Death in Disguise

by Caroline Graham

  A chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ wafted through the half-open door and he could see his sergeant perched on Audrey’s desk. Troy was holding some computer sheets and singing away, his eyes on her black-stockinged knees.

  She’d come on a lot in the last three years had little Audrey, thought Barnaby. Earlier on she’d been really shy, not knowing how to handle flirtatious come-ons or chauvinistic put-downs, which in any case often came joined at the hip, like unkind Siamese twins. The girls that stuck it toughened up.

  As Barnaby watched, catching scarlet confectioner’s jelly just in time, Troy leaned forward with a predatory leer, murmuring something, winking. Audrey winked and murmured back. There was an explosion of laughter and the sergeant walked away.

  ‘She used to be really sweet, that girl,’ he said angrily, flourishing the print-out. ‘Dead feminine—know what I mean?’

  ‘I think she’s quite sweet now, actually.’

  ‘Pay them a compliment—jump down your throat.’

  The compliment had gone as follows. Troy: ‘I’ll take you for a drink to celebrate. Somewhere really smart. How about that snug little place on the river? You’ll have a good time. They don’t call me up-and-coming for nothing.’ Audrey: ‘Use it to stir your tea, Gavin.’

  ‘Women who are coarse just show themselves up—don’t you think, Chief?’

  Barnaby, reading, said: ‘No Craigie on these.’

  Troy made an effort to become unchagrined. ‘I checked on similar names as well. There’s a Brian Craig in there. Insurance fraud. Died in Broadmoor.’

  ‘Must have been some territory.’ Barnaby rarely made a joke. This one died on its feet.

  ‘There’s more to come. I’m waiting on a Cranleigh and Crawshaw.’ He sounded very bright and positive. ‘I’m convinced Gamelin was right. Feel it in my bones.’

  Troy was always feeling things in his bones. They were about as reliable as a Saint Bernard that had been at the brandy.

  ‘Anything in scene-of-crime, sir?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  Troy read the two closely typed sheets. Nothing on the glove—which was to be expected. And nothing on anything else much either. A magnified picture of the fibrous thread which had been caught up on the knife.

  ‘Bit of a pisser, that,’ he said when he’d finished. ‘Doesn’t look as if it came off anyone’s gear. Mind you—not everyone was wearing the sort of clothes that could conceal it. May Cuttle’s dress had long floaty sleeves but she’s out. Could have passed it to somebody though. Hey—maybe she slipped it to Wainwright. Because there’s no way he could have brought it in himself. Tight jeans, sneakers, short-sleeved shirt.’

  ‘He didn’t go near the dais either.’

  ‘So who’s left? The dykey woman wore trousers—she could’ve brought it in. The blonde might have found it difficult. Gibbs could have had it up his jumper. Gamelin and the Beavers could have hidden it and that lad with one oar out of the water. He wore a baggy sweater. Or Gamelin’s wife—she could have had a whole canteen of cutlery in that dress. Same goes for her daughter in the sari.’

  Troy’s mouth pursed with a moue of distaste. If there was one thing that turned him up, it was white women dressing like blacks. ‘If that girl was mine,’ he muttered, ‘I’d drag her home, wash that red muck off under the tap and give her a good clout.’

  ‘But people are not “ours”, Sergeant. They’re not cars or washing machines. You’ve forgotten someone.’

  ‘No I haven’t.’

  Barnaby pointed to the wall sketch. ‘Craigie?’ Troy laughed in disbelief. ‘Well, he’s not going to give the murderer a hand by smuggling a knife in, is he?’

  ‘He was there. We shouldn’t exclude him. What do we keep, Troy?’

  ‘An open mind, sir,’ sighed Troy, thinking some people’s minds had been kept so open their brains had fallen out.

  ‘Have a look and see if there’s any more of those doughnuts.’

  Janet was searching Trixie’s room. She knew there was no point. She had searched it twice already, first in a whirling hawk-eyed frenzy of disbelief then more slowly, systematically turning out every drawer. She looked beneath the mattress and rugs and through pages of books and, once, in a moment of barmy desperation, pulled out the basket in the fire grate. But she found no clue as to where Trixie might have fled.

