The Madman's Room

Brian stared thoughtfully at the glass of water before he spoke:

‘The eight of swords wasn’t turned up, so there’s no need to fear the worst… But beware of some kind of incident like a fall. But there’s also good news… Francis, you play the horses, don’t you?’

‘Sometimes, but without much success, I have to say. That’s why I only place small bets.’

Brian smiled broadly.

‘In your shoes, I’d be more adventurous next time: the king of coins next to the eight of wands indicates significant winnings!’

* * *

At a quarter to twelve, Patrick Nolan, a newspaper under one arm, pushed open the door of one of the pubs in Regent Street. He made a beeline for one of the few empty seats and was about to get himself a drink when he heard his name being called:

‘Patrick!’

He looked round to see someone making his way towards him, someone he hadn’t seen for quite a while and whom he didn’t particularly wish to see now. He feigned a pleasure he was far from feeling and replied:

‘Hello, Francis.’

They didn’t quite fall into each others’ arms, but almost. In the days when the Hiltons spent their holidays in Padstow, Francis and Patrick had got on well enough to become firm friends.

Blue Reed felt a sense of unease, of breathlessness, and of shame as the blood rushed to his cheeks. Frequently in his dreams — and in reality, for that matter — Francis had stood between him and White Camellia. Francis, with his blue eyes and his smile.

‘It’s good to see you again, Patrick,’ he said, as he lined up two beers on the counter.

Blue Reed ordered a second round and, cursing himself for being a hypocrite and a traitor, proposed a toast:

‘Here’s to….’

The name which was always in his mind stuck on his lips.

‘To Paula!’ exclaimed Francis joyfully, raising his glass.

The two men drank, each with a broad smile on his lips, although the sincerity of Patrick’s was highly questionable.

Francis, who had emptied his glass in a single gulp, made a confession:

‘I owe you everything. I owe you… Paula.’

‘I don’t see what there is to thank me about,’ protested Patrick, starting to choke.

‘Paula told me the role you played in our marriage. She admitted she’d been indecisive. Without your advice….’

‘All I did was—.’

‘Whatever it was, I shan’t forget that it’s to you that I owe my happiness.’

Pierced by a fiery sword, Patrick said nothing and lit a cigarette.

‘It’s been two years since we were married,’ Francis continued, ‘and two years since we last saw you, Patrick. You should have contacted us, Paula would have been so happy… Her parents gave you our new address, I imagine?’

“Two years since we last saw each other isn’t quite correct,” thought Patrick bitterly, thinking of White Camellia. He’d seen Francis two weeks ago, in the north of London, while he had under surveillance one of the department heads of the Cope Refrigerating Company, whose wife suspected him of adultery. He vividly recalled the polar equipment he’d had to wear in order to spend a few hours in the refrigeration unit, in order to snap photographs of the department head and his secretary engaging in a passionate embrace, despite the Siberian temperature. He’d almost caught pneumonia. It just so happened that afterwards he’d seen Francis getting into his car, but since he was pretty sure Francis hadn’t seen him, he decided not to bring it up.

‘It’s been quite a while since I left Cornwall for the capital. I thought about you a lot, obviously, but you know how it is. What with work and everything else, there’s no time left for other things.’

Francis nodded his agreement and asked:

‘By the way, what do you do?’

After Patrick explained, Francis remained thoughtful.

‘I don’t suppose you ever met Harris Thorne?’ he asked eventually.

‘No, never.’

‘Well, you won’t be able to do it now, because he died last year.’

Patrick was about to feign surprise, but changed his mind. He clapped his hand to his forehead and exclaimed:

‘What was I thinking? Of course I’d heard about it. Either someone told me or I read about it in the newspapers. Jolly hard luck on poor Sarah… How’s she dealing with it?’

‘Pretty well, actually. She’s just got engaged to Mike Meadows, the village doctor.’

Once again, Patrick had to stop and think. It was a delicate situation, for he could hardly pretend not to have known Meadows. He decided to follow the old adage: attack is the best form of defence:

‘If I remember correctly, Harris Thorne died in rather strange circumstances, didn’t he?’

‘Exactly, and I wanted to talk to you about it. As a detective, I imagine you’d find it interesting.’

Just as Francis finished his account of the facts, two men seated not far away called out to him. He went over and introduced Patrick to them. The conversation ranged over other subjects and the four of them decided to have a bar meal there. From the following discussion, which was exclusively about horse racing, Patrick gleaned that Johnny and David were avid punters and that Francis also seemed well versed in the subject.