The Madman's Room

Hector Redfern had spent a sleepless night and had risen early to eat a rapid breakfast. His humour did not improve after listening to the account of the previous night’s events, as reported by Hurst, Patrick Nolan and Dr. Twist, who had come to visit him that Sunday morning in his Withington bungalow.

He remained still for a long moment without saying anything, then looked at Hurst, whose crumpled face indicated he’d slept even less than the chief superintendent, if at all. Patrick appeared tense, but in control of himself, and Twist looked worried and pre-occupied.

‘It’s absurd,’ he said finally. ‘The man’s been dead a year and I was present at his funeral. I’m willing to swear it was he and no one else in that coffin. If need be, you can always question the undertakers….’

‘There’s no need,’ cut in Hurst. ‘Meadows and young Hilton also confirmed everything. ‘But there’s been some fishy business somewhere, that’s for sure. Alas, if I may put it this way: that’s not the question.’

‘You must be joking,’ retorted Redfern. ‘That’s the whole question. And, speaking of Meadows, what did he have to say about the body — in his capacity as doctor, I mean.’

‘First of all, there’s not the slightest doubt it was Harris. Young Hilton confirmed it as well.’

‘We’ll get to the bottom of it,’ fumed Redfern, normally considered the calmest of men. ‘What did he die of? And when exactly?’

‘Without a thorough examination, he seems to think that the injury to the temple was what caused it.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Redfern, on the brink of apoplexy. ‘A man dying twice isn’t enough for you? You’re trying to tell me he succumbed a second time to the same injury as the first? It’s utter madness!’

Hurst grimaced disconsolately.

‘I’m trying to stick to the facts. Meadows might be mistaken about the cause. We didn’t spend a lot of time down there, you understand. But he’s adamant about the date, which he says was only a few days ago — a week at a maximum. And I know enough about the subject to tell you he’s right about that. And Dr. Twist agrees.’

‘So he died at about the same time as his wife, last Monday to be precise?’

‘More or less. But you don’t know the half of it, Redfern… He was seen near the cemetery on Friday afternoon, and yesterday at the junction of the Hatton main road and the drive up to the manor. Ah! I see it’s sunk in: a man dies last year, then a second time about a week ago, and now has been resuscitated again, four days later and….’

‘Stop it!’ moaned the chief superintendent. ‘You’ll drive me mad.’

‘But there are more questions still,’ continued Hurst, who was obviously deriving considerable pleasure watching someone else grappling with the whirlwind of impossibilities. ‘For example, why did he return to his coffin? And how did he manage to screw the lid down? Unless someone helped him… Unless, before putting him back in his coffin someone killed him — for the second time — by hitting him on the head on the identical spot where he was hit the first time when he fell out of the window… And, if so, why? And don’t forget all the other stuff going on, such as the prophecies of Brian — whom I’m starting to think might be innocent — and the room which makes people feel uneasy when it’s not killing them, the wet carpet, not to mention the frightful death Brian escaped by a hair’s breadth and which confirms great-uncle Harvey’s prediction….’

As the inspector recited the list of questions and suppositions, his voice started to falter and he didn’t even try to push his rebellious forelock back or wipe the perspiration from his brow. He looked like a beaten man.

‘That’s where we stand, Hector. That’s the situation I’m going to have to present to my superior officers.’

Clouds started to gather in the dull sky beyond the large bay window as the bells of the village church started to chime.

Redfern cleared his throat:

‘Am I right in thinking you haven’t told this to anyone else?’

‘Not for the moment. And, quite frankly, we’re not in a hurry to do so. Unless you think….’

Redfern was quick to assure them that he shared their opinion.

‘And what about the autopsy?’

‘I don’t think it will tell us much more than we know already,’ intervened Dr. Twist. ‘Except for… and we can verify that ourselves.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Last night, Meadows conducted a brief examination. He didn’t undress the body. So we don’t know whether there’s a scar on its stomach… from last year’s autopsy.’

‘Good grief!’ muttered Hurst, ‘I hadn’t even thought about that. And if there is, we’re no further forward. Quite the contrary.’

Twist didn’t reply, but instead turned to Patrick, who was looking thoughtfully at him.

‘I think, in fact,’ said the young man, ‘that that explains… Dr. Twist, did you notice something on the body, on the clothes?’

‘What kind of thing?’ asked the detective blandly, with an amiable smile.

‘There was something in the fold of the trousers. I picked it off and thoughtlessly threw it away.’