‘Of course on the roof I was equally trapped. There’s no way down. I dodged about at first between the chimney stacks—he kept flailing away—great chunks of brick flying around when he hit something. And then I thought if only I could get rid of it, we’d at least be more equally matched. When the halogen lamp came on it distracted him and I had a try. Made a grab at the bar and hung on. He wouldn’t let go. Then he started kicking. He was quite a bit taller than me…long legs…it was very painful. So I went back to dodging about. I was crouching behind the chimney stack next to the lantern when he came by. He stood inches away, staring round, trying to suss me. I reached out and grabbed his ankles. I thought if I could bring him down… But he fell backwards away from me…and through the glass…’
The last words were barely audible. His narrow handsome face had become pale with remembered fear and clouded with misery. Andrew turned his back on them all as if the confession had marked and isolated him. There was a long heavy silence which even Ken and Heather seemed hesitant to rupture. Finally Barnaby spoke.
‘So you’re convinced that Riley was the person who found the photograph and attacked you on Thursday?’ Andrew lowered his head. ‘And was responsible for your uncle’s death?’
‘I believe he had something to do with it, yes. Although I’d have thought the whisky business a bit beyond him.’
‘I can’t believe any of this,’ said May. ‘It’s just too terrible.’
The Beavers nodded in agreement and their eyes shone.
Barnaby turned his attention to Arno who so far had not spoken. He sat by the empty range, his left foot, encased in a snowball of white bandage, resting on a metal bridge to raise it from the ground. His body, still awash with the residue of alcohol, was also shot full of pain-killers and anti-tetanus vaccine. His mind, tortured by a certain ambiguity in May’s receipt of his advances, felt full of cotton wool. He was almost sure he had not actually been repulsed or rejected, although in all the kerfuffle it was hard to be certain.
Now he became aware of a certain pressure on his bubble of drugs and dreams and struggled to pay attention. The chief inspector was staring at him in what struck Arno as a grave and accusatory manner. He felt suddenly sick. It had come, then, as he had always known it would.
‘I’m sorry…’ They were all looking at him like that now, even May. Oh God—even May. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t hear.’
Barnaby repeated himself. ‘Isn’t it time you told the truth, Mr Gibbs?’
‘Why do you say that to me?’ Arno’s face was the colour of his bandages.
‘I think you know the answer.’ Barnaby waited, then, when the other man still did not speak, continued, ‘I ask because of your obvious concern for the boy. Your attempts to stop me speaking to him and, when I did, your interruptions lest he give himself away.’ When the silence continued, he added, ‘Come along, Mr Gibbs. Nothing can hurt him now.’
‘No.’ Arno looked up sadly, ‘That’s true.’ He explained it all, then, addressing Andrew, as was only right.
‘Your uncle’s death I would have said was an accident, although I fear a court of law might disagree. On the day it happened the three of us were going into town, just as I described at the inquest. Tim and I were putting some fresh flowers in the Solar while we waited for the Master who had gone to collect Tim’s outdoor coat. Suddenly we heard loud voices. I ran out to see what the matter was. The Master was coming out of Tim’s room, followed by Jim. They were arguing. I was astonished. I’d never heard Jim even raise his voice before. At the head of the stairs they stopped—Jim blocking the Master’s way and shouting. “I shan’t let you do it. I’ll tell everyone what I know—everyone.”
‘Then he sort of grabbed at the Master’s shoulders as if he was going to shake him. Next—and it all happened so quickly there was nothing I could do—I heard a sort of… well…roar is the nearest I can get to it, and Tim raced along the gallery, seized Jim and pushed him away. He went hurtling backwards down the stairs and broke his neck.’ Gradually, during this speech, Arno’s gaze had dropped towards the floor. Now he forced himself to look once more at Andrew Carter. ‘He couldn’t have suffered. I know that’s small consolation.’
‘You’re right. It is.’
