Death in Disguise Page 17

  ‘Wasn’t that a bit risky?’

  ‘Not at all. You don’t understand how these fakers work. That’s the final move. Like the end of a haggle in the market place. The customer walks away knowing he’ll be called back because he’s got the whip hand. All this pretence made Craigie look good, y’see. Reinforced the saintly image.’

  There was something in the voice and in the bloodshot piggy eyes that did not quite ring true. Or marry with the words. What was it? Envy? Disappointment? A failure of belief? It could even have been, thought Barnaby, desolation. Gamelin was speaking again, vindictively shoring up the character assassination.

  ‘What Craigie was into, was what all these guru types are into—money and power. That’s how they get their spiritual rocks off.’ Black misery coloured every word.

  ‘You’ve not seen the light then, Mr Gamelin?’ asked Troy.

  ‘I’ve seen the dark,’ replied Guy. ‘It’s preferable believe me. You know where you are in the dark.’

  ‘That why you killed him, Mr Gamelin? Because of the money?’

  ‘You what…’ So quiet. Words with no sibilants yet making a sort of hiss. Gamelin leaned forward, clenching the table’s edge. He pushed his face—a meatball of congested flesh—to within an inch of the chief inspector’s. ‘Listen to me. You watch your fucking step. I’ve eaten people twice your size. I sharpen my teeth on men like you.’

  Spittle coated his bristling chin as his expression of frustrated rage intensified. Fury flowed untrammelled across the narrow space between the two men. Barnaby sat quite still, a clot of saliva on his tie, unimpressed by the third-rate dialogue but very impressed indeed by the measure and quality of Gamelin’s ferocity. He had never had a boiler explode in his face but felt the time might well be nigh. Beneath his hand the table shivered.

  Troy, who had been on the point of moving forward, stayed where he was and watched. They could have been a pair of great bull moose at the start of the season. Shoulders solid, foreheads low. Troy observed his chief’s impassive unflinching profile with a stirring of collaborative pride. He thought as he turned his attention to Gamelin, you’ve picked the wrong one there boyo.

  Barnaby produced the glove. ‘We believe whoever used the knife wore this. You were seen hiding it.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Do you deny it, Mr Gamelin?’

  ‘No.’ He was drawing his rage back. Hoarding it now. Barnaby noticed a blue rim on the inside of the slack lower lip. Gamelin sat down breathing carefully, evenly. His hand rested briefly on his breast pocket. Came away.

  ‘Do you want something to drink, Mr Gamelin? A glass of water?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’ He sat quietly for a while then said, ‘The glove. After the bearded dwarf with the stupid name had gone to the phone for an ambulance and the others were staring at each other not knowing what to do, I reached for a handkerchief and the glove came out with it.’

  ‘Someone must have noticed that surely, sir?’ asked Troy.

  ‘I didn’t think so at the time. I was on my own you see—at the far end of the room. Persona non grata. Been like that all night. They wouldn’t even let me sit by her at dinner. Said they always kept to the same seat.’ He made to touch his cheek. ‘I put it straight back. It was plain what had happened. Whoever killed the man was planning to incriminate me. I went over to the window, waited until I thought I was unobserved, then stuck the glove behind the curtain.’

  ‘Are you left-handed?’

  ‘As it happens.’

  ‘I can see that may well have been as you describe, Mr Gamelin. But there’s also the matter of the dying man pointing you out…’

  To Barnaby’s surprise Gamelin made no attempt to deny or explain the fact. Nor did he attempt to bluster it away.

  ‘Yes. I can’t understand that. Plays perfectly into the murderer’s hands of course. Backs up the glove to perfection.’

  ‘Perhaps…’ Barnaby tested the water, offered a way out. ‘If you were part of the group…’

  ‘No. It was me all right. I was standing a little away from the others. It’s funny but I thought at the time he was trying to tell me something.’ He shrugged, appearing slightly confused. ‘A bit thin but that’s it.’

  Bloody thin, thought the chief inspector. Trouble was, Gamelin didn’t seem like a man to dissimulate. He just didn’t give a cuss what anyone thought or felt or said about him. A position of extreme strength or extreme arrogance according to your point of view. The chief inspector, a modest way along that path himself, naturally favoured the former. He asked if Guy had any ideas of his own on who might be guilty.

