‘Be a post mortem I expect,’ said Christopher. ‘There’s not much we can do till that’s over and the body’s released.’
This blunt remark caused May to gush fresh tears. Arno reached out to take her hand but at the last moment his courage failed and he let his own freckled paw lie in mute but companionable support a finger’s width away. The thought occurred to him that she might (absent-mindedly, of course) take hold of it and he came over quite wobbly.
‘For now I suppose we should carry on with our usual routine. It’s what the Master would have wanted. In the long run ...’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ken. ‘The long run.’
‘I suppose what he means,’ said Janet, ‘looking at it from a practical viewpoint, is what will happen to the house?’
‘I don’t understand.’ May looked bewildered.
‘Well, May,’ Janet’s voice softened. ‘Assuming The Manor was his to leave, he might not have left it to the community.’
There was a long disturbed silence while this new idea spread its ripples amongst them. Then May spoke. ‘He must have. We were his family - his next of kin. He said that to me once.’
‘To me also,’ said Arno.
‘Don’t either of you know how the house is entailed?’ asked Christopher. ‘You’ve been here longer than anyone.’
Arno shook his head. He was feeling rather depressed at the rapidity with which this ‘nuts-and-bolts’ conversation had taken off. ‘We discussed everything else. Administrative matters, setting up courses, funding. But that just never seemed to come up.’
‘There was no need for it to come up,’ said May. ‘Until now.’
‘Did he have a solicitor?’
‘He’s never spoken of such things. His bank - The Lodge’s bank I should say - is the National Westminster in Causton.’
‘Ask them, May,’ said Ken, ‘next time you go in. You handle the accounts after all. They know you.’
‘Certainly my signature is accepted,’ admitted May. ‘But only on communal matters. I don’t see why they should tell me anything about the Master’s personal business.’
‘At least they could tell us if there was a mortgage.’
‘A mortgage!’ Ken was dismayed. ‘Gosh - I’d never thought of that.’
‘He was so other-worldly,’ sighed Heather. ‘It’s just like him never to have made a Will at all.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Arno. ‘He’d have considered us and left his affairs in order.’
‘He would certainly,’ said May, ‘have considered Tim.’
‘Our continuation here though,’ argued Christopher, ‘doesn’t just rely on who owns the bricks and mortar, surely? All communities whether secular or religious need a guiding spirit to which they can conform. Ours resided in him. Who else here can lecture as he did, recharge people, give spiritual advice?’
‘I’m a qualified counsellor.’ Heather looked quite pouty. She had five framed certificates on the walls of her room including one for successfully completing a course in Venusian Temple Disciplines.
‘Christopher’s right,’ said Janet who was fully conversant with Heather’s idea of counselling. The procedure usually consisted of Heather sitting rather complacently while her ‘client’ explained the problem. Then, after pointing out that all dis-ease, whether mental or physical, was the external result of internal spiritual ignorance she would briskly offer an astrally oriented solution. After the recipient had paid their bill and left, Heather complained they’d drained her dry.
‘After all,’ continued Janet, ‘we are the laity here. Our tasks have been mostly practical. Making things and running things. I feel our numinous gifts may be a bit on the skimpy side.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Ken.
Arno interrupted an uncomfortable pause. ‘Has anyone looked in on Mrs Gamelin yet?’
‘I should let her rest,’ said May. ‘It’s still barely eight. She’ll probably sleep for some time. I gave her a betony tisane.’
‘God, that woman is in such need.’ Heather braced her shoulders and held the bridge of her nose between thumb and little finger in a manner that suggested some wonder-working power source coiled within the cartilage. ‘I really don’t know if I can cope.’
‘No one’s asked you to cope, have they?’ said Janet. She got up and poured some more tea.
In the end it was May who attended to Felicity. At nine o’clock she gently opened the door of the Oriel room, peered round and saw, beyond a foamy explosion of grey stuff in the middle of the floor, a narrow figure in a satin slip perched on the edge of the bed staring at the wall.
Felicity was in a turmoil and feeling very strange. She was trying to understand her state of mind. To separate at least one strand of emotion, draw it out, have a good look at it. But no sooner did she pinpoint one singular sensation than it bolted, swept away in the rush of half a dozen more. It seemed a long while since her arrival at the Manor House. She had not closed her eyes until the dawn and then only fitfully which no doubt contributed to the mental chaos.
At first the extraordinary and frightening events of the previous evening had touched her not at all. Things had seemed very bright, and clear and interesting, but also somehow unreal as if they had taken place on a stage some distance away. Or behind a thick glass wall. (She had taken a third line in the downstairs cloaks before going into the Solar.) Then, shortly after the police arrived, the effect wore off and fear, mess and muddle came roaring in, sweeping away this protective viewpoint. Self-knowledge loomed. She became aware that she was somehow involved in terrible things and that she looked ridiculous, having allowed Danton to turn her into a sideshow whilst she paid massively for the privilege. The click of the door made her jump and she stared at May whom she did not remember.
May was carrying a delicious cup of steaming tea. Visitors’ rations (Earl Grey bags, coffee beans and other decadent goodies) were always to hand in a special cupboard. She had slipped in a few drops of a gem remedy to aid Felicity’s recovery. May placed the cup on the bedside table, sat down and took Felicity’s hand.
Felicity looked dreadful. Her face was a splodged mess as if a child had gone to town on it with mixed crayons. Yesterday’s excessive mousseing, spraying and gelling had left her hair a lifeless mat. May stroked Felicity’s hand, smiling encouragingly and, after a while, persuaded her to drink.
Felicity tried but her mouth was trembling so violently that her teeth chattered against the rim of the cup and the liquid spilled. May went back to the hand-holding. There was not much else she could do at the moment, given Felicity’s emotional state and feeling far from robust herself. Gently, gently was the way. That a great deal of help was needed, May could see - for Felicity’s aura was quite splintered. One of the worst cases May had ever come across.
After a while May approached the open pigskin case. She was looking for some fresh underthings, intending to run Felicity a bath, and found a large pink and gold jar of cream. Using this, she cleaned Felicity’s face with slow rhythmical movements. After the third attempt the wastebasket was full of tissues and Felicity’s original ivory pallor was revealed.
May returned briefly to her own room, rummaged in the fluorescent bowels of her wardrobe and found a silk robe in deepest blue. (No colour refreshed the spirit more.) Then she picked up a tub of mallow shampoo and a fluffy towel, and returned to wash Felicity’s hair.
This proved much more complicated than cleaning her face even though Felicity bent meekly over the basin and kept quite still, holding a face flannel to her eyes. For a start there was so much of the stuff. The hand basin was full of it. May felt she was wrestling with a lion’s mane. This was partly explained when, at the second wringing, a large piece of the back section came away in her hands. Briefly horrified (had she discovered a mallow allergy?) May then realised the hair was false. She wrang it out, draped it over the back of a chair and carried on shampooing. So much awful gunge. How could anyone bear to have all this tickytacky on their head? Eventually the water ran clear. May wrapped Felicity’s hair in the soft towel and patted it gently. Then she combed it back and tied it with a piece of Kumihumo braid from her pocket.