‘Once it was plain there was nothing we could do—and if there had been I swear it would have been done—both of us thought only of protecting Tim. We knew that the police would have to take some sort of action even though there had been no intention to cause serious harm. The Master thought Tim might be charged with manslaughter and found…“unfit to plead” is it? In any case he might have gone to prison—shut in a cell perhaps with dreadful people, like the ones who hurt him before. Or be put away in an institution. Drugged to keep him quiet…sitting around for months or years surrounded by mad people. He was only twenty-three!’ cried Arno passionately, ‘and he was so happy here. We thought if we were vigilant and watched him carefully, nothing like that would ever happen again. I realise now,’ he turned to Barnaby, ‘especially after tonight, that I did wrong.’
‘Very wrong, Mr Gibbs.’ Barnaby strove to keep his voice even. He was angry with Gibbs but even angrier with himself. Interviewing Tim, wishing to cause as little distress as possible, he had deliberately not introduced the Master’s name. Now, too late, it was plain that the accident the petrified boy had referred to was not Craigie’s murder but the earlier death. ‘You understand that perjury is a criminal offence.’
‘…Yes…’ whispered Arno. He seemed on the verge of tears. His trembling fingers searched for a handkerchief.
Barnaby eyed the wretched figure coldly. Knowing even then that he would not prosecute, he saw no harm in letting Gibbs sweat it out for a day or two. Or even a week or two.
‘Go on. What happened next?’
‘We took Tim into the garden—he was terrified, crying—and tried to work out what to do. We decided the least complicated plan, and the most sensible, would be to just carry on into Causton and do our shopping as we planned, then come home and pretend to discover the body. The fact that May—Miss Cuttle—returned first is a matter that caused us both great distress.
‘The Master took Tim to the van and I was about to follow when I started to get terribly cold feet. And an overwhelming conviction that we wouldn’t be believed. It just seemed so unlikely that anyone would fall down a flight of stairs they’d used hundreds of times, for no reason. So then I thought—what if he’d been drinking? There was a miniature of whisky in our medicine box. I got it out and tried to pour some into his mouth—I had to close his lips and massage his throat to try and get it down.’ Arno shuddered. ‘It was horrible. Then I rucked up the runner on the landing to make it look as if he’d caught his foot in it.’
‘I told the Master when we were driving back. He got terribly upset. Kept saying I shouldn’t have done that. Then a couple of days later, seeing how unhappy I was, he explained why. Told me that the stuff Jim was taking for his infection meant he couldn’t take even the smallest drop of alcohol. He said if they did a post mortem—’
Here May gave a little cry of recognition and looked affirmingly across at Barnaby, who signalled her to be quiet.
‘—and it was discovered, they’d know something was wrong. When they did, and it wasn’t, I was so relieved. I took it as a sort of sign that perhaps I hadn’t done anything so terrible after all.’
‘Surely, Inspector,’ said May, ‘you can see that Arno’s motives were quite selfless. He did the wrong thing, yes, but for the rightest and purest of reasons. For the love of a fellow human being.’
This unexpected generous and completely undeserved sponsorship affected Arno deeply. Such a tumultuous wave of gratitude broke about his heart that he felt almost unable to breathe.
Sensing a natural break, Heather made a move to refresh the giant pot whilst Ken readjusted his plaster cast on the wheelback chair to a more easeful and prominent position. He had come to regard Arno’s snowball as some sort of featherweight contender
in the wounded-hero stakes and had no intention of giving any ground.
May put the ointment away and wondered about going to check on Felicity. The sleeping draught had been a mild one and she might well have been awakened and alarmed by the disturbance. Suhami collected the cups of those who wanted seconds. She touched Andrew gently on the shoulder and smiled when she brought his, but could not be coaxed into remaining by his side. He had hoped his appearance might so distress her that affection would be rekindled. That terrible business on the roof, the whole bloody mess in fact would be worth it if that happened.
This time round Troy accepted a drink but Barnaby still refused.
‘Jim’s death may have been unintentional,’ said Heather when everyone had been served, ‘but the attack on Chris—sorry Andrew—certainly wasn’t. I suppose Tim got a sort of taste for it. People are supposed to, aren’t they?’
