The Madman's Room

‘You’re thinking of Brian, I assume,’ said Hurst pensively.

Redfern nodded.

‘Yes. Let’s just suppose that “someone” was the instigator of “something.” The only thing we can be certain of is that Mike Meadows is the clear loser in all this and therefore had nothing to do with the “something.”’

Hurst, thinking hard, his fingers drumming furiously on the table, regarded Twist, who had just picked up the menu again, with annoyance.

‘Twist!’ he exploded, point-blank.

‘Hmmm….’

‘We’ve forgotten something. There is someone who should have an idea of why Sarah was in such a state.’

At that very moment, an officer in uniform appeared at the table.

‘What is it, Johnson?’ asked Redfern.

‘Nothing positive to report, sir,’ replied the man. ‘But I thought you should know we’ve found no trace of the fugitive. In my opinion, he’s hiding somewhere in the village, even though he doesn’t seem friendly enough with anyone for them to offer him asylum. We’ve questioned everyone without success. Should we carry out a search?’

Redfern pursed his lips and replied:

‘Yes, with kid gloves for the time being. Notify me if anyone refuses. Is there anything else?’

‘Yes, sir. In fact, that’s why I took the liberty of coming here. They’ve just called through the results of the carpet analysis. There’s no trace of anything on the sample. So it was certainly water and nothing else.’

The policeman saluted and the three men watched him leave the inn.

‘What were you saying, old friend?’ asked Twist gently.

‘Do you remember the conversation which your friend Nolan overheard? The mysterious conversation between Mrs. Sarah Thorne and her brother?’

‘I see what you’re saying.’

‘Hell’s bells! Francis Hilton knows something. He must have at least some idea about what was causing his sister to be frightened. He himself confessed to seeing that “something.”’

Dr. Twist shook his head:

‘He talked about a fleeting vision, a blurred image, a reminiscence, something that “wasn’t possible” and which seemed more like the fruit of his imagination.’

‘If I understand you correctly, they were just words to soothe his sister? Maybe. But I still can’t help thinking he knows more or less what was tormenting his sister.’

‘Granted. And I assure you I haven’t forgotten. Now please let me order my dessert.’

21

A short while later — Redfern having left them — Hurst and Dr. Twist were listening to Bessie Blount’s grandfather giving them his opinion about one of the rare criminal cases that Scotland Yard had failed to solve. He was a well-built man, despite his age, and not at a loss for words. Francis and Paula were also there and, together with Patrick, they listened attentively to the old man’s monologue, whilst Bessie looked at the ceiling when she was not emitting exasperated sighs.

He rambled on about having seen Jack the Ripper with his own eyes, how he’d witnessed the carnage in Mitre Square and how the police had ignored his description of the killer because he was only fifteen at the time.

‘Grandpa,’ implored Bessie, ‘we’ve heard the story a hundred times and you’re boring our guests.’

‘Boring our guests? But it’s about the most celebrated mystery of all!’ He looked wearily at the two detectives. ‘Gentlemen, my granddaughter and her mother take me for an old fool who’s off his rocker and makes up stories. Only yesterday, I pointed out that someone had moved the wheelbarrow in the garden.’

‘Don’t start on about the wheelbarrow,’ said Bessie crossly.

‘Well, somebody unknown must’ve touched it, because you and your mother denied it was either of you. I’d left it under the vine the previous evening and the next day I found it near the hedge.’

‘Grandpa, this is not the time….’

‘I understand. I’m going to bed.’

After he’d left with Mrs. Blount the conversation took a different turn and, once again, it was about the deceased. Hurst led the discussion and declared to Francis a quarter of an hour later:

‘Mr. Hilton, there’s every reason to believe that you’ve a good idea what was tormenting your sister during her last days. Yes, walls have ears….’

Patrick almost dropped the cigarette he was smoking, but Francis was too upset to notice. Like a cat playing with a mouse, Hurst dropped a few hints about the famous conversation overheard by Patrick the week before, finishing with a masterly: ‘Please don’t ask how we know. We’re listening, Mr. Hilton.’

Clearly the shot had struck home. Francis was as white as a sheet. There was a heavy silence in the room. He got up from his chair and started to pace back and forth in front of the fire, his hands behind his back. The flames illuminated his tense features, and with his tailored beard, he resembled Mephisto from Faust.

‘You’re not going to believe me,’ he said eventually, not bothering to hide his irritation.

‘Tell us anyway,’ purred Hurst. ‘Tell us what you saw in the study.’

Francis turned and almost spat in the inspector’s face.

‘But I didn’t see anything! It was Sarah with all her stories who—.’