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Bat Wing by Sax Rohmer

S >> Sax Rohmer >> Bat Wing




"Geographically impossible?" I said, in a hushed voice, for Harley had
truly astounded me.

"Geographical is the term, Knox. I admit that the discovery of the
rifle beneath the floor of the hut appalled me."

"I could see that it did."

"It was the crowning piece of evidence, Knox, evidence of such fiendish
cleverness on the part of those who had plotted Menendez's death that I
began to wonder whether after all it would be possible to defeat them.
I realized that Camber's life hung upon a hair. For the production of
that rifle before a jury of twelve moderately stupid men and true could
not fail to carry enormous weight. Whereas the delicate point upon
which my counter case rested might be more difficult to demonstrate in
court. To-night, however, we shall put it to the test, and there are
means, no doubt, which will occur to me later, of making its
significance evident to one not acquainted with the locality. The press
photographs, which I understand have been taken, may possibly help us
in this."

Bewildered by my friend's revolutionary ideas, which explained the
hitherto mysterious nature of his enquiries, I scarcely knew what to
say; but:

"If it's a frame-up, Mr. Harley," said Wessex, "and the more I think
about it the more it has that look to me, practically speaking, we have
not yet started on the search for the murderer."

"We have not," replied Harley, grimly. "But I have a dawning idea of a
method by which we shall be enabled to narrow down this enquiry."

It must be unnecessary for me to speak of the state of suppressed
excitement in which we passed the remainder of that afternoon and
evening. Dr. Rolleston called again to see Madame de Staemer, and
reported that she was quite calm. In fact, he almost echoed Val
Beverley's words spoken earlier in the day.

"She is unnaturally calm, Mr. Knox," he said in confidence. "I
understand that the dead man was a cousin, but I almost suspect that
she was madly in love with him."

I nodded shortly, admiring his acute intelligence.

"I think you are right, doctor," I replied, "and if it is so, her
amazing fortitude is all the more admirable."

"Admirable?" he echoed. "As I said before, she has the courage of ten
men."

A formal dinner was out of the question, of course; indeed, no one
attempted to dress. Val Beverley excused herself, saying that she would
dine in Madame's room, and Harley, Wessex, and I, partook of wine and
sandwiches in the library.

Inspector Aylesbury arrived about eight o'clock in a mood of repressed
irritation. Pedro showed him in to where the three of us were seated,
and:

"Good evening, gentlemen," said he, "here I am, as arranged, but as I
am up to my eyes in work on the case, I will ask you, Mr. Harley, to
carry out this experiment of yours as quickly as possible."

"No time shall be lost," replied my friend, quietly. "May I request you
to accompany Detective-Inspector Wessex and Mr. Knox to the Guest House
by the high road? Do not needlessly alarm Mrs. Camber. Indeed, I think
you might confine your attention to Mrs. Powis. Merely request
permission to walk down the garden to the hut, and be good enough to
wait there until I join you, which will be in a few minutes after your
arrival."

Inspector Aylesbury uttered an inarticulate, grunting sound, but I, who
knew Harley so well, could see that he felt himself to be upon the eve
of a signal triumph. What he proposed to do, I had no idea, save that
it was designed to clear Colin Camber. I prayed that it might also
clear his pathetic girl-wife; and in a sort of gloomy silence I set out
with Wessex and Aylesbury, down the drive, past the lodge, which seemed
to be deserted to-night, and along the tree-lined high road, cool and
sweet in the dusk of evening.

Aylesbury was very morose, and Wessex, who had lighted his pipe, did
not seem to be in a talkative mood either. He had the utmost faith in
Paul Harley, but it was evident enough that he was oppressed by the
weight of evidence against Camber. I divined the fact that he was
turning over in his mind the idea of the frame-up, and endeavouring to
re-adjust the established facts in accordance with this new point of
view.

We were admitted to the Guest House by Mrs. Powis, a cheery old soul;
one of those born optimists whose special task in life seems to be that
of a friend in need.

As she opened the door, she smiled, shook her head, and raised her
finger to her lips.

"Be as quiet as you can, sir," she said. "I have got her to sleep."

She spoke of Mrs. Camber as one refers to a child, and, quite
understanding her anxiety:

"There will be no occasion to disturb her, Mrs. Powis," I replied. "We
merely wish to walk down to the bottom of the garden to make a few
enquiries."

"Yes, gentlemen," she whispered, quietly closing the door as we all
entered the hall.

She led us through the rear portion of the house, and past the quarters
of Ah Tsong into that neglected garden which I remembered so well.

