The Madman's Room

‘Ah, there you are. Good job, too, because we’re jumping from one mystery to another. But let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow.’

In some ways, Louis Thurlow resembled Dr. Twist, but much younger — about twenty-five years of age — and much shorter. He had the same moustache and the same eyes glinting behind silver-rimmed spectacles. But at the moment he seemed quite upset, as was his wife, Celia, a determined young redhead who looked like a college student.

The introductions complete, Redfern continued:

‘Before I let Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow speak, let me summarise the statements of those present. They may feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.

‘At around noon, the small red sports car, which witnesses have identified by its licence plate number, was parked in its usual place behind the manor. The vehicle belonged to Sarah Thorne — a gift from her late husband — but was occasionally used by other members of the household. During the day, the keys are left on the dashboard, which means that anyone can use it.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Hilton were having lunch with their son and his wife and their guest, Dr. Meadows. Few words were exchanged, as they’d just learnt about Brian’s condition following the fire. At a quarter past one, Dr. Meadows and Francis left the table to go into the salon. A quarter of an hour later they saw the car leave the property. The top was down, but they couldn’t see the driver. Francis assumed it was his wife. She, for her part, still with her parents-in-law, thought it was her husband. At ten to four — twenty minutes later — the car returned and was seen by Dr. Meadows, who wasn’t paying attention and didn’t see the driver. The car was found in its usual place, but with a dent in the left front wing with traces of paint from the Thurlows’ car.

‘Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, you live at 18, Curzon Street, in London. You had been visiting friends in Winchcombe and were on your way back to the capital. At approximately one thirty-five you were about to drive through Hatton. Can you describe to us what happened next?’

Louis Thurlow took up the story:

‘Yes. I was slowing down on the approach to the village when a car came at us from the right. I stamped on the brakes in vain and it hit us. Nothing serious, but the bodywork was damaged nevertheless. My wife and I got out of our car and he did, too. He came towards us smiling, which was already surprising. “So, tourists, admiring the countryside, were you?” he asked mockingly. It was too much. Not only had he come out of a side road onto the main road at high speed, but he was blaming us for the collision. I pointed that out to him and he burst out laughing, as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. My wife intervened and told him she was going to go to the nearest police station. He threw his head back and started laughing again, even more loudly than before, after which he asked us if we knew who we were talking to, as if he was the King of England himself. Then, still laughing, he got into his car and drove off in the direction he’d come from. We’d made a note of his number, and at Withington police station the officer recognised the vehicle, which is apparently the only one of its kind in the area.’

‘Mr. Thurlow,’ intervened Hector Redfern in a calm voice, ‘can you identify the spot which I just showed you, namely the beginning of the road leading to this property, as the scene of the accident?’

‘Of course,’ said the young man, shrugging his shoulders.

‘Can you describe the driver?’

‘He was of medium height, solidly built, with red hair and beard, wearing a blue-checked jacket.’

Hurst went crimson.

‘Are there any other details you can add?’

This time it was Mrs. Thurlow who answered:

‘Yes, he had a small scar on his right temple.’

A shiver went through those present. Meadows looked like a zombie and the others weren’t much better.

‘We have good reason to believe, Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, that the man driving the car was wearing make-up and a false wig and beard, and that the jacket was padded. Is that your impression?’

The young couple looked at each other. Louis Thurlow declared:

‘I’d find that very surprising. What about you, darling?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But you never know.’

‘Very well,’ said Redfern testily. ‘Now, Mr. and Mrs. Thurlow, I’m going to ask you to look at every single person in this room and tell me if any of them could have played the part of the driver.’ Then, in an aside to Howard Hilton and the doctor: ‘I know your reciprocal testimonies prove that you were either here or in the dining room at the time of the accident, but to rule out the hypothesis of a conspiracy… You understand: it would clear you of all suspicion.’

Under normal circumstances, the scene which followed would have appeared curious, if not comic. But no one was smiling. The “examination” lasted just over a minute. A vein throbbed in Meadows’ temple. Francis was unrecognisable, Paula very pale, and Mr. and Mrs. Hilton too hard-boiled to react in any way at all.