by Paul Halter
‘“Do you realize, Miss White, that the Mesopotamians believed we were all made from clay? Take a small piece, mould it into shape, breathe the holy spirit into it, and you have one more man on earth!”
‘He was smiling as he said it. I pointed to the winged lion:
‘“If that’s the result, I’d say it needs more work.”
‘He looked at me, as if he was amused.
‘“Does that creature frighten you?”
‘“Yes, a little, I must admit. Because I can imagine it much bigger and more crudely shaped, made of mud or clay.”
‘“And flying,” he said, teasing me.
‘“Obviously, because it’s got wings.”
‘“A flying creature, made of mud…Strange, I never thought of it like that,” he said, thoughtfully.
‘After he said that I left. He seemed amused by my remarks, as if they had taken his mind off his worries. Nevertheless, my instincts warned me that something bad was going to happen and, unfortunately, I was right.
‘It came down in buckets that evening. I thought about the flowerbeds at the back of the house that old George the gardener had prepared in the last few days. All that rain would transform them into quagmires. There would be mud everywhere, including the house. In other words, more work for me.
‘It was just after nine o’clock when it happened. Chloe had just gone to bed, but Sir Jeremy was still at work in his study on the ground floor overlooking the flower beds. Suddenly, the front doorbell rang. As I went to open it, I was wondering who it could be at that time of night and in that kind of weather.
‘There was a man standing on the doorstep with rain streaming off him. His coat collar was turned up and the brim of his hat was pulled down over his eyes. In a curiously deep voice, he asked to see Sir Jeremy. When I asked if he was expected, he responded with a grunt. I was surprised and asked him to wait outside. I had a premonition that if I let him in, something bad would happen.
‘When I informed Sir Jeremy of the visitor, he asked me rather curtly if I was in the habit of leaving guests out in the rain. I took it in my stride because I knew he could sometimes be grumpy when he was sorting out his notes. I showed the strange visitor into the room. I still had not seen his face. But just as Sir Jeremy was closing the door and the man was turning to take off his hat, I got a glimpse of his features. I almost fainted.’
At this point in her account, Miss White swallowed hard and paused. From her wide-eyed stare and the pale colour of her skin, it was obvious that she was haunted by the memory.
‘I had never seen anything quite so horrible in my whole life,’ she continued. ‘The features were coarse, brownish and shapeless, as if the face were made of clay. An inhuman mud creature, which could freeze the blood with a single glance—I had seen its bulging eyes. I was so worried for Sir Jeremy that I stayed behind to look through the keyhole. But they had moved to a far corner of the room and were talking in low voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and so I went into the drawing room.
‘I heard voices raised and, after a quarter of an hour, I decided to go and have a look. But the visitor was already on his way out along the corridor to the front door and I only got a glimpse of him before he slammed it and left.
‘I felt I should talk to Sir Jeremy so as to reassure myself that nothing was amiss, but the memory of his earlier angry tone dissuaded me. And anyway, I told myself, it was his business, not mine. I could hear his footsteps in the study, pacing up and down. Comforted by the sound, I went to bed; it was nearly eleven o’clock and the rain had stopped.
‘I would never see my master alive again.
‘Early the next day I was abruptly awakened by the sound of an explosion. After a few moments of stunned silence—I thought I might have dreamt it—I went downstairs. At the end of the corridor I observed Chloe in her nightdress pounding on the door of the study and calling her husband’s name in vain. She claimed that he had not come upstairs that night, which was not unusual as he would often stay up late when he was immersed in one of his projects. But she had not been able to find him anywhere else in the house and the door to the study was locked on the inside.
‘At this juncture old George arrived. Apprised of the situation, he bent down to peer through the keyhole, then suggested opening the door with a master key until he realised the door was bolted, not locked. The only thing to do, then, was to break the door down. Despite his advancing years, old George was still up to the task and, after three attempts, the door yielded.
‘The three of us found the master of the house in the far corner of the room, slumped over his desk, with the French window which overlooked the rear of the property slightly ajar. There was a revolver in his hand. His head rested at an angle on the leather blotting-pad, where a dark stain was spreading. A rivulet of blood dribbled from a black hole in his temple. The winged plaster lion contemplated him with a frozen grimace. There was a strong smell of powder in the room. Chloe screamed. Old George caught her as she was about to faint and placed her gently in the only armchair. As he left to call the police, he asked me to look after our mistress, adding that a glass of brandy would do her no harm. Chloe, meanwhile, had brought out a handkerchief and was trying hard not to cry. I followed the advice of old George and went off to find some brandy. I helped myself as well for, after all that had happened, I felt very weak.
‘The police arrived quite quickly: three officers, a doctor, and Inspector Charles, who knew the Cavendish family personally. He was in his fifties, tall and well built, with a considerable presence, and very methodical in his investigations. He didn’t talk much while he was working, but around noon he communicated his preliminary findings. Before that, he had interrogated me, but it was obvious that he didn’t attach much importance to my testimony about the strange visitor the night before, attributing it no doubt to the effect of shock.
