The Madman's Room

They rushed down the spiral staircase at breakneck speed and rushed out through the open service door. Paula, her arms crossed over her chest, was standing there, looking at an inert mass lying under one of the kitchen windows. The west face of the manor towered over them, sombre and hostile. The only lights were from behind the windows of Brian’s room and the study next door. Although the foliage of the trees was illuminated, nothing much could be discerned on the ground below. Approaching the body, Mike Meadows was still able to identify Harris Thorne, lying face down at a slight angle to the wall, arms and legs spread out.

‘It was Paula who noticed him as we were about to enter,’ explained Francis.

‘Go and fetch a lamp,’ ordered Meadows.

Francis returned very quickly, a lantern in his hand, followed by Brian Thorne and Mostyn the butler.

Dr. Meadows examined the victim in total silence, which he himself broke after several minutes:

‘There’s nothing to be done… he’s dead.’ He consulted his wristwatch, which showed half past nine, and thought for a moment. ‘For more than a quarter of an hour, I’d say….’

He looked up at the study window, almost twenty feet above the body, then raised the lifeless head to shine the light from the lantern on it. A wound could be seen on the temple, from which blood was oozing. The path which went around the manor ran the length of a rock garden built up against the west wall. The body was lying on the rock garden.

‘The cause of death seems pretty clear,’ continued Meadows. ‘He fell from his study window. Nevertheless, we should alert the police straight away.’ Mostyn nodded and left immediately.

Brian, who hadn’t uttered a word until then, approached his brother’s body. The flickering light from the lantern illuminated his ascetic features and the strange expression in his eyes.

‘You should never have unsealed that room, Harris. I warned you….’

* * *

Dr. Alan Twist was getting ready to butter his toast when the door bell rang.

“There’s only one person in the world who would ring at such an inconvenient time,” he said to himself, looking desolately at his unfinished breakfast. “Only one.”

‘I was waiting for you, my dear Archibald,’ he declared amiably to his visitor, a corpulent individual on the right side of fifty.

‘You were waiting for me?’ said the other, adopting a sphinx-like air. ‘Don’t try and play the fortune-teller with me, Twist, because I know someone who could trump you.’

Dr. Twist knew from past experience that when Hurst was in such a mood, it was best just to let him talk, which is why he invited him to take an armchair.

It was a pleasant September morning. Outside the open window, the sun was beaming down on London and bathed the two silent men in light.

Tall and thin, with a benevolent face beneath unruly silver-flecked hair, a lush moustache above a childlike mouth, a fine web of wrinkles in a healthy skin despite being an inveterate pipe-smoker, Dr. Alan Twist looked smilingly at his friend. His blue-grey eyes twinkled with mischief behind pince-nez held in place by a black silk cord. It was difficult to guess his age, and even more so to guess his profession, for this amiable gentleman was a remarkable detective and a renowned criminologist, possessing faculties of detection and analysis which were the envy of the Scotland Yard inspector sitting opposite him. Archibald Hurst, with his sparse hair, heavy respiration and ruddy face, was a jovial enough character whose profession, alas! put his nerves on edge only too often. A malicious fate had decreed that it was he who was inevitably given the most difficult and complex cases. Sadly, the further he progressed in such investigations, the more he inevitably found himself in over his head until, swallowing his pride, he would find himself obliged to call in his friend Twist.

‘So, old friend,’ began Dr. Twist, ‘how were your holidays in the land of Shakespeare?’

‘Couldn’t have been better,’ replied Hurst, beaming. ‘The weather was fine and Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwick and Kenilworth are charming towns which justify their reputation. The old half-timbered cottages, the castles which take you back to the Middle Ages… everything was most agreeable. But, just as always, it never lasts.’

‘Ah!’ exclaimed Alan Twist, an amused twinkle dancing behind his pince-nez.

‘Do you know Redfern, Hector Redfern? He’s a childhood friend and currently detective chief superintendent at Cheltenham. I was ill-advised enough to let him know I was spending a few days in the area and give him the address of my hotel. As luck would have it, one of the richest fellows in the region had an accident. The police were called in right away and my chum decided to rope me in. “Although the case might look straightforward at first, there are certain curious aspects that should interest you.”’

‘When I said that your fame had spread beyond the capital, Archibald… Whenever a case appears out of the ordinary, they call for you straight away.’