‘Makes you think don’t it, Chief?’
‘It does indeed.’
Barnaby’s pulse quickened. For the first time the dead man had revealed something of himself. Until now information had all been second-hand. What others remembered, thought, believed. But here was a direct revelation from beyond the grave. A primary source. Barnaby laid this basic staple of the actor’s artillery aside and said, ‘I wonder how many people knew he wore it?’
‘No one I bet,’ said Troy. ‘I reckon this bears out Gamelin’s theory. Part and parcel of the con man’s gear.’
A not unreasonable assumption. In fact quite tempting. What need, pondered Barnaby, would a genuine pietist have of such a tricky accoutrement? No sooner had this thought occurred than he recollected the splendid dressage of priests and prelates to the world’s more orthodox religions. A simple hairpiece appeared modest in comparison.
So Craigie used artificial aids to project an image that would reassure his followers. This did not necessarily argue that his teachings or persona were false or that some chicanery was afoot. And yet ...
Gamelin had been so definite. Was this simply, understandably, because of the trust fund? Or had it, as Troy supposed, been like genuinely sniffing out like? No harm in running a trace on Craigie, although nailing a con man was always bloody hard work. For a start they were forever on the move and had as many names as they had off-shore bank accounts. Second, the really fly ones, having never been nicked, would not be in the computer at all. Still, no harm in trying.
‘I got an idea about the glove as well, Chief,’ said Troy. ‘Something Maure said at breakfast.’ His voice took on a slightly sour tinge as he recalled the first meal of the day. The meal which was supposed to gird the family bread-winner’s loins till lunch time. This morning it had been cornflakes and tea and that not freshly made. One small baby and suddenly it was too much trouble to scramble some eggs, put a bit of bacon under the grill, fry a few mushrooms and sling some bread in the toaster. He’d had to shell out for a burger and chips in the canteen. Second time this week and it was still only Thursday. And now the desk was giving him dirty looks.
‘Problem, Chief?’
‘Glove.’
‘Oh - yeh. She was washing up, grumbling that the gloves never last five minutes. I wasn’t listening - well, you don’t do you? But I heard, “It’s always the left one goes first.” That clicked because ours was a left-hander. She said, “I used to have all these odd things piling up till I found you could buy them to fit either hand.” So I thought, what if ours was like that?’
‘Might be. Although there’s nothing to stop a left-handed murderer wearing a right-handed glove. Or vice versa just to confuse the issue.’
‘Makes holding the knife a bit more awkward, though. And that is a very slick mover we’re talking about.’
‘True.’ Barnaby got up. ‘Might as well get a check for Craigie started. They usually stick fairly closely to the original name. The initials might be the same for instance.’
‘What’d he be ... fifty-five? Sixty?’
‘I’d say. Maybe a bit older. I’m going over to the path lab. See how they’re doing.’ He took his lightweight jacket from the peg. ‘Then we’ll try Felicity Gamelin again. See if we can get some sort of sensible statement.’ He turned at the door. ‘Get your aura read while we’re at it.’ Troy made a winding movement directed at his forehead with his index finger. Barnaby grinned. ‘Your horoscope, then. What is it you’re supposed to have been born under? Sirius the dog star?’
‘If I was,’ said Troy, ‘I’ll bet the little bugger was cocking its leg.’
Arno, having done a modest bit of gardening and eaten a piece of fruit to clarify his mind, was now wrestling with a haiku. His thoughts were all of May (the poem was of course for her). The haiku - three lines of five, seven and five syllables in which to compress a single illuminating thought - is not an easy form. The floor around Arno’s chair was covered with screwed-up little balls of paper.
He sighed deeply, frustrated at the elusiveness of Thalia the poetic muse and at the general intractability of the English language.
Beloved blossom
Light-winged music-maker
Spirit of flame.
He couldn’t give her that. To start with it sounded incomplete, like the opening to a much longer work. Then there was that ‘beloved’. These endearments would creep in. All the abandoned pensées had at least one. And let’s face it, thought Arno moodily, if a person was addressed as ‘bosom’s ease’, ‘angel fluff’, or ‘honey cuddle-bun’, sooner or later, however unsophisticated that person might be, she was going to deduce something a tad warmer in the offing than mere friendship or respect.
Cross, and dry in the mind, Arno gave up pro tem and went over to the basin to wash his hands which had become rather stained. He had bought the finest parchment, a bottle of sepiacoloured ‘Indian’ ink and a calligrapher’s pen, feeling that only the very best materials would be worthy of his sacred task. But, being normally a Biro man, he couldn’t get the hang of the nib and the ink had spattered everywhere.
Scrubbing at his hands and knuckles, a depressed Arno stared at himself in the small flaky mirror. He would never be reconciled to his appearance, never in a million years. If only he were tall and handsome as the full moon! He would sweep her off her feet then; gallop away with her over his saddle on a wonderful barrel-chested white horse with jewelled harness and reins of gold.
Arno smiled at these imaginings. His mother would have called it ‘going all rhapsodical’. He studied his face and tugged his beard, parting it experimentally, curling the ends around his fingers.
He had tried a Blakeian beard, quiverful of life, tumbling all over his chest. But it hadn’t suited him. He’d looked like a dwarf with a doormat round his chin. The one he had was ... well ... neat. And at least it shone, for he treated it with henna regularly. Sometimes he thought he might look younger if he shaved it off.
Before turning away, Arno bathed his face in greenish water taken from a small bowl half full of saxifrage. Heather had assured him that it was superb for fading freckles but he’d been using the stuff for over a month now and he honestly couldn’t see much difference. He dried himself and put the towel back neatly. It was almost time for lunch.
With ten minutes to go, Janet had just got some sort of main course together. She had peered half-heartedly into the store cupboard, taking things out, putting them back before deciding on a packet of Sossomix. There was a drawing of granulated sausage shapes sizzling in a pan and Janet noted, not for the first time, the perverse labelling techniques adapted by firms catering to that ever-growing section of the population who loathed eating meat.
Nut Steaks, Veggie Burgers, Cashew Roast. Down at the Karmic Pulse, they offered Tofu, shaped like chicken legs and covered with soya grits. Quite indistinguishable, the cling wrap proudly assured customers, from the real thing.
Wool-gathering, Janet had poured too much water in the granules. Instead of being a nice firm malleable lump, it was all sloppy. Trying to drain off the excess, she’d allowed some of the mix to slip away. Fed up with the whole business, Janet dumped the bowl on the draining board and went back upstairs to try and talk out Trixie.
After practically pushing everyone who was trying to help from the room, Trixie had locked the door. Nothing odd in that but she would usually answer when someone knocked, if it was only to ask why people just couldn’t leave her in peace. But today - not a sound.
There was something so solid about the silence, thought Janet, rapping gently and calling. ‘Trixie - lunch ...’ It was so absolutely total. Not so much as a carpeted football. Hard to believe there was even a heart beating in there.