‘What a spiteful thing to say!’ retorted Suhami angrily. ‘He’s just died for heaven’s sake. The least we can do is speak kindly of him.’
Heather flushed at this slur on her reputation as a non-stop fountain of compassionate concern. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to attack me, Suhami. After all, if it weren’t for you the Master would be alive today.’
Suhami gasped and went pale. Andrew spoke up sharply. ‘She was against her father’s visit from the start. It was the Master who insisted.’
‘I think you know,’ said Barnaby, ‘that as far as the Craigie murder is concerned, Mr Gamelin’s visit was neither here nor there.’
Six faces stared at him, five with varying degrees of amazement. Only May, assuming the police had come round at last to her celestial way of thinking, nodded serenely. Suhami sat forward awkwardly, thin fingers locked together.
‘Do you mean…do you have some idea that he might not have been responsible?’
‘There’s no doubt about it, Miss Gamelin. He was definitely not responsible. Just unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Was that Tim as well, then?’ asked Heather. ‘In a sort of mad fit.’
‘Quite impossible,’ said Arno. ‘He was utterly devoted to the Master. You saw how he grieved.’
‘They can turn though, people like that,’ said Ken. ‘Even on those they love. Like dogs.’
‘He was not a dog!’ cried May.
‘Perhaps it was Trixie?’ said Andrew. ‘Perhaps that’s why she ran away?’
‘What on earth motive could Trixie have?’ said Ken. Then, to Barnaby, ‘You should have told me you weren’t satisfied Gamelin was guilty. I could have channelled Hilarion for you.’
‘Are you saying, Inspector, that my trust fund might not have been the motive?’
‘Or that the whole thing was an accident?’
‘Oh no, Mrs Beavers—the murder of Ian Craigie was quite deliberate, but it was also opportunistic. By that I mean prepared for up to a point and then, when things took a wrong turn, carried through in a most daring and impulsive manner.’
He got up, giving the impression without speaking that it was to stretch his legs, but really it was to pace up and down. Troy watched, not really lacking confidence but still extremely tense. It was thin ice the chief was striding out on. Suppositions, deductions, guesses, a certain amount of informational back-up, but no real proof. If the party in question brazened it out…
‘One of the most crucial components,’ began the chief inspector, ‘of any murder case—random killings apart—is the character of the victim. What sort of man or woman were they? What makes them tick? The answer can only be found by asking people who knew. In this case they were pretty unanimous. Only Guy Gamelin demurred in painting a picture of an almost saintly man full of concern for his fellow humans. And even he admitted to being genuinely impressed during the course of their single conversation. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, the Master was universally loved.
‘But what was really interesting about Mr Craigie is that when I tried to look further into his background to discover more about him, I was unable to do so. As far as I could see he had sprung into being as a fully fledged seer a couple of years ago. Now that’s very odd. It’s not easy to remain unrecorded in these computerised times. If you’ve ever paid insurance or tax, owned a car, house or bank account you’re down there somewhere. But not Ian Craigie.’
‘He had a bank account,’ said Ken defensively. ‘In Causton.’
‘The Windhorse had a bank account, Mr Beavers. Not quite the same thing. To cover your tracks so efficiently,’ continued Barnaby, ‘involves a lot of determination plus a fair amount of rather iffy know-how.’
‘I don’t like the turn this conversation’s taking, Chief Inspector.’
‘Blackening the name of a person who can’t defend himself is despicable,’ said Heather and looked round in surprise when Suhami laughed.
‘One of the reasons we found it so difficult to trace him was that Craigie was an alias. And the first of many, adopted when he came out of prison just over two years ago where he had served five years out of seven for fraud. In fact, Miss Gamelin, your father was not far out when he called Craigie a con man.’
‘That is utter hooey!’ May rose trembling, as near to rage as any there had ever seen her. Arno trembled, too, in sympathy and admiration. ‘His astral body was radiant. Suffused with blue. That’s something no one can fake.’
