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Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer

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"The fool!" I cried. "The ignorant, impudent fool!"

"Oh," she declared, "I felt quite ill with indignation. I am afraid I
may regard Inspector Aylesbury as an enemy from now onward, for when I
had recovered from the shock I told him very plainly what I thought
about his intellect, or lack of it."

"I am glad you did," I said, warmly. "Before Inspector Aylesbury is
through with this business I fancy he will know more about his
limitations than he knows at present. The fact of the matter is that he
is badly out of his depth, but is not man enough to acknowledge the
fact even to himself."

She smiled at me pathetically.

"Whatever should I have done if I had been alone?" she said.

I was tempted to direct the conversation into a purely personal
channel, but common sense prevailed, and:

"Is Madame de Staemer awake?" I asked.

"Yes." The girl nodded. "Dr. Rolleston is with her now."

"And does she know?"

"Yes. She sent for me directly she awoke, and asked me."

"And you told her?"

"How could I do otherwise? She was quite composed, wonderfully
composed; and the way she heard the news was simply heroic. But here is
Dr. Rolleston, coming now."

I glanced along the corridor, and there was the physician approaching
briskly.

"Good morning, Mr. Knox," he said.

"Good morning, doctor. I hear that your patient is much improved?"

"Wonderfully so," he answered. "She has enough courage for ten men. She
wishes to see you, Mr. Knox, and to hear your account of the tragedy."

"Do you think it would be wise?"

"I think it would be best."

"Do you hold any hope of her permanently recovering the use of her
limbs?"

Dr. Rolleston shook his head doubtfully.

"It may have only been temporary," he replied. "These obscure nervous
affections are very fickle. It is unsafe to make predictions. But
mentally, at least, she is quite restored from the effects of last
night's shock. You need apprehend no hysteria or anything of that
nature, Mr. Knox."

"Oh, I see," exclaimed a loud voice behind us.

We all three turned, and there was Inspector Aylesbury crossing the
hall in our direction.

"Good morning, Dr. Rolleston," he said, deliberately ignoring my
presence. "I hear that your patient is quite well again this morning?"

"She is much improved," returned the physician, dryly.

"Then I can get her testimony, which is most important to my case?"

"She is somewhat better. If she cares to see you I do not forbid the
interview."

"Oh, that's good of you, doctor." He bowed to Miss Beverley. "Perhaps,
Miss, you would ask Madame de Staemer to see me for a few minutes."

Val Beverley looked at me appealingly then shrugged her shoulders,
turned aside, and walked in the direction of Madame de Staemer's door.

"Well," said Dr. Rolleston, in his brisk way, shaking me by the hand,
"I must be getting along. Good morning, Mr. Knox. Good morning,
Inspector Aylesbury."

He walked rapidly out to his waiting car. The presence of Inspector
Aylesbury exercised upon Dr. Rolleston a similar effect to that which a
red rag has upon a bull. As he took his departure, the Inspector drew
out his pocket-book, and, humming gently to himself, began to consult
certain entries therein, with a portentous air of reflection which
would have been funny if it had not been so irritating.

Thus we stood when Val Beverley returned, and:

"Madame de Staemer will see you, Inspector Aylesbury," she said, "but
wishes Mr. Knox to be present at the interview."

"Oh," said the Inspector, lowering his chin, "I see. Oh, very well."




CHAPTER XXVI

IN MADAME'S ROOM



Madame de Staemer's apartment was a large and elegant one. From the
window-drapings, which were of some light, figured satiny material, to
the bed-cover, the lampshades and the carpet, it was French. Faintly
perfumed, and decorated with many bowls of roses, it reflected, in its
ornaments, its pictures, its slender-legged furniture, the personality
of the occupant. In a large, high bed, reclining amidst a number of
silken pillows, lay Madame de Staemer. The theme of the room was violet
and silver, and to this everything conformed. The toilet service was of
dull silver and violet enamel. The mirrors and some of the pictures had
dull silver frames, There was nothing tawdry or glittering. The bed
itself, which I thought resembled a bed of state, was of the same dull
silver, with a coverlet of delicate violet I hue. But Madame's
decollete robe was trimmed with white fur, so that her hair, dressed
high upon her head, seemed to be of silver, too.