  What Janet was really looking for, of course, was a letter. But there was no trace of any such thing. Not even thrown-way scraps from which an address might be pieced together. And there was nothing on file in the office either. Trixie’s first inquiry was by telephone, and this had been followed by a weekend visit which had extended itself indefinitely once bursary help was found to be available.

  Janet was almost as distressed by the intensity of her misery as by the misery itself. How had she let herself get into such a state? The progress had been so insidious. At first she hadn’t even liked Trixie. The girl had struck her as shallow and silly, and they’d had nothing whatsoever in common. Then, gradually, she had started to admire and eventually envy the younger girl’s soubrettish character. Her assurance and smart backchat. Born into a tradition of polite reticence, Janet frequently found herself either tongue-tied or constrained by good manners from speaking her mind.

  She had realised quite early on that Trixie was not a true seeker. Was not in fact very interested at all in the higher realm. She had attended meditation, had interviews with the Master and slipped a few genuflective remarks into various semi-religious discussions but Janet knew her heart wasn’t in it. It struck her once that Trixie only went this far to be sure of keeping her foot in the door. Janet had often longed to ask why she was at the Windhorse in the first place but had never dared. Trixie always said that if there was one thing she could not stand it was nosiness.

  Now, sitting at the dressing table, the roses still blushing in their bowl and feeling quite ill with loss and longing, Janet opened the top drawer for the umpteenth time and regarded all that was left of Trixie. A half-full packet of Tampax, a pink lacy angora jumper smelling under the arms and some ‘airport’ novels, ill-written and virtually (Janet had dipped into a couple) pornographic, although any virtue seemed to have been vanquished by page seven.

  Janet was sure that Trixie had disappeared because she was afraid. And that it was something to do with Guy Gamelin. Even in death that monstrous man exuded the power to harm. Janet pictured Trixie alone and frightened, running, running. Had she any money? Surely she wouldn’t try to hitch a lift. Not after all the terrible stories one heard. She must have left sometime between half eleven and twelve. Perhaps creeping through the hall with her blue-wheeled suitcase while Janet was just a few feet away in the kitchen. Oh God!

  She sprang up, her arms wrapped straight-jacket-tight across her chest. Now more than any other was the time when Trixie would need her friendship. And Janet had so much to give. She could feel it lying, a great heavy lump, where her heart should be. She seemed to have been carrying it all her life and it grew heavier every day.

  She caught sight of herself in the glass. Her hair was wild, skin stretched tight over beaky nose. She faced the thought that Trixie might never return and a terrible sensation of time passing snatched at her throat. A concentrated sense of loss. The bleakness of it almost brought her to her knees. She felt she was facing a long, unendurable twilight without ever having known the glory of the day.

  She’d read once that the intensity of a really powerful emotion could kill recollection. Janet felt she could handle such oblivion. Loving Trixie in a poignant cauterised way, like a misplaced memory. There was something clean and austere about this conclusion. The absolute certainty of naught for your comfort was almost a comfort in itself. She would walk alone bearing in mind the harsh and deeply unsatisfactory epigram that the only sure way to get what you want in life is to want what you get.

  ‘Settle’ was the term her mother would have used. ‘I’ll settle for that’ Janet remembered her saying about a length of fabric or a p
iece of meat or a knitting pattern. Janet had always understood the phrase to mean ‘It’s not what I want but it’s better than nothing.’

  But no sooner had Janet decided to settle for nothing than an agonised longing for human contact, for a flicker of warmth to light the way, devoured her, and she buried her face in the scented roses and wept.

  Christopher and Suhami were in the study. She gazing out of the window, he sitting at the barley-twist one-legged table at which Barnaby had conducted the interviews. There was a small pigskin case by Christopher’s feet and on the table a large unsealed brown envelope. Three days’ neglect of the room had occasioned a layer of dust over everything.

  The couple were talking about death. Suhami in the driven, irritable manner of one who is drawn to reinvestigate an unhealed wound. Christopher, who was also getting irritable, with great reluctance.

  ‘It’s impossible, isn’t it?’ she was saying. ‘to imagine what it’s like to be dead. You picture yourself looking down at your funeral. People weeping, all the flowers. But you have to be alive to do the imagining.’

  ‘I suppose. Can’t we talk about something else?’ When she did not reply he hefted the case on to a hard-backed chair. ‘We could get your father’s things sorted.’

  ‘What is there to sort? It’s only clothes. Next time someone goes into Causton they can take them to a charity shop.’

  ‘There’s this envelope as well.’

  ‘I know, I know. I signed for them didn’t I?’

  ‘Calm down.’ He shook out the contents. Guy’s wallet, his keys, handkerchief, cigar-cutter and lighter. An empty brown glass bottle. A small card, crumpled as if someone had clutched it tight, holding an engraved message from Ian and Fiona (Props). Christopher turned the card over. An elf in curly toed shoes pointed a little wand at a line of italicised prose: Our true intent is all for your delight. Wm Shakespeare. There was something else in the envelope. Right at the bottom.

  Christopher slid in his hand and removed the watch. It lay on his palm, dazzlingly splendid; nothing but jewels and facets of light. He gasped (he couldn’t help it) and knew she had turned round. When he looked up, Suhami was watching him, the expression on her face unreadable. He lay the watch down and it blazed like a star against the dusty rose-brown wood. When he felt that he could speak without avarice shining through he said, ‘What do you think? Should we give these things to your mother?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Suhami came over. ‘The last thing she needs is that sort of reminder. It’s because of him she’s in the state she is.’

  ‘This bottle’s empty.’

  ‘Heart pills.’

  ‘He had time to take them, then.’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘There’s something stuffed in this wallet.’ Silvery cream and fawn alligator scales, it bulged slightly on one side. Christopher placed his finger into the aperture and a cloud of confetti-like stuff flittered out. He caught some pieces in his hand. ‘It’s money.’

  ‘How grotesque.’ Suhami stared down at the scattered fragments. She felt irrationally frightened. ‘He would never do that. Unless…’ Briefly she entertained a vision of Guy in extremis finally apprehending the useless futility of his massive wealth and symbolically ripping apart a high-denomination bank note. Almost immediately she rejected this sentimental indulgence for the nonsense that it was.

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was very…strung out. Emotional. When we talked in the afternoon, I felt quite sorry for him. Not that I let him see.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘He despised any show of kindness. He just thought it meant you were weak.’

  ‘He sounds a bit sad.’

  ‘Don’t waste your finer feelings,’ said Suhami. ‘That’s when he took the knife don’t forget. Oh—put the bloody things back. No—wait…’ She picked up the watch and with one quick movement thrust it towards him. ‘Here—have it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take it.’ He stared, incredulous. ‘Go on.’

  Christopher swallowed. His eyes turned slowly to the watch as if pulled by a silken thread. ‘You can’t mean it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s so incredibly…so…’ He knew the longing was vivid on his face but couldn’t help himself. ‘Who does it belong to?’

  ‘Me. He always said he’d leave me everything.’

  ‘But you can’t just…’ The same thread now lifted his arm, uncurled his fingers, stretched out his hand.

  ‘Of course I can.’ She made a sort of dart towards him, dropped the watch in his palm and withdrew.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ She had already moved quite away. ‘Sell it if you like. Buy yourself what the agents call a nice des res. But please don’t wear it if you’re anywhere near me.’

  Christopher slipped the watch into his pocket. It weighed nothing. He was excited by the magnitude of the gift but also faintly aggravated by the casual manner in which it had been offered. Almost dangled under his nose. He then got the notion that the whole business was some sort of test which, by accepting the watch, he had failed. He was certainly aware of a tension emanating from her that he didn’t understand. Then it struck him that it might be some sort of consolation prize and that she had already decided to go her own way without him. This perception made him angry and not only because of the humiliating ‘pay off’ connotations. He would rather have Suhami than any timepiece, no matter how magnificent.

