The Madman's Room

First Part

1

‘When was the Great Fire of London, exactly?’ asked Paula Lyle, shooting her companion a mischievous glance.

Patrick Nolan pretended not to hear. Looking straight in front of him at the beach which sloped gently down to the sea, he preferred to listen to the waves rather than the stupid history questions his friend insisted on asking. She appeared to be revelling in his ignorance. Or, rather, she was enjoying his embarrassment. But the days of him blushing like a schoolboy were over. He remembered the exact date of their first encounter, several years earlier. She had straightaway asked him Queen Victoria’s date of birth. How could she possibly have known how limited his knowledge was about historical matters and how embarrassed he would be? The only facts he remembered pertained to times of tragedy, such as the plague which ravaged the capital in 1665 and the macabre details of London Bridge and the decapitated heads on spikes. He’d also made a study of the most celebrated crimes. And, of course, he did know all about the fire which had engulfed the capital.

Still maintaining his silence, he studied her thoughtfully as she lay beside him on the beach. Roughly the same age as he — barely twenty — he would have been hard put to judge her repugnant. Light brown hair, high cheekbones, an adorable chin and mischievous blue eyes with long black lashes. Medium height and seemingly very well proportioned. Of course, to be sure, he’d have to see her without that annoying swimsuit covering her anatomy. He tried to forget about that obstacle.

‘I say,’ observed Paula, ‘if you’re going to undress me with your eyes, you could at least do it more discreetly. You’re like an entomologist in front of a new species of insect!’

‘Then how about like this?’ asked Patrick, rolling his wide-open eyes in wonder.

The young woman stood up, looked towards the horizon and said, very seriously:

‘You don’t understand, my dear: we’re alone on a deserted beach, where you’re free to contemplate my knees at your leisure… If anyone should see us, my honour would be compromised.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, darling. Pudding Lane, one o’clock in the morning, second of September 1666.’

‘What?’

Patrick regarded his fingernails nonchalantly:

‘You asked me when the fire had started. Is there anything else you’d like to know? The direction of the wind, the human and material losses, the consequences, both direct and indirect….’

‘It’s true, I’d forgotten: once death is involved you’re a veritable encyclopaedia. I never understood why you didn’t join the police… or a detective agency. I’m sure you’d have been in your element. Your obsession with the morbid….’

Patrick Nolan raised his arms to the sky.

‘There we have it! You can’t show an interest in certain aspects of history or in police investigations without being treated as a pervert or a homicidal maniac.’ He lowered his arms and frowned. ‘As a matter of fact, I did apply to a couple of detective agencies. But the work was more often adultery rather than serious crime investigation. And helping cuckolds is not how I intend to spend my life.’

‘I should hope not,’ retorted Paula. ‘If ever I marry, it could never be to—.’

‘—someone like me!’ interrupted Patrick, laughingly throwing a handful of sand on Paula’s bare legs.

Paula laughed as well:

‘No, that would be a catastrophe for both of us!’

The two young people exchanged complicit glances and fell into silence. Lying on the sand, eyes closed, they savoured the warmth of the sand, the caresses of the sun’s rays and the silent calm of the cove, rocked by the unceasing murmur of the sea.