Death in Disguise Page 8

  So rapid had been the descent, so violent the connection that for a few seconds the two of them remained motionless with shock. Christopher gradually became aware that someone was standing behind him calling his name. It was Suhami.

  ‘Was that you shouting? What is it? What’s the—May…!’

  May, her scratched face further impressed by the woody stems of a lavender bush, was struggling to her feet. As Suhami hurried to help her, Christopher slipped back into the house. The stairs and gallery were still deserted. Everything was quiet.

  Swiftly he ran up to the gallery and around the three sides, knocking on doors, opening them and looking in when there was no response. All the rooms were empty.

  At the far end of the right-hand section, concealed behind a velvet curtain, was an archway, the stone soaring to an exaggerated point. Directly behind this arch were a dozen steps turning back on themselves in a savagely tight corkscrew and leading to the roof. There were signs of recent disturbance. The dust on the steps was scuffed and marked by flakes of old green paint from the skylight’s metal frame. Christopher remembered that Arno had been up there a couple of days before cleaning bird mess off the lantern. He crouched down on the top step which was very close to the glass, pushed the nearest half of the skylight open and fixed it into position with a rusting strut. Then he raised his head cautiously above the opening and looked around.

  The place appeared deserted. Climbing out, he at once felt disoriented—the twisty steps having left him unsure which way faced where. To get his bearings he turned a slow circle. There was the vegetable garden, so the section of the roof directly over the back door must be on the far side.

  As he hesitated, a cloud slid across the sun, leaching colour from the surrounding brick and slate. A breeze sprang up and Christopher shivered although he was not cold. Someone walking on my grave. He wondered how the phrase had first arisen, for the dead, snug in their wooden cocoons, were the last people to give a damn who walked, skipped or even danced a jig above their mouldering heads.

  The roof seemed crowded with chimneys though in fact there were only three sooty stacks holding four pots each. Christopher found himself disturbed by their proximity. Inanimate, they yet gave an impression of convergence. Some were cowled and, as the breeze intensified, several metal hoods swung creaking in his direction. His feelings of unease deepened and he was seized by the nonsensical conviction that the hoods concealed active organisms that were observing him.

  Telling himself not to be stupid, he started making his way towards the opposite edge. His passage was not quite straightforward. The roof was in three steeply sloping sections separated by narrow paths between two of which reared the great iron ribbed lantern.

  The only way to progress, so narrow were the walkways, was to place one foot directly before the other on the blue-black sheets of buckled lead in a heel-toe fashion, and this is what Christopher did. Once across, he peered over, aligning himself precisely with the smashed flagstone. He could see from the dent in the guttering where the metal object had gone over. And a lightish circular unstained patch to indicate where it had for so long been standing. This was about two feet from the edge on a completely flat surface. There seemed to him no way that anything of that size and weight could have rolled off of its own volition. Indeed it would have been far from easy for a single person to drag it to the appropriate point let alone heave it over. Yet that must have been what happened.

  But in that case—Christopher sprang up quickly and turned around—how had whoever it was vanished with such speed? Could anyone be so fleet of foot as to scramble across the roof, replace the skylight, negotiate the twisty steps, and run downstairs in the brief moments between the lump of iron falling and himself re-entering the hall? Frankly it seemed impossible.

  The cowls creaked again and Christopher recalled his previous sensation of being overlooked. Perhaps he had hit on the explanation. If the would-be murderer (for what else could you call someone who aims a great lump of iron ore at a human skull?) had not left the roof at all but had stayed concealed, hiding…was maybe still hiding.

  He became keenly aware of the yawning space behind his back. Nothing but air. Oxygen, nitrogen and carbonic acid gas, excessively unsupportive. Fit only, when you came to think of it, for falling through. Just when he needed them most, Christopher felt the bones in his legs leak into his bloodstream.

  He moved quickly from the edge to the nearest chimney stack. It concealed no one. Nor did the second. Silently, heart bumping, he approached the last. Four lemon barley-sugar twists thick with soot. Soft-footed he began to circle the base. Half way round he had a wild desire to laugh, recognising the action from a score of spooky movies where the comic lead tiptoes round a tree followed by a man in a gorilla suit. But there was no one there. They must have climbed through the skylight, thought Christopher, while I was checking the gutter.

