He looked down at his offering. The pyramid of cherries had collapsed and they were rolling about any old how. Even the strawberry leaves no longer looked pristine. The disparity of his gift, compared to the one which had just been so gracefully and splendidly offered, struck Arno with an humiliating sharpness. He tipped the cherries into the flower border and set off to return the basket to the potting shed.
The cellist laid down her bow and moved to the open window to perform her salute to the sun. She would need all the energy she could muster, especially today. Her healing gift - for that was how May hyperbolised a naturally kind heart - would be needed as never before. She raised her arms and watery-green silk fell away, revealing their glorious dimpled strength. Crying out, ‘The divine in me greets the divine in you,’ she bowed low seven times, knowing that each genuflection drove into the heart chakra love and a strength both cosmic and divine. After this she had a long soak in the bath, wrapped about with milky essence of the common fumitory, did a few Yoga stretches and some alternate nostril breathing and, feeling much more able to face the day, went down to start the breakfasts.
But May must have been longer about her ablutions than she realised for when she entered the kitchen it was already full of people. Only Tim and Felicity were absent.
Heather was at the sink doing the dyna/solar water. This involved wrapping sheets of variously coloured litmus-paper around filled plastic bottles, then securing the paper with string. They were then placed outside in the full sun whereupon the energy from its rays gave the water a powerful electromagnetic charge.
Heather was keeping a low Martha’ish profile, humbly going about tasks to which, a mere twenty-four hours ago, she had given not the slightest heed. She had plaited her hair, winding it severely around her head, and was wearing what could only be described as a thing of self-effacing grey. Aiming for the appearance of a diligent and compliant Hausfrau, she looked more like a wardress in a spectacularly punitive prison camp.
Ken sat silently by the range. He had accepted what had so far come his way (a glass of mate and some muesli) with many florid expressions of gratitude, but without any attempt to develop these thanks into a more personal exchange. He projected the air of a man knowing his place (a niche in the chimney corner), and glad of it. Indeed, even had he wished to move, Ken could not have done so for his right leg, broken in three places, was completely encased in plaster.
Ken was deliberately not playing on this. Heather had agreed, whilst trying to settle him half way comfortably in a small bedroom on the ground floor, that they could only hope the community would, unnudged, come to recognise the measure and quality of his sacrifice and set it with a sensitive and generous weighting allowance against the measure and quality of his betrayal.
Pulled from beneath the Buddha in agonising pain, Ken - as much to his own surprise as anyone else’s - had behaved with calmness and bravery. Struggling not to cry out, he had taken May’s rescue remedy and, when the pain then got worse rather than better, gritted his teeth and held back the tears. Loaded on to the stretcher, a faint smile upon his wax-like countenance, he even managed a small wave and an injunction that no one was to worry. Truly, nothing became Ken’s sojourn at the Windhorse like the manner of his leaving it.
Arno got up as May came in, asking if she would like something to eat and a cup of freshly made Luaka tea. May smiled and shook her head. ‘You’re in the middle of breakfast, my dear. I’ll get it.’ Arno’s cheeks bloomed at the endearment. She plugged in their long, rackety toaster. This was very old but most efficient, hurling zebra-striped squares of bread into the air the moment they were crisp. When the machine was full a dozen would fly up together, somersaulting gracefully in the air.
May thought how quiet it was. Usually during the meal times there was a steady run of chatter and laughter. Now hardly anyone spoke. Janet sat uncomfortably, her chair tilted on to its back legs, picking at the knees of her corduroy trousers. Christopher and Suhami, drinking real coffee, sat together yet not together. He looked at her frequently, once bringing his face round until it lay sideways just in front of her own, humorously trying to evoke a response. She shook her head and turned away. Even the sound of cutlery seemed muted thought May, watching Arno replace a knife by laying it with excessive caution on a side plate. She noticed his rather high colour and hoped he wasn’t sickening for something. Three people incapacitated was more than enough.
Heather, having finished insulating her bottles, whispered at the air, ‘I’ll just take these outside,’ and tiptoed from the room.
May’s toast sprang up and, simultaneously, the telephone rang. Picking up the receiver with one hand and catching her slice with the other, May exclaimed, ‘By Jupiter! That’s hot.’ Much to the caller’s consternation.
The rest of the room, disunited in their anxiety, listened intently. Was it news of Trixie? Of the Master’s murder? Was it a bank or solicitor with information about a Will? Attempts were made to flesh out the gaps between May’s disjointed speech.
‘... tombs? Certainly not. We’re making our own arrangements. And I must say I think it very crass - oh, your name is Tombs? Why didn’t you say so? ... ah - I see. Yes, that’s certainly a problem ... We shall indeed, let me think a moment ... No, I’m sure none of us would wish to do that. They’re not at all pleasant. Look - tell you what - in the wall of our vegetable garden there’s a wooden door. Earth well-trodden underneath so there’s a bit of a gap ... Oh, could that be done? How extremely kind. A quarter of an hour then? Many thanks.’
‘What was all that about?’
‘Miss Tombs, Christopher. From the village post office. The man can’t deliver, our gates being locked. She said did anyone want to go down -’
‘No!’ cried Suhami.
‘Quite. You heard what I suggested. She’s going to put the letters in a plastic carrier bag for us.’
‘I’d quite forgotten about the post,’ said Arno. ‘We will have to sift it carefully. People may wish to come here now for all the wrong reasons.’
‘I’ll go for the letters.’ Chris drained his cup. ‘Come with me, Suze?’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘We’ll go via the terrace. No one can see us from there. I’ve got something to tell you.’ When she still didn’t move, he added, ‘If you hide in here you’re letting them win.’
Suhami got up and followed him, not because of the goad in his final words but because it was easier than arguing. Her limbs felt heavy, her head stuffed with sorrow and guilt.
They walked through the herb garden towards the lawn, the gravel soft and warm beneath their feet. Weeds grew there and wallflowers: the tiny dark gold semi-wild variety that smelled of vanilla and pineapple. The path was edged with cockleshells bleached bone-pale by the sun and wind.
He took her arm and it lay, heavy and indifferent, against his own. Chris experienced a sudden uprush of alarm lest what she felt was not a temporary freezing of emotion due to the shock of the murder and yesterday’s intrusion, but a permanent change of heart towards himself. At the thought that he might lose her his throat tightened in panic. He should have explained the true situation much earlier. The longer he concealed it, the worse it would look. He had courted her under false pretences for reasons that seemed to him not only excusable but also essential. But would she see it like that? He recalled the bitter plaint that people always ended up lying to her.
He half stopped, irresolute, wondering how to frame the truth to underline the necessity for untruth. In the end he did nothing but walk on.