drawing your attention to the peculiar movements of some of the players.’
‘That’s right, but without, of course, telling me who or what it was about. As usual, you see everything and I see nothing. That’s why I keep saying: “To see or not to see, that is the question.”’
‘What are you saying, old friend, what in heaven’s name are you saying?’
‘Don’t treat me like an idiot. I hope you understand that I know I’ve misquoted Shakespeare for the purpose of… What’s got into you?’
Twist had stopped and was looking up at the sky with an ecstatic smile. Pronouncing each syllable carefully, he said:
‘“To see or not to see, that is the question. To see or not to see, that is the question….”” Turning to Hurst, he said. ‘Archibald, it’s a fact that without you I would be the least significant of detectives. To see or not to see, don’t you understand? When Sarah Thorne opened the door….’
‘What did she see?’
‘She didn’t see anything at all. And that’s why she fell backwards: because she didn’t see anything at all!’
22
Hurst didn’t fall asleep until three o’clock in the morning, and even then Twist’s enigmatic words were still haunting his dreams. The next day, Thursday, the two of them were back in London, but they returned to Hatton again on the Friday to attend Sarah’s funeral.
It was four o’clock when the pall bearers carried the deceased’s coffin down the stone steps of the chapel leading to the Thorne family vault. The day was relatively mild, even though the sky was overcast and rain threatened, but the chapel itself was cold and damp. Francis, his expression sombre, had his arm around a tearful Paula. Patrick and Bessie followed in reverential silence behind them, with the young detective casting furtive looks all about him. Mike Meadows, wearing an impeccable dark suit, wore a haggard expression. As the undertakers left, Mrs. Dorothy Hilton burst into uncontrollable sobs while her husband tried to console her. Dr. Twist and Inspector Hurst stood at a discreet distance by the chapel door. As the slab was being put back in place, the policeman whispered in his friend’s ear:
‘Since the murderer always attends the victim’s funeral, I’m beginning to doubt it was actually murder. In my opinion, either Brian’s the guilty party, or there isn’t one.’
Twist didn’t reply. Behind his pince-nez, his eyes followed the direction of Patrick Nolan’s furtive looks.
Shortly afterwards, all present gathered in the salon of Hatton Manor except Patrick, who had caught his trousers on a rose bush and gone back to the Blount residence to change.
Mostyn served tea in an uncomfortable silence. Mrs. Hilton took a sip and retired after excusing herself. Her husband watched her go and seemed on the point of following her, but stayed where he was and took out a cigarette. Bravely overcoming his own grief, he tried to console the others. Mike Meadows also lit a cigarette and addressed the policeman:
‘Still no news of Brian?’
The scathing tone more than the question itself hinted at the incompetence of the police, from whom he was clearly not expecting a positive answer.
‘Still nothing,’ replied Hurst with a studied calm. ‘But, as I said before, it’s only a matter of time because we’re almost certain he hasn’t left the area.’
The inhabitants of Hatton Manor had been informed of the deceased’s visit to her solicitor and the contents of her will. Twist and Hurst had not been present, but Patrick Nolan reported that no one had appeared happy, least of all the young doctor. Although he hadn’t said anything, those present could easily imagine the questions on the tip of his tongue. “Why didn’t she tell me? And why cut me out of the will?” They themselves must have been asking why such a large part of the estate had gone to Brian.
Bessie, who had been anxiously looking at the clock, sighed when she heard the doorbell ring.
‘Did grandfather keep you all this time?’ she asked Patrick when he entered the salon.
‘No, I had a discussion with someone at the front gate.’
‘Who was it?’ asked Meadows, frowning.
‘I don’t know.’ Patrick placed a thoughtful finger to his lips. ‘It’s odd, because when I asked him, he threw his head back with a hearty laugh.’
‘Could it have been a journalist looking for a story?’ pressed Meadows.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘A curious passer-by, then?’ Without waiting for an answer, the doctor continued, with an expression of hate on his face. ‘There ought to be a law against people like that. What did he want to know? Details of the burial, no doubt,’ he added with a nervous laugh.
‘Yes, but not in the sense you’re implying. It must have been someone from the village who knew your fiancée well, or a friend maybe. He asked me if everything had gone well.’
‘A friend? Who didn’t even express his condolences? My dear Nolan, it seems to me you’ve been tricked by a journalist. Not very bright for a professional detective!’
Clearly Meadows wasn’t himself, but nobody thought to hold it against him. Patrick looked him in the eye, thoughtfully:
‘No, I’m telling you again, it wasn’t a reporter keen to get a story. In fact, you must know him because he asked me about you and your reactions… whether you weren’t too upset.’
