‘You still set against Gamelin, Chief?’
‘I suppose I am.’ In fact Barnaby was no longer even tempted. Quite why he could not say. Partly irritation at being so forcefully presented with a scapegoat. Partly Gamelin’s genuine rage that he should have been so used. Then there was the motive. Seemingly so straightforward, on closer examination it proved to be much less so. Barnaby believed, when it came to the push, Guy’s daughter would come before her ducats. He appeared consumed by a fierce despairing need to regain her affection. She had made her feelings about her teacher plain, so her father must have known that harming Craigie would scupper his chances of a reconciliation for good and all. Neither was the man’s removal any sort of guarantee that Sylvie would not hand the money over. It may well have made her even more determined. Finally, and to Barnaby’s mind most telling, there was the nature of the beast. Gamelin struck him as a perfect example of the take-what-you-want-and-pay-for-it-type. Certainly the chief inspector could see Guy committing murder but felt it would most likely be on a blood-boiling impulse rather than as the end result of skilful plotting. Then he’d have stood up and shouted - maybe even boasted - about the deed before throwing as much money as it took at the best defence lawyers in the business. No - Barnaby was sure it wasn’t Gamelin. What he didn’t understand, yet, was why the dead man had pointed him out.
Audrey Brierley brought in more information on the dead man’s possible alter egos. Troy grabbed the sheets and perused. Freddie Cranmer? Not only too young but also known to be covered in exotic (i.e. obscene) tattoos. The next one, though, seemed possible. Albert Cranleigh. Fifty-seven. Early form, mainly petty swindles and flogging stolen goods. More elaborate cons. Phoney mail-order ads. Insurance and mortgage rip-offs. Then he pulled a really big time share scam. Made a packet that was never found. Got picked up in Malta. Did four out of seven. Released 1989. Exemplary prisoner, but then fraudsters usually were.
‘This fits, sir.’
Barnaby listened as Troy read aloud. All the while the sergeant was nodding with enthusiasm, his vivid brush cut dipping and rising like the crest of some perky marsh bird.
‘All that fits,’ said the chief inspector at the conclusion, ‘is that they’re within a few years of each other’s age. Apart from Gamelin’s accusation, quite understandable under the circumstances, we’ve no reason whatsoever to regard Craigie as a con man.’
He watched the outline of Troy’s jaw tighten. Troy with an idea was like a cat at a mousehole. It was his strength and also his weakness, for he never knew when to give up and go home.
‘If you remember,’ said Barnaby, who only remembered himself because he had gone over the statements the previous evening, ‘Arno Gibbs mentioned the community’s bursary help and donations to charity - Christian Aid and suchlike. That hardly tallies with your theory.’
‘But they all did that, Chief - the big villains. Look at the Krays. Hand-outs, boys’ clubs, boxing trophies. They were always spreading it.’
‘Grass-roots support. The publicity encourages recruits. What we’ve got at the Windhorse is not tsarism but a pantisocracy.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Troy winked and clicked his tongue against his teeth.
‘An organisation where all members are equal.’ Barnaby read his subordinate’s mind. ‘Not one run by women.’
‘Fair enough.’ An understandable mistake, mused Troy, being as how most of them had minds like bags of frilly knickers. ‘I still think I might get some mug-shots.’ He looked mutinous.
‘Leave it. They’ve enough on their plates out there already.’ The buzzer went. It was Winterton, the communications relations officer for what was already and inevitably being called the Gamelin case. He had the press permanently on the end of his line and did Barnaby have any new morsels to throw at them.
‘Reword what you threw them yesterday.’
‘Thanks Tom. You’re a great help.’
‘Any time.’ Barnaby replaced the receiver. When he looked up the room was empty.
Arno was walking in the orchard. It was quite early. Still a few tendrils of blue mist about and, surprisingly, a glitter of frost on the apples. Over his head shone the bright dagger of the Morning Star. Through the night he’d hardly closed his eyes, but was not at all tired.
He was carrying a pottle lined with strawberry leaves and making his way to where ‘Stella’, their self-fertile cherry, was fruiting. The tree was awkwardly draped with an arrangement of net curtains garnered from various jumble sales and loosely sewn together. They were far from bird proof and several starlings flew out screeching derisively as Arno approached. He picked what cherries were left, balanced his basket on the flat of the cucumber frame, then neatly, with his pocket knife, cut away any nibbled or waspy bits. He piled the rest carefully into a little pyramid, the un-maltreated sides facing outwards. But the result was far from satisfactory and a long way from the plump black glossiness to be found in supermarkets.
Normally Arno accepted the unsprayed imperfection of his produce with resignation, but he wanted to tempt May. She had hardly eaten a thing at dinner the previous evening and no wonder, given the disastrous earlier imbroglio. Arno had fretted ever since, fearing (for truly love is blind) there’d be nothing of her soon.
Holding the basket upright very carefully, he recrossed the lawn and noticed now that the sun was up, that the grass had lost its earlier crunchiness and felt soft and dewy. As he neared the house and came to within sight of the main gates, he hesitated - walking till the last minute in the shadow of the yew hedge then peeping out to get the lie of the land.
Ave and Terry had not been wrong about the deluge. Arno had found an old lock and length of rusting chain and secured the main gates just in time. By early evening there was an unpleasantly noisy crowd out there. It was a bit like a scene from some old silent movie where revolting peasants storm the Bastille. Photographers had been standing on the crinkle-crankle wall and the ambulance had had quite a job getting through.
But at the moment things were quiet. The early birds were up and about but not, so far, the worms. However, Arno was not the only early riser. He was turning the corner of the house when a ground-floor window was flung open. It was May’s room. A moment later a sublime chord floated out into the pure air. Arno’s heart stopped briefly then, exhilarated, thundered on.
He stepped back in the shelter of the ivy and stood quite still, lifting and swivelling his head round, yearning towards the open casement as a flower to the sun. The golden sound flowed out into the fresh morning brightness, supremely melodious, twining round Arno’s heart strings, binding him ever tighter to her, the dearest of musicians. He leaned back and closed his eyes, dust falling unnoticed from the ivy into hair and beard. The world reduced to the flashing movement of a cellist’s bow.
She was playing an old Catalan folk song. An exile’s lament full of majestic melancholy. It always made Arno sad, yet so harmonious was the structure of the piece and so tender the rendering that when, in a final parabola of exultation, it finally came to an end, he experienced not sorrow but a sensation of pure gladness.