Janet hadn’t meant to hit so hard. The palm of her hand still stung. She must have pulled her arm right back for, when the blow connected with Trixie’s cheek, the girl staggered two steps sideways and fell against the wall. It worked though, just like it always does in the movies. Trixie immediately stopped screaming, understanding came back into her eyes and a huge red patch flared on her cheek. Then the others arrived and Janet was pushed into the background.
Outside on the landing, trembling, gripping the gallery rail, she repeatedly relived the moment of violence. Previously sure she had acted on desperate impulse (anything to stop those awful, soulless cries), now other more complicated motives threaded their way into her consciousness. If she was honest she had to admit that the connecting moment had not been entirely without a certain satisfaction. Even a vengeful satisfaction. How terrible! Janet felt sick with shame at this insight. She had been unaware that her dry and profitless love cloaked hostility. Trixie was right to reject her friendship. She became aware that Arno was regarding her anxiously and forced a smile.
Actually Arno’s anxiety, and there was a lot of it, was pretty widely distributed. The fact that his gaze happened to alight on Janet was almost by the way. The largest object of his concern was, of course, the murder. Like most of the others, he believed Gamelin responsible and couldn’t decide whether the man’s death was a good thing or a bad. Good if the police also agreed that he was guilty, as that would remove the need for a trial and all the attendant publicity. Bad if they were not sure, for that would mean the investigation dragging on, and doing even greater damage to the community than had already been done.
Then there was this extraordinary business with Trixie. Arno had been very disturbed by the wild intensity of her reaction to Guy’s death. He was not at ease with the inexplicable or with sudden explosions of emotion, especially those that seemed to have no logical launching pad. After all, she’d hardly known the man. Even the lightning realisation, on hearing the sound of Janet’s single hand connecting so forcefully with a curved cheek, that he had at long last solved his koän, did not console. It simply threw the loss of his dear teacher into more painful perspective as he recognised with what joy he would have hurried to break the marvellous news. Arno turned back into the conversation - where it seemed Heather was expressing aloud the first of his concerns.
‘If only we knew what happened between them yesterday.’
‘Confucius he say to know is to know that to know is not to know,’ said Ken. He spoke in his ageless-wisdom voice and lifted the skin at his temples to make almond eyes.
‘No wonder he was confused,’ replied Janet.
The previous evening’s tragedy was not touched upon. Perhaps the feeling was that any sort of speculation would be rather crass with Suhami, who was now swishing spinach round the sink, being present. Heather proffered a consolatory thought-brick.
‘I was meditating in the orchard this morning. Sitting oh so still and oh so quiet calling down the yellow flame of Cassiopea as it’s Saturday and you’ll never guess what happened?’ The table waited, all agosh. ‘A beautiful bee settled on some clover near my hand. A real Mr Bumble. He stayed and stayed, whirring his little wings just as if - and you can call this pneumatic synthesis if you like - but just as if he was trying to tell me something. Well, eventually I thought nothing ventured nothing gained, so I reached out and he actually let me stroke his furry back with my tiniest finger. Wasn’t that incredible?’
May said, ‘What do you think he was trying to transmit, Heather?’
‘I think - and I mean like this is pretty earth-centred, OK? - but my perception of the situation was that the Master’s transmutation having been so recent, etheric wisps of his astral body must still be about. Why couldn’t said Mr Bumble have traces on his wings? Because what I was getting from that dear small furry creature was the most overwhelming sensation of comfort.’
‘That could very well be,’ said May. ‘Certainly, if he was able, that is what the Master would wish to impart.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Suhami, now wringing out green leaves in a tea towel, ‘the bee was the Master. A reincarnation.’
Ken and Heather exchanged amused glances. Ken spoke. ‘I hardly think that a supreme arahat, after a life of devoted service to his fellow man, is going to reincarnate as an insect.’
‘So you can buzz off for a start,’ whispered Christopher, who was packing the spinach in an iron cauldron, and Suhami laughed.
‘Heather’s right,’ said May, ‘about left-over matter. I felt it myself this morning. There was a crowd of Elohim chattering away beneath my window. We must watch out for mischief. There’s nothing they like more than hitching a ride on the aura. Ah well ...’ she pushed back her chair, ‘it’s nearly twelve. I must go and run Felicity’s bath. Do you think you could take over the main course for lunch, Janet?’
‘Surely.’
‘And we’d better finish our chores,’ said Arno to Ken. ‘I think we’re both on the garden this morning.’
‘My leg’s playing up a bit actually, Arno.’
‘Well ... there’s always the hoe.’
‘Bending just seems to compound the problem.’
‘You haven’t got a back as well as a leg have you?’ Janet sounded quite pithy.
Ken gave her an all-forgiving smile. Poor old Jan, projecting again. If the group had had a pendulum reading when she first arrived, as he’d suggested, at least they’d have been forewarned. ‘Oh, I have plenty to occupy my time.’
‘Like what?’
‘Hilarion has warned me to expect a mass incarnation of god-beings from Pluto. I plan a lengthy star-seeding session under my Chela pyramid in preparation. And then I thought I’d give the giant bonsai a trim.’
Chapter 10
Ian Craigie’s effects had been released and Troy had gone to pick them up. The scene-of-crime report could not be far behind. Barnaby half hoped there would be something solid from Forensic to support the so far purely circumstantial evidence against Gamelin. If there wasn’t, or if he was found to be straightforwardly not guilty, then the chief inspector had a case that looked fair to being one of the most interesting and complicated for a long time.
Almost his first reaction when hearing of his major suspect’s demise was overwhelming relief. He had been quite near at one point the previous evening to taking the man in. Any custody death resulted, quite rightly, in a complete and careful investigation amidst the by now inevitable cries of ‘police brutality’. Imagine the descent from above on Guy Gamelin’s behalf: the tony lawyers, the Bill’s top brass, every press man who could stand upright, photographers, probably questions in the House ... Gratitude had welled up in Barnaby’s breast at the gods’ collusion in this near miss.
Troy entered, a grey plastic bag in the crook of his right arm. ‘Got our mystical dude’s stuff here, Chief.’ There was a nudge of anticipation in the words and his eyes shone. With slow dramatic movements he pulled out sandals, a bloodied robe and some cotton underpants. Then he paused looking alert and expectant.
‘If you’re waiting for a drum roll you’ll be standing there till the cows come home. Get on with it.’
Troy at once delved into the bag, this time producing a long fall of shining white hair. Barnaby reached out. The wig was beautifully made. Real hair on a base of fine gauze.
‘Very nice. Expensive.’