A Psychiatrist, Screams

by Simon Parke

  ‘And speaking as a monk, it’s worth a conversation.’

  They drove the final 500 yards to Henry House in silence, got out of the car and stepped beneath the Tudor rose into the hallway, where the duty policeman lay sprawled on the ground, unconscious.

  And coming from the kitchen, the faint smell of gas.

  Eighty Seven

  Earlier in the day, around 7.00 a.m., they’d interviewed Bella Amal at Lewes Police station, famous for its coffee machine, which both Peter and Tamsin enjoyed at this early hour.

  As Tamsin confirmed, ‘You don’t get that quality of bean in Stormhaven.’

  The interview was a mixed bag, the curate’s egg as they say - good in parts. It was a conversation in which they learned everything about the night Barnabus Hope was murdered - except for the name of the murderer.

  Bella had not proved a tough nut to crack and was all the more pitiful for her strange attire.

  ‘We’re trying to get you a change of clothes,’ said Tamsin. But in the meantime, they were interviewing a clown.

  ‘As it started, so it ends,’ thought Peter. ‘Commedia dell’arte.’

  ‘Bella Amal, did you murder Barnabus Hope by caving in his skull?’ asked Tamsin.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So where were you at midnight, on the night of the murder?’

  ‘I was in bed.’

  ‘Good answer.’

  ‘I was in bed!’

  ‘Don’t do the hysterical thing on me, Bella, I’m not doubting you.’ Bella calmed down, soothed by the removal of misunderstanding.

  She didn’t like being misunderstood, never had, misunderstanding hurt her grievously. She liked to be precisely understood, just as she precisely misunderstood others. Tamsin now continued, with Peter content to watch. He desired distance between himself and his tormentor. Distance and some coffee; they were good beans.

  Tamsin expanded a little: ‘When I say good answer, Bella, I mean you’re telling the truth.’

  Bella nodded.

  ‘We know you were at home at midnight on the night in question - CCTV - and so we know you didn’t kill Barnabus.’

  Bella sits puzzled and cagey in her harlequin clothes, both trapped rabbit and watchful fox... but no mime or ballet now, no posturing in the firelight.

  Tamsin says: ‘So that’s two good answers, Bella, and if you continue with your good answers, it could help you, who knows?’

  Peter knows - knows it won’t help her at all, but Tamsin likes the hunt and the tease, intimidation and friendship, offered and withdrawn, now you see it, now you don’t.

  ‘It was your intention to murder Barnabus - that was your plan.’ Bella stays silent.

  ‘So we won’t make a saint of you, Bella, just because you failed. If anything, your sentence should be increased for incompetence.’

  Bella looks like a told-off little girl as Tamsin continues:

  ‘Abbot Peter here, he makes saints out of failures, it’s a weakness he has - though perhaps he’ll make an exception in your case, given your last encounter.’

  She looks at them both, but neither looks at the other.

  ‘But for me, Bella, failures are just that - failures, and I’m sorry if you feel judged.’

  ‘I would never have done it.’

  ‘You would never have done what?’

  ‘I would never have killed him.’

  ‘Stay with the believable, Bella, always best.’

  ‘Can’t do right for doing wrong!’ she exclaims.

  ‘Still not taking responsibility?’

  Bella never looks at Peter, not once throughout the interview. But Peter does now look at her, and more as time goes by, he’s ready again, ready to look on her, safe from the cheese-wire noose and the flickering light of hell, seeing her afresh, beyond the fear, a tad overweight in her tragic clothes.

  ‘But as I say,’ says Tamsin, ‘we’ve established you didn’t kill Barnabus Hope, your former husband.’

  ‘He was still my husband, we never divorced. He was still under contract to me.’

  ‘How romantic.’

  ‘And the Pierrot girl was a whore.’ Tamsin pauses.

  ‘You mean Patience?’ Bella nods.

  ‘Rather harsh.’

  And as Professor of Harsh, Tamsin should know.

  ‘She’s in hospital, Bella, since you ask, condition stable, and should be all right, should be absolutely fine.’

  Bella gives a ‘why would I care?’ look.

  ‘Any ideas who might have killed Barnabus, by the way?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It wasn’t Kate, was it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Because Kate was your patsy for the evening, wasn’t she?’ Bella says nothing.

  ‘Ask her to jump and she merely asks ‘How high?’’ Again nothing.

  ‘It was a bit of a find, wasn’t it? Those paedophile charges against her husband Gerald in the West Country, dropped for some reason, after which they disappeared from view.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Bella, quietly. ‘I’m good at finding things out. It’s good to see everything.’

  ‘And that’s what we’re trying to do, Bella, trying to see everything, with your help obviously, so let’s reflect on the Feast of Fools for a moment-a remarkable event and from where I’m sitting, guided by a hand of some genius.’

  ‘Good move,’ thinks Peter. ‘People love explaining their genius.’

  ‘You weren’t there, of course.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or rather you weren’t supposed to be. Were you there?’

  A crossroads, a Rubicon, one of those moments: would she pull back in to silence? Or would she finish the story and explain how it was done?

  Eighty Eight

  ‘It was important I wasn’t there - or that people thought I wasn’t there, it made things easier.’

