‘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 Zadekiel 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 They have to send one you know - the Karmic Board - if a grand master is to be withdrawn from the physical octave.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.