  It was gone three by the time Barnaby and Troy drove up to the Manor House and May greeted them. She was looking wondrously flamboyant in a multicoloured striped djellaba with a beaten copper belt.

  ‘Ah—there you are.’ As if they had been personally summoned. ‘I’m so glad. I’ve something to tell you.’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Cuttle?’ Barnaby followed her into the hall. The house seemed still and quiet but for the faint clatter of crockery. He noted and commented on the marvellous spillage of painterly light from the lantern.

  ‘We bathe in it, Chief Inspector. We saturate our psyches. At least once a day. Never underestimate the healing power of colour. Perhaps you would care…?’

  ‘Another time, perhaps. What did you wish—?’

  ‘Not here.’ She walked speedily off, beckoning as she went. This was accomplished by holding her arm straight up above her head and swivelling her hand back and forth. Barnaby was reminded of a submarine’s conning tower.

  Her hair was piled on top of her head today. A shapely coronet of loops, waves, sausage-like curls and a frilly fringe which, on a women less formidably Rubenesque, might have been described as saucy. They followed her without difficulty. Indeed such was the magnetic pull of her flowing draperies that it seemed impossible to do otherwise. She ushered them into a room, glanced intently up and down the corridor, then closed the door.

  After these urgent preliminaries, Barnaby expected an immediate flood of informative speech, but she waited—wrinkling her splendid Romanish nose and delicate nostrils. Eventually she said, ‘There are some extremely negative, not to say thorny vibrations here.’ Her gaze swivelled sternly between the two men. ‘I rather think it’s you.’ Troy raised his eyebrows, Joe Cool. ‘I must ask for a few moments’ grace to re-establish positive ions and restore my vitality index.’

  She sat down at a small round table covered by an orange bobble-fringed chenille cloth, rested her elbows against the edge and closed her eyes. A minute ambled slowly by, followed, as is the way of things, by several more.

  Is there anybody there? wondered Troy. He hoped it wasn’t his Aunty Doris. He’d owed her fifty quid when she’d got knocked down by a Ford Sierra and she’d an edge to her tongue like a buzz saw.

  Oh! Buoyant rays!

  Float in me restoring quantum peace

  Effloresce and harmonise in Vesta’s all-seeing eye

  Ida and Pingala—cross my nodes.

  At the first declarative boom, Troy nearly jumped from his
skin. Barnaby studied his shoes, refusing to catch his sergeant’s eye. He noticed another larger table in the far corner holding many bottles of bright liquid. Nostra for the credulous no doubt. May inhaled and exhaled deeply a few more times, looked around and gave a calm and welcoming smile.

  ‘There. Isn’t that better? Are you quite comfortable?’ Barnaby nodded. Troy continued to stare thornily out of the window.

  ‘I did not sleep last night as I’m sure you can appreciate but, resting briefly before luncheon, I fell into a slight doze during which I was visited by the green Master Rakowkzy. He gives advice on legal matters, as I expect you know, and he said I ought to talk to you.’

  ‘I see,’ lied the chief inspector, rather stymied by this ‘hey presto!’ introduction.

  ‘It isn’t anything to do with the Master’s elevation but another matter entirely. I’d been worried for some time and had just decided to talk to Christopher about it when the meteor fell and that put it right out of my head. We didn’t realise at the time it was a portent.’ Mistaking the controlled blankness of Barnaby’s expression for incomprehension, she added kindly, ‘That means omen, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the chief inspector.

  May glanced over to the window where Troy was pressing his head hard against the pane. ‘I say—is your sergeant all right?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ said May, ‘I can no longer play the dromedary with my head in the sand. There is definitely something going on.’

  Dear God, thought Barnaby, up to our oxters in murder and there’s something going on.

  ‘It all started after Jim Carter left us.’

  ‘I don’t recall the name, Miss Cuttle.’