‘True enough,’ said Twist. ‘By the time we got there, the fire was almost out.’
‘It’s a miracle Brian got out alive,’ sighed Bessie. ‘There was nothing but sawdust and wood inside: old planks, a chest full of wood shavings and even two bales of straw… a veritable miracle. Patrick….’
‘Yes?’
‘You talked about a “simple way” before. What did you mean?’
‘Yes,’ echoed Redfern. ‘What did you mean?’
The young detective looked around before leaning forward. As he spoke, certain faces changed colour.
‘But we haven’t got the right,’ stammered Redfern.
‘It’s a drastic measure, agreed,’ declared Hurst. ‘As a matter of fact, I was about to propose the same approach. What do you think, Twist?’
‘It’s the logical thing to do. The facts being what they are, there’s not much else we can do. Incidentally, it’s not the first time we’ve used this method of verification and it won’t be the last. Isn’t that so, Archibald?’
Redfern didn’t allow Hurst the chance to reply:
‘When are you thinking of doing it?’
‘It would be better not to put it off until tomorrow,’ said Patrick, ‘if you see what I mean.’
‘Tonight?’ said Redfern, wincing. ‘As you wish, but I don’t need to be there. What exactly are you hoping to find, by the way?’
A curious smile spread across Hurst’s ruddy face, as he replied with unaccustomed gentleness:
‘Nothing, Redfern. Precisely nothing.’
At half past nine that same evening, Dr. Twist and the inspector found themselves in the salon of Hatton Manor. Francis was pacing up and down the area in front of the fireplace. He’d lit and extinguished three cigarettes in the space of five minutes. Seated in one of the armchairs, Mike Meadows, calmer but no less thoughtful, stroked his moustache. Mr. and Mrs. Hilton had already gone up to bed. Paula had, too, to the intense relief of Patrick, because the last thing he would have wanted was for his friend to accompany them, which she would most certainly have done if she’d known about it. He knew her only too well.
‘I understand you, my dear Francis,’ declared Meadows, ‘but in view of the situation, these gentlemen are right. Better to get the verification over with right away.’
Francis turned a distraught face to his companions and said through trembling lips:
‘I don’t disagree. But I’m apprehensive.’
‘That’s understandable,’ said Hurst. ‘But we’ll be there,’ he added boastfully, ‘and we’re used to such things. So, what do we need? The key, of course, a heavy screwdriver, a few crowbars and two lanterns… or preferably electric torches: with the possibility of escaping gas, one can’t be too sure.’
Hurst’s confidence started to fade as the five men set out in the direction of the chapel; it had almost evaporated by the time they saw the small edifice through the swirling mists; and it vanished completely when the rays of the torch-lights converged on the stone slab leading down to the crypt. Patrick had had considerable trouble moving it previously, but this time they were five, and the narrow stairs leading down to the chestnut door appeared relatively quickly.
Francis inserted the key in the lock, gave it a turn, and the door opened with a sinister groan. The air inside was typically stale and sickly-sweet. The lights from the lamps scanned the walls and revealed a central ribbed vault supported by four pillars. The walls, in dressed stone, sweated dampness. Niches had been cut into each side, in most of which lay coffins. In an oppressive silence the lights searched for that of Harris Thorne. They located it next to Sarah’s, easily recognisable by the faded roses which had been placed on it, whose dying perfume mixed strangely with a penetrating foulness which was becoming more and more apparent.
The five men approached the interior niche which was supposedly the last resting place of Harris Thorne. His name was there, inscribed on a marble plaque. Hurst’s grimace stretched into a grotesque mask under the glare of his lamp.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ he ordered. ‘Hilton, pass Dr. Meadows the screwdriver. After all, bodies are his business.’
‘Bodies?’ replied the doctor in astonishment. ‘What do you expect to find there? Either he isn’t there — which is what we’re assuming — or he is, in which case not much identifiable will be left. In either case, I think we’d better place the coffin on the ground to remove the screws.’
Hurst and Patrick did the honours.
‘It’s pretty heavy,’ muttered the inspector.
‘It’s solid oak,’ said Patrick, grunting with the effort.
Meadows leant over the coffin and removed the screws one by one. Once the operation was over, he turned to his companions, one or two of whom had taken a step back.
There was a long silence. The rays from the lamps converged on the polished oak. “What are we going to find there?” was the silent question everyone was asking.
‘Go on, Meadows!’ roared Hurst. ‘What are you waiting for?’
The doctor nodded and slid the coffin lid to one side.
The first sound was the inspector breathing a sigh of relief. And it was indeed the body of Harris Thorne lying there in the velvet-lined coffin, with his blue jacket, his red hair and beard, and even the scar on his right temple. But then Hurst’s features froze and his eyes seemed on the point of popping out of his head.
Meadows, fascinated and, at the same time, terrified, leant over the body and declared:
‘What the Devil? I swear that this man has only been dead for a few days!’
25
Hector Redfern had spent a sleepless night and had risen early to eat a rapid breakfast. His humour did not improve after listening to the account of the previous night’s events, as reported by Hurst, Patrick Nolan and Dr. Twist, who had come to visit him that Sunday morning in his Withington bungalow.
He remained still for a long moment without saying anything, then looked at Hurst, whose crumpled face indicated he’d slept even less than the chief superintendent, if at all. Patrick appeared tense, but in control of himself, and Twist looked worried and pre-occupied.
‘It’s absurd,’ he said finally. ‘The man’s been dead a year and I was present at his funeral. I’m willing to swear it was he and no one else in that coffin. If need be, you can always question the undertakers….’
‘There’s no need,’ cut in Hurst. ‘Meadows and young Hilton also confirmed everything. ‘But there’s been some fishy business somewhere, that’s for sure. Alas, if I may put it this way: that’s not the question.’
‘You must be joking,’ retorted Redfern. ‘That’s the whole question. And, speaking of Meadows, what did he have to say about the body — in his capacity as doctor, I mean.’
‘First of all, there’s not the slightest doubt it was Harris. Young Hilton confirmed it as well.’
‘We’ll get to the bottom of it,’ fumed Redfern, normally considered the calmest of men. ‘What did he die of? And when exactly?’
‘Without a thorough examination, he seems to think that the injury to the temple was what caused it.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Redfern, on the brink of apoplexy. ‘A man dying twice isn’t enough for you? You’re trying to tell me he succumbed a second time to the same injury as the first? It’s utter madness!’
Hurst grimaced disconsolately.
‘I’m trying to stick to the facts. Meadows might be mistaken about the cause. We didn’t spend a lot of time down there, you understand. But he’s adamant about the date, which he says was only a few days ago — a week at a maximum. And I know enough about the subject to tell you he’s right about that. And Dr. Twist agrees.’