A Psychiatrist, Screams

by Simon Parke

  They remained in the Long Room, mulling over the evidence amid a creeping chill. As in the arctic, it was best not to stay still in Henry House.

  ‘But we do know the evening started with a welcoming glass of sherry in the hall.’

  ‘And no one yet in party clothes.’ Peter was definitely cold.

  ‘Could we light the fire - or is that still evidence?’

  ‘I believe the grate has been thoroughly vetted.’

  ‘Then let me do the honours.’

  Peter soon had a good fire burning.

  ‘You’re quite competent at lighting fires,’ said Tamsin, surprising herself with this piece of praise.

  ‘The Bedouin are the best teachers.’

  ‘Really?’ Sarcasm.

  ‘If you can light a fire in the desert, you can light one anywhere.’

  ‘Underwater?’

  ‘Now you’re being silly.’

  ‘I’m just rebelling against these ridiculous desert myths.’

  ‘And the interesting question is: why?’

  ‘To work,’ said Tamsin. Peter nodded.

  ‘Present at the Feast of Fools were Frances Pole, director, Barnabus Hope, director and Pat Strong, cleaner. That was the Mind Gains staff and then the four clients, Kate Karter, Virgil Bannaford, Ezekiel St Paul and Martin Channing.’

  ‘And Bella Amal, the administrator, should have been there, having organised the event. But Frances had a row with her, after which Bella walked out in a fit of pique - about two hours before guests were due to arrive.’

  ‘She then apparently spent the evening at home and later at The Smugglers Arms. Needs checking obviously, but it would be an unwise lie.’

  ‘But Bella’s template for the evening was carried out as far as we can tell. After sherry in the hall, more than a glass or two apparently, the participants came up here to the Long Room, where there was wine and nibbles.’

  ‘Sherry downstairs, wine upstairs. Did they want them all drunk?’

  ‘That was the idea. In the gospel according to Frances, excess, disguise and the removal of rules bring with them the psychological liberation of the clients.’

  ‘And here in the Long Room, eight screens, behind which people’s clown outfits were laid out.’

  ‘They’d been told about these downstairs.’

  ‘They were reminded by Frances that the challenge was complete disguise throughout the evening. If no one could say what you did the following morning, then you were a success! Sounds rather fun in a way.’

  ‘Sounds a complete nightmare,’ said the Abbot. ‘But people made a brave attempt at conversation. Virgil said that Pat seemed very tense downstairs - “like a deer on a rifle range”, was his phrase - which was apparently unlike her. Not her normal self at all, he said.’

  ‘Interesting. Though really, what in her short life could have prepared her for a night like this?’

  ‘It seems Kate held the floor with some slightly hysterical behaviour. Once she saw a piano, she tried to organise everyone into a choir.’

  ‘The wine was talking.’

  ‘Or singing.’

  ‘And then Frances brought them to order, they swallowed their voice pills, after which she explained that shortly, the lights would go out, and they knew what to do.’

  ‘The lights did go out - the gardener earning some overtime - and under cover of dark, everyone retired behind their screen to change.’

  ‘The consensus is that Bella’s screen was still there, as it would be, given the late nature of the withdrawal - but not used.’

  ‘They then emerged from behind their screens in full disguise: show shoes, masked, gloved, a merry band of harlequins.’

  ‘The lights returned and the bowl of election was produced.’

  ‘This was to decide who would be the Lord of Misrule.’

  ‘In the bowl were seven folded cards, one of which would declare its owner the Lord of Misrule.’

  ‘People made their choices, until one of them - I wish we knew who - held up the card which gave them power for the following hour.’

  ‘There was a meal at the table, during which the Lord of Misrule began to use their power, ordering people to perform duties and tasks of a variously fun or mischievous nature.’

  ‘The one that everyone remembers, apart from Kate who wasn’t sure, was the farm animal game.’

  ‘And then after the meal, the Lord announced a game of Sardines with terrible repercussions for the loser.’

  ‘One participant is sent off to hide, the others have to find them, and the loser is the last one to do so.’

  ‘So they all count slowly to fifty while the hare seeks a secret place. And then the search of Henry House began. No lights on, so a little spooky but they went their separate ways, though one or maybe two - some disagreement there - tried the office door and discovered it was locked.’

  ‘So they banged on it loudly asking if there was cheating going on.’

  ‘Meanwhile the hare, who turned out to be Virgil, curled up on the four poster, was gradually being found. Those who found him had to lie there with him, squashed together.’

  ‘Like sardines.’

  ‘Indeed. It does bring my Christmas Past to mind.’

  ‘And the last clown to find him, who was Kate, was then forced to kiss the feet of all participants and apologise for her stupidity.’

  ‘Frances then took control again, ordering everyone to find a dark place, change out of their clothes and gather again in the Long Room. This they all did in cheerful mood; Frances, trying to speak as normally as the pills allowed, thanked them all for their spirit of adventure. It was then noticed that Barnabus was missing.’

