CHAPTER 30
A silence fell in my consulting room. I said nothing, waiting for something, waiting for Mr. Harris to come to the point. There was a stress in his voice which told me that point was close now. For some reason, I felt uneasy.
’Well, the storm died down, and the snow ploughs got busy,’ said Bernard Harris. ’As I said, the Swedes are pretty efficient over snow clearance and it didn’t take much longer to reopen the airport. Just as important, the London airports were open too. We boarded our flight and returned home. That would seem to be the end of the story, and so it might have been, except for one thing.’
’And that was?’ I prompted him, after a long silence.
’Do you know Donald Vickers?’ he asked. ’As an author, I mean?’
’No, I can’t say I do. I don’t go in much for fiction.’
’Some time after I got home and back to work again, I happened to pick up one of his books. To be honest, I went looking for it. Well, I would, wouldn’t I? Curiosity alone would have demanded it. Although it was written as a work of fiction, it was clearly the story of his daughter, Gabrielle, the story he had told me in Arlanda. Well, that didn’t surprise me too much. The introduction made it clear that it was based on fact and indeed, there was a photograph of Gabrielle on the inside front cover.’
He stopped, trembling noticeably.
’Go on,’ I said, gently.
’It was the same girl. I mean, it was the girl who was with me in the wilderness hut. It sounds crazy, I know, but I swear it was the same girl. The same face, the same complexion, as far as you can tell from a photograph and most important of all, the same mark on her forehead.’
I made to speak, but he forestalled me.
’No, wait. There’s more. The man I was talking to, Donald Vickers, he had the same mark in the same place.’ He waited, looking at me expectantly.
’Nothing unusual about that, Mr. Harris. A simple genetic inheritance, that’s all.’
He laughed without humour. ’But I’m not related and I have the same mark. Look.’
He pushed back his hair over his forehead to display a mark such as he had described.
’There’s the book,’ he said, pushing it over to me. ’See for yourself. They are identical. Or if they are not identical, they are as near to being so as makes no practical difference. But here’s the oddest thing of all, doctor. I never had that mark until last winter. Here’s my passport. Look at the photograph. See for yourself. There’s more. I’ve seen an early book by Donald Vickers, a book containing his photograph on the inside cover. It shows no mark at all. Like mine, it’s a later addition. Now tell me I’m going mad.’
I shook my head. ’I can’t do that. I don’t think you’re going mad, Mr. Harris.’
’No? Then tell me, how could I talk to and fall in love with a girl who died a year previously?’