‘“Sir Jeremy killed himself, there’s no doubt about it,” he announced confidently. “Everything points to that conclusion: the position of the body, the head wound, and his hand on the revolver which, by the way, is his—.”
‘“No, it was murder, committed by that strange visitor who came last night.”
‘The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I saw the consternation on the faces of Chloe and old George. But the policeman didn’t take offence; he even said he understood my point of view. Then, quite calmly, he demonstrated the absurdity of my remark.
‘“Please understand, Miss White, that in the case of violent death, we in the police always assume the worst case: that is to say, murder. So I took great care not to rule out that possibility. But let’s look at the facts. At half past seven, there was an explosion. Everyone rushed to the study, only to find the door bolted on the inside. You broke down the door and you found the body of Sir Jeremy. All three witnesses testify to that. The furniture in the room: a sideboard, a table, a chair and an armchair preclude any possibility of a hiding place. In any case, all three of you were ready to swear there was nobody else in the room when you broke in. So where did the murderer go? Apart from the door, there is only one other possible exit: the French window, which you found ajar. Up to that point, the hypothesis of a murder is still valid… but then things get complicated.
‘“I suppose you’ve already looked outside. Within a radius of ten yards, there is nothing but mud. The flower beds were carefully raked over the previous day, and are only now starting to dry after the deluge. It’s very heavy soil, rich in clay and heavily waterlogged, which would preserve the footprints of anyone who walked over it for a very long time. And yet there’s nothing! No trace around the French window and no trace anywhere else. Nobody has walked there since last night. Since eleven o’clock last night, to be precise, because that’s when it stopped raining. If Sir Jeremy was murdered, it could only have been by someone or something with wings!”
‘Mud…winged creature. I thought I was dreaming. I thought about the creature I had imagined as I looked
at the statue of the winged lion.
‘Inspector Charles had been very confident as he summed up the situation, but then one of his officers sidled up to him hesitantly, looking very serious.
‘“I’m afraid Sir Jeremy didn’t kill himself, sir,” he announced. “In fact, he couldn’t have done it.”
‘“What’s that you say, Evans?” exclaimed Inspector Charles, sharply.
‘“The revolver was the murder weapon, but there are absolutely no prints of any kind on it. The gun was simply slipped under his hand to make believe it was a suicide.”
‘From that moment on, the investigation changed course and Inspector Charles lost his air of infallibility. He began to listen attentively to what I had told him.
‘“A man with a face of clay?” he said, in astonishment. “But that’s impossible. It’s pure fantasy, the stuff you get in books.”
‘“I don’t know if it was really clay, but it’s the first thing that came into my head after my conversation with Sir Jeremy. In any case, it wasn’t a human face, and I’m prepared to swear that under oath.”
‘“And Sir Jeremy received this person?”
‘“Yes, but they ended up quarrelling. Afterwards, I saw the individual leaving. Quite suddenly. He slammed the door.”
‘“If that person is the murderer, he must have come back this morning to commit the crime, because the medical examiner has confirmed that the time of death corresponds to the time of the explosion, in other words around seven-thirty.”
‘Inspector Charles rubbed his chin and continued:
‘“The two men argue, one of them leaves in anger, then returns later for revenge. So far, so good. But after that, we run into a brick wall. How did he carry out the crime? How did he cross a field of mud without leaving a single footprint?”
‘“It’s certainly strange, the more so because Sir Jeremy and I were talking about such a creature. A flying creature made of clay!”
‘When he left, the inspector seemed on the verge of an apoplectic fit. And his condition didn’t improve when he learnt of the curse put upon Sir Jeremy at the moment of his departure from the Middle East, and the mysterious events which had followed.
‘He didn’t fare any better in his interview with Chloe. Apparently, before each accident a short message had been found, written clumsily on a piece of cardboard. The first time, before the fire, Sir Jeremy had read a few words saying the sun was all-powerful and should not be denied. Just before he was almost run over, he received a message about a “celestial bull” who attacked sinners in order to punish them. And before the cobra attack in the zoo, it was the “serpent goddess” who was going to ensure justice took place. As the investigation proceeded, the feeling that Sir Jeremy had unleashed a terrible curse by stirring the desert sands took root. But who had sent the messages? Who had killed him? A man, or a clay monster from the past?
‘And on top of all those questions there is the mystery of Sir Jeremy’s research. Did he discover something new about the Deluge? Everything seems to confirm it: ten days after the murder, the police found a large leather bag at the bottom of a pond not far from the Cavendish property. It contained the remains of a series of clay tablets that had been covered at one time in that mysterious nail-head writing… excuse me, I mean cuneiform. Unfortunately, after so long in the water, nothing much was left.’
Miss White ended her account with a deep sigh. In the ensuing silence, they could hear the pitter-patter of the rain on the window-pane.
‘And so the mystery of the Deluge has been washed away,’ observed Owen, staring out of the window.