  ‘But Frances, “suspecting he’d left early in a mood”, she said, made light of it, encouraged everyone not to be late for their sessions on Monday - and ordered Pat to return to being a cleaner!’

  ‘Pat then said something like: “I hope, with all my heart, that is possible”.’

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘They then left the building in varying degrees of merriment, with the teetotal Ezekiel the only one unable to loosen up.’

  ‘Not a spectacular surprise.’

  ‘Frances checked the office, found the door open, assumed Barnabus had simply gathered some things before leaving - and then left herself.’

  ‘With Ezekiel as chauffeur.’

  ‘She’d drunk the cellar dry, likes a drink apparently, while Ezekiel had imbibed nothing but orange juice. So she locked up and went home.’

  ‘And the clothes?’

  ‘All bagged up and left outside, as pre-arranged, to be collected by the cleaners Saturday morning.’

  ‘And Henry House quiet at last.’

  ‘As quiet as a tomb.’

  ‘And that was that, until an anonymous phone call from the Mind Gains pay phone on Sunday morning, to say that the dead body of Barnabus Hope was in the office cupboard.’

  ‘Not the murderer presumably, informing on themselves.’

  ‘No. So someone else was here that morning, someone other than the murderer.’

  It was then that a detective poked his head around the door.

  ‘Yes?’ said Tamsin.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Ma’am, but one or two developments concerning Pat Strong.’

  ‘Nice girl,’ said Abbot Peter, by way of nothing at all.

  ‘What about Pat Strong?’

  ‘The address she gave when employed here is a false one; there’s no such place as 11 Regency Villas in Stormhaven.’

  ‘Suggesting a rather casual employment regime.’

  ‘Or a desperate one,’ said Peter.

  ‘And the other development?’

  ‘She appears to have gone missing,
as far as we can tell.’ Tamsin took this information in with a smile.

  ‘Nice girl, Abbot?’

  ‘That was my impression.’

  ‘Or did you just fancy her?’ Peter sat impassive.

  ‘Abbot Peter’s psychological profiling comes up trumps again,’ she adds.

  ‘I may have been slightly hasty,’ he says. A victor’s smile from Tamsin.

  ‘But then again, I may not.’

  ‘Find Pat Strong and bring her in, Constable... while Abbot Peter and I take a look at the clown in the cupboard.’

  Forty Seven

  ‘Well, this does rather change things,’ said Martin Channing.

  He was sitting with Frances Pole in a coffee shop, five minutes from his office, in the ancient and well-heeled town of Lewes.

  ‘I don’t see why we couldn’t have met in Stormhaven.’

  Martin had summoned her and she didn’t like being summoned, you didn’t summon Frances... but she had obeyed.

  ‘Because there isn’t a coffee house there without grease on the walls.’

  ‘You’re such a snob, Martin.’

  ‘And you aren’t?’

  Frances sniffs with disdain, as Channing continues:

  ‘It was very clear, for instance, who the cleaner was at the Feast of Fools.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When the evening was over and normality returned, you made things very plain, shall we say? “You do realise it’s past midnight, Cinderella?’’’

  ‘There was cleaning to be done.’

  It was clear the girl needed to get back to work, what was his issue?

  ‘Everyone has their place with you, Frances.’

  ‘You could have come round to mine,’ she says, still resentful.

  ‘I’m not sure that would have been a good idea.’

  ‘You don’t imagine I still want you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so bold, Frannie dear. But how does it look?’

  ‘What do you mean, how does it look?’

  ‘Two suspects gathered in secret court to get their stories straight?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘And now I’m being tempted by one of those cakes. Would you like a cake, Frannie?’

  ‘Frances.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Do you ever feel anything, Martin?’

  ‘What should I feel?’

  ‘Recent events.’

  ‘It’s a very particular tragedy, of course it is.’

  ‘ ‘‘A very particular tragedy”.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘How about a complete nightmare?’ Martin Channing sips his peppermint tea.

  ‘A nightmare of sorts, Frances.’

  ‘I didn’t know they came in different flavours.’

  ‘You surprise me. I thought dream analysis was stock-in-trade for shrinks. Didn’t Freud call dreams the royal road to the unconscious?’

  ‘I’ve never really believed that.’

  ‘But I bet you don’t tell your patients.’ Frances was non-committal.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Martin. ‘Think of the special power that bestows on you - the one who understands dreams! That vital sense of mystery to justify the rather large fee.’

  Frances was enjoying her latte, but little else. Martin’s cynicism could entertain, but not today.

  ‘There is truth to be found in dreams,’ she said.

  ‘So what were yours last night?’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘That would be interesting.’

  ‘But dreams also feature the last meal you ate.’

  ‘So it may be the cheese rather than your subconscious?’

  ‘It’s not always easy to distinguish.’

  Martin was not interested in dreams, he couldn’t care less, he was here to talk about money. But Fran was proving her old intransigent self this morning. She remained an attractive woman, someone who’d maintained her looks, a little harder in the face perhaps... and too strict a diet had removed any gentleness in her features. But they would not have worked as a couple, he knew that.

  ‘So where does the nightmare end and the dream begin for Mind Gains, Frances?’

  ‘I see no dream beginning, none at all.’ Frances was now a sulky girl.

  ‘I mean, where does this leave the clinic?’

  ‘Very much on the front page, I’d say,’ said Martin.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you know what they say about publicity.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  Channing smiled.

  ‘Show me a celebrity who doesn’t prefer a bad word to no word.’

  ‘No, Martin, that’s a lie you journalists cling to, after another hatchet job on someone.’

  ‘A pound every time.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I wish I had a pound every time I’d heard that tired little line. Do you rehearse these old arguments in front of a mirror? I know it can be hard to drag you away from there.’

  Frances took another sip of her latte.

  ‘Perhaps it helps you sleep at night,’ she said. ‘Imagining your spite has actually done them a favour.’

  ‘I sleep very well.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘If I’d wanted to run Oxfam, I’d have applied for the job.’

  The coffee house was busy, competition for tables just managing to stay polite.

  ‘It costs 13 pence to make a cup of coffee,’ he said, aware he’d got little change from the £5 note he’d handed the barista. ‘That makes this pretty close to robbery.’

  Frances was unconcerned about the mark-up on coffee.

  She says: ‘Meanwhile, I’m imagining a word association game sounding something like ‘Henry House - murder! - Mind Gains - grizzly death! - therapy - danger!’ Why would I want any of that?’

  ‘I wasn’t saying you did.’

  ‘No, well I don’t.’

  ‘You’re sounding very prim, Frances.’

  ‘I don’t need you today, Martin.’

  ‘You needed me last week.’

  ‘As I say, I don’t need you today.’

  There was a silence between them, only broken by Martin posing the question he’d meant to ask all along.

  ‘You didn’t kill poor old Barnabus, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t, Martin. Did you?’

  Forty Eight

  Bella Amal, the administrator - or rather, Director of Administration - saw everything in Henry House. Everything noticed and logged, not in a book but in her head... and it hadn’t been a policeman in the shadows upstairs.

  Since her arrival that Monday, after the delay at the gates, she’d watched the last of the forensic activity play itself out beneath the Elizabethan beams, old rooms scoured by new technologies, finely combed, dabbed and photographed. But since the morning interviews, the house was open again, all except the office, where the body had been found and apparently still lay, which was too morbid.

  But returning to the matter in hand - and Bella always did, never one to let a matter drop - that had been no police figure in the gallery shadows, the movement too hasty for forensics, too furtive, a body in search of obscurity. The figure had moved quickly towards the bedrooms, away from her gaze, but Bella could move quickly too. And she was recovering herself, she felt that, recovering from the events of the day. Slowly, Henry House was feeling like her kingdom again and whoever was up there, they shouldn’t be, and Bella would let them know. She’d told the constable she’d monitor visitors while he nipped out for a sandwich - bad boy, really - and she’d monitor this one now.

  She crossed the hallway and climbed the stair
s. The polished wood of the gallery floor was covered by worn carpet, enough to quieten her steps as she moved towards the arch which led into the bedroom corridor. At the end of the corridor, at the front corner of the house, was the master bedroom, awaiting VIP’s. Nearer, was the bedroom used by Barnabus, and it was here Bella sensed a human presence, slight breathlessness behind the door. Who was it? And what were they doing in Barnabus’ bedroom? The door stood ajar, wedged on the uneven floor.

  ‘Hello?’ says Bella.

  There’s silence and then a noise, something knocked, a knee against a bedside table?

  ‘I need to know who you are,’ says Bella. ‘And what you’re doing.’ Again, no reply.

  ‘I’m coming in,’ she says, and pushes at the door. It sticks at first, more pressure applied, and suddenly it’s flying back on its hinges. Bella steps inside.

  Forty Nine

  Bella turns to see Virgil sitting on the bed.

  ‘No need to panic, old thing,’ he says with cheery challenge.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ asks Bella, flustered.

  ‘I’m sitting on the bed.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Are you the police, old girl, or just a nosy busy-body?’

  Bella looks around like a concerned sparrow. She looks for something disturbed, something to explain his presence in the room. There is nothing obviously changed.

  ‘Virgil, I need to know what you’re doing here.’

  ‘You need to know what I’m doing here? Well, that’s a laugh and a half! The real question is: what the hell you’re doing here?’

  Aggression.

  ‘I work here.’

  ‘Not in this bedroom, you don’t.’

  ‘I work in Henry House.’ Virgil smiles with derision.

  ‘Lots of people have worked here, Bella, lots of servants like you down the years - but none of them have owned it.’

  Bella is thrown.

  ‘I never said I owned it, but I have a responsibility - .’

  ‘You’re passing through Bella, a mere employee, “downstairs” as they say, and soon there won’t be a clinic here, not after what happened last night. Mind Gains is finished and good riddance!’

  ‘I think you’ll find - .’

  ‘And then you’ll be back at the job centre with all the other oiks, instead of bursting into bedrooms like you own the place.’