Reclining there upon her pillows, she looked like some grande dame of
that France which was swept away by the Revolution. Immediately above
the dressing-table I observed a large portrait of Colonel Menendez
dressed as I had imagined he should be dressed when I had first set
eyes on him, in tropical riding kit, and holding a broad-brimmed hat in
his hand. A strikingly handsome, arrogant figure he made, uncannily
like the Velasquez in the library.

At the face of Madame de Staemer I looked long and searchingly. She had
not neglected the art of the toilette. Blinds tempered the sunlight
which flooded her room; but that, failing the service of rouge, Madame
had been pale this morning, I perceived immediately. In some subtle way
the night had changed her. Something was gone out of her face, and
something come into it. I thought, and lived to remember the thought,
that it was thus Marie Antoinette might have looked when they told her
how the drums had rolled in the Place de la Revolution on that morning
of the twenty-first of January.

"Oh, M. Knox," she said, sadly, "you are there, I see. Come and sit
here beside me, my friend. Val, dear, remain. Is this Inspector
Aylesbury who wishes to speak to me?"

The Inspector, who had entered with all the confidence in the world,
seemed to lose some of it in the presence of this grand lady, who was
so little impressed by the dignity of his office.

She waved one slender hand in the direction of a violet brocaded chair.

"Sit down, Monsieur l'inspecteur," she commanded, for it was rather a
command than an invitation.

Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat and sat down.

"Ah, M. Knox!" exclaimed Madame, turning to me with one of her rapid
movements, "is your friend afraid to face me, then? Does he think that
he has failed? Does he think that I condemn him?"

"He knows that he has failed, Madame de Staemer," I replied, "but his
absence is due to the fact that at this hour he is hot upon the trail
of the assassin."

"What!" she exclaimed, "what!"--and bending forward touched my arm.
"Tell me again! Tell me again!"

"He is following a clue, Madame de Staemer, which he hopes will lead to
the truth."

"Ah! if I could believe it would lead to the truth," she said. "If I
dared to believe this."

"Why should it not?"

She shook her head, smiling with such a resigned sadness that I averted
my gaze and glanced across at Val Beverley who was seated on the
opposite side of the bed.

"If you knew--if you knew."

I looked again into the tragic face, and realized that this was an
older woman than the brilliant hostess I had known. She sighed,
shrugged, and:

"Tell me, M. Knox," she continued, "it was swift and merciful, eh?"

"Instantaneous," I replied, in a low voice.

"A good shot?" she asked, strangely.

"A wonderful shot," I answered, thinking that she imposed unnecessary
torture upon herself.

"They say he must be taken away, M. Knox, but I reply: not until I have
seen him."

"Madame," began Val Beverley, gently.

"Ah, my dear!" Madame de Staemer, without looking at the speaker,
extended one hand in her direction, the fingers characteristically
curled. "You do not know me. Perhaps it is a good job. You are a man,
Mr. Knox, and men, especially men who write, know more of women than
they know of themselves, is it not so? You will understand that I must
see him again?"

"Madame de Staemer," I said, "your courage is almost terrible."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I am not proud to be brave, my friend. The animals are brave, but many
cowards are proud. Listen again. He suffered no pain, you think?"

"None, Madame de Staemer."

"So Dr. Rolleston assures me. He died in his sleep? You do not think he
was awake, eh?"

"Most certainly he was not awake."

"It is the best way to die," she said, simply. "Yet he, who was brave
and had faced death many times, would have counted it"----she snapped
her white fingers, glancing across the room to where Inspector
Aylesbury, very subdued, sat upon the brocaded chair twirling his cap
between his hands. "And now, Inspector Aylesbury," she asked, "what is
it you wish me to tell you?"

