Even though no one said so, it was quite clear that nobody in the room believed that the prospect of another murder would have deterred Francis in any way. Twist continued:
‘I wouldn’t have wanted to be in Francis’s shoes the following day, Sunday, when two tourists formally identified the driver of the car that had hit them. I’m sure you can recall the expression on his face the night we told him we were going to visit the chapel. Enough said. But none of that explains the double reappearance of Harris Thorne, who refuses to stay in his coffin. I feel I should warn you puzzle lovers in advance that the explanation is disappointingly simple. Over to you again, Mr. Nolan.’
Patrick undid the top button of his shirt. His eyes remained stubbornly riveted to the tips of his shoes as he started to speak:
‘I must tell you at the start,’ he said, in an almost unrecognisable voice, ‘that the Thurlows weren’t entirely unknown to me. They’re close friends and Louis is my associate in the detective agency.’
Redfern looked thunderstruck at the revelation, and Twist and Archibald Hurst both cleared their throats.
‘As I told you just now,’ continued Patrick, his face scarlet, ‘I began to vaguely understand the situation on Monday evening when I observed Francis in the process of transporting a corpse in a wheelbarrow, and then when I took a peep inside the workshop. But it was only the next day, when I learnt of Sarah’s death, that I began to understand the significance of what I’d seen. Many of the details still remained obscure, but I knew enough to be certain that Francis had killed his sister.
‘Why didn’t I denounce him then? For I could have easily have done so. Besides my own testimony, there must have been other clues in the workshop. I kick myself now for not having had the good sense to go back at the time, because then I would have discovered Brian and he wouldn’t now be in hospital… I wasn’t trying to cover up what Francis had done — far from that — but I didn’t want to be the one who denounced him… or, rather, I didn’t want one particular person to know I was the one. Because that person might think that I’d acted for personal reasons… She might even have thought I was lying to discredit the person who… and would end up believing Francis was innocent. I know none of this is very clear, but the person in question knows what I mean.’ Patrick continued to stare at the tips of his shoes. ‘To sum it up, Francis had to pay for his crime, but without me accusing him to his face.
‘What I decided to do could be criticised in some respects: there might have been simpler ways to lead the investigators to understand what had happened. But I wanted to maintain the atmosphere of the affair by progressively frightening the villain, backing him into a corner, and causing him to lose his reason once he realised that the end was inevitable. And a night inspection to the family vault seemed like a nice finishing touch. I didn’t know whether Francis had put the corpse back into its coffin, but an empty coffin would have been just as suspect. Anyway, to cut a long story short, the person I supposedly saw after the funeral, and who resembled Harris Thorne like two peas in a pod, never existed. I made the whole thing up. As for Harris Thorne the demon driver, he was made up, too. I contacted Louis Thurlow last Thursday and told him where to find the convertible. It was he who borrowed it and put it back after damaging the wing of his own vehicle, with the assistance of his wife. I don’t think I need to draw a picture.’
The chief superintendent was sitting with his mouth open.
‘Let me see now,’ purred Hurst, with a feline smile, ‘false testimony during a murder investigation… That could cost the three of you dearly, not to mention your detective agency. Concealment of evidence, withholding of facts, manipulation of police officers in the execution of their duty… Luckily for you, we know how to observe a discreet silence. I’d like to point out, however, that during our visit to the kingdom of the dead, the culprit didn’t crack, as you obviously had hoped.’ His face saddened. ‘And maybe that was a blessing in disguise. The terrible collision which cost the lives of the Hiltons — already suffering from the loss of their daughter — also avoided them learning the horrible truth about their son.’
EPILOGUE
At the end of the week, Paula returned to Padstow to move in with her parents. She raised no objection when Patrick proposed accompanying her, neither did she manifest any joy. Would she be able to forgive him one day? She didn’t reproach him for anything, anything at all. Knowing him, she wasn’t at all surprised he’d acted as he did. Would she allow him to visit from time to time? She saw no objection, but showed no enthusiasm, either.
Patrick’s parents saw their son more often in a few weeks than in the previous several years, as the young detective visited them regularly. Relations between Paula and Patrick returned to what they had been before that famous midnight swim, but without the mischief and joyful laughter. Just friends, no more than that.
Winter passed, sombre and gloomy, and the days started to get longer. The migrant birds returned along with the first warmth of spring. Whenever Patrick visited Padstow to see his friend, he always invited her to lunch in a restaurant noted for its fine cuisine, its excellent cellar and the propriety of its staff, and that day in May was no exception. Except that, on that day, as they were seated in the dining room overlooking the bay, he thought he detected, for the first time, the flicker of a smile. He reached across the table and touched her hand. She didn’t pull it away….
The following month, White Camellia and Blue Reed went on their honeymoon.
What happened to Dr. Meadows? One might have imagined him saddled with a rich, austere and authoritarian wife. Not a bit of it. He married one of the most beautiful young women in the county. And one of the richest as well. The only cloud on the horizon: two months after the wedding, she eloped with a silver-tongued travelling salesman. Dr. Meadows still hasn’t got over it.
The day he was released from hospital, Brian asked Bessie to marry him. She retorted that, although it was a very proper and seductive proposition, she was somewhat surprised it hadn’t come sooner. Nevertheless, she accepted on one condition: there was never to be any mention of prophecies, predictions, divinations or anything of the sort. Brian assured her she had nothing to worry about: ever since Dr. Twist had explained to him how Francis had manipulated him, he’d lost complete faith in his so-called powers and, furthermore, had no wish ever again to experience guilt when one of his predictions came to pass.
They married that summer and settled in Coventry, near the bicycle manufacturing firm which Brian had inherited from Sarah. Initially his employees and business partners doubted whether the new director, who seemed a nice enough fellow, had the necessary competence to run the company. Their misgivings disappeared when he displayed a natural flair for sniffing out new markets and shrewd investment opportunities.
No clouds appeared to darken their conjugal happiness and Bessie bore him twin daughters, followed by a male heir. Brian was a happy man in every way, and probably one of the few Thornes ever to be so. Except for one incident.
Having finally become resigned to selling Hatton Manor, Brian agreed to include all the furniture except for some of the books, which he would individually select. He himself took care of the main library, leaving Bessie to go through the books in the study, following very precise guidelines.