"There you are, sir, and may Heaven help you to find the truth."

"Rest assured that the truth will be found, Mrs. Powis," I answered.

Inspector Aylesbury cleared his throat, but Wessex, puffing at his
pipe, made no remark whatever until we were all come to the hut
overhanging the little ravine.

"This is where I found the rifle, Detective-Inspector," explained
Aylesbury.

Wessex nodded absently.

It was another perfect night, with only a faint tracery of cloud to be
seen like lingering smoke over on the western horizon. Everything
seemed very still, so that although we were several miles from the
railway line, when presently a train sped on its way one might have
supposed, from the apparent nearness of the sound, that the track was
no farther off than the grounds of Cray's Folly.

Toward those grounds, automatically, our glances were drawn; and we
stood there staring down at the ghostly map of the gardens, and all
wondering, no doubt, what Harley was doing and when he would be joining
us.

Very faintly I could hear the water of the little stream bubbling
beneath us. Then, just as this awkward silence was becoming
intolerable, there came a scraping and scratching from the shadows of
the gully, and:

"Give me a hand, Knox!" cried the voice of Harley from below. "I want
to avoid the barbed wire if possible."

He had come across country, and as I scrambled down the slope to meet
him I could not help wondering with what object he had sent us ahead by
the high road. Presently, when he came clambering up into the garden,
this in a measure was explained, for:

"You are all wondering," he began, rapidly, "what I am up to, no doubt.
Let me endeavour to make it clear. In order that my test should be
conclusive, and in no way influenced by pre-knowledge of certain
arrangements which I had made, I sent you on ahead of me. Not wishing
to waste time, I followed by the shorter route. And now, gentlemen,
let us begin."

"Good," muttered Inspector Aylesbury.

"But first of all," continued Harley, "I wish each one of you in turn
to look out of the window of the hut, and down into the Tudor garden of
Cray's Folly. Will you begin, Wessex?"

Wessex, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and staring hard at the
speaker, nodded, entered the hut, and kneeling on the wooden seat,
looked out of the window.

"Open the panes," said Harley, "so that you have a perfectly clear
view."

Wessex slid the panes open and stared intently down into the valley.

"Do you see anything unusual in the garden?"

"Nothing," he reported.

"And now, Inspector Aylesbury."

Inspector Aylesbury stamped noisily across the little hut, and peered
out, briefly.

"I can see the garden," he said.

"Can you see the sun-dial?"

"Quite clearly."

"Good. And now you, Knox."

I followed, filled with astonishment.

"Do you see the sun-dial?" asked Harley, again.

"Quite clearly."

"And beyond it?"

"Yes, I can see beyond it. I can even see its shadow lying like a black
band on the path."

"And you can see the yew trees?"

"Of course."

"But nothing else? Nothing unusual?"

"Nothing."

"Very well," said Harley, tersely. "And now, gentlemen, we take to the
rough ground, proceeding due east. Will you be good enough to follow?"

Walking around the hut he found an opening in the hedge, and scrambled
down into the place where rank grass grew and through which he and I on
a previous occasion had made our way to the high road. To-night,
however, he did not turn toward the high road, but proceeded along the
crest of the hill.

I followed him, excited by the novelty of the proceedings. Wessex, very
silent, came behind me, and Inspector Aylesbury, swearing under his
breath, waded through the long grass at the rear.

"Will you all turn your attention to the garden again, please?" cried
Harley.

We all paused, looking to the right.

"Anything unusual?"

We were agreed that there was not.

"Very well," said my friend. "You will kindly note that from this point
onward the formation of the ground prevents our obtaining any other
view of Cray's Folly or its gardens until we reach the path to the
valley, or turn on to the high road. From a point on the latter the
tower may be seen but that is all. The first part of my experiment is
concluded, gentlemen. We will now return."

Giving us no opportunity for comment, he plunged on in the direction of
the stream, and at a point which I regarded as unnecessarily difficult,
crossed it, to the great discomfiture of the heavy Inspector Aylesbury.
A few minutes later we found ourselves once more in the grounds of
Cray's Folly.

Harley, evidently with a definite objective in view, led the way up the
terraces, through the rhododendrons, and round the base of the tower.
He crossed to the sunken garden, and at the top of the steps paused.

"Be good enough to regard the sun-dial from this point," he directed.

Even as he spoke, I caught my breath, and I heard Aylesbury utter a
sort of gasping sound.

Beyond the sun-dial and slightly to the left of it, viewed from where
we stood, a faint, elfin light flickered, at a point apparently some
four or five feet above the ground!