  He was turning to go when he noticed something sticking out from the gap between the chimney pots. It looked like the end of a metal rod. He tugged at it, slowly pulling out the whole thing. It was a crowbar.

  By the time Christopher had descended from the roof and made his way to May’s room, it was crowded with people. Standing in the doorway he did a quick count. A full house.

  He faced a most dramatic scene. Quite painterly in a Victorian narrative soil of way. Like one of those allegorised intimations of mortality showing an aged patriarch breathing his last, surrounded by tearful family and retainers, plus a mopey-looking dog.

  May reclined on a chaise longue looking, for her, quite pale. Someone had placed a fringed shawl of peacock-blue silk across her knees. Behind her the Master, white hair fairly sparkling in the sunlight, rested his hand lightly on her forehead. Suhami knelt at her side. Tim squatted on a footstool. Arno hovered, wringing his hands (really wringing them, like pieces of washing). Janet and Trixie, looking with but not quite of the group, stood a little apart.

  The Beavers were at the foot of the couch. Heather had brought her guitar and was quietly activating a few rather lachrymose chords. Ken said: ‘We’ve got a lot of healing to do here,’ and touched first his magnetic crystal then the sole of May’s foot with great solemnity.

  ‘I’m all right,’ said May. ‘Accidents happen. Don’t fuss.’

  Heather started thrumming with a little more attack and now broke into a shrill quatrain, making them all jump.

  O! zenith ray of cosmic power

  Pour forth from thy celestial bower

  Bright radiance in a golden shower

  Sustaining here our star-born flower.

  Ken stroked his crystal again and looked sternly at everyone, then at the curtain pelmet as if accusing it of concealing vital information. At length he turned back to the recumbent figure and spoke. ‘You are now enfolded deep in Jupiter’s psi-probe and bathed in his miraculous healing influence.’

  ‘Well I know that.’ May twitched at the silk shawl. ‘We are enfolded in miraculous healing rays at all times whatever the source. Now—I need my rescue remedy and some arnica for bruising. They’re in the little shell box. Would someone please…?’

  Arno moved first, saying as he handed it over, ‘Perhaps you’d like some oxymel too, May?’

  ‘Why not? Honey never hurts. Thank you, Arno.’

  Delighted at being under instruction from the queen of his heart, Arno hurried off. He would use the most fragrant honey—wasn’t there some Mount Hymettus left?—and the freshest, lightest vinegar all in a beautiful cup. There must be a beautiful cup somewhere. Should he pick a few flowers? Surely under such circumstances the house rules could be relaxed.

  About to turn into the kitchen he halted. The back door was still ajar. Arno stepped over the threshold and stood by the shattered slab and great lump of iron. He looked at the lavender, flattened and snapped off where May had fallen. Seeing how close it must have been, he experienced a terrible quiet thrill of fear. He suddenly envisaged the world without her. Sans colour and warmth, without lig
ht, meaning, music… harmony…

  ‘But it didn’t happen,’ he said firmly. May would be extremely cross if she caught him thinking along such soggily pessimistic lines, for she always saw the best in everything. The silver lining, not the cloud. The rainbow, not the rain.

  When Arno returned, having found no more elegant container, he bore a hefty mug of oxymel. May was sitting up and looking once more serenely infallible. She had shaken her rescue remedy to indigo and rubbed some on her wrists—scenting the room with a woody fragrance. He stepped forward with his offering and, as the mug was transferred, May’s fingers touched his own. Arno’s freckled cheeks blushed and he hoped no one was looking.

  ‘I was never in any real danger,’ she was now assuring them all. ‘My guardian angel was present as he always is. Who d’you think placed Christopher so close behind?’

