by Paul Halter
The eminent criminologist, seemingly absorbed in contemplation of the fire, turned to his friend and shook his head.
‘No, that wouldn’t be necessary. Major Merle has given us all the clues we need. You actually solved the puzzle yourself, I believe?’
The major smiled in agreement:
‘I did eventually work it out. What about you, Dr. Twist?’
‘Of course. Your account was so precise that the solution became evident. Your insistence on the biblical aspects of the affair, and the clue of the dog-eared page made it clear to me that the brothers Amalric must be innocent.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Cullen indignantly. ‘Do you mean to say they had nothing to do with it? And we should take their testimony at face value?’
Twist shrugged his shoulders:
‘Do you seriously think they would have invented such a tall story if they had been guilty? No, they told the truth and nothing but the truth. They had nothing to do with their brother’s murder. We have to look elsewhere. It’s my belief that the guilty party conceived his trap several days before the murder, and may even have taken certain preparatory steps, after having heard Jacob’s rants about his strange dream and his intention to marry Victorine. He sought, not just revenge on the detestable Amalric family in general, but specifically to prevent the marriage from happening—by ruining Jacob’s dream and making him fall off his precious golden ladder. Henri’s unexpected arrival on the scene merely hastened the diabolical plan. He burst the tyre in the middle of the night so as to delay Henri’s arrival at the farm the next day to ten o’clock, knowing full well that Jacob always took his daily walk an hour earlier.’
‘It’s incredible,’ muttered Merle, scratching his head. ‘It took me nearly a week of sleepless nights to work it out, and you, sitting in an armchair, not having even visited the scene, have worked it out in fifteen minutes.’
‘It was the dog-eared page,’ said Twist, ‘that put me on the trail. The picture of Jesus sitting on the edge of the well, and Jacob’s well to boot. It suddenly became as clear as day: Jacob didn’t fall from a great height, he fell down a great depth. He fell into the well. You even went out of your way to mention the well, near the abandoned farm near the top of the hill, with a crow sitting on the rim. You talked about it taking flight as you approached, vanishing in the blinding sunlight... which turned out to be the light of truth. The bottom of the well was almost certainly dry, given the previous drop in water levels you were careful to mention, and was probably very deep because of its location. All the murderer had to do was to throw down stones and sand taken from the banks of the pond, to cover the bottom; entice Jacob to the well under some pretext; knock him out and attach a rope around his waist; throw him to the bottom sixty feet below and pull him back up. Afterwards, he simply dropped the shattered body where it was found. Excluding the preparation of the bottom of the well, which presumably occurred beforehand, the whole operation probably took less than half an hour. Obviously, only a man in robust health could have transported the body from the well to the pond, which already gives us a clue to the murderer’s identity.
‘Everything was in place for what followed. The murderer hid behind a rock. As soon as he heard the far-off noise of the motor car, he imitated Jacob’s voice—a voice shrill from excitement is not hard to copy—so as to attract Mathias’ attention. The older brother’s irritation and indifference were entirely predictable. After Mathias went back indoors and Henri’s car was close to the house, the killer let out a long and hideous scream. To create the heavy thud he must, I suppose, have dislodged a large boulder he had previously set up in an unstable position. All it needed then was for the two brothers to give their testimony, which nobody believed, and it was all over.
‘The departure of the two brothers to alert the police gave him another idea, biblical but hardly divine. Up until then, his plan had proved a roaring success. The Amalric brothers had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. Their bizarre testimony, added to the fact they stood to inherit a fortune, made them prime suspects. To put the last nail in their coffin, he decided to leave another clue, discreet but decisive. The police could hardly miss the dog-eared page he was going to leave in the Bible sitting on the kitchen table, at the chapter on Jacob’s well. He counted on their perspicacity so that the picture would provide the vital clue as to how the murder had been done. And he was right, wasn’t he?’
Merle nodded his head and sighed:
‘I admit I fell for it. At first, that is. After I’d understood the trick with the well, I was certain of the Amalrics’ guilt. But that dog-eared page seemed too convenient. I had a feeling I was being manipulated.’
Twist nodded his approval:
‘You reasoned that if the Amalrics had put such a crafty plan in place to rid themselves of their brother, they wouldn’t have left such an obvious clue behind.’
‘Exactly. And once I realised there was a plot against them, it wasn’t very difficult to work out who was behind it: the only suspect who didn’t have an alibi for that morning and who was strong enough to have carried the body some distance—.’
‘In other words, Julien the barman!’ exclaimed Cullen.
‘Well done, my old friend,’ said Twist with some irony. ‘There’s no fooling you!’