"Well, Madame," began the Inspector, and stood up, evidently in an
endeavour to recover his dignity, but:

"Sit down, Mr. Inspector! I beg of you be seated," cried Madame. "I
will not be questioned by one who stands. And if you were to walk about
I should shriek."

He resumed his seat, clearing his throat nervously.

"Very well, Madame," he continued, "I have come to you particularly for
information respecting a certain Mr. Camber."

"Oh, yes," said Madame.

Her vibrant voice was very low.

"You know him, no doubt?"

"I have never met him."

"What?" exclaimed the Inspector.

Madame shrugged and glanced at me eloquently.

"Well," he continued, "this gets more and more funny. I am told by
Pedro, the butler, that Colonel Menendez looked upon Mr. Camber as an
enemy, and Miss Beverley, here, admitted that it was true. Yet although
he was an enemy, nobody ever seems to have spoken to him, and he swears
that he had never spoken to Colonel Menendez."

"Yes?" said Madame, listlessly, "is that so?"

"It is so, Madame, and now you tell me that you have never met him."

"I did tell you so, yes."

"His wife, then?"

"I never met his wife," said Madame, rapidly.

"But it is a fact that Colonel Menendez regarded him as an enemy?"

"It is a fact-yes."

"Ah, now we are coming to it. What was the cause of this?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Do you mean that you don't know?"

"I mean that I cannot tell you."

"Oh," said the Inspector, blankly, "I see. That's not helping me very
much, is it?"

"No, it is no help," said Madame, twirling a ring upon her finger.

The Inspector cleared his throat again, then:

"There had been other attempts, I believe, at assassination?" he asked.

Madame nodded.

"Several."

"Did you witness any of these?"

"None of them."

"But you know that they took place?"

"Juan--Colonel Menendez--had told me so."

"And he suspected that there was someone lurking about this house?"

"Yes."

"Also, someone broke in?"

"There were doors unfastened, and a great disturbance, so I suppose
someone must have done so."

I wondered if he would refer to the bat wing nailed to the door, but he
had evidently decided that this clue was without importance, nor did he
once refer to the aspect of the case which concerned Voodoo. He
possessed a sort of mulish obstinacy, and was evidently determined to
use no scrap of information which he had obtained from Paul Harley.

"Now, Madame," said he, "you heard the shot fired last night?"

"I did."

"It woke you up?"

"I was already awake."

"Oh, I see: you were awake?"

"I was awake."

"Where did you think the sound came from?"

"From back yonder, beyond the east wing."

"Beyond the east wing?" muttered Inspector Aylesbury. "Now, let me
see." He turned ponderously in his chair, gazing out of the windows.
"We look out on the south here? You say the sound of the shot came from
the east?"

"So it seemed to me."

"Oh." This piece of information seemed badly to puzzle him. "And what
then?"

"I was so startled that I ran to the door before I remembered that I
could not walk."

She glanced aside at me with a tired smile, and laid her hand upon my
arm in an oddly caressing way, as if to say, "He is so stupid; I should
not have expressed myself in that way."

Truly enough the Inspector misunderstood, for:

"I don't follow what you mean, Madame," he declared. "You say you
forgot that you could not walk?"

"No, no, I expressed myself wrongly," Madame replied in a weary voice.
"The fright, the terror, gave me strength to stagger to the door, and
there I fell and swooned."

"Oh, I see. You speak of fright and terror. Were these caused by the
sound of the shot?"

"For some reason my cousin believed himself to be in peril," explained
Madame. "He went in dread of assassination, you understand? Very well,
he caused me to feel this dread, also. When I heard the shot, something
told me, something told me that--" she paused, and suddenly placing her
hands before her face, added in a whisper--"that it had come."

Val Beverley was watching Madame de Staemer anxiously, and the fact that
she was unfit to undergo further examination was so obvious that any
other than an Inspector Aylesbury would have withdrawn. The latter,
however, seemed now to be glued to his chair, and:

"Oh, I see," he said; "and now there's another point: Have you any idea
what took Colonel Menendez out into the grounds last night?"