‘I’m sure that’s true, Inspector,’ said Suhami. She also seemed most moved and on the verge of tears. ‘You might have checked all sorts of things but there’s a mix-up somewhere. You’ve confused him with someone else.’
‘Mind you,’ said Ken, ‘I suppose anyone who’s going to be successful at a mucky business like fraud has to be totally convincing. The essence of the job.’
Heather nodded. Both of them seemed to have quite abandoned the ostentatious knowing of their place. Forgetting his alcohol/drug-infested bloodstream, Arno shook his head chidingly at this sign of breaking ranks then wished he hadn’t. The result was so sensational he thought for a moment it had rolled off entirely.
‘Do you mean that someone from his past broke in here,’ asked Heather, ‘and attacked him?’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Andrew. ‘The only people in the room when he died were us.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Barnaby. ‘Although I think Mrs Beavers is right in a way when she suggests someone from his past was there. And certainly the manner of that past contributed to his death. However, it’s my conviction that Craigie died not because he was a con man but because he was not.’
‘I knew it!’ May cried out in triumph. ‘The aura never lies.’
‘I don’t get that,’ said Andrew. ‘You just told us he was.’
‘Let me expand. When I discovered his background I naturally saw the acquisition of the Manor House—using I’m pretty sure money from a time share swindle—as a major ingredient in some grand scam. But, going into the affairs of the Windhorse, I found not only was everything in financially immaculate order but that quite an altruistic flavour hung over the place. Bursaries were given to the deserving and, occasionally perhaps, to the undeserving. People who came for healing or therapy were not charged a set fee but asked to pay what they felt they could afford. Every month a varying amount was sent to charity. And yet…something was going on. We have Jim Carter’s letter to prove this. And tonight, via the evidence of Mr Gibbs, his spoken words: “I shan’t let you do it. I’ll tell everyone what I know.”
‘The letter, written so soon before Mr Carter’s death, struck me as deeply worrying. Now that we’re aware of how he died I feel it appears less so. The spoken threat however—and I do see it as a threat—remains. What did Jim Carter know and, equally important, what was Craigie about to do, that instigated such a violent response?
‘My conclusion about the first half of that question is predictable enough. Jim Carter knew about the past. The second part isn’t so easy. I thought if I could find out more about Carter this would help. My sergeant and I
looked around his room and here, although his clothes and effects had been removed, I found two things that I thought were interesting.’
He paused and Troy, standing well back against the wall, barely nodded in an involuntary acknowledgement of the power of his chief’s personality and narrative skill. There wasn’t a movement anywhere. Not a blink. Nothing but total absorption.
‘One of them was an empty shoe box which had once contained some extremely expensive Italian loafers. An unexpected choice for a man who spends all day at his devotions. A tiny anomaly but, as I say, interesting.
‘And then there were the books. At first sight just the type that you’d expect. All second-hand—that’s fair enough, not everyone can afford new books. But all the prices were marked in decimal coinage. Now Jim’s nephew has told us that his uncle read devotional literature all his life, yet none of them could have been bought before 1971. In truth, as our department discovered, none of them was bought before 1990. They were part of a job lot from several second-hand bookshops in Slough and Uxbridge. Nearly six hundred altogether.’
‘My uncle’s collection was probably somewhere else,’ said Andrew. ‘Maybe downstairs in the library.’
‘But you told us you recognised the books in his room, Mr Carter. And how much seeing them distressed you.’
‘Do you mean they were bought just to create the right effect?’ asked Ken.
‘Precisely so,’ said Barnaby who had helped dress enough sets for his wife’s drama group to know whereof he spoke. ‘But what was so strange about these bulk buys is that they were collected, and in two cases paid for, not by Craigie but by Carter.’
‘Jim?’ May looked completely bewildered. ‘But why on earth would he do that?’
‘Perhaps his nephew can tell us?’
‘No idea.’ Andrew shrugged, opening his hands in helpless incomprehension. ‘Unless, completely taken in, he was persuaded to make a contribution.’
Death in Disguise Page 35
