‘Most of the time I was watching May. The last few minutes holding her hand. In any case we were a good ten feet from the others. And there wasn’t a lot of light.’ Asked to do a sketch he said, ‘It’ll be rather vague. I hardly remember where anyone was. A murder puts that sort of detail right out of your mind.’
‘Do you have any idea why Craigie was killed?’
‘Haven’t a clue. He was a most inoffensive man. Genuinely kind unlike one or two people here who talk about love a lot but fall down somewhat on the practice.’
‘Aren’t you in sympathy with the general attitudes of the commune?’
‘With some, not others. I suppose you’d call me an inquirer with an open mind. I was on holiday in Thailand last year and was tremendously impressed by the spirit of the people. By the temples and the monks. When I came back I started reading Buddhist literature then I found a three-day course here - a meditation on the Diamond Sutra - listed in the Vision. I signed up for it and six weeks later I’m still here.’
‘And why is that, Mr Wainwright?’
‘I ... met someone.’
Barnaby saw the shoulders loosen and the watchful tightness around the eyes smooth out and thought, so he’s not concerned on behalf of the girl. It was something else. He seemed to want to talk about her and the chief inspector let him.
‘I couldn’t credit it at first.’ He appeared rather shamefaced as if admitting to a hidden vice or weakness. ‘Falling in love.’ He attempted to sound ironical and failed. ‘One has had affairs of course ...’ he shrugged. ‘But the real thing ... never. To be honest my first inclination was to scarper. I liked my life the way it was. Nice little flat, no shortage of female company. But I hung on just a fraction of a second too long and there I was ... trapped.’ His pale skin flushed. He didn’t look trapped. He looked happy and hopeful. ‘I didn’t know who she was then.
‘I took a month’s leave - I’m a BBC cameraman - which was due. When that ran out, I asked for a three-month sabbatical which will also soon run out. By the time it does I hope I’ll have persuaded Suze to marry me. She’s frightened of the step, I think. The Gamelins have been at each other’s throats for years. Her childhood must have been diabolical.’
‘So, Craigie’s death,’ said Barnaby, ‘could be said to work to your advantage. Her environment being now far less secure.’
‘Yes. It’s sad and naturally I regret what’s happened but I do feel it might tip the scales in my direction.’
Jammy devil, thought Troy. Talk about falling on your feet. Didn’t know who she was. He must think they were born yesterday. Obvious to anyone with an ounce of brain what happened. He picks up on the telly grapevine where poor little rich girl’s hiding. Comes down, makes a play and pulls it off. Once they’re hitched with a joint bank account she won’t see his Ferrari for gold dust.
This imaginative projection, linked with Barnaby’s thoughts on the motive, gave Troy an idea. ‘Where actually is the light switch Mr Wainwright?’ he indicated the just-completed sketch and Christopher obligingly put a cross. Troy looked over his shoulder. ‘I see. So to reach it, you’d have to pass quite close to the platform.’
‘Not really. To get from here to here,’ he drew a diagonal line, ‘that’s the quickest way.’
‘And is that the way you went?’
‘Of course it is.’ Christopher stared at the sergeant. ‘What are you getting at?’ Then, realising, he laughed. ‘Oh come on ...’
The sergeant snatched up the sketch and studied it closely, eyes hooded to conceal his anger. Troy could stand anything he told himself, (untruthfully), except being laughed at.
‘I believe,’ said Barnaby, ‘that the dying man pointed at someone before he fell.’
‘He was standing with his arm stretched out, yes. Whether he meant to indicate anyone special, I don’t know.’
‘Doesn’t seem much sense in it otherwise.’
‘It’s been suggested,’ Troy replaced the paper, ‘that he was fingering Gamelin.’
‘Who by?’ Receiving no reply, Christopher continued, ‘Well you can understand that. He’s the outsider. No one can bear to think it’s one of us.’ He was shown the knife and glove and agreed that they both came from the kitchen, then said, ‘Suze has some ideas about what really happened. Quite honestly I think they’re a bit on the wild side. What I wanted to ask was, can I stay when you talk to her? She’s still pretty upset.’
‘Provided you don’t interrupt.’ Barnaby gestured towards the door.
‘Is that a good idea, Chief?’ said Troy, once Christopher had left.
‘I think so. The more relaxed and coherent she is, the sooner we’ll be through and on to the next one.’
‘Tell you something about that bloke - he dyes his hair.’ Troy presented this perception rather touchingly, as a dog might bring along an absurdly shaped bone. Barnaby, who had already noted the fact, said nothing. ‘Now he’s not the sort to try for street cred. He’s too young to be going grey. So why do it?’
The Gamelin girl must have been waiting outside for they were back already. Fresh tears lay on her cheeks and she was still in great distress. Barnaby never enjoyed questioning the grief-stricken but there was no doubt that it could be very fruitful, circumspection usually being the last thing on their minds. And so it proved now. No sooner had the girl sat down than she launched into a flood of anguished guilt-infested speech.
‘... it’s all my fault ... he was only here because of me ... and now he’s dead ... the most wonderful man. He was a saint ... he loved us all ... he had so much to offer the world ... so much to give ... you’ve no idea what has been destroyed here today ... wicked ... so wicked ... Ohhh I should never have come here ...’
She continued for a while longer. Wainwright held her hand and Barnaby tried to sort out the various ‘he’s’. Eventually she calmed down a little and wiped her eyes with her sari which already had many damp patches.
‘So you think this is all down to you, Miss Gamelin?’
‘My father would not have been here otherwise.’
‘You believe he was responsible for Mr Craigie’s death?’
‘I know he is ... I know he is ...’ She had leapt to her feet. ‘No one else would have done it. They had no reason. We all worshipped the Master. He was the centre of our world.’
‘So this “knowledge” is based on nothing more than emotional supposition?’
‘It’s based on proof. The Master when he was dying pointed directly at my father. It was unmistakeable.’
‘Were there not a whole group of people crowding round Miss Cuttle at the time? He might have been indicating any one of them.’
‘No.’
‘And the weapon?’ Barnaby pushed over the knife.
She looked at it and shuddered. ‘It was on a rack in the kitchen. He was in there this afternoon. That was my fault too. I actually left him alone while I carried some tea upstairs. He took it then. He must have been planning it all along.’
‘And the motive?’
‘Ha! The motive behind everything he does. Money. I came into a trust fund today ... my twenty-first. Half a million.’
Christopher gasped. ‘You didn’t tell -’
‘Mr Wainwright ...’ Barnaby held up his hand and nodded for her to continue.
‘I didn’t want it. It was just a burden.’
My God, the rich, Troy thought, the bloody rich. The idle fucking rich. A burden.
‘So I decided to give it away.’
Well look no further, lady. Here I am.
‘I wanted the commune to have it. The Master thought that was unwise. That I’d be sorry. He suggested I talk to my parents. Apart from the question of the money he thought we could heal our differences.’ She laughed again, another grating humourless syllable. ‘He was so naïve. He didn’t understand how terrible people can be.’