Madame de Staemer lowered her hands and gazed across at the speaker.

"What is that, Monsieur l'inspecteur?"

"Well, you don't think he might have gone out to talk to someone?"

"To someone? To what one?" demanded Madame, scornfully.

"Well, it isn't natural for a man to go walking about the garden at
midnight, when he's unwell, is it? Not alone. But if there was a lady
in the case he might go."

"A lady?" said Madame, softly. "Yes--continue."

"Well," resumed the Inspector, deceived by the soft voice, "the young
lady sitting beside you was still wearing her evening dress when I
arrived here last night. I found that out, although she didn't give me
a chance to see her."

His words had an effect more dramatic than he could have foreseen.

Madame de Staemer threw her arm around Val Beverley, and hugged her so
closely to her side that the girl's curly brown head was pressed
against Madame's shoulder. Thus holding her, she sat rigidly upright,
her strange, still eyes glaring across the room at Inspector Aylesbury.
Her whole pose was instinct with challenge, with defiance, and in that
moment I identified the illusive memory which the eyes of Madame so
often had conjured up in my mind.

Once, years before, I had seen a wounded tigress standing over her
cubs, a beautiful, fearless creature, blazing defiance with dying eyes
upon those who had destroyed her, the mother-instinct supreme to the
last; for as she fell to rise no more she had thrown her paw around the
cowering cubs. It was not in shape, nor in colour, but in expression
and in their stillness, that the eyes of Madame de Staemer resembled the
eyes of the tigress.

"Oh, Madame, Madame," moaned the girl, "how dare he!"

"Ah!" Madame de Staemer raised her head yet higher, a royal gesture,
that unmoving stare set upon the face of the discomfited Inspector
Aylesbury. "Leave my apartment." Her left hand shot out dramatically in
the direction of the door, but even yet the fingers remained curled.
"Stupid, gross fool!"

Inspector Aylesbury stood up, his face very flushed.

"I am only doing my duty, Madame," he said.

"Go, go!" commanded Madame, "I insist that you go!"

Convulsively she held Val Beverley to her side, and although I could
not see the girl's face, I knew that she was weeping.

Those implacable flaming eyes followed with their stare the figure of
the Inspector right to the doorway, for he essayed no further speech,
but retired.

I, also, rose, and:

"Madame de Staemer," I said, speaking, I fear, very unnaturally, "I love
your spirit."

She threw back her head, smiling up at me. I shall never forget that
look, nor shall I attempt to portray all which it conveyed--for I know
I should fail.

"My friend!" she said, and extended her hand to be kissed.




CHAPTER XXVII

AN INSPIRATION



Inspector Aylesbury had disappeared when I came out of the hall, but
Pedro was standing there to remind me of the fact that I had not
breakfasted. I realized that despite all tragic happenings, I was
ravenously hungry, and accordingly I agreed to his proposal that I
should take breakfast on the south veranda, as on the previous morning.

To the south veranda accordingly I made my way, rather despising myself
because I was capable of hunger at such a time and amidst such horrors.
The daily papers were on my table, for Carter drove into Market Hilton
every morning to meet the London train which brought them down; but I
did not open any of them.

Pedro waited upon me in person. I could see that the man was
pathetically anxious to talk. Accordingly, when he presently brought me
a fresh supply of hot rolls:

"This has been a dreadful blow to you, Pedro?" I said.

"Dreadful, sir," he returned; "fearful. I lose a splendid master, I
lose my place, and I am far, far from home."

"You are from Cuba?"

"Yes, yes. I was with Senor the Colonel Don Juan in Cuba."

"And do you know anything of the previous attempts which had been made
upon his life, Pedro?"

"Nothing, sir. Nothing at all."

"But the bat wing, Pedro?"

He looked at me in a startled way.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "I found it pinned to the door here."

"And what did you think it meant?"

