Perhaps she had simply taken a break to tighten a string. Or rest that strong right arm. But half way up the scale? As he hovered, disconcerted, clutching his bouquet, another much stranger sound came to Arno’s ears. A bitter-sweet and pure sound interspersed with brief moany gurgles. He thought at first that she was singing. Certainly the manner of delivery was strangely musical. Its clear plangent quality reminded him of medieval, high-French ballads often sung to a lute. But then a sudden extra-mournful cadence brought home the appalling truth. She was not singing, but crying.
Unhelmed by pity and terror, Arno flew along the corridor. May was sitting in the nursing chair, bending over her instrument, bow poised as if to play again. Her cheeks were wet and her profile stamped with sorrow. Arno halted at the threshold, heart breaking at the sight. He could not speak. Could not choke out a single comforting phrase, let alone deliver his chivalric eulogy.
At first, wrapt in unhappiness, she did not notice him. Then, still clutching his unbound bouquet, Arno hesitantly stepped forwards. She turned and said simply, ‘Oh Arno - I do miss him so.’
It was enough. Released, emboldened, Arno approached. Crying, ‘Dearest May,’ he embraced her and launched into a flood of adoring speech.
Then things got a little complicated. May rose to her feet, her expression one of confusion rather than alarm or dismay. Arno, clinging to voluptuous silk-clad shoulders, slid off. There was a brief tumultuous scrimmage, involving folds of slithery fabric, stout little legs, spires of deep blue flowers and gleaming rosewood, followed by a howl of elemental magnitude, though whether provoked by joy or anguish it was impossible to tell.
It was nearly seven. Barnaby sat, head in hands, brain stuffed to bursting with a kaleidoscope of detail, his thoughts overheated and stale. A labyrinth of faces, voices, diagrams, pictures. But which thread would lead him to the clear light of day? Perhaps that thread had not yet been discovered. If it was, he wondered how the hell he would find room for it.
That there was plenty of material that could be jettisoned he had no doubt, but at the moment he dared throw nothing away. His shoulders were stiff and he hunched them up and down then pressed them back to loosen up a bit. Troy was looking at his watch.
‘I expect they’re doing evening-chanting up at the Windhorse,’ he said ‘Dancing round. Or whatever daft rubbish it is they do.’
‘Don’t be like that, Troy. You might get born again yourself one day.’
‘Strikes me most of the people who are born again should never have been born in the first place.’
Barnaby laughed and Troy looked disconcerted. The chief would do that sometimes. Sit straight-faced through any amount of little witticisms then fall about when you were being serious. ‘It’s getting on, sir.’
‘Something might still come in.’
‘Thought you said it was Cully’s birthday.’ Barnaby disliked the naked lechery in his sergeant’s voice whenever Cully’s name came up. ‘Isn’t there going to be a party?’
‘A small one. She got engaged as well.’
‘Oh yeh? What’s he do?’
‘An actor.’
‘He’ll be on telly, then,’ said Troy with simple confidence.
Barnaby did not reply. He was staring down at the pile of statements. Gamelin’s was on top. Was there, buried in that printed page or on any of the others, a line of speech that could be reinterpreted? A fact looked at in a different light.
Troy observed his chief sympathetically. ‘My money’s on that Master Rakowkzy. Anybody gives free legal advice must be up to no good. Most solicitors charge fifty quid just to fart in your pocket.’ He chortled. ‘And talking of solicitors - you thought any more about Gibbs and May Cuttle? I mean - we’ve got a real motive there. Elizabethan manor house, acres of ground, not to mention that goat. I know they come over as innocent idealists -’
‘Idealists are never innocent.’ Barnaby did not look up. ‘They cause half the trouble that’s going. Check this.’ Troy took Guy Gamelin’s statement, read it through and looked blank. ‘It tells us something about the murder scene that none of the others do.’
Troy frowned. ‘No it doesn’t.’
‘Yes it does. Read it again.’
Troy read it again and then once more. ‘Ohhh ... ’ He shrugged. ‘What difference does that make?’
‘Perhaps,’ Barnaby took the statement back, ‘it indicates another way of looking at things. Never a bad idea, especially if you’re stuck.’
‘Right.’ Troy moved fast to nip any lecture on the open mind in the bud. ‘Don’t you want to get off now?’
‘Hmn.’ Barnaby half rose, still looking at the bit of paper. ‘I think we’ll have another talk with that mad boy tomorrow. Try and find out why he’s so convinced Craigie’s death was an accident. And why he’s so frightened. Gibbs was definitely trying to put us off seeing him. We’ll get someone else to sit in next time. Might have a bit more luck.’
‘What time’s it starting - the sworry?’
‘Half seven.’
‘Just do it nice then.’
Barnaby said ‘Hmn’ again, drummed his fingers on the desk, switched on his monitor. Troy couldn’t understand it. Catch him hanging round the office on his daughter’s twenty-first!
‘I’ll stay.’ A quick look of surprise. ‘I’ve missed the baby’s bath and bedtime so there’s no rush.’
‘That’s good of you, Gavin,’ said Barnaby, thinking poor old Maureen. ‘We’ve probably got all we’re getting for tonight. And, of course, they can always reach me at home. Still - I appreciate it.’
‘Till about nine say?’
‘Fine. I can probably be back by then.’
‘Course you can, Chief,’ said Troy, thinking poor old Cully.
When Barnaby had gone, he hung around obediently for half an hour, drifting in and out of the main office, talking to the duty staff, taking a few calls of no special interest. Then, bored, decided to get a bite of supper in the canteen. Leaving instructions that if his wife rang, he was out and if anything at all relating to the Windhorse case came in, it was to be put straight on his desk, he went off.
It wasn’t just that he was hungry. There was a new assistant on late shift. Nicely married and, by all the locker-room accounts, not entirely averse to putting it about a bit. Loading his tray with spaghetti and chips, and a mug of bright rust-coloured tea, Troy arrived at the till. He noted with pleasure the long false eyelashes, straining overall and hot pink lips. They were shiny, too, as if she licked them a lot. Perhaps in anticipation? His change came to fifty pence. Holding the coin out, the lashes did a bit of cheek-sweeping. She said, ‘You ought to give that to the blind dogs.’
‘Blind dogs?’ Troy saw the tin and dropped the coin in, regarding it as an investment. ‘Poor devils. It’s not as if you can explain it to them, is it?’ She looked blank. Ah well. He wasn’t after her sense of humour.
Later she came round to clear. Troy patted the space next to him and when she sat down, said he wouldn’t half like to be the leather on that chair. There was a fair bit more of this and a lot of sexy giggling. It was all very pleasant not to say promising, and Troy was quite sorry when a shout from the kitchen moved her on. He ordered a double mince-slice and custard and, when he’d finished that, another cup of tea - dallying both times at the till. Then he had a ciggie, spinning it out, watching the smoke curl away. All a bit time-consuming and of course he was very sorry afterwards. But how was he to know that it would cost a human life?