The Madman's Room

‘Darling, don’t look at me like that. One would think it was a crime. It dates back to the time I was in college. We created a theatre troupe… I usually played the masculine parts: the Knights of the Round Table, Robin Hood, Richard the Lionheart and others. It was great fun. I’ve kept the costumes and accessories. I’ll put on a show one of these days.’ She looked around the room. The wood panelling seemed to absorb the light from the imposing chandelier made from stags’ horns which cast an ominous, deformed shadow on the whitewashed walls. ‘Maybe I’ll revive some ancient tragedy….’

‘And I’ll disguise myself as a ghost!’ exclaimed Paula.

Harris, who was in the process of lighting a cigar, stopped himself.

‘Ghost, ancient tragedy…’ he repeated with a strange smile, contemplating the flaming match he was holding in his fingers. ‘You don’t realise what you’re saying.’

‘What?’ asked Paula, more excited than afraid. ‘Do you mean to say there’s a ghost haunting these premises?’

Harris took his time lighting his cigar, then continued:

‘Not exactly a ghost, more of an evil spirit hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce at the first opportunity. Although the existence of an actual ghost can’t be ruled out.’

Silence followed his words, then he threw his head back and guffawed.

‘Harris!’ Brian spoke sharply, his face deathly pale. ‘Don’t make fun of such things. You mustn’t do it, Harris, do you hear?’

‘Listen, Brian, it’s time you started being reasonable. Our great-uncle was as mad as a hatter, and only by an extraordinary chance did his threats become realised. I understand it’s always been the done thing in the Thorne family to believe in spirits and occult forces, but we’re now in the twentieth century and science has proved that—.’

‘Science has proved nothing whatsoever. You can’t deny that there was something in that room. Nor can you deny the strange circumstances of Harvey’s death… in the same room!’

Harris carefully crushed his cigar in the small bowl he used as an ashtray.

‘I’m not denying the facts. I’m simply saying they weren’t supernatural occurrences, and that therefore there’s nothing at all to fear. And I’ll prove it.’

Brian gave a hollow laugh.

‘Really? How?’

‘By opening up the room again… when I feel like it.’

Brian stood stock still, fixing his brother with an impenetrable look. He got up, wished the assembled gathering goodnight, then turned on his heels and left.

His footsteps echoed in the hall and then on the stairs until only the tick tock of the grandfather clock broke the silence.

‘Poor Brian,’ said Harris, emptying his glass in a single gulp. ‘I’m afraid his long isolation has, let’s say… affected him. Luckily for him we’re here now. That’ll force him to come out of his lair and stop reading those damned books.’

‘What does he do, exactly?’ asked Mr. Hilton in a light-hearted tone, in an attempt to relax the situation. ‘Is he pursuing some kind of studies?’

‘More or less. He’s studying everything that traditional education doesn’t teach, anything weird or out of the ordinary: divination, fortune-telling, astrology and all the rest of it… but the worst of it is, he’s starting to fancy himself as a soothsayer. Mind you, you can see who he takes after!’

‘Harris,’ said Sarah gently, ‘don’t you think it’s time you explained to us why that room was sealed, and what role your mysterious great-uncle played?’

The master of the house shrugged his shoulders.

‘If you insist. Although I hardly think it’s worth it, because there weren’t, strictly speaking, any extraordinary facts. It’s more or less a family affair which has effectively prevented the Thornes from prospering, because Brian and I are the last descendants. In fact we don’t know very much about our ancestors except that the Thornes were once a rich and prosperous family. Rich, powerful and respected, at least until the end of the last century. My grandfather, Stephen Thorne, was already married and lived here in the manor with his sister Agatha and his two brothers, Thomas and Harvey, and it’s the latter who interests us. Even at a tender age he was a gifted writer and his teachers saw in him a future literary genius — a view shared by his parents, who let him choose the room most favourable to inspiration. He installed himself on the upper floor of the wing. In the beginning, he spent two or three evenings a week there, but later… Food was brought to his “lair” and people who saw the light of a candle flickering all through the night behind the windows of his room wondered what he was doing. It’s unlikely they guessed that an indefatigable hand was filling ream after ream of paper.’

‘But what was he writing that was so fascinating?’ asked Sarah, lighting a cigarette.

Harris, who had been waiting for just such a question, paused for effect, then continued:

‘There we have it. What was he writing? What was it that absorbed him day and night?’

The clock struck half past ten. Looking at Mr. and Mrs. Hilton, Harris asked: