Barnaby sat at a little round table with a stack of rough paper and some pencils, his plastic bags by his feet. Troy strolled about. A further patrol car had arrived, releasing the constable on the front door who was now seated with a Biro and notebook, his chair positioned so as to be invisible to the person being interviewed. As the gathering had remained schtum, the chief inspector was not able to follow his usual procedure of taking the most useful witness first so he had started with their spokesperson and was already ruing the day.
Barnaby had been of the belief that, after thirty years in the force, he had come across just about every type, colour, sexual proclivity and variety of political and religious zealot that his country had to offer. Within minutes he realised he was mistaken. The woman facing him gave her full name, her astral name (‘Pacifica’) and her opinion that Barnaby should be writing on yellow paper rather than white - to allay confusion and harmonise his spleen. Barnaby, who had been doodling, put down his pen.
Asked about the death in the Solar she explained that the term was inappropriate. The Master had been magnetically transmuted and was now an ariel tapping into the interplanetary pool; a lord of all the Elohim and a droplet in the great field of cosmic consciousness.
‘Be that as it may, Miss Cuttle ...’ (Oh, very witty thought Troy.) ‘What I’m trying to get at is who was responsible for sending him there.’
‘Oh no, no, no - it wasn’t like that at all.’ She bestowed on him a sweet but slightly patronising smile. Barnaby felt he might be advised any minute not to worry his pretty little head.
‘How was it then?’ asked Sergeant Troy.
‘Well ...’ May settled herself more comfortably, resting her bag like a kangaroo’s pouch in her lap. ‘It all started with my regression.’ She broke off noticing the increased strain on Barnaby’s rugged features. ‘Oh dear ... it’s so difficult explaining to outsiders. Suffice it to say that we have all been on this earth many times before and, under the guidance of the Masters, I relive incidents from one or the other of these lives the third Friday of every month except for Feb. when there was a Psychic Self Defence Workshop.
‘There is always a great deal of energy humming about at regression times but today was really outstanding. I had an accident, for instance, this afternoon which I see now was not an accident at all but a metaphor. A chunk of iron fell off the roof -’
‘Could we stick to this evening, Miss Cuttle?’
‘Oh. Very well. Continuation of same, really. A symbolisation of Astarte, goddess of the moon. Then later during the actual regression, nebulæ crashing about, stars colliding, darts of silver light showers and showers of golden rain, spinning moons ... The passing of an arahat is of gigantic astral significance and cannot be accomplished by mere common or garden dynamism. It is no casual or accidental matter.’
‘Certainly not accidental.’
‘I see you’re hankering after some sort of human intervention.’
‘That’s the line this investigation will be taking - yes.’
‘When you came out of this trance or whatever it was you were in,’ said Troy, ‘what exactly did you see?’
‘I’ve just explained all that. Moons whizzing -’
‘I mean in actual fact.’
‘Those are the facts.’
Barnaby continued, determined to tighten his questions in such a way as to leave no loophole for further astrological whimsy. ‘Now Miss Cuttle -’
‘Taster to the General.’
‘Pardon?’
‘That’s what I was tonight. In Roman Britain.’
‘Really?’ Never strong on ancestor-worship, Barnaby pressed on. ‘Could you tell me - or better still show me - where he and the others were sitting before you began.’ He pushed over a pencil and sheet of paper, adding hurriedly as she opened her mouth, ‘White is all there is.’
May said, ‘Music’s my forte you know. Not art.’
‘A rough sketch will do. Use crosses if you wish. But don’t guess. If you’re not sure leave a blank.’
She drew like a child, concentrating fiercely, her tongue peeping out. Barnaby looked at the results.
‘And had these positions changed when you ... um ... were yourself again?’
‘Oh yes. Everyone was crowding round me. Arno was crying - silly man.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d been poisoned. When I was tasting some mushrooms. They will worry so. He should have known I’d be all right. Once I was bound to a chariot wheel -’
‘You say everyone,’ said Troy. ‘Did that include Craigie?’
‘No. But I didn’t realise that till Christopher put the lights on.’
‘Where is he on this?’ Barnaby took the drawing.
‘Nowhere. He stayed with me.’
‘You mean it was dark?’ inquired Barnaby.
‘Duskish.’
‘That’s handy,’ said Troy.
May frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Who suggested putting them off?’
‘No one. It’s always done for meditative practices.’
‘So what did you see once they were on again?’
‘The Master was standing in front of his chair -’
‘Still on the dais?’ Barnaby glanced down at the sketch.
‘Yes. Then he just sort of toppled down the steps.’ The voice faltered and her lips trembled with remembrance. ‘His bosom had already received the celestial lance.’
The chief inspector’s patience was wearing thin. Brutally he picked up the first polythene bag and pushed it across the table. ‘Your lance, Miss Cuttle. Do you recognise it?’
‘My ...’ She picked up the bag. The stains had already oxidised to a rusty orange. ‘But that’s one of our knives from the kitchen.’ She put it down again. ‘How could ...?’ For a long moment she stared at him, her forehead tuckered deep with puzzlement, her eyes bewildered. Then they cleared.
‘Of course.’ The cast-iron confidence was back. ‘We are unawakened ones here, Inspector. We strive, we pray, we struggle for perfection, but it is a long and troubling discipleship. None of us, apparently, are ready for the revelation of divine wisdom. Knowing this, the Gods in their ineffable kindness have transmuted their sublimely mysterious weapon of dispatch into a humble household implement. Something all we acolytes can easily assimilate and comprehend. I’ve no doubt at all you’ll find a karmic fingerprint.’
Troy snorted. Barnaby, feeling perhaps that this analysis lacked a certain rigour, produced his second bag. ‘And is this from the kitchen too?’
‘Yes. Janet wears them. She has a mild skin disorder, gradually giving ground to my Mallow and Horehound salve. What are you doing with it?’
‘It was found behind one of the curtains in the Solar.’
‘How odd. You can’t wash up in there.’
Given her conviction of a mystical assassin, there seemed little sense in pointing out the evident connection. ‘Did you see anyone cross to the window at any time?’ May shook her head. ‘And these regressions - do they usually take such a dramatic form?’
‘Varies. I succumbed to the Black Death once and screamed the place down. Next week - a whizzo time with Henry the Eighth. You just can’t tell.’
Good question, thought Troy. Very shrewd. Because if people knew there might be a possible distraction on the way ... He put a question of his own. ‘Was anyone present who was unfamiliar with this routine?’
‘Yes indeed. Mr and Mrs Gamelin were strangers to us.’ (Gamelin, thought Barnaby. That’s who it was.) ‘They’d come down for their daughter’s birthday. Poor child.’
Her accent really stuck in Troy’s craw. Toney. British racing green. Born to order others to jump to it. Or thought they were which came down to the same thing. You could get away with being bonkers if you sounded right. But you couldn’t get away with murder. The chief was asking about the structure of the commune and who would take charge now.