"I thought it was a joke, sir--not a nice joke--by someone who knew
Cuba."

"You know the meaning of Bat Wing, then?"

"It is Obeah. I have never seen it before, but I have heard of it."

"And what did you think?" said I, proceeding with my breakfast.

"I thought it was meant to frighten."

"But who did you think had done it?"

"I had heard Senor Don Juan say that Mr. Camber hated him, so I thought
perhaps he had sent someone to do it."

"But why should Mr. Camber have hated the Colonel?"

"I cannot say, sir. I wish I could tell."

"Was your master popular in the West Indies?" I asked.

"Well, sir--" Pedro hesitated--"perhaps not so well liked."

"No," I said. "I had gathered as much."

The man withdrew, and I continued my solitary meal, listening to the
song of the skylarks, and thinking how complex was human existence,
compared with any other form of life beneath the sun.

How to employ my time until Harley should return I knew not. Common
delicacy dictated an avoidance of Val Beverley until she should have
recovered from the effect of Inspector Aylesbury's gross insinuations,
and I was curiously disinclined to become involved in the gloomy
formalities which ensue upon a crime of violence. Nevertheless, I felt
compelled to remain within call, realizing that there might be
unpleasant duties which Pedro could not perform, and which must
therefore devolve upon Val Beverley.

I lighted my pipe and walked out on to the sloping lawn. A gardener was
at work with a big syringe, destroying a patch of weeds which had
appeared in one corner of the velvet turf. He looked up in a sort of
startled way as I passed, bidding me good morning, and then resuming
his task. I thought that this man's activities were symbolic of the way
of the world, in whose eternal progression one poor human life counts
as nothing.

Presently I came in sight of that door which opened into the
rhododendron shrubbery, the door by which Colonel Menendez had come out
to meet his death. His bedroom was directly above, and as I picked my
way through the closely growing bushes, which at an earlier time I had
thought to be impassable, I paused in the very shadow of the tower and
glanced back and upward. I could see the windows of the little smoke-
room in which we had held our last interview with Menendez; and I
thought of the shadow which Harley had seen upon the blind. I was
unable to disguise from myself the fact that when Inspector Aylesbury
should learn of this occurrence, as presently he must do, it would give
new vigour to his ridiculous and unpleasant suspicions.

I passed on, and considering the matter impartially, found myself faced
by the questions--Whose was the shadow which Harley had seen upon the
blind? And with what purpose did Colonel Menendez leave the house at
midnight?

Somnambulism might solve the second riddle, but to the first I could
find no answer acceptable to my reason. And now, pursuing my aimless
way, I presently came in sight of a gable of the Guest House. I could
obtain a glimpse of the hut which had once been Colin Camber's
workroom. The window, through which Paul Harley had stared so intently,
possessed sliding panes. These were closed, and a ray of sunlight,
striking upon the glass, produced, because of an over-leaning branch
which crossed the top of the window, an effect like that of a giant eye
glittering evilly through the trees. I could see a constable moving
about in the garden. Ever and anon the sun shone upon the buttons of
his tunic.

By such steps my thoughts led me on to the pathetic figure of Ysola
Camber. Save for the faithful Ah Tsong she was alone in that house to
which tragedy had come unbidden, unforeseen. I doubted if she had a
woman friend in all the countryside. Doubtless, I reflected, the old
housekeeper, to whom she had referred, would return as speedily as
possible, but pending the arrival of someone to whom she could confide
all her sorrows, I found it almost impossible to contemplate the
loneliness of the tragic little figure.

Such was my mental state, and my thoughts were all of compassion, when
suddenly, like a lurid light, an inspiration came to me.

I had passed out from the shadow of the tower and was walking in the
direction of the sentinel yews when this idea, dreadfully complete,
leapt to my mind. I pulled up short, as though hindered by a palpable
barrier. Vague musings, evanescent theories, vanished like smoke, and a
ghastly, consistent theory of the crime unrolled itself before me, with
all the cold logic of truth.

