Sir Willoughby heard out the man lately described to him as ‘a truculent bugger with a face like a side of beef’. Then he rested long, surprisingly slender fingers on the elegant camouflage of his trousers; winced and returned his nearly full cup to the chief inspector’s desk. Turning to Troy, Sir Willoughby said, ‘Do you think I might have a glass of water?’
Perversely the man’s courtesy irritated the sergeant far more than haughty condescension would have done. Even so there was no way the words ‘Sir Willoughby’ were going to cross his lips. Even a simple ‘sir’ used without a second thought to any half-way adult and reasonably sober male member of the public remained unuttered. Muttering, ‘... Right ...’ he left the office.
‘I understood,’ said Sir Willoughby, ‘when discussing this matter late last night that Mr Gamelin had been formally charged.’ (‘The fuckers have stitched me up, Will.’)
‘That is not the case although we will be questioning him again this morning. As Mr Gamelin’s solicitor -’
‘Please.’ Sir Willoughby’s hand made a weary gesture of disassociation. ‘I am the McFaddens’ solicitor and am here primarily to support and protect Mrs Gamelin.’
Barnaby felt a fleeting sympathy for Guy. The poor sod must have worn his trotters down to the ankles scrambling for a foothold in that tight little clan. The water arrived. Troy put it on the far corner of the desk and removed himself to the window.
Barnaby continued, ‘- You’re welcome to be present.’
The offer was not entirely disinterested. An attendant solicitor helped keep the story straight. Saved trip-ups if things got as far as court. Sir Willoughby smiled, stretched way out for his water, drank a little and gestured again, this time with such stylish ambiguity that it could have meant anything, everything, nothing or all three simultaneously.
They’re going to throw him to the wolves, Barnaby thought, and decided to question Sir Willoughby about the previous evening’s phone call. Normally asking a suspect’s solicitor if he could help the police with their inquiries would be about as daft as trying to milk a mouse and with much the same results. But Sir Willoughby considered the request seriously.
‘Well, it was fairly rambling. There was something about a glove and colourful descriptions of the food and company. The murder of course. And a long lament about his daughter.’
‘What did he say about the murder?’
‘Only that he’d had nothing to do with it.’
‘Did he mention the trust fund?’
Sir Willoughby sat up. Or as nearly up as his avoirdupois would allow. ‘No.’
‘I understand Miss Gamelin intends to give it all away.’
‘Ah ...’ He recovered so quickly the anguished little twist of sound might never have been uttered. ‘Well, of course it’s her money and she is of age.’ He then rose after a certain amount of rocking to and fro. ‘I have to be in court this afternoon ... so ...’
‘Will you be driving Mr Gamelin over here later, Sir Willoughby? Otherwise we’ll send a car.’
‘I really can’t quite say when we’ll be meeting. I shall be going straight from here to the Manor House to see how Sylvie and her mother are. So I shouldn’t rely on me.’
Yes, thought Barnaby. Definitely to the wolves.
Troy detailed Policewoman Brierley to show Sir Willoughby out and watched the Bentley depart with a curl of his lip, thinking, Sinjhan. If I’d got a name like a Paki newsagent I’d keep it to myself.
Nobody had slept much. Breakfast was proving hardly worthy of the name. Everyone was saying to everyone ‘You must eat something’ whilst going without themselves. Earlier in the hall (no one could bear to enter the Solar), they had gathered in a circle to recharge. But even ten minutes’ controlled breathing into Universal Mind had little effect. Grief had disunited them and they mourned individually, hutched in invisible cages of sorrow. Even Janet, whose respect and admiration for the Master stopped well this side of devotion, was dismayed by how disconsolate she felt.
Christopher poured fruit juice, Arno crumbled a barley cake, Heather had carved herself a slice of marmalade the colour of treacle toffee and laid it to rest on some burnt toast. Ken, on Hilarion’s instructions, was just about to retire to the garden with a straightened-out metal coat hanger to dowse for whatever etheric traces of the Master’s spirit might remain, a sortie he referred to as Operation Karmalight.
May sat at the head of the table, proud shoulders drooping, wonderful hair loose and unbrushed. She had been crying and her eyes were still bright and swimmy. Without make-up her face looked haggard. She looked ten years older; a faint facsimile of her former self. Arno’s heart almost broke at the sight and he had never loved her more.
She had been up most of the night with Tim. Arno had taken over at four o’clock. When he came downstairs he had left the boy still in bed lying in a rigid foetal loop, arms locked round knees, eyes screwed tight shut, refusing to acknowledge wakefulness.
Janet said, ‘Shall I make some more tea?’ No one replied. Heather asked where Suhami was.
‘She won’t come down,’ said Christopher. ‘She blames herself for bringing him here and can’t face anyone.’
‘Poor child.’ May got heavily to her feet. ‘Someone should go to her.’
‘You won’t get in. She talked to me through the locked door.’
‘Oh dear.’ Subsiding, May looked inquiringly at Janet and said, ‘Trixie’s not here either.’
‘No.’ Janet’s pulse ticked a little faster at this supposition that she would be the one to know why. ‘She’s still asleep. I looked in on my way down.’
‘It’s for ourselves we grieve of course.’ May’s face twitched as she returned to the subject on all their minds. ‘For him it’s over. He is in the ranks of the illuminati.’
‘And already born again,’ said Heather with a watery smile.
True though this might be, no one was much comforted. It was too soon. The total awfulness of not only the matter but also the manner of their Master’s demise lowered, a dark pall around their heads. Forced to believe, no one could quite believe. It was simply incredible. Like finding blood on the yellow brick road. Only May, still convinced that an immense supernatural force had spirited her teacher away, escaped this added dimension of despair. ‘We must undreary our minds,’ said Heather. ‘I’m going to make a supreme effort - it’s what he would have wanted.’
‘You’re right!’ Ken jumped up as springily as his gammy leg allowed. ‘There’s a lot of loving needed here today. And I vote we start things off with a heart-centred hug - check, Heather?’
‘Check.’ His wife got up and the couple stood facing, arms locked round each other’s waist.
‘Direct eye contact.’
‘Heads together.’
‘Full body contact.’
‘Breathe slowly and gently.’
‘... s.l.o.w.l.y ... g.e.n.t.l.y ...’
‘Flow of compassion ...’
‘My heart chakra to yours ...’
‘F.l.o.w. f.l.o.w ...’
‘Squeeze.’
‘Release.’
They broke apart, smiling. Ken’s trousers looked better already. No one else had gone in for the heart-centred hug. Arno drank a little juice and broke off a bit more barley cake. ‘I think what would help - what would also help I should say,’ he glanced apologetically at Heather, ‘is to keep busy. I mean after a ... After something like this aren’t there all sorts of things to organise?’ He was remembering his mother’s death and friends and relatives endlessly coming and going. The letters to be answered, the funeral tea.