  Christopher received several grateful smiles in silence. He was still feeling uneasy about the decision he had taken when on the roof. Once the shock of finding the crowbar had receded he was left with the problem of what to do with the thing. Should he replace it? If he did this the attacker would remain unaware that he was rumbled and, confidence unimpaired, might well soon try again. On the other hand if Christopher removed the crowbar the man would be on his guard and perhaps doubly dangerous. On balance Christopher had decided on the latter course of action. The bar was now wrapped in a blanket and hidden beneath his bed. Later, he planned to remove it to Calypso’s byre.

  Conversation had moved from May’s wellbeing to the lump of iron itself and the curious fact of how it came to be up there in the first place. Heather, the only person to have familiarised herself with the chronicles of the Manor House via a booklet in the kitchen drawer, said that it was first mentioned at the time of the Civil War when it was believed to be a large fragment of a Roundhead cannon ball. Later, due no doubt to increased scientific and astronomical knowledge, a meteor fragment was diagnosed. But, whatever its origin, it had been up there withstanding all that nature could throw at it, plus man-made bombardment in World War Two, without shifting an inch. How strange then, concluded Heather, that it should fall today.

  A long silence followed this remark. May, angelically protected though she might be, still looked a bit perturbed. Trixie rolled her eyes behind everyone’s back. Ken seemed rather excited by the mystery and Heather guessed he was looking forward to channelling Hilarion’s views on the matter. Tim, sensing the inexplicable, curled up a little more tightly.

  The silence lengthened and then, one by one, people turned to the Master. The whole room seemed full of a grave and supplicatory expectancy. He would explain these discordant harmonics, their faces confidently declared. He would know. The Master smiled his oblique smile. He bent for a moment to stroke Tim’s golden head, for the boy had started to tremble, and then he spoke.

  ‘Many things agitate the vacuum energy-field. The nether stratum of dynamic force is far from stable. Subatomic particles are in constant motion. Never forget—there is no such thing as a still electron.’

  So that was it. The falling object was nothing more than an emblematisation of the general liveliness of matter. People started to nod and smile, or shake their heads in acknowledgement of their own slow-wittedness. Ken struck his forehead with the heel of his hand and said what an idiot he was. No one demurred.

  Shortly after this the Master said they should leave May to rest. ‘And to give thanks to her guardian angel in the proper manner.’ He moved away then and Tim followed, almost stepping on the blue robe in his anxiety not to be left behind. At the door the Master turned. ‘I’m rather concerned about your regression this evening May. These journeys can be quite demanding. Would you care to put it off till another time?’

  ‘Certainly not, Master,’ said May sturdily. ‘It is the time of the new moon and, we have heard from Hilarion, most propitious. How would I feel if a manifestation from Astarte arrived and I hadn’t taken advantage of all that extra-dynamic energy? And in any case,’ she sat up, drank a little oxymel and beamed at them all, ‘I am already quite myself again.’

  Chapter Four

  It was half past five. At dinner the Craigies would be present. Afterwards there might not be an opportunity to catch Sylvie on her own. So Guy had arrived early at Compton Dando. His slight anxiety that this might cause annoyance had been easily subsumed beneath a general surge of excited anticipation.

  In fact, being driven down, he had managed to convince himself that, reading between the lines, what Sylvie’s letter was really about was a decision to forgive him. She couldn’t write herself, Guy appreciated that. She had been badly hurt and would not for a moment assume a petitioner’s vulnerability. Neither would he wish her to do so. But that the invitation had been issued, not just with her permission but at her instigation, he now had no doubt. His years of lonely sorrow were nearly at an end. Standing by the main door of the Manor House, a bouquet of sweetly scented flowers with a card reading simply ‘With love’ in his hand, happiness broke over Guy. He was bathed in it, like perspiration.

  He looked around for signs of life. There was a big Gothic key in the lock and a vertical iron rod fixed to the wall, attached to a rusting bell. He put his finger through and tugged. The bell was quite loud but no one came. He waited a while, gripping the flowers awkwardly. There were two wooden seats in the porch flush to the wall, worn and smooth like those often found outside old country churches. Guy put his bouquet down on one of them and stepped back for a better view of the beautiful and imposing house.