‘He admitted everything right away,’ added Merle, ‘and he got off relatively lightly: ten years behind bars— but not the same kind of bars!
‘To be frank, his trial was hardly a model of impartial justice. The Amalrics’ bad reputation among the locals didn’t hurt him, particularly as one jury member was related to one of the suicides—as I learned afterwards. Victorine’s sacrifice (not to mention her beauty) also had an influence: the jury was visibly moved when she practically forgave Julien for the jealousy that had motivated him.’
‘So it was Julien that finally fell from Jacob’s ladder,’ said Cullen, half-jokingly.
‘One might say that,’ replied Merle. ‘But he paid the penalty, and it didn’t stop him from trying a second ascension, successfully this time, because he got closer to heaven....’
‘Let me guess,’ said the superintendent, with a knowing wink. ‘He ended up marrying the girl of his dreams after leaving prison.’
‘Actually, no. He took holy orders.’
THE MAN WITH THE FACE OF CLAY
The ease with which Owen Burns solved even the most complex puzzles was a source of irritation to many, not least to myself, Achilles Stock, his most loyal friend. He made no effort to hide his superiority complex: his certainty that he was the most accomplished detective of his generation. With his affected style, the haughty tilt of his head, his caustic humour, not to mention his considerable height and girth, one could readily form the impression that no problem was too difficult for him. Which is why I had been secretly hoping for a stunning setback in one of his investigations and now, on the afternoon of a singularly depressing winter day in 1912, I was reasonably hopeful. Having got wind of a quite extraordinary business, I had taken the step of inviting one of the principal witnesses to visit Burns in his St. James’s Square flat and we were now awaiting her arrival. My initiative seemed to have unsettled him. With his hands behind his back, he paced back and forth across the drawing room, stopping occasionally in front of the window, as if to contemplate the rain which had been falling since the morning.
‘You seem on edge, old boy,’ I observed languidly from the depth of my armchair, my nose buried in the day’s newspaper. ‘Could the rain be affecting you?’
‘Yes,’ he grumbled, after a moment’s thought. ‘It’s behaving too timidly. I want it to rain cats and dogs, to inundate the streets with vengeful floods, and to wash away all the sins of this decadent world.’
‘In short, you’re hoping for a deluge?’
‘You’ve found the mot juste, for once.’
‘Your prayers may soon be answered. I believe a deluge plays an important part in the tale our witness has to tell. She should be
here any minute.’
Shooting me a withering glance, Owen replied tartly:
‘Frankly, Achilles, you could have asked me first, or at least warned me earlier. You knew perfectly well that we had a very busy day, and may I remind you that we have tickets for tonight’s performance of The Flying Dutchman at the Royal Opera House, which is one of my favourites, as you well know.’
‘What’s the matter? You’ll solve the puzzle in ten minutes, with your customary flair. Adding half an hour for telling the story and twenty minutes for the social niceties, the whole business won’t take more than an hour. That leaves plenty of time for dinner and the grandiose flights of Richard Wagner. And, what’s more, I thought you’d be pleased. The weird kind of puzzles you crave don’t come along very often, so I thought this was a godsend.’
‘I suppose so,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘By the way, what’s this woman’s name?’
‘Miss White.’
‘Miss White,’ he repeated, thoughtfully. ‘That doesn’t ring a bell, but it does make me think about Snow White. Is she young and pretty?’
‘I haven’t met her, so I don’t know. But she’s definitely under twenty-five. I heard of her story from a friend of her father, who’s one of my best customers.’
‘Ah! Just as I thought!’ exclaimed Owen, throwing his arms in the air. ‘Commerce rears its ugly head. Is your Wedgwood porcelain business in such dire straits that you have to satisfy your customers’ every whim?’
‘No!’ I replied indignantly. ‘It’s going incredibly well, in fact, so much—.’
‘I hope she’s pretty,’ Owen went on. ‘You know I can’t stand ugliness, particularly in women.’
He stopped suddenly, his face pressed against the misted windowpane.
‘That must be she. I can see a delicious white umbrella on the doorstep.’
He nodded his head with satisfaction when the doorbell rang, and left hurriedly. A few moments later, he returned in the company of the visitor. Judging by his gallant manner and the exaggerated courtesy he showed while relieving her of her coat and umbrella, she met with his approval. A trimly fitting bolero and skirt accentuated her slender waist. Luxuriant auburn curls graced the curve of her neck. Her embroidered white blouse emphasised her freshness, and rosy cheeks contrasted with innocent blue eyes. One of those naïve beauties, in whose hands my friend inevitably turned to putty.
‘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 the 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, Masul, 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 look-out, 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 mysteriousl
y been 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 straight away 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 civilisation’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.