After refreshments had been dispensed—Lapsang Souchong and Lincoln biscuits—Mr Clinch commiserated with his visitors on the unfortunate occasion of their friend’s demise. This brief legal obsequy accomplished, he drew towards him a grey metal box with ‘Craigie’ stencilled in white letters on the side and smiled. All the teeth sprang to their stations. Arno marvelled at the pushy thrust of sparkling white enamel and wondered how on earth he ever managed to close his lips.
The Will was brief and simple. It concisely described the property known as the Manor House, Compton Dando, Buckinghamshire, then stated that this property was left jointly to Miss May Lavinia Cuttle and Mr Arno Roderick Gibbs. The solicitor waited a discreet moment, eyes tactfully on his green tooled blotter, then looked up expecting to see joyful rapacity wrestling with a more seemly expression of respectable mourning as was usual under such circumstances.
He saw Mr Gibbs pale as death, gripping the wooden arms of his chair obviously within the grip of some devastating emotion. In sharp contrast, Miss Cuttle’s countenance, already vivaciously embellished, blushed deeper by the minute. She cried out, and began to weep copiously.
Mr Clinch, momentarily shocked into a natural human response, fumbled in his desk cupboard and brought out a box of tissues. Eventually, when his wastebasket was half full of brilliantly coloured wet paper and a rose or two had returned to Arno’s cheeks, the solicitor offered some more tea. When this was refused, he passed an envelope over to Arno whom he regarded as being slightly less distraught than his companion. It was inscribed to them both in the Master’s writing. Arno rose saying, ‘Do we have to read it now?’
‘Of course not. Although there may be matters arising you might wish to discuss. It would possibly save making another appointment.’
‘Even so, I think we need time to absorb all this. Certainly Miss Cuttle…’ He looked anxiously across at May who still appeared rather swimmy. Even the green cockade on her little red tricorne hat looked limp.
‘No Arno,’ she said. ‘Mr Clinch is right. More sensible to read it now.’
‘Then perhaps—if you wouldn’t mind?’ Arno passed the letter back, not trusting his voice to repeat the dead man’s words. The solicitor drew out a single sheet of paper and began.
‘My dear May and Arno, You will know by now the contents of my Will and the burden I have placed upon you. My greatest wish is that the work of the community, the healing, the offering of refuge and the sending out of the light continues and I believe that I can safely leave this matter in your hands. I regret I am unable to bequeath any monies to assist you in this enterprise. Should the difficulties of running and maintaining such a large and elderly property become insurmountable, then I would suggest that it is sold and a smaller one purchased. You might then consider investing the difference, thus assuring some sort of future income. I commend to you, also with feelings of complete confidence, the safety and welfare of Tim Riley. My love to you both. God bless you. We shall meet again. And it is signed,’ concluded Mr Clinch, ‘Ian Craigie.’
There was a long silence. Both legatees knew the absolute impossibility of finding an adequate response. Mr Clinch, forewarned, whipped out a fresh box of Kleenex. He then stared tactfully out of the window as the silence continued and was miles away when Miss Cuttle sprang to her feet. A dramatic gesture of affirmation brought her cape into vigorous play. Blinded by whirling arcs of pleated amber silk, Mr Clinch grabbed at his inkstand and the framed picture of himself en garde.
‘We will keep the truth alight. Won’t we, Arno?’ she demanded, turning damp and shining eyes on her companion.
‘…oh…’ Arno could hardly speak. At this linking…this official linking from beyond of his name with May’s, he felt quite incoherent. Then, in case she doubted even for a moment his full and loving support, he managed to choke out, ‘Yes, yes.’
Mr Clinch promised the deeds of the house in due course, saw them through the outer office where the lady in the mushroom hat was feeding some goldfish and, with a final dazzling smile, waved goodbye.
Driving down Causton High Street, May said, ‘Do you think we should drop into the police station?’
‘Hum?’ Arno was still not really back to earth.
‘They said to let them know if there were any developments. I suppose finding the Will could be said to come under that heading.’