Meadows went white and his jaw dropped, but he quickly recovered.
‘Someone I know,’ he repeated, stroking his moustache. ‘Someone who’s worried about me… I really can’t see who… What else can you say about him? Where was he exactly, and what was he doing?’
Patrick looked surprised, but he shrugged his shoulders and continued:
‘He was behind the gate looking towards the manor. As I said before, he didn’t look like a simple passer-by. He was smoking a cigar and I think he may even have been smiling. He asked me questions about the burial, just like someone concerned about a friend. The he changed the subject and asked me who I was, whether I like it here and other banalities. I was intrigued, of course, but I assumed it was one of your friends. He did seem quite cheerful, which I found bizarre in the circumstances. He had a peculiar way of laughing: very loudly and throwing his head back. And he nodded in agreement at everything I said as if it made him happy. And he kept repeating the same thing: “All in good time, my young friend, all in good time.”’
This last remark had the effect of a bombshell, so much so that Patrick turned to Bessie for help. But his fiancée seemed dumbstruck as well.
‘What did he look like?’ Meadows managed to ask.
‘Medium height, bearded, solid without being fat. Fortyish. He was wearing a blue-checked jacket and a peaked cap pulled down over his eyes.’
‘Redheaded?’ asked Francis, turning pale.
‘Yes, redheaded,’ Patrick replied, without hesitation.
Astonishment turned to horror. Hurst wanted to step in to clarify matters, but Dr. Twist made a discreet sign for silence. Bessie was the first to speak:
‘Patrick, you’ve never met Harris Thorne, have you?’
‘No, never.’
‘And you’ve never seen a photograph of him either?’
Patrick shook his head.
Francis disappeared and returned a minute later with a photo album. He opened it and Patrick was able to see several shots taken of Sarah and her spouse at their wedding. After a few seconds of oppressive silence, he raised his head and looked at Francis with wide eyes:
‘I… I can’t be sure, but it does look like him.’
Confusion followed and Inspector Hurst had to exercise his authority to calm everyone down. He submitted the young detective to such a rigorous interrogation that at one point he turned red and threatened to leave the premises, saying he wasn’t in the habit of being treated as a liar. The man he’d seen by the manor gate looked very much like the deceased and under normal circumstances he would have confirmed as much, but he wasn’t prepared to swear it under oath. When Meadows pronounced Brian’s name, the room fell silent again.
‘You know Brian quite well, Mr. Nolan,’ hissed the doctor. ‘He’s much thinner than his brother, but about the same height. They don’t obviously look the same, but nevertheless there’s a slight resemblance. That was clear the night you first arrived in Hatton. Brian was smiling that evening and didn’t have the miserable face he normally shows to the world. Try to imagine Brian deck
ed up with a false beard and wig, wearing one of those blue-checked jackets his brother always wore, suitably padded to complete the illusion…’ Meadows picked up the album and pointed to a photo of the two brothers together. ‘What do you think now, Mr. Nolan?’
Patrick hesitated:
‘Well, it’s not out of the question… And there was the cap as well, pulled down over the eyes, slightly to one side.’
‘Over the right eye, by any chance?’ asked Meadows in honeyed tones.
‘Yes.’
‘Dear old Brian,’ said the doctor with a ferocious smile, ‘not only has an eye for detail, but he’s very crafty into the bargain. Don’t you understand? Not only did he hide his eyes, but also his right temple where Harris Thorne had a scar.
‘I’ve been fascinated by his predictions for a long time, I must confess, but if you’re looking for someone to perpetrate a hoax, Brian’s your man. That’s the first point. Secondly, my fiancée lived in terror for the last few weeks of her life and there’s good reason to believe someone was amusing themselves by frightening her. Incidentally, she’d just changed her will in favour of her brother-in-law.
‘Mr. Policeman, don’t ask me how he killed her, nor why he pretended to be his brother’s ghost, but it’s certain that he hatched this sordid plot in order to appropriate his brother’s fortune.
‘I’m not done. If there’s one thing it’s impossible to doubt, it’s Harris’s death. We can also rule out the idea that it was sheer luck that someone resembling the deceased in such a striking fashion just happened to stumble across Mr. Nolan’s path. An impostor, therefore. Who would have the slightest motive for such a masquerade? Outside our circle, nobody. And at the time Mr. Nolan was talking to the impostor, the only one of our circle not present was Brian. Need I say more?’
Hurst, who had been nodding his head at practically everything the doctor had said, was about to step in himself when he was pre-empted by Paula.