"What's this?" muttered Wessex.

"Follow again, gentlemen," said Harley quietly.

He led the way down to the garden and along the path to the sun-dial.
This he passed, pausing immediately in front of the yew tree in which I
knew the bullet to be embedded.

He did not speak, but, extending his finger, pointed.

A piece of candle, some four inches long, was attached by means of a
nail to the bark of the tree, so that its flame burned immediately in
front of the bullet embedded there!

For perhaps ten seconds no one spoke; indeed I think no one moved.
Then:

"Good God!" murmured Wessex. "You have done some clever things to my
knowledge, Mr. Harley, but this crowns them all."

"Clever things!" said Inspector Aylesbury. "I think it's a lot of
damned tomfoolery."

"Do you, Inspector?" asked the Scotland Yard man, quietly. "I don't. I
think it has saved the life of an innocent man."

"What's that? What's that?" cried Aylesbury.

"This candle was burning here on the yew tree," explained Harley, "at
the time that you looked out of the window of the hut. You could not
see it. You could not see it from the crest adjoining the Guest House--
the only other spot in the neighbourhood from which this garden is
visible. Now, since the course of a bullet is more or less straight,
and since the nature of the murdered man's wound proves that it was not
deflected in any way, I submit that the one embedded in the yew tree
before you could not possibly have been fired from the Guest House! The
second part of my experiment, gentlemen, will be designed to prove from
whence it _was_ fired."




CHAPTER XXXIII

PAUL HARLEY'S EXPERIMENT CONCLUDED



Up to the very moment that Paul Harley, who had withdrawn, rejoined us
in the garden, Inspector Aylesbury had not grasped the significance of
that candle burning upon the yew tree. He continued to stare at it as
if hypnotized, and when my friend re-appeared, carrying a long ash
staff and a sheet of cardboard, I could have laughed to witness the
expression upon the Inspector's face, had I not been too deeply
impressed with that which underlay this strange business.

Wessex, on the other hand, was watching my friend eagerly, as an
earnest student in the class-room might watch a demonstration by some
celebrated lecturer.

"You will notice," said Paul Harley, "that I have had a number of
boards laid down upon the ground yonder, near the sun-dial. They cover
a spot where the turf has worn very thin. Now, this garden, because of
its sunken position, is naturally damp. Perhaps, Wessex, you would take
up these planks for me."

Inspector Wessex obeyed, and Harley, laying the ash stick and cardboard
upon the ground, directed the ray of an electric torch upon the spot
uncovered.

"The footprints of Colonel Menendez!" he explained. "Here he turned
from the tiled path. He advanced three paces in the direction of the
sun-dial, you observe, then stood still, facing we may suppose, since
this is the indication of the prints, in a southerly direction."

"Straight toward the Guest House," muttered Inspector Aylesbury.

"Roughly," corrected Harley. "He was fronting in that direction,
certainly, but his head may have been turned either to the right or to
the left. You observe from the great depth of the toe-marks that on
this spot he actually fell. Then, here"--he moved the light--"is the
impression of his knee, and here again--"

He shone the white ray upon a discoloured patch of grass, and then
returned the lamp to his pocket.

"I am going to make a hole in the turf," he continued, "directly
between these two footprints, which seem to indicate that the Colonel
was standing in the military position of attention at the moment that
he met his death."

With the end of the ash stick, which was pointed, he proceeded to do
this.

"Colonel Menendez," he went on, "stood rather over six feet in his
shoes. The stick which now stands upright in the turf measures six
feet, from the chalk mark up to which I have buried it to the slot
which I have cut in the top. Into this slot I now wedge my sheet of
cardboard."

As he placed the sheet of cardboard in the slot which he had indicated,
I saw that a round hole was cut in it some six inches in diameter. We
watched these proceedings in silence, then:

"If you will allow me to adjust the candle, gentlemen," said Harley,
"which has burned a little too low for my purpose, I shall proceed to
the second part of this experiment."

He walked up to the yew tree, and by means of bending the nail upward
he raised the flame of the candle level with the base of the embedded
bullet.

"By heavens!" cried Wessex, suddenly divining the object of these
proceedings, "Mr. Harley, this is genius!"

"Thank you, Wessex," Harley replied, quietly, but nevertheless he was
unable to hide his gratification. "You see my point?"

"Certainly."

"In ten minutes we shall know the truth."

"Oh, I see," muttered Inspector Aylesbury; "we shall know the truth,
eh? If you ask me the truth, it's this, that we are a set of lunatics."