"My God!" I groaned aloud, "I see it all. I see it all."




CHAPTER XXVIII

MY THEORY OF THE CRIME



The afternoon was well advanced before Paul Harley returned.

So deep was my conviction that I had hit upon the truth, and so well
did my theory stand every test which I could apply to it, that I felt
disinclined for conversation with any one concerned in the tragedy
until I should have submitted the matter to the keen analysis of
Harley. Upon the sorrow of Madame de Staemer I naturally did not
intrude, nor did I seek to learn if she had carried out her project of
looking upon the dead man.

About mid-day the body was removed, after which an oppressive and
awesome stillness seemed to descend upon Cray's Folly.

Inspector Aylesbury had not returned from his investigations at the
Guest House, and learning that Miss Beverley was remaining with Madame
de Staemer, I declined to face the ordeal of a solitary luncheon in the
dining room, and merely ate a few sandwiches, walking over to the
Lavender Arms for a glass of Mrs. Wootton's excellent ale.

Here I found the bar-parlour full of local customers, and although a
heated discussion was in progress as I opened the door, silence fell
upon my appearance. Mrs. Wootton greeted me sadly.

"Ah, sir," she said, as she placed a mug before me; "of course you've
heard?"

"I have, madam," I replied, perceiving that she did not know me to be a
guest at Cray's Folly.

"Well, well!" She shook her head. "It had to come, with all these
foreign folk about."

She retired to some sanctum at the rear of the bar, and I drank my beer
amid one of those silences which sometimes descend upon such a
gathering when a stranger appears in its midst. Not until I moved to
depart was this silence broken, then:

"Ah, well," said an old fellow, evidently a farm-hand, "we know now why
he was priming of hisself with the drink, we do."

"Aye!" came a growling chorus.

I came out of the Lavender Arms full of a knowledge that so far as Mid-
Hatton was concerned, Colin Camber was already found guilty.

I had hoped to see something of Val Beverley on my return, but she
remained closeted with Madame de Staemer, and I was left in loneliness
to pursue my own reflections, and to perfect that theory which had
presented itself to my mind.

In Harley's absence I had taken it upon myself to give an order to
Pedro to the effect that no reporters were to be admitted; and in this
I had done well. So quickly does evil news fly that, between mid-day
and the hour of Harley's return, no fewer than five reporters, I
believe, presented themselves at Cray's Folly. Some of the more
persistent continued to haunt the neighbourhood, and I had withdrawn to
the deserted library, in order to avoid observation, when I heard a car
draw up in the courtyard, and a moment later heard Harley asking for
me.

I hurried out to meet him, and as I appeared at the door of the
library:

"Hullo, Knox," he called, running up the steps. "Any developments?"

"No actual development?" I replied, "except that several members of the
Press have been here."

"You told them nothing?" he asked, eagerly.

"No; they were not admitted."

"Good, good," he muttered.

"I had expected you long before this, Harley."

"Naturally," he said, with a sort of irritation. "I have been all the
way to Whitehall and back."

Fidel and Che: a revolutionary friendship

After last week's fairly open theme, I thought I'd go with something a bit more structured this time. As I type this, I'm listening to Steeleye Span and thinking about the great ballad traditions of Britain and Ireland. What is a ballad? I suppose the most inclusive definition would be that it's a singable narrative poem: that covers a multitude but will do for the moment.

Ballads in English stretch back to the middle ages, with fine examples to be found among the Scottish border ballads and the English Robin Hood poems. These early ballads are among the best-known poems and stories in the language, and form part of the common heritage of English speakers everywhere. They gave rise to a tradition of ballad-making that endures down to the present day.

In fact, most poets since have tried their hand at the ballad at one time or another, and the result has been to deny any definition more specific than the one I ventured in my first paragraph. If you look around the internet, you'll come up with a wide selection of poems that are called ballads but have little in common formally. Stanza length varies from two to 10 or more lines, and all sorts of metrical and rhyming patterns are used. A good number will be singable in only the loosest possible sense, and at times the narrative tends to get lost in a mesh of more-or-less successful verbal embroidery.

