Louis Thurlow took up the story:
‘Yes. I was slowing down on the approach to the village when a car came at us from the right. I stamped on the brakes in vain and it hit us. Nothing serious, but the bodywork was damaged nevertheless. My wife and I got out of our car and he did, too. He came towards us smiling, which was already surprising. “So, tourists, admiring the countryside, were you?” he asked mockingly. It was too much. Not only had he come out of a side road onto the main road at high speed, but he was blaming us for the collision. I pointed that out to him and he burst out laughing, as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. My wife intervened and told him she was going to go to the nearest police station. He threw his head back and started laughing again, even more loudly than before, after which he asked us if we knew who we were talking to, as if he was the King of England himself. Then, still laughing, he got into his car and drove off in the direction he’d come from. We’d made a note of his number, and at Withington police station the officer recognised the vehicle, which is apparently the only one of its kind in the area.’
‘Mr. Thurlow,’ intervened Hector Redfern in a calm voice, ‘can you identify the spot which I just showed you, namely the beginning of the road leading to this property, as the scene of the accident?’
‘Of course,’ said the young man, shrugging his shoulders.
‘Can you describe the driver?’
‘He was of medium height, solidly built, with red hair and beard, wearing a blue-checked jacket.’
Hurst went crimson.
‘Are there any other details you can add?’
This time it was Mrs. Thurlow who answered:
‘Yes, he had a small scar on his right temple.’
A shiver went through those present. Meadows looked like a zombie and the others weren’t much better.
‘We have good reason to believe, Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, that the man driving the car was wearing make-up and a false wig and beard, and that the jacket was padded. Is that your impression?’
The young couple looked at each other. Louis Thurlow declared:
‘I’d find that very surprising. What about you, darling?’
‘No, I don’t think so. But you never know.’
‘Very well,’ said Redfern testily. ‘Now, Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, I’m going to ask you to look at every single person in this room and tell me if any of them could have played the part of the driver.’ Then, in an aside to Howard Hilton and the doctor: ‘I know your reciprocal testimonies prove that you were either here or in the dining room at the time of the accident, but to rule out the hypothesis of a conspiracy… You understand: it would clear you of all suspicion.’
Under normal circumstances, the scene which followed would have appeared curious, if not comic. But no one was smiling. The “examination” lasted just over a minute. A vein throbbed in Meadows’ temple. Francis was unrecognisable, Paula very pale, and Mr. and Mrs. Hilton too hard-boiled to react in any way at all.
‘It’s impossible for it to have been any of these people,’ declared Louis Thurlow at the end of the inspection.
‘Absolutely impossible,’ agreed his wife.
‘Very well,’ said Redfern, obviously disappointed.
‘Are there any photographs of the late Mr. Thorne?’
The wedding album was brought out once again, this time for the Thurlows’ perusal. In an oppressive silence, they combed through every page. Then Louis Thurlow turned towards Hector Redfern:
‘Unless he has a twin brother, I’m prepared to swear that the husband here was indeed the man driving the sports car.’
‘I’m prepared to swear to that as well,’ added Mrs. Thurlow.
24
‘It’s impossible! Impossible!’ shouted Archibald Hurst, banging the table with his fist.
It was half past seven in the evening and he and Dr. Twist were dining in the Black Horse with Redfern, Bessie and Patrick. The young couple had returned from Cheltenham an hour earlier. Brian’s condition had improved, because he had even managed to smile at Bessie and his saviour. But this latest news didn’t seem to have made Hurst happy, for he continued to rage:
‘… and I don’t believe in the impossible.’
‘Meaning?’ enquired Patrick.
The inspector lowered the volume a few decibels:
‘None of the people involved in the affair could have played the part. Strictly none. The accident happened after half past one and the vehicle was seen at ten to two returning to the fold. Those who were in the manor at the time are ruled out because of their mutual alibis and the testimony of the Thurlows. So, who’s left?’ Hurst started to count on his fingers and stopped at three, with a small smile at the couple. ‘Forgive me, but I have to envisage every possibility.’
‘I see,’ replied Bessie, who didn’t appear to appreciate the inspector’s allusion. ‘But you seem to have a short memory, because we met outside the hospital at two o’clock. How do you think Patrick and I made the journey to Cheltenham in ten minutes?’
‘It’s not feasible, I agree. That leaves Brian… who was in front of us in his bed at ten to two. Twist, allow me to use your favourite maxim: “Eliminate the impossible—.”’
‘Once again, my friend, it’s not my maxim. It belongs to the celebrated—.’
‘Please,’ thundered Archibald Hurst, ‘this is no time to split hairs. So: “Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”’
A gleam of hope flickered in Redfern’s eyes. Patrick looked scepticaclass="underline"
‘And what might this last, highly improbable, hypothesis be?’
Hurst allowed a short silence to elapse, then declared:
‘Harris Thorne isn’t dead. Don’t pull faces, there’s no other explanation.’
‘But,’ gasped Bessie, ‘I saw him with my own eyes when we found him at the foot of the wall… and I wasn’t the only one. Everyone saw it. He was dead, there’s no doubt about it.’
‘It’s possible to play dead, Miss, believe me,’ replied Hurst with exaggerated courtesy. ‘There are plenty of examples. Also, one can be dead for a few moments, then recover consciousness, that’s also happened.’ The chief superintendent started to protest but Hurst cut him off with a gesture. ‘Don’t say anything for the moment, Redfern, I have my own ideas and we can talk about it later.’
‘I’m starting to think you may be right, Inspector,’ declared Patrick. ‘The fellow I saw after Sarah’s funeral was indeed the same as the man in the photo I was shown, I’m certain of it. Admittedly, at the time I started to doubt myself, but now… In any case, there’s a simple way to find out where we are.’
‘I think we’re on the same track, young man,’ agreed Hurst, with a knowing look. ‘A very simple way, in truth.’
Hector Redfern, already intrigued by the cryptic interchange, sat dumbfounded before the extraordinary attitude of Dr. Twist, who had continued to dig into his meal as if he’d heard nothing. After wiping his moustache, the detective turned to him and asked:
‘By the way, have you had time to question the Hiltons and Dr. Meadows about their alibis for the time that the Blounts’ workshop caught fire?’
The chief superintendent looked at Dr. Twist’s smiling face in astonishment. How could such an eminent detective waste time on such trifles at such a moment?
‘Yes. Everyone was sleeping like a log, which isn’t all that surprising at four o’clock in the morning.’
Twist nodded in agreement, then proceeded to pose another question:
‘Have you taken a look at what was left of the workshop?’
‘One of my men looked into it. Except for a handful of tools, there are only ashes. An old carpenter’s workshop: you can imagine how quickly it caught fire.’