The Madman's Room

‘Yes. But let’s leave that for the moment. For my part, I’ve learnt quite a lot since last Monday, since the death of Sarah, since I saw a certain person in the process of… the penny didn’t drop at the time, but later it did. And afterwards I didn’t behave very well with regard to the law or anything else. I was in an awkward situation, because if I’d revealed what I’d seen, you… one could have thought that… Well, anyway I kept quiet and acted on my own — which wasn’t very clever, now I think about it. And that brilliant devil Twist worked everything out. He even guessed there was something between us.

‘The situation is worse than you can possibly imagine, Paula, because we know almost everything but there’s not a shred of proof. And things can’t stop here. I thought I was doing the right thing, Paula, I swear. I didn’t want you to think that… There was probably some other way I could have acted, but you know me… I always want to dramatise everything.’

A heavy step crunching the gravel interrupted them.

Archibald Hurst was coming towards them, head down. As he drew level he gave them both a sombre look and slumped down on the bench next to them.

‘Have you seen Dr. Twist?’ asked Patrick. ‘A telegram came for him.’

‘I know. Redfern sent it from Newbury. I’ve just talked to him on the phone. Twist left immediately after he received it.’

Silence. The inspector took his time lighting a cigar, obviously delaying what he had to say. Then he grasped the nettle and spoke.

‘I have very bad news for you, Mrs. Hilton. You need to brace yourself. Your husband and his parents have been killed in a car accident on the road to Newbury. Apparently the driver lost control of the vehicle and it caught fire. They all died immediately.’

Which was true for the parents, but not for Francis who, according to witnesses, fought in vain to get out of the car. The inspector had decided to tell a white lie.

Paula appeared not to have grasped the situation at first, but then she broke down in convulsive sobs. Patrick wanted to take her in his arms, but resisted the impulse.

‘That’s not all, unfortunately, Mrs. Hilton. We’re practically certain that your husband killed his sister.’

27

The following evening at eight o’clock, a number of visitors were seated in the lounge of Hector Redfern’s bungalow. Paula, sombre and silent, was sitting on the sofa next to Bessie. Since yesterday, the Blounts had taken her in, and she was likely to stay there for the foreseeable future. Bessie had been trying to take her friend’s mind off the tragic and cruel epilogue to her marriage to Francis as best she could. Patrick had been keeping them company without intruding in their conversations. He hadn’t stopped looking at White Camellia, waiting in vain for a look or the shadow of a smile, unable to penetrate her thoughts. Blue eyes wide open, but not a single tear. An impassive countenance, which he took as a bad omen as far as he was concerned. For now, he was seated in an armchair, nursing a whisky and torturing himself with the question: “Can she ever love me again?”

Archibald Hurst, enthroned on his seat, was relaxed, far more so than usual on such occasions — Twist had confided most of the key to the mystery already. Which was far from the case with the chief superintendent, who was pacing back and forth in front of the chimneypiece, hands behind his back, with the regularity of clockwork.

After extinguishing his pipe and adjusting his pince-nez, Dr. Twist started to speak.

‘Before I begin, I want to make it clear that what I am about to say will be strictly confidential and must have no other witnesses than you and these four walls. I leave you to imagine what the press would make of it if they learnt about it. The Thorne and Hilton families have suffered enough without being delivered to the unhealthy curiosity of the gutter press. Are we all in agreement? The same goes for a certain London detective agency.