‘Yes. Well, almost. For there is one person who could still shed light on the matter: brother William, who was with Sir Jeremy in Iraq. Unfortunately, he still hasn’t been found, despite all police efforts. Then there’s other news, not as bad as what’s already happened, but bad enough. Sir Jeremy spent a great deal of his fortune on his archaeological digs, and even went into debt to continue funding them. Once all his creditors have been paid off, there’ll be practically nothing left for his widow. Fortunately, he took out a large insurance policy on his life. Chloe is so distraught by what’s happened that she doesn’t even seem to understand the situation. So there you have it: three weeks have gone by since the murder, and the investigation has yielded nothing.’
Just as she uttered those words, Miss White started to sneeze. She took an embroidered handkerchief out of her bag. She added, in a voice which could scarcely contain her emotion:
‘You have to agree it’s not a run-of-the-mill business.’
‘To say the least,’ I replied. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more baffling tale. A murderer with a face of clay, a hideous flying creature, and an ancient curse. I don’t see how all that can be unravelled over a cup of tea, do you Owen?’
Having wandered over to the mantelpiece, my friend was lost in the contemplation of his muses.
‘I know Inspector Charles personally,’ he responded, thoughtfully. ‘He’s not the brightest star in the firmament, but he’s dogged and meticulous. I have full confidence in him. I’m sure he’ll sort it all out very soon.’
I found my friend’s blithe assurance somewhat irritating.
‘But, Owen, what’s your own view?’
Without answering me, he turned to the pretty visitor.
‘Your story is indeed remarkable, my dear young lady. You have been very precise about the details. However, I would like to ask you a couple of additional questions.’
‘Please feel free to do so.’
‘You lived with Chloe Cavendish for over a year, rather like two friends, given your ages. So, if she’d had a crush on someone, you’d have known about it.’
Miss White’s pale face turned crimson.
‘Well, I don’t think she had a lover, if that’s your question. But she did renew acquaintance with an old childhood friend, a well-known jockey, who had come back to live in the village. They went on the occasional horse ride together, but apart from that....’
‘Where are you going with this line of questioning, Owen?’ I asked brusquely.
‘I’m merely applying the old adage: in all matters criminal cherchez la femme.’
‘Well, for my part, given the circumstances, I would say cherchez l’homme.’
‘You’re referring to Sir Jeremy’s younger brother, no doubt.’
‘Quite. His disappearance amounts to a confession. He’s obviously mixed up in it.’
‘You’re right on that last point, Achilles. The discovery of the bag in the pond corroborates the theory of contraband antique tablets, and the two brothers were undoubtedly complicit. The Iraqi authorities were right to have suspected them of starting the fire to cover their theft. So, according to you, who would the murderer be?’
Owen having posed the question with a note of irony, I was suspicious and took my time answering.
‘If he didn’t do it himself, he may have been the sleeping partner.’
‘In that case, who did the dirty work? The mysterious man with the clay face who upset Miss White so much?’
‘I’ve had nightmares every day since, Mr. Burns,’ said the young woman in a strangled voice. ‘That hideous face and that monstrous winged lion.’
‘A winged lion straight out of antiquity,’ observed Owen with a sphinx-like smile. ‘Isn’t that convenient. It would explain everything: the curse of the old Iraqi, the absence of footprints in the muddy flower beds. Is that your theory, Achilles?’
‘I—I don’t know what to think, Owen. It’s all beyond our understanding.’
‘So, you haven’t grasped it?’
‘Grasped what?’
‘Why, the identity of the mysterious visitor.’
Taken aback, I mumbled:
‘I suppose someone must have made themselves a clay mask.’
‘Achilles, you disappoint me,’ sighed my friend. ‘For a moment, you were burning, so to speak… Don’t you see, the visitor was none other than brother
William!’
Turning to Miss White, he added:
‘A monstrous figure of clay? I don’t doubt the sincerity of your testimony, but your comparison was misleading. However, you can be excused for having been influenced by the atmosphere of the surroundings and the mythological anecdotes of your employer. On the other hand, my friend here should have realised straight away that the description befits a face damaged by fire, the fire set by the two brothers to destroy their dig. No doubt permanently disfigured, William was the victim of his own malfeasance. The precise details may never be known, but I imagine he visited the Cavendish residence that night to announce that the stolen tablets had just been delivered by the smuggling ring they had hired. Then they got into an argument about something or other. It’s quite likely that William reproached his brother for paying too high a price for the contraband: after all, he’d lost his face because of it. I’ll wager also that, in his anger, after having left the premises, he threw the tablets in the nearby pond. Don’t ask me where he is at this precise moment, I have no idea. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone abroad.’
After a brief silence, Miss White sneezed once again. Then she nodded her head.
‘I should have thought of that, it’s the likeliest explanation.’
‘But then, who killed Sir Jeremy Cavendish?’
‘Haven’t you even the faintest idea?’ replied Owen, mockingly. ‘After all, the list of suspects isn’t very long.’
‘Hmm… let me see. If I apply your usual rule of thumb, it has to be the least likely person. In which case, it can only be the gardener. Yes, old George, betrayed by his roots: the name George meaning “earthworker” in Greek. Roots which go down into the clay soil of the flower beds, which were his daily work. He must have known of a way to cross over mud without leaving prints. And he could well know how to fire a gun, which is more than you can say for a creature from antiquity.’