Mike Meadows, with a smile which was a mixture of triumph and fury, turned to Hurst. The inspector brought his fist down on the palm of his hand:
‘We’ll flush him out before dawn, I guarantee it!’
And he was right. But the capture of the fugitive didn’t lift the shadows from the extraordinary affair. Quite the contrary….
23
At around four o’clock in the morning Patrick was in the grip of a terrible nightmare which had taken him back three centuries in the past, to the time of the Great Fire of London. The spectacle was terrifying but magnificent. The city was just an immense brazier and the bridges were arches of fire over the Thames. He, Patrick, was standing on a hill overlooking the scene, standing behind Harvey Thorne, who was shouting: “They will perish by fire.” The face of great-uncle Harvey appeared and then disappeared again behind a curtain of flames floating towards Patrick, who screamed… and woke up bathed in perspiration.
He lay there a long time, getting his breath back and convincing himself it was only a dream. He tapped the bedside table, consulted his wristwatch, put on his dressing gown and went over to the window, which he opened wide. Breathing in the freshness of the night, he contemplated the Blount property. Despite the darkness, he could make out the wisteria, the wide hedge, the vegetable garden, Bessie’s grandfather’s workshop and even the woods beyond.
His thoughts went back to Padstow and the little cove, in the days preceding Paula’s departure. He remembered very clearly that afternoon when Paula had asked him where and when the Great Fire had started. A tender smile lingered on his lips and disappeared. “How will this all end?” he thought, evoking the extraordinary situation in which he found himself. Faces paraded in front of his eyes: Bessie, Paula, Francis, Mr. and Mrs. Hilton, Dr. Meadows, Brian, Sarah… Harris Thorne with his flamboyant beard and sonorous laugh… He had to stop thinking about the man or he would end up believing that… He dismissed that image, but now it was the shadowy figure of great-uncle Harvey which appeared in front of him, smiling. It sat at his desk, picked up his pen, dipped it in the ink and began to write: They will perish by fire….
The words flared up in front of Patrick, then became nothing more than a very small glimmer. The window of the workshop was lit up. Brilliantly lit up now. Black fumes were escaping and Pak could hear the characteristic roar. Just as he realised that the old workshop of grandfather Blount was aflame, a cry of terror rent the night.
Paralysed, Patrick watched in horror as the workshop door was flung open and a human torch staggered out.
Recovering in a flash, he tore the cover from his bed, bestrode the window sill, grabbed the wisteria and landed on the ground outside. He leapt up and rushed to the screaming figure battling with its flaming clothes. Instinctively he gave it an uppercut, flung the cover around it, threw it to the ground and rolled it over and over. A few seconds later, the flames were extinguished and he bent over to look at the blistered face. By the flickering light from the brazier crackling a few feet away, he could identify the figure without any possibility of error: Brian.
At half past eight in the morning, Archibald Hurst and Dr. Twist knocked on the door of the Blount residence. The inspector looked grim. He’d been up late going over every detail of the case with his friend and had barely gone to sleep when the innkeeper woke him to say Miss Blount needed to see him urgently. Accompanied by Twist, he’d followed the ambulance taking the injured man to Cheltenham. Hector Redfern had joined them at the hospital but it wasn’t until seven that they’d been able to talk to the doctor in charge.
Bessie hastened to open the door.
‘Well?’ she asked in an imploring murmur.
‘He’s still alive,’ replied Hurst tersely, ‘but he’s in bad shape. Third degree burns. They’re not sure he’ll survive.’
She led the visitors into the kitchen, where Patrick was sitting with a steaming cup of coffee. They didn’t refuse when she offered them refreshments.
Hurst repeated to Patrick what he’d told his fiancée.
‘… but the doctor wouldn’t allow us to interview him for the time being.’ He turned to Bessie. ‘Isn’t your mother here?’
‘She’s gone to work.’
‘And your grandfather?’
The young woman pointed to the ceiling.
‘He’s just gone back to bed.’
‘Well then,’ said the inspector with a smile that was anything but amiable, ‘we’ll be able to put our cards on the table. Mr. Nolan, can you repeat to us what you saw earlier this morning?’
Patrick did so without omitting the slightest detail.
‘If Brian comes out of this alive,’ observed Hurst, ‘he’ll be deeply indebted to you. In your view, how did the fire start? Did you see anyone go in or out of the workshop? Other than Brian, of course.’
‘No, but that can’t be ruled out. It was very dark and it would have been very easy for someone to throw a lighted match through the window on the north side, near the woods, without me seeing them. If I remember correctly, two of the panes of glass were broken, weren’t they, Bessie?’ His fiancée nodded. ‘Besides, I’d only been at the window a short time.’
‘Very well. Therefore there are two possibilities. Either the fire started accidentally, or there was a criminal hand behind it. Are we agreed?’
Patrick and Bessie both nodded.
‘And in either case,’ continued the policemen in a different tone of voice, ‘that must mean that Brian was sleeping there. Are we still in agreement?’
Bessie sat stony-faced.
‘Mr. Nolan, I assume you had no idea he was there?’
‘Correct.’
‘And I imagine, Miss Blount, that neither your mother nor your grandfather were aware either?’
A heavy air of suspicion hung in the kitchen, before Dr. Twist broke the silence.
‘Miss Blount, I think you’d better explain yourself.’
The young woman gritted her teeth as her eyes welled with tears, then burst out sobbing. When she confessed that she’d been hiding Brian since Monday, Dr. Twist remarked that there was more anxiety and sadness written on her face than on the faces of those present at Sarah Thorne’s funeral.
‘He knocked at my bedroom window at midnight… He told me Sarah had just died and everyone regarded him as having been responsible. He couldn’t face them and he asked me to help him. I… I was really touched. I’d never seen him like that, like a little boy lost and abandoned. I told him nobody had set foot in the workshop for donkey’s years and I gave him blankets and food.’
‘Every day?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he tell you after that?’
‘We never really had time to talk. I didn’t want to arouse suspicion. But he always said the same thing, that he didn’t want to see anyone but me for the moment… and he was very grateful to me for helping him. I think he felt responsible for his sister-in-law’s death, too.’
‘Did you tell him the police were looking for him?’
Bessie hung her head.
‘Yes, I kept him informed.’
Hurst cleared his throat loudly and continued.
‘Miss Blount, do you know that this could cost you dearly?’