The Madman's Room

‘We’ll be sure to do that,’ replied the inspector, surprised and almost amused by the spunk of the young woman. ‘But at that time of the morning, I’d be surprised if anyone can furnish an alibi. So, according to you, last night’s fire must have been a criminal act?’

‘What else could it have been? If Brian had accidentally started the fire, he wouldn’t have been caught by surprise, would he?’

The three men looked at her in silence as she fought back tears. Hurst was on the point of suggesting a suicide attempt due to Brian having lost his reason, but dropped the idea after a sign from Twist.

‘And you never told your fiancé about it?’ he asked sceptically.

‘No, she never told me about it,’ retorted Patrick, stressing every syllable. ‘She’s already told you that and so have I.’

Hurst, not well versed in the psychology of sentiment, nevertheless knew enough to realise that the couple’s behaviour was peculiar. The young woman had, without her fiancé knowing, sheltered another man whose condition affected her deeply — yet that same fiancé didn’t appear to be concerned and had even come to her defence, as if she were his sister or simply a friend. He was about to say something when, once again, that devil Dr. Twist, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts, shook his head almost imperceptibly.

After they’d finished breakfast — during which Twist had helped himself several times and complimented Bessie — the amiable detective declared in a soothing voice:

‘Brian hid in the workshop and, because it was very rarely used, it’s not surprising that he wasn’t discovered, was it, Hurst?’

The inspector mumbled something indistinct and Bessie shot a look of gratitude at Alan Twist. Then she asked:

‘Do you think we could see Brian?’

‘See him?’ repeated the inspector, raising an eyebrow. ‘Possibly, but not for very long.’

Whereupon the two detectives left, saying they would check on the victim’s condition and would be sure to keep them informed.

* * *

As they were leaving Cheltenham Hospital, Hurst and Dr. Twist saw Bessie and Patrick for the third time that day, as they were getting out of their car. When she noticed them the young woman rushed over to meet them.

‘He’s out of danger,’ declared the inspector in a paternal tone of voice. ‘We’ve just talked to him. Not for long, of course.’

‘And what did he tell you?’ asked Bessie.

‘The same thing as you and that he was sleeping like a log when he was awakened by the crackling of flames.’

‘So, according to him, the fire wasn’t started accidentally by a badly extinguished cigarette or anything like that?’

‘He’s sure of it. He told us he didn’t have a lighter or any matches and there wasn’t an oil lamp of any other form of lighting in the workshop. Is that so, Miss Blount?’

‘Yes. There used to be electricity, but it was shut off after the death of my father.’

‘So someone set fire to the place,’ said Patrick thoughtfully. ‘By the way, didn’t he say anything about… about his brother Harris?’

The look in Hurst’s eye hardened.

‘No. But why the question, young man?’

‘Nothing. Just a thought.’

* * *

Harris Thorne’s name dominated the inspector’s thoughts as he drove back to Hatton, hands clenched to the steering wheel, in the company of Dr. Twist. The latter, tormented and pensive, had been tight-lipped since Cheltenham and his silence was beginning to get on Hurst’s nerves. In vain did the policeman ask him what he thought about the strange fire and the no less strange question from young Nolan. He was used to his friend’s long periods of silence, but that didn’t make them any easier to bear. They arrived at Hatton Manor just before four o’clock. The butler Mostyn led them to the salon where the Hilton family was gathered, together with Dr. Meadows and two police officers. Hurst immediately sensed from the sombre looks and haggard faces that something was wrong. He put it down to what had happened during the night and the subsequent questioning, because he’d asked Hector Redfern a few hours earlier at the hospital to take care of it. There were indeed two police officers there but, curiously, not the chief of police himself.

He looked around the room and his gaze settled on one of the officers.

‘What the devil’s going on here?’

‘A car accident, or rather a collision,’ replied the man uncomfortably. ‘Two tourists complained. A vehicle from here is responsible for the incident, but apparently no one was driving it at the time. The chief will explain. He’ll be back soon. He went to pick up the two witnesses.’

‘A vehicle no one was driving? What on earth are you talking about?’

‘No one from here,’ explained the officer. ‘Although….’

The sound of a motor could be heard. The officer turned to the window.

‘They’re here.’

Hector Redfern came in, followed by a policeman and a young couple. The chief superintendent’s face mirrored those of the other occupants of the room, pale and haggard. For a brief moment his expression changed on seeing the two detectives: