‘Very wrong, Mr Gibbs.’ Barnaby strove to keep his voice even. He was angry with Gibbs but even angrier with himself. Interviewing Tim, wishing to cause as little distress as possible, he had deliberately not introduced the Master’s name. Now, too late, it was plain that the accident the petrified boy had referred to was not Craigie’s murder but the earlier death. ‘You understand that perjury is a criminal offence.’
‘... Yes ...’ whispered Arno. He seemed on the verge of tears. His trembling fingers searched for a handkerchief.
Barnaby eyed the wretched figure coldly. Knowing even then that he would not prosecute, he saw no harm in letting Gibbs sweat it out for a day or two. Or even a week or two.
‘Go on. What happened next?’
‘We took Tim into the garden - he was terrified, crying - and tried to work out what to do. We decided the least complicated plan, and the most sensible, would be to just carry on into Causton and do our shopping as we planned, then come home and pretend to discover the body. The fact that May - Miss Cuttle - returned first is a matter that caused us both great distress.
‘The Master took Tim to the van and I was about to follow when I started to get terribly cold feet. And an overwhelming conviction that we wouldn’t be believed. It just seemed so unlikely that anyone would fall down a flight of stairs they’d used hundreds of times, for no reason. So then I thought - what if he’d been drinking? There was a miniature of whisky in our medicine box. I got it out and tried to pour some into his mouth - I had to close his lips and massage his throat to try and get it down.’ Arno shuddered. ‘It was horrible. Then I rucked up the runner on the landing to make it look as if he’d caught his foot in it.’
‘I told the Master when we were driving back. He got terribly upset. Kept saying I shouldn’t have done that. Then a couple of days later, seeing how unhappy I was, he explained why. Told me that the stuff Jim was taking for his infection meant he couldn’t take even the smallest drop of alcohol. He said if they did a post mortem -’
Here May gave a little cry of recognition and looked affirmingly across at Barnaby, who signalled her to be quiet.
‘- and it was discovered, they’d know something was wrong. When they did, and it wasn’t, I was so relieved. I took it as a sort of sign that perhaps I hadn’t done anything so terrible after all.’
‘Surely, Inspector,’ said May, ‘you can see that Arno’s motives were quite selfless. He did the wrong thing, yes, but for the rightest and purest of reasons. For the love of a fellow human being.’
This unexpected, generous and completely undeserved sponsorship affected Arno deeply. Such a tumultuous wave of gratitude broke about his heart that he felt almost unable to breathe.
Sensing a natural break, Heather made a move to refresh the giant pot whilst Ken readjusted his plaster cast on the wheelback chair to a more easeful and prominent position. He had come to regard Arno’s snowball as some sort of featherweight contender in the wounded-hero stakes and had no intention of giving any ground.
May put the ointment away and wondered about going to check on Felicity. The sleeping draught had been a mild one and she might well have been awakened and alarmed by the disturbance. Suhami collected the cups of those who wanted seconds. She touched Andrew gently on the shoulder and smiled when she brought his, but could not be coaxed into remaining by his side. He had hoped his appearance might so distress her that affection would be rekindled. That terrible business on the roof, the whole bloody mess in fact would be worth it if that happened.
This time round Troy accepted a drink but Barnaby still refused.
‘Jim’s death may have been unintentional,’ said Heather when everyone had been served, ‘but the attack on Chris - sorry Andrew, certainly wasn’t. I suppose Tim got a sort of taste for it. People are supposed to, aren’t they?’
‘What a spiteful thing to say!’ retorted Suhami angrily. ‘He’s just died for heaven’s sake. The least we can do is speak kindly of him.’
Heather flushed at this slur on her reputation as a non-stop fountain of compassionate concern. ‘I don’t think you’re in any position to attack me, Suhami. After all, if it weren’t for you the Master would be alive today.’
Suhami gasped and went pale. Andrew spoke up sharply. ‘She was against her father’s visit from the start. It was the Master who insisted.’
‘I think you know,’ said Barnaby, ‘that as far as the Craigie murder is concerned, Mr Gamelin’s visit was neither here nor there.’
Six faces stared at him, five with varying degrees of amazement. Only May, assuming the police had come round at last to her celestial way of thinking, nodded serenely. Suhami sat forward awkwardly, thin fingers locked together.
‘Do you mean ... do you have some idea that he might not have been responsible?’
‘There’s no doubt about it, Miss Gamelin. He was definitely not responsible. Just unfortunately in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Was that Tim as well, then?’ asked Heather. ‘In a sort of mad fit.’
‘Quite impossible,’ said Arno. ‘He was utterly devoted to the Master. You saw how he grieved.’
‘They can turn though, people like that,’ said Ken. ‘Even on those they love. Like dogs.’
‘He was not a dog!’ cried May.
‘Perhaps it was Trixie?’ said Andrew. ‘Perhaps that’s why she ran away?’
‘What on earth motive could Trixie have?’ said Ken. Then, to Barnaby, ‘You should have told me you weren’t satisfied Gamelin was guilty. I could have channelled Hilarion for you.’
‘Are you saying, Inspector, that my trust fund might not have been the motive?’
‘Or that the whole thing was an accident?’
‘Oh no, Mrs Beavers - the murder of Arthur Craigie was quite deliberate, but it was also opportunistic. By that I mean prepared for up to a point and then, when things took a wrong turn, carried through in a most daring and impulsive manner.’
He got up, giving the impression without speaking that it was to stretch his legs, but really it was to pace up and down. Troy watched, not really lacking confidence but still extremely tense. It was thin ice the chief was striding out on. Suppositions, deductions, guesses, a certain amount of informational back-up, but no real proof. If the party in question brazened it out ...
‘One of the most crucial components,’ began the chief inspector, ‘of any murder case - random killings apart - is the character of the victim. What sort of man or woman were they? What makes them tick? The answer can only be found by asking people who knew. In this case they were pretty unanimous. Only Guy Gamelin demurred in painting a picture of an almost saintly man full of concern for his fellow humans. And even he admitted to being genuinely impressed during the course of their single conversation. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, the Master was universally loved.
‘But what was really interesting about Mr Craigie is that when I tried to look further into his background to discover more about him, I was unable to do so. As far as I could see he had sprung into being as a fully fledged seer a couple of years ago. Now that’s very odd. It’s not easy to remain unrecorded in these computerised times. If you’ve ever paid insurance or tax, owned a car, house or bank account you’re down there somewhere. But not Arthur Craigie.’