‘Well…’ The truth was Arno wished to keep May to himself for as long as possible. Just the two of them snugly enclosed in her noisy little Beetle. May, declaiming behind the wheel, himself absorbing all like a happy sponge.
‘Next on the left, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
It was. May parked neatly in a place marked ‘visitors only’ and climbed out. Arno said, ‘Will you leave your bag?’
‘Good heavens, no. We’re always being warned about that.’ May removed her embroidered hold-all and locked the door. ‘Some policeman is bound to see it and then I’d get ticked off.’
‘Perhaps he won’t be here—Barnaby,’ said Arno as they pushed the big glass door marked ‘reception’. ‘He might be out on a case.’
‘Then we’ll leave a message,’ said May. There was a white button next to a card saying Please Buzz for Attention. May buzzed loudly and at length. ‘One thing I’m not up to is talking to that youth with the frazzled aura. One gets pulled down by people like that for days.’
A constable strode up, glaring crossly at May’s gloved digit. She released the button, stated their errand and they were taken over to the CID block and shown into Barnaby’s office. Troy, Arno was pleased to note, was absent. Declining any sort of refreshment, May told him their news. The chief inspector, once he had recovered from the shock of being faced with a walking traffic light, asked if either of them had anticipated such a bequest.
‘Indeed not.’ May appeared shocked, almost offended.
Arno said. ‘Such a thought never crossed our minds.’
Barnaby thought that was probably true. They really seemed the most artless pair. Quite without the usual insincere smiles and false declarations of concern wherewith the human race is wont to oil the wheels of daily commerce. May produced the letter and sat watching as he read it. When he had finished, Barnaby thanked her, noted the telephone number and handed it back. They waited on his comments. May, ingenuous and calm, her face momentarily smoothed of emotion. Arno, proud but slightly awkward beneath his unsought mantle of authority.
‘Do you think anyone else knew of Mr Craigie’s plans?’
‘I’m sure not,’ said May. ‘If he didn’t tell us and, after all, we are the recipients—who would he tell?’
‘A splendid windfall, then,’ Barnaby smiled.
‘It is,’ said May sternly, ‘a great responsibility.’
‘We do not see it as a personal gift,’ added Arno. ‘But more as something left in trust.’
Barnaby frowned. The sentence struck a chord of memory. Reverberated. What was it? He fretted for a moment then let it go. He got the impression that Arno wished to say something else and gave him an encouraging raise of the eyebrows.
Arno correctly interpreted the signal but remained silent. The fact was he would have liked to ask about progress in the case. If the police were any nearer to finding the murderer. But, remembering May’s conviction that their dear Master had been removed by supernatural means, he kept silent.
Barnaby cleared his throat and they looked at him expectantly. ‘I have some news for you. Something that showed up on the PM report.’ He explained the nature and advanced condition of the dead man’s terminal illness, feeling the news should be of comfort. If anything could blunt the dreadful savage edge of murder it must be the discovery that one short, brutal act had saved the victim from a much more painful fate.
Eventually May, her hand to her forehead, said, ‘How typical of him not to have told us. How very brave.’
‘Yes.’ Arno nodded. He then made the same connection Barnaby had. ‘That must be why he visited t
he hospital so often. And why he was tired when he came home.’
‘You do understand now, Inspector,’ said May, ‘how right I was. This explains it all.’
‘Right in what respect, Miss Cuttle?’
‘Why that he was magnetically transported. Divine intervention, you see. His reward for a just and loving life. The shining ones wished to protect him from further suffering.’
There seemed little more to be said. Barnaby thanked them for coming and came round from behind his desk to show them out. Miss Cuttle bent and picked up her bag. Barnaby, holding the door handle, stared. May faltered, then stopped.
‘What on earth is it, Inspector?’