  She’s going to tell. Relief.

  ‘So you made it happen.’

  ‘I set up a row with Frances before the event.’ It was a boast.

  ‘It was that easy?’

  ‘Very easy, too easy.’

  Oh, wonderful, a bit of showboating as well.

  ‘You insisted on being the Lord of Misrule?’

  ‘I knew she wouldn’t give in on that, just knew it; she was all uptight, said it had to be that way, her way. Everything had to be her way.’

  ‘She could be like that?’ Fishing for dirt.

  ‘She didn’t appreciate other people’s views - and I knew she wouldn’t appreciate mine.’

  ‘Oh? I thought she was a fan of yours?’

  ‘I never felt I belonged there,’ she says, like a heartbroken diva. ‘It was always her show.’

  ‘I suppose you were just the administrator.’ Bella shrugs.

  ‘So you pulled out of the Feast in a tantrum - but still pulled every string.’

  Bella now looks coy. Like an April sky, instant and changeable, but she really does want to explain her genius, this is quite clear, so Tamsin lures her in with more flattery:

  ‘Remarkable work, Bella, I have to say that. Ever thought of a career in the police?’

  ‘It all hung on the disguise... which meant I could take Kate’s place when the lights went out.’

  ‘And so fresh from your public reading in the pub, you came up to Henry House, slipped into the Long Room when the lights went out, while Kate crept out and everyone changed into their clown costumes?’

  ‘That was the plan. It left Kate a free agent; free to guide Barnabus into the office when we played Sardines, and free to keep him there on some pretence until I arrived. And it left me the Lord of Misrule.’

  ‘You knew who everyone was?’

  ‘O
f course. Each costume had a small colour tag at the neck. Invisible unless you were looking for it.’

  ‘And the short straw that made you the Lord of Misrule?’

  ‘There was no short straw in the jar. The short straw was in my sleeve; no one could have been the Lord but me.’

  She’s as pleased as Punch, whom she resembles in a way. And now Tamsin turns cold:

  ‘No offence, Bella, but I’ve always found circuses rather dull and clowns the dullest act of all, so if we could move on, we’re in something of a hurry this morning.’

  Hurt flashes across the face of Bella. She feels the freeze.

  ‘Places to go, people to see,’ says Tamsin. ‘That’s us, Bella, not you. You’ve got nowhere to go now, and I have to say - and I speak as a fan, well, former fan - your previous brilliance rather deserted you when it came to the killing.’

  Bella is close to tears.

  ‘Kate’s told us what happened, but you might as well colour in the gaps. Under the cover of Sardines, you cornered Barnabus.

  ‘Columbina!’

  It’s said with passion.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘No matter.’

  Tamsin glances at Abbot Peter, who looks knowing.

  ‘So you cornered Barnabus in the study, but didn’t finish the job,’ she continues.

  ‘There were people banging on the door.’

  ‘The locked door.’

  ‘They thought that was suspicious, that someone might be hiding, might be in there. They kept banging.’

  ‘Yes, Kate pretended she was one of them.’

  ‘She wasn’t one of them.’

  ‘No, she was with you. But I think everyone else was rather excited. Or rather drunk.’

  ‘And Kate said he was dead anyway.’

  ‘And you believed her.’

  ‘No reason not to.’

  ‘No reason not to? Kate’s an actress not a doctor, Bella! How would an actress know? What do you need to know about anything to spout other people’s lines every night?’

  ‘I think they’re all called actors now, even the women,’ says Peter.

  He wants Bella to acknowledge him, but she doesn’t.

  ‘I think she just wanted to get away, don’t you, Bella? She was frightened by the banging and wanted to get away, so yes, he’s dead, Bella, I’m sure of it, job done and now can we get out of here please? They’re knocking on the door, for God’s sake!’

  ‘It was a concern.’

  The showboating is over.

  ‘A concern? A terror more like! The social disorder of the Feast of Fools was coming back to bite you. They were like animals out there!’ Bella sits quietly, reliving those moments in the office again, the struggle with Barnabus, the look in his eye, the knife and the blood, the hard bite of the blade, crunching, the body going down like a Caesar in March, those moments of panic, Kate’s stupid fear rubbing off on her, the terrible banging and the need to believe he was dead, such comfort in Kate’s words, it was over, finished.

  ‘We dragged him to the cupboard and put him inside. That was always the plan.’

  ‘Back on track, Bella, well done. Panic over.’

  ‘He could then be found on Monday morning and we needed to re-join the game or rather, Kate did. I was thinking clearly.’

  ‘Of course you were.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘So no self-recrimination then? A small if crucial breakdown mid-project, but it happens to the best of us.’

  ‘I climbed out of the window and made my way home. It should have been fine.’

  ‘While Barnabus got on with his poetry writing, there’s commitment for you, no paper to hand, so he used the cupboard wall to record the evening’s events.’

  ‘Your thousand limbs rend my body this is the way,’ says Peter.

  ‘And there, sadly, his bleeding body had to leave it,’ adds Tamsin, closing the folder in front of her.

