‘The problem couldn’t be clearer: on the one hand, victims taken ill, always at the same spot and with traces of water near the fireplace; on the other hand a soothsayer who predicts the future, and in particular, their misfortunes.’
Inspector Hurst nodded his head, visibly satisfied with his summary. His radiant features were in stark contrast to those of the chief superintendent, who was mopping a brow damp with perspiration.
‘Remarkable,’ gushed Dr. Twist. ‘Quite remarkable! What conciseness, what impartiality! You’ve presented all the facts with a rare objectivity, Archibald.’ Hurst, glowing with pleasure, made a self-deprecating gesture. ‘Even so, my friend,’ he pursued gently, ‘I can’t help wondering whether what you’ve just reported wouldn’t have caused the best investigators of the genre to lose their reason.’
The inspector’s expression changed as he began to realise how incredible his account must have sounded, resembling as it did more of a macabre and fantastic fairy tale than the kind of case he normally encountered. He shot a hostile look at his friend whom he suspected of taking pleasure in underscoring the contradictory propositions of his account, but could detect nothing behind the pince-nez. He gave a deep sigh:
‘In a way I’m quite relieved that our clairvoyant hasn’t turned up. Who knows what new catastrophe he would have announced? We’ve quite enough on our plate as it is.’
(Fortunately for him, Archibald Hurst did not possess the gift of foresight, for what had happened up to that point would pale in comparison to what was to follow.) He turned to the chief superintendent:
‘We’ve talked about a lot of things, Redfern, but you haven’t yet given us the vital facts.’
His colleague looked dumbfounded.
‘Yes,’ continued Hurst with a cunning smile. ‘Who stands to inherit? I imagine you’ve already done your research?’
Redfern cleared his throat.
‘Well, yes. I saw Peter Higgins, the Thornes’ solicitor, yesterday evening. And I have to admit that what he told me was rather curious and doesn’t get us very far… Allow me to explain. The first strange thing is that Sarah went to see him a few days ago to make her will… as if she’d had a premonition. Higgins, surprised by the unexpected visit, thought she looked tormented and anxious. He was even more surprised when she asked him to keep the visit a secret, to which he retorted that it was against professional etiquette to do anything else. According to the terms of her will, half her fortune goes to her immediate family — in this case her parents and her brother — and the other half goes to her brother-in-law Brian Thorne.’
‘Nothing to her fiancé?’ asked Hurst in astonishment.
‘Nothing. Needless to say that intrigued Higgins, who knew about her matrimonial intentions with the young doctor. After beating about the bush, he managed to coax out of her the reason for her generosity to Brian. To paraphrase: “It’s natural, in the event of anything happening to me, for a large part of my late husband’s fortune to go to his family. Brian is the only living descendant of the Thornes. This way he’ll be able to conserve and maintain the manor.” She left it at that, and the will was prepared and signed.’
‘Bizarre,’ growled Hurst, scratching his chin. ‘In other words, everyone involved in this business benefits, except the fiancé.’
‘As I said before, it doesn’t get us very far,’ replied Redfern prudently, ‘particularly since we don’t know whether any of them was aware of the terms.’
‘You’re thinking of Brian, I assume,’ said Hurst pensively.
Redfern nodded.
‘Yes. Let’s just suppose that “someone” was the instigator of “something.” The only thing we can be certain of is that Mike Meadows is the clear loser in all this and therefore had nothing to do with the “something.”’
Hurst, thinking hard, his fingers drumming furiously on the table, regarded Twist, who had just picked up the menu again, with annoyance.
‘Twist!’ he exploded, point-blank.
‘Hmmm….’
‘We’ve forgotten something. There is someone who should have an idea of why Sarah was in such a state.’
At that very moment, an officer in uniform appeared at the table.
‘What is it, Johnson?’ asked Redfern.
‘Nothing positive to report, sir,’ replied the man. ‘But I thought you should know we’ve found no trace of the fugitive. In my opinion, he’s hiding somewhere in the village, even though he doesn’t seem friendly enough with anyone for them to offer him asylum. We’ve questioned everyone without success. Should we carry out a search?’
Redfern pursed his lips and replied:
‘Yes, with kid gloves for the time being. Notify me if anyone refuses. Is there anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. In fact, that’s why I took the liberty of coming here. They’ve just called through the results of the carpet analysis. There’s no trace of anything on the sample. So it was certainly water and nothing else.’
The policeman saluted and the three men watched him leave the inn.
‘What were you saying, old friend?’ asked Twist gently.
‘Do you remember the conversation which your friend Nolan overheard? The mysterious conversation between Mrs. Sarah Thorne and her brother?’
‘I see what you’re saying.’
‘Hell’s bells! Francis Hilton knows something. He must have at least some idea about what was causing his sister to be frightened. He himself confessed to seeing that “something.”’
Dr. Twist shook his head:
‘He talked about a fleeting vision, a blurred image, a reminiscence, something that “wasn’t possible” and which seemed more like the fruit of his imagination.’
‘If I understand you correctly, they were just words to soothe his sister? Maybe. But I still can’t help thinking he knows more or less what was tormenting his sister.’
‘Granted. And I assure you I haven’t forgotten. Now please let me order my dessert.’
21
A short while later — Redfern having left them — Hurst and Dr. Twist were listening to Bessie Blount’s grandfather giving them his opinion about one of the rare criminal cases that Scotland Yard had failed to solve. He was a well-built man, despite his age, and not at a loss for words. Francis and Paula were also there and, together with Patrick, they listened attentively to the old man’s monologue, whilst Bessie looked at the ceiling when she was not emitting exasperated sighs.
He rambled on about having seen Jack the Ripper with his own eyes, how he’d witnessed the carnage in Mitre Square and how the police had ignored his description of the killer because he was only fifteen at the time.
‘Grandpa,’ implored Bessie, ‘we’ve heard the story a hundred times and you’re boring our guests.’
‘Boring our guests? But it’s about the most celebrated mystery of all!’ He looked wearily at the two detectives. ‘Gentlemen, my granddaughter and her mother take me for an old fool who’s off his rocker and makes up stories. Only yesterday, I pointed out that someone had moved the wheelbarrow in the garden.’