  ‘None at all. I don’t know enough about the set-up here. Quite honestly I wouldn’t have thought any of them had the guts to swat a fly.’ He was silent for a moment then said, ‘I’m ideal, aren’t I? The outsider bringing in all the nasty ways of the wicked world. All the hands here, whiter than white. Mine, redder than red. You’ve got to hand it to the cunning buggers.’ His throat released a short explosive clatter. ‘Praahh.’ Belatedly Barnaby recognised a laugh.

  ‘Do you believe then that you were invited specifically for that purpose?’

  ‘Of course not. I was asked down by Craigie himself. He’s hardly likely to collude in his own death. Unless…’ he looked across at Barnaby, alert and interested, the boiling fury of a minute ago apparently quite forgotten, ‘unless my visit was suggested to him by someone else, which means this was all planned some time ago. Perhaps…at the last minute…he understood. That could be why he was pointing me out…as a warning…’

  Troy had come across some smart examples of thinking on your feet but for sheer nattiness that took some beating. Guilty as hell and giving them a twinkle-toes runaround. He couldn’t understand why the chief was even pretending to go along with it. Both men were getting up.

  Barnaby said, ‘I shall want to talk to you again, Mr Gamelin. Tomorrow.’

  Gamelin did not reply. He walked to the door, his exit vastly more restrained than his arrival. His massive shoulders slumped and there was tiredness in his step. When the door had closed, Troy said, ‘Why didn’t you arrest him?’

  Barnaby waited for the tag line. Open-and-shut case. Handed on a plate. Bang to rights. Short and curlies. In the matter of the well-worn apothegm, Troy stood alone.

  ‘We can pick him up in the morning. We’ll know more clearly where we are when we’ve finished the interviews. So far it’s pretty circumstantial.’

  Behind the Boss’s back, Troy shook his head in disbelief. How much plainer could anything be? Obviously Gamelin was going to say the glove was planted. Who wouldn’t? Talk about snoringly obvious! But he’d got the motive, opportunity, both to take the knife and use it and, most damning of all, the murder victim had fingered him. The man was over a barrel. For a traitorous moment Troy wondered if he had been wrong about his chief’s imperviousness to the seductive power of wealth.

  Barnaby was muttering now, apparently to himself. Troy listened, thinking he might not have heard aright. Something about always being sorry for Caliban. He remembered the earlier request for water and moved off.

  By the time the sergeant returned, Arno was being questioned. He was sitting nervously hunched up, looking intently at the chief inspector. Encouraged to do a sketch, he had produced a host of stick figures—one flat on its back, toes turned up, hands crossed on breast and a ‘Smiley’ face. Barnaby having ascertained Arno’s position in the commune and noticed his extreme agitation, left the dark heart of the matter temporarily aside.

  ‘Tell me Mr Gibbs. What do you think will happen here now? To the Manor House for instance.’

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’ Arno sounded deeply melancholic. He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that once having absorbed the distressing fact that the Master was no more he had thought of little else but his own possible future. How would things fall out if the commune broke up? Who would look after Tim? And, most important of all, how on earth could he survive wi
thout the robust and serene presence of his dear love? Denied that radiant gaze that lit and sustained each awakening, and benevolently solaced the going down of the sun, his own life would hardly be worth the living.

  ‘You have no idea how the property is entailed?’

  ‘No. Actually I don’t think anyone has. Somehow it was never discussed.’

  ‘Did members have to buy into the organisation? Shares—that sort of thing?’

  ‘Not at all. We just pay our way. The Lodge made money from courses and workshops. We were planning to apply for charitable status actually. Become a trust but…’ He gave a defeated shrug.

  ‘Did you know about Miss Gamelin’s bequest to the commune?’

  ‘No. I do now—they were just talking about it.’

  ‘And this evening…’ Arno braced himself. ‘What do you think actually happened?’

