‘Oh, a dear person. One of our longest-serving members. He had an accident - a fatal fall. I’m surprised you don’t know about it.’
‘Not our pigeon - accidental death.’
‘There was an inquest.’ May regarded Barnaby in a rather judgemental manner as if he’d been caught smoking in the bike shed. ‘It was a day or two after his death when I was on my way to the laundry that I overheard the argument. Or a bit of it. The door was ajar in the Master’s sanctum. Someone said: “What have you done? If they decide on a post mor -” Then they were shushed and the door was closed.’
‘Did you see who it was?’
‘There was a screen in the way.’
‘Was it Mr Craigie speaking, do you think?’ Barnaby leaned forwards as he spoke. Troy stopped massaging the window and turned into the room, his eyes wide and sharp. The air tightened.
‘I don’t know. The voice was so knotted up. But when the inquest came and there was a proper coroner’s report and everything seemed to be all right, I thought I was probably reading too much into it. Then, a couple of weeks later, I was woken by a noise in the middle of the night. Soft bumps as if furniture was being carefully moved about and slidy sounds like the opening and closing of drawers.’
‘Where was this?’ asked Troy.
‘Next door - Jim’s room. It was never locked so why do all this creeping about? Why not just go openly in the daytime?’
‘Perhaps a break-in,’ suggested Barnaby.
‘Not at all,’ said May and explained about the person running down the side of the house.
‘Didn’t you think of contacting the police?’
‘Well, you know, we don’t do that sort of thing here.’ May gave Troy a smile with a consoling pat in it. ‘I’m sure you’re very good but it might have caused real psychological damage.’
‘Do you think he - or she - when running away could have heard your window open? I assume they would know your room was adjacent.’
‘I suppose that’s possible.’ She glanced up at him with clear bright eyes. ‘Is it important?’
Troy took in the question with a mixture of awe and disbelief. Here was a woman who drove a car, handled the company finance, dealt with banking matters and looked after sometimes quite large numbers of visitors. All these accomplishments existing alongside a shining belief in archangels, extra-terrestrial domestic and legal help, plus an astrally spot-on blade artist who’d despatched the head gaffer, no messing. He watched her giving the chief, who was looking excessively pained, a gentle touch on the arm.
‘Are you feeling quite well, Inspector Barnaby?’
Barnaby cleared his throat, a dryish scrape. May appeared concerned. ‘A tense larynx can conceal grave kidney problems.’ This formidable diagnosis having being received calmly, she added: ‘I can get my passionflower inhaler in a twinkling.’ Barnaby went into a constrained but unequivocal retreat.
Doesn’t want that at his time of life, observed Troy. Randy old devil. Should be slowing down.
Barnaby sensed that May was disappointed. She shook her head a little sorrowfully but her opulent assurance remained undimmed. It was plain she was one of those people who must always be helping others. He had no doubt that she was genuinely kind, but suspected that the kindness would manifest itself in a rather narrow application of her own principles to the problem in hand, rather than a real attempt to seek out the supplicant’s needs.
‘Perhaps we could have a look at Mr Carter’s room?’
‘There’s nothing there. All his things have gone.’
‘Even so ...’
‘A tip, Inspector,’ she set off still talking, ‘which you should find very useful. Pull up an amaranth by the root - Friday of the full moon otherwise it doesn’t work - fold in a clean white cloth, which must be linen, and wear next to the skin. This will make you bullet-proof.’
‘The police supply garments for that purpose, Miss Cuttle.’
‘I say - turn left - do they really?’ She became intensely interested. ‘Are you wearing one now? Could I have a look?’
May’s eyes shone and her amber globe earrings shone too. She found herself thinking that being involved in an investigation was proving to be quite exciting. And wondered perhaps if the Windhorse, in refusing to give houseroom to a radio or television set or printed matter of a non-spiritual nature, was not only blotting out all negative vibrations but also a certain amount of lively colour. I should get out more, she thought, and felt immediately shamed by such disloyalty.
‘Would you say I was “helping with your inquiries”, Inspector?’ she stopped outside the room next to her own. ‘I’ve often wondered exactly what that phrase meant.’
But she had hardly formed the words when the door had been opened, herself courteously thanked, and the door closed again.
Barnaby and Troy looked about them. The place was as neat as a sailor’s. A minimum of furniture. Two pale oak chairs with high slatted backs which a smart dealer might have sold as Shaker, a single bed, a card table, a wardrobe containing an empty shoebox, the label showing smart Italian loafers and a chest of drawers. There were three hooks screwed into a plain piece of wood on the far wall. The coverlet on the bed was white roughish cotton, the sort found on iron bedsteads in men’s lodging houses. It was hospital-cornered, stretched with tight rigidity over the thin mattress. This straining air of self-effacement sat well with the rest of the room. It had such a feeling of puritanical restraint that any loose fold or wrinkle would have appeared pushily voluptuous. There was a text on the otherwise bare walls: God Is A Circle Whose Centre Is Everywhere And Circumference Nowhere.
Troy checked the chest of drawers. Empty. Barnaby stared around, wondering at this apparent confirmation of the necessary link between physical discomfort and spiritual attainment. He thought of mendicants in hair-shirts, self-flagellation, yogis sitting in caves for years - matty-haired, ash daubed and smelly; of martyrs rushing into flames or the jaws of great tawny cats. The chief inspector could see neither rhyme nor reason to it. He loved his comforts. A well-used armchair at the end of the day. Or a hammock on a summer evening, glass of wine to hand, music pouring through open French windows. He loved - how he still loved - going to bed with Joyce. Or sitting by a warm fire, sketching the still unblurred lines of her profile.
The chief inspector was not given to dwelling at length on philosophical matters, not only because he didn’t have the time but also because the pursuit seemed to him ultimately arid. He tried to live decently. Cared for his wife and daughter, did a worthwhile job as well as he was able and supported half a dozen charities when subscriptions were due. He had few friends, having been content to spend the little spare time that was his lot with his family, but the friends he did have had good cause to be grateful for his attention and concern if they were troubled. Overall he reckoned he hadn’t done too badly. Well enough, perhaps, to tip the scales positively should there prove to be such a metaphysically mischievous joke as Judgement Day.
‘Not much to show for a life, is it sir?’ Troy had wandered over to the book shelves. Three wooden planks separated by neat stacks of amethyst-coloured bricks. He crouched, pulling out a volume from the bottom layer. ‘There’s a book here on wolf messing.’ He passed it over. ‘My autobiography by R. R. Hood.’ And chortled.
Barnaby could never decide whether his sergeant’s happy appreciation of his own wit was truly ingenuous. It seemed unkind to think so. He looked at the spine. The tome was by Wolf Messing, described on the jacket as ‘Russia’s greatest psychic healer’. Barnaby pulled a book of his own out. Deathing: An Intelligent Alternative for the Final Moments of Life by Anya Foos-Graber. Much cheered by the news that there was going to be a choice, the chief inspector was only sorry that poor old Jim had failed to grasp the principles. Either that or he’d been given no time to bring his intelligence into play.