‘Now,’ May bent down until her face was level with Felicity’s and smiled, ‘doesn’t that feel better?’
Felicity made a sad little sound, like a hungry kitten.
‘There, there,’ said May. ‘Now I suggest ...’ she took Felicity’s arm, ‘that you lie down until just before lunch time. Then you can have a bath and something very light to eat.’
Felicity sat down numbly on the bed and gazed at May with dark, pain-filled eyes.
‘It’s all right. Everything will be all right now. We’ll look after you.’ May leaned forwards and kissed Felicity on the cheek.
While these tender ablutions were going on, Janet was washing up, banging her hand-made cereal bowls around as usual in the stone sink. As she slopped water about she wondered about lunch. Suhami’s name was on the rota but she had still not emerged and it was now ten o’clock. It was going to be a disorganised day, the first, Janet suspected, of many. The utter finality of the Master’s death struck her with renewed force and she was sure that no matter how hard they all struggled to carry on as normal, things at the Manor House would never be the same again.
What would happen to them all? Where would they go if the house did prove to be no longer available? Would they try to live together somewhere else? Would she want that?
Janet knew she had no gift for the vigorous meddling in other people’s lives that seemed to be the commune’s definition of friendship. Philosophically, too, it was a struggle to conform. She was not at home with wild inexactitudes or fantastic suppositions and thought it sentimental to pretend all problems could be solved. Also she liked a bit of a grouse now and then, which was much frowned on. Only the other day, making some mildly derogatory comment on the weather, she had received a lecture from Heather on the lines of how she should be grateful she was not blind, or suffering from multiple sclerosis in a tower block.
Irritated by these recollections, Janet decided to break the house rules and make some real coffee. Stimulating uplift - that’s what she was in need of, and to hell with pancreatic cancer. Or was it liver fluke? She would take some up to Trixie as well. And perhaps some biscuits.
In the visitors’ cupboard she found a commercial and sinfully inorganic packet of Uncle Bob’s Treacle Delights. She ground some beans, inhaling with pleasure, and undid the biscuits. The wrapper, with a fine relish for the cultural cross-reference, showed a Chinese girl in a sombrero with corks dangling from the rim. Janet selected a blue flowered plate for the Delights, put it back, got out a little glazed mustard number with a spray of crimson blossom, put that back and finally settled for a pale pink trellised-edged look. She carefully arranged several syrup-coloured biscuits in overlapping circles then, while the coffee brewed, snipped an Albertine rose (a perfect match for the plate) from outside the kitchen window.
Entering the hall with her laden tray, stomach looping an apprehensive loop as she anticipated rousing Trixie from slumber, Janet came to a full stop. There, at the bottom of the staircase, were May and Arno talking to a huge man in a speckled suit. As Janet hesitated, May and the man turned and went upstairs.
‘Who was that, Arno?’
‘The Gamelins’ solicitor.’ His eyes were already slipping after May and he brought them back to Janet with an effort. ‘Something awful’s happened. At least I suppose normally one would say it was awful. I can’t help wondering if it’s a blessing in disguise. He was found dead this morning in his hotel room.’
‘What ... Guy?’
Arno nodded. ‘Apparently he’d asked to be called at nine. The maid took some tea up and he was just lying there. Hadn’t even gone to bed. They seem to think it was a heart attack.’
‘How dreadful.’ Even as she made the expected response Janet knew that she was glad. He had been a terrible man. Avaricious and unkind. The world was well shot of him. And what a piece of news to offer Trixie. What a sweet token of a gift! Better than the real coffee and Uncle Bob’s Delights. Better even than the rose. Arno was saying something else.
‘May thought Suhami might be better able to receive the news. Her mother is still not quite ...’ He trailed off tactfully but Janet was already climbing the stairs.
Trixie was not sleeping after all but curled up on the window seat and smoking again. ‘Has the post come?’
‘Yes.’ Janet put the tray down on the chest of drawers. She wondered if Trixie was looking for another letter in a blue envelope. ‘Were you expecting something?’
‘Not really.’ Trixie was wearing an apple-green silk dress. Her face was unmade-up, the skin thick and smooth like cream. Inside her arms, Janet could see yesterday’s scarlet pinch-marks transformed to little violets as the bruises came out.
‘I’ve made you some real coffee.’ She filled two mugs.
‘You’ll be for it. We’re in a caffeine-free zone here.’
‘And opened some biscuits.’ Janet put her own mug aside and took the tray over to the window. The rose now looked rather silly not to mention superfluous. She had forgotten Trixie already had a bowlful. ‘Drink it while it’s hot.’
Trixie told her not to go on and Janet accepted this routine castigation with the patience of one who knows it is within her power to spring a big surprise. She made some headway into her own mug. Heavens - she’d almost forgotten how utterly delicious the real thing tasted! Was a squeaky-clean colon worth the sacrifice? ‘Is it OK?’ she asked timidly.
‘Lovely. It’ll warm me up.’
Janet didn’t understand. The sun was streaming in and Trixie was bathed in it.
‘Is there any news? I mean from the police.’
‘They’re here now. With the Gamelin solicitor.’ Janet paused, her gaunt ardent face cloaked with anticipation. This was the moment. Still she hesitated, for the news could only be given once and then her purse would be empty. She could not tantalise, coyness not being her nature. In the end she just blurted it out.
‘Guy Gamelin’s dead. He had a heart attack.’
She remembered always what happened next. Trixie jerked violently upright as if she’d received an electric shock. The coffee spilled down her apple-green dress and bare legs and the mug clattered to the floor. She gave a wild shout, which was cut off as she clapped her hands over her mouth. Then she cried, ‘Oh God - what am I going to do?’ and started to scream.
About half an hour after this dramatic and sensational display, the police arrived to interview Tim. Arno led the way slowly and with the utmost reluctance along the gallery towards the boy’s room. As they approached the door, his steps became more and more sluggish until finally he stopped, turned to Barnaby and laid an urgent, detaining hand on the chief inspector’s sleeve.
‘He won’t be able to help, you know.’
‘Please, Mr Gibbs. We’ve been through all this downstairs.’
‘If you’re determined ... would you ...?’ Arno had moved some small distance away, beckoning. When the two men joined him he continued, lowering his voice. ‘I feel I should say something about his background. No one else here knows but it might help you to understand and be ... You see I met him - well found him might be a better way of putting it - about six months ago.’