The Madman's Room

Even though he tried to forget it, what had happened the previous Saturday kept coming to mind. Sarah had invited Dr. Meadows and Bessie Blount for a game of bridge with Francis and Paula. Was it because he’d had too much cognac that he’d accused Francis of cheating and Meadows of being a lousy partner? He couldn’t say for certain. But what was certain was that his furious outburst had cast a chill over, and put an end to, an evening which had started out so well. What had happened afterwards had been disastrous. Before turning out the bedside lamp, he hadn’t been able to resist telling Sarah that even a blind man could have seen the smiles which she and Dr. Meadows had been exchanging. What followed was an altercation of such intensity it had probably kept the entire household awake for most of the night. By morning, all had been forgotten, but another row had flared up two days later. The whole week had been filled with tears, heartbreaks and reconciliations, which had taken a severe toll. And, just when he’d thought things could get no worse, Sarah had woken him up. Doubled over, with her hand clutching her chest, she’d been unable to utter a word. He’d rushed to her parents’ room, where they’d been able to reassure him.

He’d asked his butler Mostyn to call the doctor — he’d stipulated it must be Dr. Allerton and not the other one. But Mostyn had returned to inform him that Dr. Allerton had been called out on an emergency to a remote village and would not be back soon. Frustrated, he’d been obliged to call Dr. Meadows, who was now in his room with his wife.

Sarah’s condition, his own jealousy and feelings of guilt — he was clear-headed enough to acknowledge he was at least partly responsible for the quarrels — were the reasons he found himself in a continuous state of agitation he wasn’t used to.

He jumped up out of his armchair when he heard someone approach, but it was only Philip Mostyn bringing him the mail.

The butler, a tall slim man in his forties, was undoubtedly the most stylish and imposing figure amongst the staff of Hatton Manor. Discreet, with pleasant features framed by short, black hair, he’d gained Harris Thorne’s confidence by suggesting certain changes in the organisation of the manor and effectively acted as his personal secretary as well. Amongst the other staff, Simon Minden was responsible for the maintenance of the premises and also assisted the cook, Mrs. Ariane Minden, his wife. They were a middle-aged couple,discreet and friendly. Cathy Restarick, the maid, a timid young woman, took care of the laundry and helped with the maintenance. There was only one gardener, old Mortimer, whose two sons occasionally assisted him.

Harris looked quickly through the mail, set aside a letter addressed to Mrs. Hilton, and opened the newspaper — which he must have read at an extraordinary speed, judging by the rapidity with which he turned the pages.

Howard took the letter marked “Mrs. Hilton” and handed it to his wife, who looked intrigued. It was at that precise moment that Mike Meadows came into the room.

* * *

Paula left her room, looking ravishing and apparently in a good mood. On leaving the bathroom a few moments earlier, she had run into Mike Meadows, who had reassured her about the condition of her sister-in-law. She descended the stairs jauntily, wondering what she would do on such a promising day, and entered the salon. Dr. Meadows had just left and Harris had accompanied him. She greeted her parents-in-law and went over to the window, where she drew in deep breaths while watching a bee land on a flowering bush to gather pollen. The insect’s buzzing was drowned out by the far more disagreeable sound of Mrs. Dorothy Hilton, which annoyed Paula before it froze her to the spot.

‘White camellia! Blue reed! What’s the meaning of this?’

‘It’s probably a wrong address,’ suggested Howard Hilton.

‘A wrong address? But there’s a name on the envelope, and it’s mine. That’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’

‘Actually, there’s another Mrs. Hilton in the house. Isn’t there, Paula?’

Paula took a deep breath, turned round and gave her parents-in-law what she hoped was an innocent look:

‘Sorry?’

‘Dorothy’s just received a letter,’ explained Howard Hilton. ‘A rather curious letter which doesn’t seem to concern her. Nor you, probably,’ he added with a broad smile. ‘But take a look anyway.’

Paula took the letter and blood rushed to her cheeks as she read it.

‘White Camellia,

Meet this afternoon at 3 o’clock at the entrance to the fortress.

A question of life or death.

Blue Reed.’

White Camellia. Blue Reed. The words resonated in Paula’s brain. They were the names Patrick and she used when they amused them- selves by sending secret messages. She recognised the handwriting: there was no doubt it was from him and addressed to her.