  ‘He was full of nonsense,’ says Bella, ‘better off dead, better off out of the arms of the whore.’

  She looks for reassurance, that it was all right to speak as she did.

  ‘I think that’s all for now, Bella and you must be tired. I’m aware how exhausting it can be, cataloguing one’s own failures. Interview terminating at 7.37 a.m.’

  ‘She could never have made him happy.’

  ‘I’m sure the judge will bear that in mind.’

  And with Bella gone, back to the holding cells, Tamsin turns to Peter.

  ‘So what was she talking about?’

  Eighty Nine

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  Peter was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I really don’t.’

  ‘Who the hell is Columbina?’

  ‘Ah yes, Columbina.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I should have spotted that connection a little earlier.’

  ‘What connection?’

  ‘After all, Martin Channing gave us the clue when we first interviewed him. The fatal triangle.’

  ‘Are you going to explain? I’m being exposed to dangerously high levels of smug.’

  ‘I’m not smug, Tamsin - more ashamed.’

  ‘Tell your face.’

  ‘Remember Channing described the evening as something out of the Commedia dell’Arte?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘And one of the classic story lines in the Commedia is the love of the Harlequin for Columbina - a love thwarted by the clown, Pierrot, who’s sent by Columbina’s father to break them up.’

  ‘So Barnabus was the Harlequin and Bella his Columbina.’

  ‘With poor Patience cast as Pierrot. As I say, the fatal triangle. ’ There was a companionable silence.

  ‘You did very well,’ says the Abbot.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Very savage.’

  Tamsin liked to do well, but liked doing better than others even more.

  ‘And the other thing,’ says Peter, ‘I was enjoying looking at her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Looking at the one who wanted me dead, at the one who terrified me - but who terrifies me no more.’

  ‘Planning some discreet revenge?’

  ‘She danced in the firelight like a marionette, so happy at my approaching demise.’

  ‘You are allowed hateful thoughts.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  They got up from the table.

  ‘And my savagery was not just about my desire to win.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I was savage for you, Uncle, after what the bitch did.’

  ‘Vicarious aggression and I’m grateful. But today I could do nothing but look at her crumpled clothes, bereft of the back-lighting, and feel how good it is to be alive.’

  ‘Why can’t you just scream: “I hate you!” - I’d feel more comfortable with that.’

  ‘Hate has come and gone, I’m afraid.’

  ‘So tell me about an Abbot’s hate - before it goes.’

  ‘How about I tell you the name of the murderer instead?’

  Ninety

  They stand in wary silence in the hall of Henry House, gazing on the stricken policeman, PC Lister, sprawled on the cold marble floor.

  Tamsin confirms with a thumbs-up that he’s alive. He appears to have been crawling towards the entrance, when he finally collapsed.

  ‘There’s gas,’ mouths Peter.

  Tamsin looks quizzical. Peter holds his nose and mouths ‘gas’ again. Tamsin knows there’s gas, she doesn’t need telling and mouths ‘I know!’ pointing to the kitchen door, ajar. They walk slowly towards it, Tamsin stepping through first. The room is empty but t
he source of the smell soon clear, the oven door open with a quiet, insistent hiss. On closer inspection, Tamsin’s head down, there’s a budgerigar lying in the oven. She pulls back and Peter takes her place.

  ‘It’s Jung,’ he whispers.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Mind Gains budgie, he’s been gassed in the oven... Ah, and the gas controls removed. This looks like a plan.’

  Tamsin directs his attention to a canister at the other end of the room, releasing its own brand of poison into the stale air. As they both move towards it, the kitchen door closes behind them. They look round to see Frances Pole, seemingly unsteady on her feet. And at the same time, Peter notices tape around the windows.

  ‘Stay exactly where you are,’ he whispers to Tamsin.

  She senses him moving awkwardly and looking strained. What’s he doing? Is the gas getting to him?

  ‘I’m sorry about Jung,’ says Frances. ‘Very sorry. But he’d had a stroke, and it seemed the kindest thing. He wasn’t enjoying life.’

  ‘And have you been, Frances?’ asks Peter.

  ‘Have I been what?’

  ‘Enjoying life?’

  Their eyes move as one towards the gin bottle on the table, largely consumed.

  ‘I’ve had better days.’

  ‘And a little early to be drinking, perhaps?’

  ‘Is there a too early?’

  ‘Five o’clock has always been my rule.’

  ‘I used to have eleven in the morning as mine, but really, is nine so different? It’s still just a silly rule.’

  ‘And you’ve been under a lot of pressure, Frances.’

  ‘No more than usual.’

  Tamsin’s feet are growing cold. Is the gas now getting to her? Is this the first effect? They needed to do something... other than talk.

  ‘But pressure nonetheless,’ says Peter. ‘Trying to get a business going, trying to look after people - and who cares for the carer?’

  Carer? Frances?

  ‘Alcohol has always been about annihilation for me,’ she says.

  ‘Wonderful annihilation, everything blown away! Isn’t that why we drink?’

  ‘We all have our reasons,’ says Peter. ‘And yes, there are days when annihilation seems strangely attractive. As Van Gogh said, “When the storm gets too loud, I take a glass too much to stun myself”.’