The Madman's Room

It was still drizzling as he hurried along the central driveway. He stopped half way, in approximately the same spot where he’d stopped an hour earlier to double back. This time, he noticed a paved path crossing the lawn to his right. Despite the mist he could make out the ghostly silhouette of the chapel above a ring of trees. It was a sober and elegant construction which nevertheless seemed curiously disquieting, even forbidding. Generations of Thornes had been buried there, in the family vault. He felt a shiver run down his spine and stood there thoughtfully until the hint of a smile crossed his face. After taking a precautionary look around, he set off along the path.

The chapel door squeaked as he opened it. The damp cold seemed more intense than outside. The only sound was the gentle pattering of the rain. In total darkness, Patrick lit a match, a feeble firefly quickly swallowed by the shadows. He advanced cautiously and noted a small altar. He turned to his left and struck another match. He looked around and changed direction. As he did so, he stubbed his foot against a pillar lying full length on the ground and let out a curse. Once more a flickering light dispelled the silent, creeping shadows of the ancient chapel. Patrick, who had stood up, now knelt down to examine the floor, where he had detected the outline of a large slab. His face lit up: it must be the entrance to the crypt. Nearby, he located a solid stake, no doubt placed there for the same purpose he himself was planning: to insert it into the ring embedded in the slab and shift it to one side. The operation, although not easy, was accomplished in under ten minutes. He descended the narrow steps leading down and came face to face with a heavy chestnut door. To his dismay, he discovered it was locked and was forced to retrace his steps. After putting the slab back in its place, he was drenched in sweat, and it was with a sentiment of utter frustration that he took the direction of Bessie’s house.

The following day, Friday, he spent the entire time in the warmth with Bessie, who was beginning to recover from her cold. A deliciously idle day in front of the fire, defying the rain pattering against the windows.

Saturday arrived with no break in the weather and no sign of Bessie and Patrick setting foot outside. At around five o’clock, Brian turned up with an invitation to a bridge party. Bessie, still in the grip of a stubborn migraine, declined politely but told her fiancé there was no reason he shouldn’t go. Patrick declared gallantly that there was no chance he would leave her alone a second time. A perfectly reasonable attitude at the time, but one that he would come to regret later. In fact, what would happen later would turn out to be of special importance: an evening during which Brian would distinguish himself in a particularly sinister manner.

17

That same Saturday at around eleven o’clock, Bessie and Patrick were still awake. The Blounts’ house was shuddering under the assault of the wind and a fire was roaring in the lounge. Patrick was savouring a whisky, trying to look interested in what his fiancé was saying. After a number of circumlocutions, she had succeeded in steering the conversation to a subject which was obviously still troubling her: Dr. Mike Matthews. At great length he learnt that behind the elegant exterior and warm smile lurked a completely different person and that, beneath the veneer of civility, was an insufferably complacent individual, a frightful egoist full of good counsel which cost him nothing, an individual as vain as a peacock, a quibbler for detail, and who knew what other target of opprobrium.

Her animosity towards her ex-fiancé seemed to Patrick to have clouded her judgment, but having no desire to pick a fight, he rapidly lost interest in the subject.

‘… and it won’t be long before Sarah finds that out for herself, if she hasn’t already.’

Patrick nodded, yawned discreetly and sneaked a glance at his watch, which showed half past eleven. He pricked up his ears suddenly and looked at Bessie.

‘Didn’t you hear anything?’

‘Yes. I’ll take a look.’ She went to the window and pulled back the curtains. ‘There’s someone… but who?… Francis and Paula!’ Exchanging an enquiring glance with her fiancé, she went to the door.

While quickly serving himself another whisky, Patrick told himself that such a late and unexpected visit could only be bringing bad news. He was not mistaken.

The pale faces of their two visitors showed anxiety and confusion. After Bessie had taken their coats and ushered them to the warmth of the fireside, Francis began to speak:

‘We fear the worst.’

He looked insistently at Patrick whilst he lit a cigarette and continued:

‘It’s about Brian.’

Patrick, after hearing the alarming words and looking at Paula and her husband in turn, muttered:

‘Don’t tell me he’s made another prophecy?’

Paula nodded and Francis continued:

‘A prophecy of misfortune and maybe even… death.’