  ‘God—I don’t know. It was so terrible…so confusing… One minute he—the Master—was guiding May through her regression—’

  ‘You mean verbally?’ Barnaby interrupted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘First we’ve heard about that,’ said Troy severely and Arno looked abashed as if he were personally at fault. ‘How does it work?’

  ‘He asks questions—what do you see now? Where are you? That sort of thing. And May replies. This time she touched down in Roman Britain. He asked if she could describe anything and she began to tell us about the tent. I think that was the last time he spoke. Shortly after that she began to make the most dreadful noises. Of course we all ran to see if she was all right.’

  ‘Why “of course”, Mr Gibbs?’ said Troy. ‘We’ve been led to understand such reactions were not uncommon.’

  ‘Oh, it’s never been as bad as that before. But she will persist. She has the bravest heart and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge.’

  Troy noted a tremolo in the vocals and the sudden emotional ducking of the little red beard, and thought, hullo—we’ve got a gruesome twosome in the making here or I’m a monkey’s uncle. If middle-aged people in love knew how grotesque they looked they might take up something more seemly. Like exposing themselves in the park.

  ‘We were warned that today would be special. Ken—speaking as Zadkiel that is—said the cosmic energy released was tremendous. And of course there was the omen. They have to send one you know—the Karmic Board—if a grand master is to be withdrawn from the physical octave. Unfortunately we didn’t see the link until it was too late. The others thought they’d sent Astarte, goddess of the moon, in the shape of Mrs Gamelin. My own feeling is that the omen was May’s accident—’

  ‘Yes, Mr Gibbs. She told us about the accident,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘Oh. I beg your pardon.’ Arno looked at them both then added: ‘I must say you seem to be taking it very lightly.’

  ‘We’ve got a murder to concentrate on,’ said Troy. ‘Now, are you of the opinion that Craigie pointed out Guy Gamelin before he died?’

  Arno was gravely hesitant. ‘Well…you know…one is reluctant to say anything that might…but yes. That was my impression. But that’s not to say the gesture was an accusation.’

  ‘What else do you think a murdered man is going to use the last seconds of his life for?’ asked Troy.

  Arno looked deeply upset at this and became even more so when Barnaby said, ‘We shall have to talk to this retarded boy I’m afraid. I understand you know something of his background.’

  ‘Oh you can’t do that! He’s withdrawn, hardly coherent. It’d just be a waste of time.’

  ‘He’s a witness, Mr Gibbs.’ Barnaby glanced down at his sketches. ‘Actually sitting at Craigie’s feet. Closer to him than anyone. He may have seen something.’

  ‘He’s asleep. Please let him rest.’ Arno’s freckled skin was beaded with luminous sweat. ‘His world has come to an end.’

  ‘In the morning, then.’ Arno’s alarm was palpable. Barnaby added gently, ‘We’re not monsters you know.’

  ‘Of course not. I wasn’t meaning to imply…oh dear. Could I be present?’

  ‘In the case of the mentally ill someone has to be, Mr Gibbs. And if you think you’re the best person—by all means.’

  They talked to Mrs Gamelin next and the conversation, though not short on entertainment value, was in all other respects an absolute frost. May, leading the police towards the communal sitting-room, described Felicity as ‘rather poorly and resting’.

  Troy had already volunteered the information that the lady was a smackhead. As they walked along he added, ‘Crashed the car. They found some stuff. Lost her licence. It was in the Sun.’

  ‘Surely not,’ replied Barnaby.

  ‘Bet she’s tranqued out of her skull.’

  Face to face with Felicity, Barnaby felt his sergeant might well be right. Her huge eyes beneath smudged purple lids swivelled and slipped all ways. The hands made delicate broken movements. Up as if to touch her face, changing direction, plucking at her dress, scrabbling in her tangled hair. Her face was shrunken and seemed to fold in on itself, pinched and tiny, like a worried marmoset’s.

  Felicity became aware that people were present. One was talking rather persistently and his voice rattled inside her head, making no recognisable sounds. He pushed a piece of paper of a pleasant pale shade her way. Felicity admired it politely and handed it back. He offered it again with a pencil and seemed to be urging her to try it out. She smiled, quite agreeable to this suggestion for she had loved drawing as a child. She spent a long time bending over the paper and the result, Barnaby had to admit, was not unattractive. Several quite charming horses, one with only three legs and a garland of flowers big as cabbages round its neck.