  It hadn’t occurred to Guy that she might simply not be there. Should he check into his hotel and come back? Gina had booked a room at Chartwell Grange, the only halfway decent place within miles. Guy had decided that, whatever direction the evening took, he did not wish to return home afterwards. He wanted to be by himself to absorb, digest, relive and, surely, to celebrate. And although Felicity knew nothing of the invitation, and in any case would be zonked out of what was left of her mind by the time he got back, Guy still felt a trace of disquiet at the idea of being in her presence so soon after parting from their daughter.

  Reluctant to give up, he strolled down the side of the house. What a mess the border was. Flowers that should have been upright trailing in the dust. One immensely tall many-spired blue thing had collapsed entirely and was spread all over the gravel. He came to a shaggy yew hedge running parallel to the right-angle wall. At one point the branches had been chopped away to make an opening. Guy stepped through.

  He was standing on a lawn, very large and multi-starred with daisies and white clover—some of which were being eaten by a stoutish goat. In the centre was a vast cedar of Lebanon which looked as old as the house itself. At his feet was a rectangular pond full of lively darting fish. Some striped like tigers, others smaller with spiny backs and transparent snail-like horns. At the far end of the lawn were a lot of bamboo wigwams and a general air of leafiness indicating some sort of vegetable garden. And at last, a sign of human life. Someone raking or hoeing. Perhaps Ian Craigie?

  Guy started off again but had not gone far when the man stopped work, threw back his head and started to declaim. It sounded like blank verse and it was very loud. He gestured, too, throwing his arms about and gazing at the sun. Guy retreated, much perturbed.

  Back at the porch he decided to give the bell a final try but then, reaching upwards, changed his mind and on impulse turned the iron ring handle. The door opened and he stepped inside.

  He was in a huge hall with an arched soaring roof punctuated by brilliantly painted bosses. A grand staircase with elaborately carved newel posts and banisters led to a three-sided minstrel’s gallery. The place was sparsely decorated with very plain bits of furniture. Two large wooden chests, one of which had a splintered lid, some rush-bottomed chairs, a round nondescript table which could have been from any period and a tall, free-standing cupboard. The only attractive item visible was a large stone Buddha, about five feet tall, on a plinth. Its head was covered with
curls so tight and small they looked like pimples. There was a glass jar of lupins on the plinth and a little pile of fruit.

  The air smelt disagreeable. Floor polish, unsavoury cooking and dampish clothes. An institution smell. He should know. He’d been in enough. All overlain by a pungent rather sickly odour which Guy feared might be incense.

  The table held two wooden bowls, each supporting an exquisitely written card. These read ‘Feeling Guilty?’ and ‘Love Offering’. Inside the guilty bowl was five pence. There were also lots of pamphlets which proved to be hand-cranked, hugely exclamatory, full of unnecessary italics and oddly situated quotation marks. Guy picked up The Romance of the Enema by Kenneth Beavers: Clairaudient: Intuitive Diagnostician FORW. Behind the door through which he had just entered was a green baize notice-board. Guy walked over to have a look, making his footsteps louder than was strictly necessary.

  The material displayed was uninspiring. Rotas mainly. Cooking. Cleaning. Feeding and milking Calypso. He read quickly through the list but Sylvie’s name was not there. He didn’t know whether to feel encouraged or frustrated. There was also a large poster: ‘Mars & Venus: Longing To Help But Are We Ready? Talk: 27th Aug Causton Library. Book early and avd. disappointment.’

  Was it some daft quasi-religious set-up then? The rota listed both males and females so that ruled out a nunnery. Or a monastery either, come to that. Perhaps it was some sort of retreat. The thought of Sylvie in such a place was frankly risible. And where did Craigie come into it? ‘Have dinner with us.’ Was all this lot ‘us’? Guy didn’t like that idea at all. He had no intention of sharing his reconciliation with a load of freaks. He looked around for further clues.

  There were two corridors leading off the hall and a door marked ‘Office’. Guy opened it and peered inside. The room was windowless, full of stationery and files, some stacked on the floor, some on shelves. A Gestetner stood on a card table and, in a tall-backed leather chair, a further sign of life.