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.