So, what should a ballad be? Well, "proper" ballad stanzas are quatrains in which the first and third lines have four stresses and the second and third have three. The lines will rhyme A-B-C-B or A-B-A-B. It's as simple, and as difficult, as that. Here's an example, from Robert Burns's extremely singable Comin Thro' the Rye:

Gin a body meet a body
          Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body –
          Need a body cry.

Burns wrote a good number of ballads, and his lead was followed by many 19th-century poets. Two examples that I particularly like are Robert Browning's Confessions and Christina Rossetti's Up-Hill, but you can find ballads by just about any Romantic or Victorian poet if you look for them.

There is a long, strong tradition of ballads and ballad singers in Ireland, too. It is hardly surprising, then, that the great appropriator of tradition, WB Yeats, tried his hand at the form. At least four of his poems have the word "ballad" in the title; the pick of the bunch, for my money, is The Ballad of Father Gilligan, which may have benefited from having been written with a specific tune in mind.

Ballads continued to be written in the 20th century; perhaps the most unexpected exponents were Ezra Pound, with his Ballad of the Goodly Fere, and WH Auden. In fact, the ballad The Quarry is probably my favourite Auden poem.

And so, this week I invite a chorus of balladeering. You may choose to go the whole hog and write in ballad stanzas or you might prefer to take a more liberal view of the formal requirements. Either way, sing up and – as they say at all the best Irish sessions when calling for a bit of hush for the singer – one voice please.

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Obituary: Donald Westlake

The disputed Holocaust memoir, written by Herman Rosenblat, which was dropped from Penguin Group's publication schedule at the end of December is now set to appear as a work of fiction.

Rosenblat's memoir - which Oprah Winfrey called "the single greatest love story" she had heard in two decades in television - recounted how as a teenage boy in a Nazi concentration camp, he was kept alive by the food which was thrown to him by a young girl, Roma Radzicky. Penguin's US imprint Berkley Books had planned to publish the story, which sees Rosenblat reunited with Radzicky on a blind date years later, as Angel at the Fence: the True Story of a Love That Survived, next month.

But a Holocaust historian said it would have been impossible to approach the fence in the Schlieben concentration camp to throw food over it, concluding that this part of the story was made-up. Berkley initially defended the book, saying it was a work of memory, but then decided to cancel its planned publication, and demanded the return of the advance it had made to Rosenblat. A $25m film based on the book, to be called The Flower of the Fence, is still going ahead, with production due to start this year.

Publisher York House Press based in White Plains, New York, has entered into a tentative agreement with the film production company to publish a novel based on the film script early this spring. It said the book would be "grounded in fact", and would rise "to the proper levels of artistic value, ethical conduct and social responsibility".

A spokesperson for York House Press condemned the attacks which were made on the 80-year-old Rosenblat after the veracity of his story was questioned, describing them as a "savage" response to what was otherwise "a credible, heart-wrenching, and verifiable account" of his time in the concentration camp.

"No deliberate untruth is permissible, but beneath any fabrication is motivation and intent. We believe Mr. Rosenblat's motivations were very human, understandable and forgivable," the spokesperson said. "It is beyond our expertise to know how Holocaust survivors cope with their trauma. Do they deny, try to forget, rationalise or fantasise and promote fiction along with truth? Perhaps the coping mechanisms are as individual as the survivors themselves."

The president of the company producing the film, Harris Salomon from Atlantic Overseas Productions, said the book, "regardless of its shortcomings", would "challenge, educate and enlighten" readers about the horrors of the Holocaust. "The documented fact, acknowledged by his critics, is that Herman is a survivor of concentration camps," he said.

But Rosenblat's agent, Andrea Hurst, said that neither she nor Rosenblat were involved with this version of his story. "Usually book rights from films come out after the movie is released," she told guardian.co.uk. "I think the timing on this is very insensitive."

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