Barnaby said, ‘Could I have a look at that, please?’ and held out his hand. He felt instinctively, even before she passed the bag across, that this was it. Returning to his desk, he laid it down, aware as he did so that his fingers trembled slightly. The bag was thickly embroidered: roses, lilies, smaller blue flowers all entwined with looping stems of emerald green. The background was filled in by ferns. It was gathered loosely into long handles of light polished wood. Barnaby was familiar with the shape. Joyce had a similar one in which she kept her knitting. ‘Would you mind if…?’
He parted the handles and May, looking rather bewildered, said, ‘By all means.’
Outside, every square inch of the bag was covered. It was the interior he needed to see. It was beautifully neat, all ends of the vividly coloured wools darned in and clipped off. The seam had been trimmed quite close but enough fabric was left for him to be sure he recognised the thread. Receiving May’s even more bewildered permission, he snipped a bit off and returned the bag. By this time she and Arno were reseated.
‘On the evening of Mr Craigie’s death,’ asked the chief inspector, ‘do you remember the whereabouts of this bag?’
‘I had it with me.’
Barnaby’s stomach went down with a disbelieving thud. ‘All the while?’
‘Certainly from the time I began my regression. Let me explain—when I entered the Solar after having done my preliminary cleansing I placed my bag by the door then took my usual position. I’d just settled when I became aware of a slight shiver. Now, during regression one sinks very quickly to what we call alpha level. The temperature drops, the skin cools so if you’re cold to start with it can become quite uncomfortable. So I asked for my cape and Christopher went and got my bag.’
‘And brought it straight to you?’
‘Yes. He pulled the cape out and handed me the bag. I put it down on the floor, sort of by my side, tied on the cape and we were “in business” as they say.’
‘Didn’t anyone else handle the bag?’
‘No.’
‘They must have.’ Barnaby spoke half to himself.
‘I can assure you they did not.’
‘What about when you left it by the door?’
‘I was the last person to enter the room. No one went near it.’
‘Did you have it with you all day?’
‘Well…on and off you know. As one does. Part of the morning it was in my room.’
In any case that was not the problem. The knife could have been put in at any time, although common sense surely dictated that such a move be made as near to the last minute as possible to avoid discovery. Anyone could have opened May’s bag. In fact someone did. Andrew Carter. Could it really be the case that in the dim light he had not sussed the contents?
‘Do you remember what else was in your bag, Miss Cuttle? Apart from the cape?’
‘My rescue remedy of course. One never travels without that. Crystals—some green aventurine, a little pyrite and snowflake obsidian. Zodiac calendar, ash twig for divining, pendulum—the usual stuff. All jumbled up a bit at the moment I’m afraid. I had to hit a reporter with it to get out of the gates.’
Barnaby’s elation was fading fast. He would send the snipping to the lab, and he was still sure that it would match the thread caught up on the knife hilt, but the discovery now seemed to obfuscate rather than clarify. He pictured the concerted rush down to the figure apparently in extremis on the quilt. The murderer seizing the bag, scrabbling round for the knife, running back to the dais, stabbing Craigie, rejoining the throng. The whole process could hardly be more ludicrous. He became aware that Arno was speaking.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Gibbs?’
‘I said, there was another bag.’
‘Another bag?’
‘Of course,’ exclaimed May. ‘I’d quite forgotten. I made one for Suhami’s birthday. She so liked mine.’
‘Using the same sort of canvas?’
‘Not just the same sort. From the same piece. I had some left over you see.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ Barnaby paced his voice with some effort, ‘either of you noticed whether she brought it into the Solar with her?’
‘Indeed she did,’ said Arno. ‘Put it down by her feet.’
‘On the dais?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aaahhh.’
‘She wouldn’t be parted from it,’ said May. ‘Liked it so much. Is all this of any help, Inspector?’ Barnaby said he certainly thought it was.
‘You’ve got a frog in your throat,’ May observed kindly. The polished handles of the bag yawned. ‘May I suggest a piece of alehoof cough candy?’
It was four P.M. and Barnaby was waiting for Troy to return from the Manor House where he was interviewing Sylvia Gamelin. The inspector lingered in front of his blow-up, picturing her standing on the right of Craigie’s chair, bag by her feet, knife in her bag.
