The Madman's Room

‘If we consider all the facts, nothing but the facts, it seems undeniable that Brian Thorne has the gift of prescience. Although it seems beyond belief, the facts are the facts. And, for now, the most important issue is that he’s announced a misfortune regarding his sister-in-law. A misfortune, I have an uneasy feeling—.’

Twist was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone. He got up and lifted the receiver.

‘Hello… Yes, he’s here. I’ll pass him to you.’ He turned to Hurst. ‘It’s for you… Scotland Yard.’

Hurst grumbled to himself as he stood up and took the phone from his friend.

‘Hello,’ he growled. ‘A friend from Cheltenham? Yes, put him on. Not a moment’s peace in this damned profession,’ he groused to Twist who, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, didn’t appear to be listening. ‘Hello? Hector Redfern? To what do I owe the pleasure?’

During the next two minutes, the inspector didn’t utter a word. Then:

‘Very well, Hector. I’ll work it out with my superiors as quickly as I can. It’s very likely we can be there tomorrow.’

As Hurst replaced the receiver, Twist stopped and looked up enquiringly. The inspector’s hand was still on the receiver and his face was grim. A wayward lock of hair fell across his furrowed brow.

‘That was the chief superintendent at Cheltenham, whom you met last year, Hector Redfern. The news is not good. Our clairvoyant was right again: Sarah Thorne is dead.’

Dr. Twist looked down and took off his pince-nez. The light in his blue eyes grew more intense.

‘It happened last night,’ continued Hurst. ‘Where and how? Exactly the same as before… In front of the study door. There’s even a witness who saw her at the very moment she slumped to the ground. It was a heart attack according to the initial medical examination. Oh, and the carpet in front of the fireplace was wet. Redfern is out of his depth and quite happy to let Scotland Yard handle the affair.’

‘It’s incredible,’ murmured Twist. ‘Brian Thorne….’

‘Speaking of whom,’ said Hurst tersely, ‘nobody has seen him since last night.’

19

The following day, Wednesday, the chief superintendent, Dr. Twist and Archibald Hurst met at the scene of the tragedy. Hector Redfern, a plump little man with an inscrutable regard behind thick horn-rimmed spectacles, did not share Alan Twist’s predilection for imbroglios. It was obvious he was not keen to tackle a case of sudden death in suspicious circumstances and was only too relieved when he found that Scotland Yard was ready to take over.

‘I’ve just received the medical examiner’s report,’ he announced. ‘It confirms what I told you yesterday: Mrs. Sarah Thorne died of a heart attack. No suspicious marks except for a couple of bruises sustained in the fall. Everything points to the attack being the result of a violent emotion. Her heart was weak, but not to the point of stopping without the intervention of an external agency. Her face shows signs of her being subject to intense fear: convulsed features, glassy eyes… but the report remains discreet on the matter.

‘In view of the testimony of the maid, Cathy Restarick, it’s the most obvious hypothesis. But in fear of what? That’s the question.’

Hurst pointed a thick finger towards the base of the fireplace, but Redfern didn’t give him a chance to speak.

‘My men examined the carpet there when they first arrived. It was damp… from water, at first sight. But we’ve taken the precaution of sending some threads for analysis. The results aren’t back yet.’

‘Damp, you say,’ mused Dr. Twist. ‘That’s curious. In the previous incidents it was plain wet.’

‘Yes, that’s what I was told.’

‘At what time did your men arrive?’

‘Within an hour of the incident. Ah, I see what you’re getting at. But the ones who discovered the body will tell you that it wasn’t “plain wet,” to use your expression.’

‘And what was the extent of the damp area?’

‘It’s hard to say. A stain longer than it was wide, four or five feet I would say. Besides which, the dampness wasn’t uniform.’

‘Tell me, Redfern,’ asked Hurst, as if struck by a sudden flash of inspiration, ‘are there any lakes in the area?’

‘Lakes? No, why?’

‘Nothing,’ growled the policeman, clearly disappointed.

Alan Twist adjusted his pince-nez and suppressed a smile. His friend had clearly been entertaining thoughts of an aquatic monster. He asked if there had been any news of the fugitive.

‘Nothing for now,’ replied the chief superintendent, ‘but it’s only a question of time. There have been no bicycle or vehicle thefts reported, so he must still be in the area, probably in the woods, which we are in the process of searching.’

‘Were you able to interview him?’

‘No, he’d already disappeared by the time we arrived. But he was seen half an hour before that.’

‘So,’ said Hurst, ‘he left shortly after his sister-in-law died?’

‘Roughly, yes.’

‘Very well. Let’s talk to the principal witness.’