  Felicity then asked for a drink and Troy got her some water. She hadn’t meant water and poured it over his trousers. Shortly afterwards the interview came to an end.

  While it was going on, and directly overhead, Trixie was walking up and down. She had been chain-smoking and the air was acrid and stale. ‘Why are they taking so long?’

  ‘I expect they want to talk with everyone. It’s only been…’ Janet turned the Snoopy alarm round, ‘an hour and a half since they first arrived. That’s not bad.’

  ‘You’re not waiting are you?’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re getting into such a state. You didn’t have anything to do with it.’ She crossed to the window and pulled aside a curtain to reveal a low hanging sliver of moon. Cold and sharp, like a scythe.

  ‘Don’t do that. You know I hate the night.’ Janet let the curtain fall. ‘What are they like?’

  Janet recalled narrow lips, a fiery brush cut. ‘All right.’

  ‘Are you sure you told them about the glove?’

  ‘I’ve already said a dozen—’

  ‘And that you were the one who saw him hide it?’

  ‘Yes. How many more times?’

  ‘Then they should have arrested him, shouldn’t they? I don’t understand it.’

  You and me both, thought Janet sadly. But I know it all goes back to this afternoon. After the first fierce rebuff she hadn’t questioned Trixie again, but it had not been difficult to guess at the reasons for the girl’s smeared make-up, milk-white face and held-together clothes. So Janet, guessing at revenge, understood when Trixie had explained what she wanted her to do.

  ‘The thing is Jan—I saw him hide the thing. I really did. I wouldn’t ask you to tell otherwise. The trouble is, once Gamelin knew who shopped him he’d tell them I was making it up out of spite and they’d believe him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s rich and powerful, stupid.’

  ‘Then why can’t we both say we saw it? I’d back you up.’

  ‘I don’t want to be in it at all.’

  So Janet had told her lie, still not sure if Trixie spoke the truth but sympathising with, indeed almost sharing, her friend’s need to exchange a hurt for a hurt.

  There was a knock at the door and a policewoman asked if Miss Channing could spare a few moments.


  ‘They’re very civil, aren’t they?’ said Trixie. ‘I wonder what they’d be like if I told them to take a running jump.’

  ‘Don’t antagonise people unnecessarily. And don’t take those cigarettes. You’ve already had—’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, stop clucking. You’re like a bloody old hen.’

  Troy had no complaints about the cigarettes. As wreaths of smoke surrounded Trixie’s blonde curls, his nostrils flared—sucking in such wisps as came his way. It helped to take his mind off his soggy trousers. She sat, knees very close together, gripping a golden box of Benson’s and a lighter.

  Barnaby could see she was frightened. Smell it too. A scent both sour and intemperate. He’d met it before, had attempted to describe it once and the nearest comparison he could find was to the smell released when digging out old nettles. He asked if she’d been at the Manor House long.

  ‘A few weeks. Why? What’s that got to do with all this?’

  ‘Could you be more precise?’

  ‘No. I’ve forgotten the exact date.’

  ‘Do you like it here?’ His tone was courteous yet she took immediate offence.

  ‘I suppose you think I don’t belong. Just because I’m not wearing a wafty frock and chanting hallelujah.’

  Troy chuckled. Trixie looked at him in surprise, then mistakenly believing his response to be sympathetic, with sly interest. She then assured Barnaby that she could not help at all regarding the death of ‘our poor Master’, though her sketch showed her to be sitting very close.

  ‘But it was kind of dark, you see. We rushed to help May then the light came on and it was all over. He pointed Guy Gamelin out. But I expect everyone has told you that.’ She looked at him expectantly.

  ‘There seems to be some difference of opinion there,’ lied Barnaby.

  ‘Oh no—it was absolutely clear. Directly at him.’ She flushed, recognising her insistence on the matter. ‘Also I heard upstairs he was seen hiding a glove. It must have been the one he wore to hold the knife.’