Did she know it was there or didn’t she? May had said Suhami wouldn’t be parted from her present but that sort of sweeping exaggerated speech was common enough. Phrases like ‘If I eat another mouthful I’ll explode’ or ‘We think the world of you’ were not meant to be taken literally. Suhami certainly had put her bag down or at least taken her eyes off it at one point during the day, if not several.
On the other hand if she did know it was there… The girl was perfectly placed to deal the blow. A single step forward, turn and she’d be face to face with the victim. And if everyone else had fled leaving a single frail old man and a strong young woman? But what earthly motive would she have?
Barnaby wandered back to his desk, riffled through the papers and photographs and picked up her statement. He knew it almost by heart as he did most of the others. He remembered her anguished crying and her enraged accusations against her father. Barnaby was not a man to be easily taken in, and certainly not by tears, but he had believed the emotion to be genuine.
He read on. Like everyone else she had been quick to mention that Gamelin had been indicated by the dying man. She had also been quick to describe that her father had the perfect opportunity to take the knife and glove. But who had left him alone in the kitchen? And if he had taken the knife then and concealed it successfully about his person, why risk transferring it to her bag at a later time? He could not even have been sure that she would take it into the regression.
And if they were running two murders here—which he thought more than likely—what was the connection between the death of Craigie and that of Jim Carter? Suhami had certainly been there long enough to be involved in the earlier death and was physically quite capable of pushing someone downstairs but, even if she hadn’t got a cast-iron alibi, there was again no apparent motive.
Troy entered, full of conversation. ‘Got the clippings from her bag, Chief. Dropped them off at the lab. I said dead urgent. They said tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ve heard that before.’
Troy unbuttoned his jacket, put it carefully on a hanger and produced his notebook and a copy of Suhami’s earlier statement. Then he sat down, hitching up his immaculately creased trousers.
‘Confirms everything the other two said. Got the bag for her birthday. Certainly kept it with her to the extent that she didn’t take it upstairs to her room but it was in the kitchen for some of the day, in the dining room and one time she left i
t on the hall table.’
‘Did you ask if she put anything in it?’
‘Yes. She did. Wanted to feel…’ Troy checked his notes, ‘she was using it straight away. Some make-up, a brush, packet of tissues, some combs for her hair. Thus helping out the murderer, because he’d hardly put the knife into an empty bag. Next time she picked it up she’d just open it to see what was inside.’
‘Unless they were in cahoots.’
‘Yeh. There’s that.’
‘Does she remember when she last checked it?’
Troy looked down again at his tightly written pages. ‘Didn’t open it after she put the stuff in at all. In the Solar, put it down at her feet. Didn’t see anyone touch it. The rest is a mystery. Would you think that narrows it down, Chief? I mean to the four who were closest to her?’
‘Tempting to think so. But the rest are no more than a sneeze away. I don’t think we can count any of them out at this stage.’
‘Not even poor old Felicity Smackhead?’
‘Not even her. Did you tell the Gamelin girl why you were asking about the bag?’
‘Didn’t have to. She’s sharp even if she is all tricked out like a Tandoori chicken.’
‘How did she take the idea?’
‘Dead upset. “That I should unwittingly supply the means…” blah blah blah…’ Troy raised his hands into the air, squawking in a shrill falsetto.
It was so bad Barnaby laughed. Troy, who thought his chief had laughed because it was so good, tugged at his shirt cuffs. Then Policewoman Brierley appeared holding some gritty-looking black and white prints.
‘Your shots, sir.’
‘What shots?’
‘You put a request in.’
Barnaby stared at his sergeant.
‘Sorry, Chief.’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘They’re the last ones.’ Troy took the photographs and asked what the chances were of rustling up some coffee.
‘I’m busy.’
‘Make that two would you, Audrey?’
‘Right away, sir.’
Right away, sir, muttered Troy inside his head. You wait till I’m a DCI. I’ll make you jump! I’ll make you all bloody jump. He glanced down at the pictures. Glanced down and was held.
Death in Disguise Page 29