"My dear Inspector Aylesbury," said Harley, good humouredly, "surely
you have grasped the lesson of experiment number one?"

"Well," admitted the other, "it's funny, certainly. I mean, it wants a
lot of explaining, but I can't say I'm convinced."

"That's a pity," murmured Wessex, "because I am."

"You see, Inspector," Harley continued, patiently, "the body of Colonel
Menendez as it lay formed a straight line between the sun-dial and the
hut in the garden of the Guest House. That is to say: a line drawn from
the window of the hut to the sun-dial must have passed through the
body. Very well. Such an imaginary line, if continued _beyond_ the
sun-dial, would have terminated near the base of the _seventh yew_
tree. Accordingly, I naturally looked for the _bullet_ there. It
was not there. But I found it, as you know, in the ninth tree.
Therefore, the shot could not possibly have been fired from the Guest
House, because the spot in the ninth yew where the bullet had lodged is
not visible from the Guest House."

Inspector Aylesbury removed his cap and scratched his head vigorously.

"In order that we may avoid waste of valuable time," said Harley,
finally, "let us take a hasty observation from here. As a matter of
fact, I have done so already, as nearly as was possible, without
employing this rough apparatus."

He knelt down beside the yew tree, lowering his head so that the
candlelight shone upon the brown, eager face, and looked upward, over
the top of the sun-dial and through the hole in the cardboard.

"Yes," he muttered, a note of rising excitement in his voice. "As I
thought, as I thought. Come, gentlemen, let us hurry."

He walked rapidly out of the garden, and up the steps, whilst we
followed dumb with wonder--or such at any rate was the cause of my own
silence.

In the hall Pedro was standing, a bunch of keys in his hand, and
evidently expecting Harley.

"Will you take us by the shortest way to the tower stairs?" my friend
directed.

"Yes, sir."

Doubting, wondering, scarcely knowing whether to be fearful or
jubilant, I followed, along a carpeted corridor, and thence, a heavy,
oaken door being unlocked, across a dusty and deserted apartment
apparently intended for a drawing room. From this, through a second
doorway we were led into a small, square, unfurnished room, which I
knew must be situated in the base of the tower. Yet a third door was
unlocked, and:

"Here is the stair, sir," said Pedro.

In Indian file we mounted to the first floor, to find ourselves in a
second, identical room, also stripped of furniture and decorations.
Harley barely glanced out of the northern window, shook his head, and:

"Next floor, Pedro," he directed.

Up we went, our footsteps arousing a cloud of dust from the uncarpeted
stairs, and the sound of our movements echoing in hollow fashion around
the deserted rooms.

Gaining the next floor, Harley, unable any longer to conceal his
excitement, ran to the north window, looked out, and:

"Gentlemen," he said, "my experiment is complete!"

He turned, his back to the window, and faced us in the dusk of the
room.

"Assuming the ash stick to represent the upright body of Colonel
Menendez," he continued, "and the sheet of cardboard to represent his
head, the hole which I have cut in it corresponds fairly nearly to the
position of his forehead. Further assuming the bullet to have
illustrated Euclid's definition of a straight line, such a line,
_followed back_ from the yew tree to the spot where the rifle
rested, would pass through the hole in the cardboard! In other words,
there is only one place from which it is possible to see the flame of
the candle _through the hole in the cardboard_: the place where
the rifle rested! Stand here in the left-hand angle of the window and
stoop down! Will you come first, Knox?"

I stepped across the room, bent down, and stared out of the window,
across the Tudor garden. Plainly I could see the sun-dial with the ash
stick planted before it. I could see the piece of cardboard which
surmounted it--and, through the hole cut in the cardboard, I could see
the feeble flame of the candle nailed to the ninth yew tree!

I stood upright, knowing that I had grown pale, and conscious of a
moist sensation upon my forehead.

"Merciful God!" I said in a hollow voice. "It was from _this
window_ that the shot was fired which killed him!"




CHAPTER XXXIV

THE CREEPING SICKNESS



From the ensuing consultation in the library we did not rise until
close upon midnight. To the turbid intelligence of Inspector Aylesbury
the fact by this time had penetrated that Colin Camber was innocent,
that he was the victim of a frame-up, and that Colonel Juan Menendez
had been shot from a window of his own house.

