‘That’s enough.’ She cut him off. ‘And afterwards?’
‘There were Brian’s predictions, which intrigued me enormously. I didn’t know what to think, everything was bubbling around in my mind. And then there were Sarah’s death and Brian’s disappearance. I had no idea that Bessie was hiding him in the workshop. I’d noticed a change in her attitude recently, without knowing why. Yes, Paula, she’s really taken a liking to Brian, but I don’t know if she realises it. Be that as it may, it’s a very good thing for Bessie and, in addition, it takes a weight off my shoulders.’
The sound of flapping wings punctuated with shrill cries interrupted the peace of the park. A swarm of birds flew up towards the clouds, in an operation confusing at first, but which White Camellia and Blue Reed eventually realised was a disciplined flight with variable geometry.
‘The great departure,’ observed Patrick, at once admiring and nostalgic.
‘What I don’t understand is what you want from me. That I leave Francis for you?’
‘That was part of my plan at first: to approach you gently at first, then try and convince you. Sheer madness, I admit. But I’m honest and I confess it to you.’
Paula gave a long sigh.
‘You’re starting to sound reasonable, Patrick. But because we’re sharing confidences, I must tell you that I get on well with my husband and I’m very happy with him.’
‘Paula….’
‘Do you know who you remind me of, Patrick? A spoilt little child who only wants what’s forbidden to him. In real life—.’
‘No lectures on morality, please.’
‘Very well. What do you plan to do now?’
Patrick pursed his lips and brought out his cigarette case.
‘Continue your investigation?’ continued Paula in an incisive tone. ‘You’re scared stiff, aren’t you? Do you know who it was who looked like Harris and whom you discovered in the coffin?’
‘It was Harris’s body….’
‘Have you all lost your minds! You, your police friends and even Francis. For Brian to believe in ghosts is understandable. But for the rest of you — and you above all, Patrick! You’ve always told me that there’s a rational explanation for every mystery. Have you changed your mind?’
Patrick shook his head and crushed the cigarette he’d just lit under his foot.
‘I — that is, we — know nearly everything, Paula. There’s no ghost or anything like that. Dr. Twist even has an idea about Brian’s prophecies.’
Stunned, Paula looked at him wild-eyed.
‘Harris died last year. And the body you discovered is his?’ she mumbled.
‘Yes. But let’s leave that for the moment. For my part, I’ve learnt quite a lot since last Monday, since the death of Sarah, since I saw a certain person in the process of… the penny didn’t drop at the time, but later it did. And afterwards I didn’t behave very well with regard to the law or anything else. I was in an awkward situation, because if I’d revealed what I’d seen, you… one could have thought that… Well, anyway I kept quiet and acted on my own — which wasn’t very clever, now I think about it. And that brilliant devil Twist worked everything out. He even guessed there was something between us.
‘The situation is worse than you can possibly imagine, Paula, because we know almost everything but there’s not a shred of proof. And things can’t stop here. I thought I was doing the right thing, Paula, I swear. I didn’t want you to think that… There was probably some other way I could have acted, but you know me… I always want to dramatise everything.’
A heavy step crunching the gravel interrupted them.
Archibald Hurst was coming towards them, head down. As he drew level he gave them both a sombre look and slumped down on the bench next to them.
‘Have you seen Dr. Twist?’ asked Patrick. ‘A telegram came for him.’
‘I know. Redfern sent it from Newbury. I’ve just talked to him on the phone. Twist left immediately after he received it.’
Silence. The inspector took his time lighting a cigar, obviously delaying what he had to say. Then he grasped the nettle and spoke.
‘I have very bad news for you, Mrs. Hilton. You need to brace yourself. Your husband and his parents have been killed in a car accident on the road to Newbury. Apparently the driver lost control of the vehicle and it caught fire. They all died immediately.’
Which was true for the parents, but not for Francis who, according to witnesses, fought in vain to get out of the car. The inspector had decided to tell a white lie.
Paula appeared not to have grasped the situation at first, but then she broke down in convulsive sobs. Patrick wanted to take her in his arms, but resisted the impulse.
‘That’s not all, unfortunately, Mrs. Hilton. We’re practically certain that your husband killed his sister.’
27
The following evening at eight o’clock, a number of visitors were seated in the lounge of Hector Redfern’s bungalow. Paula, sombre and silent, was sitting on the sofa next to Bessie. Since yesterday, the Blounts had taken her in, and she was likely to stay there for the foreseeable future. Bessie had been trying to take her friend’s mind off the tragic and cruel epilogue to her marriage to Francis as best she could. Patrick had been keeping them company without intruding in their conversations. He hadn’t stopped looking at White Camellia, waiting in vain for a look or the shadow of a smile, unable to penetrate her thoughts. Blue eyes wide open, but not a single tear. An impassive countenance, which he took as a bad omen as far as he was concerned. For now, he was seated in an armchair, nursing a whisky and torturing himself with the question: “Can she ever love me again?”
Archibald Hurst, enthroned on his seat, was relaxed, far more so than usual on such occasions — Twist had confided most of the key to the mystery already. Which was far from the case with the chief superintendent, who was pacing back and forth in front of the chimneypiece, hands behind his back, with the regularity of clockwork.
After extinguishing his pipe and adjusting his pince-nez, Dr. Twist started to speak.
‘Before I begin, I want to make it clear that what I am about to say will be strictly confidential and must have no other witnesses than you and these four walls. I leave you to imagine what the press would make of it if they learnt about it. The Thorne and Hilton families have suffered enough without being delivered to the unhealthy curiosity of the gutter press. Are we all in agreement? The same goes for a certain London detective agency.
‘That said, I shall, without further ado, get to the heart of the matter and attempt to explain each event in this imbroglio in chronological order. We shall start with the case of Harvey Thorne. A very strange individual, the details of whose life come to us via several successive testimonies, which doesn’t help us very much. As an aside, I must tell you that quite often an obscure case has, as its point of departure, another obscure case which was the result of an incredible sequence of coincidences. That’s the only explanation I can offer for finding a shred of logic in this extraordinary story of the premonitions of great-uncle Harvey. He announces to his family and his descendants that they will perish by fire and, as bad luck would have it, some of them do die in that manner. A coincidence — but it will be the only one — which will be turned into a curse and result in the sealing of the writer’s room. It’s possible to interpret the words of the dying man: “Will perish… sinned… will perish by fire… will perish by fire,” which probably changed through time, but I remain convinced that they were indeed a warning about death by fire. Which is what most people thought, and is quite understandable.’