By a process of lucid reasoning which must have convinced a junior
schoolboy, Paul Harley, there in the big library, with its garish
bookcases and its Moorish ornaments, had eliminated every member of the
household from the list of suspects. His concluding words, I remember,
were as follows:

"Of the known occupants of Cray's Folly on the night of the tragedy we
now find ourselves reduced to four, any one of whom, from the point of
view of an impartial critic uninfluenced by personal character,
question, or motive, or any consideration other than that of physical
possibility, might have shot Colonel Menendez. They are, firstly:
Myself.

"In order to believe me guilty, it would be necessary to discount the
evidence of Knox, who saw me on the gravel path below at the time that
the shot was fired from the tower window.

"Secondly: Knox; whose guilt, equally, could only be assumed by means
of eliminating _my_ evidence, since I saw him at the window of my
room at the time that the shot was fired.

"Thirdly: Madame de Staemer. Regarding this suspect, in the first place
she could not have gained access to the tower room without assistance,
and in the second place she was so passionately devoted to the late
Colonel Menendez that Dr. Rolleston is of opinion that her reason may
remain permanently impaired by the shock of his death. Fourthly and
lastly: Miss Val Beverley."

Over my own feelings, as he had uttered the girl's name, I must pass in
silence.

"Miss Val Beverley is the only one of the four suspects who is not in a
position to establish a sound alibi so far as I can see at the moment;
but in this case entire absence of motive renders the suspicion absurd.
Having dealt with the _known_ occupants, I shall not touch upon
the possibility that some stranger had gained access to the house. This
opens up a province of speculation which we must explore at greater
leisure, for it would be profitless to attempt such an exploration
now."

Thus the gathering had broken up, Inspector Aylesbury returning to
Market Hilton to make his report and to release Colin Camber and Ah
Tsong, and Wessex to seek his quarters at the Lavender Arms.

I remember that having seen them off, Harley and I stood in the hall,
staring at one another in a very odd way, and so we stood when Val
Beverley came quietly from Madame de Staemer's room and spoke to us.

"Pedro has told me what you have done, Mr. Harley," she said in a low
voice. "Oh, thank God you have cleared him. But what, in Heaven's name,
does your new discovery mean?"

"You may well ask," Harley answered, grimly. "If my first task was a
hard one, that which remains before me looks more nearly hopeless than
anything I have ever been called upon to attempt."

"It is horrible, it is horrible," said the girl, shudderingly. "Oh, Mr.
Knox," she turned to me, "I have felt all along that there was some
stranger in the house----"

"You have told me so."

"Conundrums! Conundrums!" muttered Harley, irritably. "Where am I to
begin, upon what am I to erect any feasible theory?" He turned abruptly
to Val Beverley. "Does Madame de Staemer know?"

"Yes," she answered, nodding her head; "and hearing the others depart,
she asked me to tell you that sleep is impossible until you have
personally given her the details of your discovery."

"She wishes to see me?" asked Harley, eagerly.

"She insists upon seeing you," replied the girl, "and also requests Mr.
Knox to visit her." She paused, biting her lip. "Madame's manner is
very, very odd. Dr. Rolleston cannot understand her at all. I expect he
has told you? She has been sitting there for hours and hours, writing."

"Writing?" exclaimed Harley. "Letters?"

"I don't know what she has been writing," confessed Val Beverley. "She
declines to tell me, or to show me what she has written. But there is
quite a little stack of manuscript upon the table beside her bed. Won't
you come in?"

I could see that she was more troubled than she cared to confess, and I
wondered if Dr. Rolleston's unpleasant suspicions might have solid
foundation, and if the loss of her cousin had affected Madame de
Staemer's brain.

Presently, then, ushered by Val Beverley, I found myself once more in
the violet and silver room in which on that great bed of state Madame
reclined amid silken pillows. Her art never deserted her, not even in
moments of ultimate stress, and that she had prepared herself for this
interview was evident enough.

I had thought previously that one night of horror had added five years
to her apparent age. I thought now that she looked radiantly beautiful.
That expression in her eyes, which I knew I must forevermore associate
with the memory of the dying tigress, had faded entirely. They remained
still, as of old, but to-night they were velvety soft. The lips were
relaxed in a smile of tenderness. I observed, with surprise, that she
wore much jewelery, and upon her white bosom gleamed the famous rope of
pearls which I knew her to treasure above almost anything in her
possession.

Again the fear touched me coldly that much sorrow had made her mad. But
at her very first word of greeting I was immediately reassured.

"Ah, my friend," she said, as I entered, a caressing note in her deep,
vibrant voice, "you have great news, they tell me? Mr. Harley, I was
afraid that you had deserted me, sir. If you had done so I should have
been very angry with you. Set the two armchairs here on my right, Val,
dear, and sit close beside me."

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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