Death at Burwell Farm

by Betty Rowlands

  Our first session at RYCE. Quite bizarre, I could hardly believe sane, grown-up people could bring themselves to take part in such mummery. There we were, all six of us, sitting in a circle in a darkened room, staring up at this strange creature calling herself Freya who was standing on a kind of platform under a spotlight. She was dressed in a dark robe with a wreath of leaves (which I suspect were plastic) round her head, as if she was pretending to be a pagan goddess. Then some oriental-sounding so-called music began playing softly in the background while she began chanting gibberish about energy and the cosmos; after ten minutes or so of that she majestically descended from her pedestal and touched each of us on the forehead with icy-cold fingers. I wanted to laugh, but I could hear the others giving little sighs – rapture? boredom? – so I kept quiet. Then another character calling himself Xavier appeared and told us to close our eyes and think about our shackles – we’d been told earlier about our shackles during what Freya described as our first steps to becoming initiates, while we sat drinking some herbal concoction that tasted as if it had been brewed from dried grass. When it was all over we were sent out into the garden to meditate. It’s a lovely garden, laid out with small enclosed areas like outdoor rooms and we were each assigned to a different one. My meditation consisted of admiring the plants and pulling up a few weeds the gardener had missed.

  The entry concluded with the comment, ‘I referred to Xavier as “the mad monk”. M not amused. I can’t imagine what she expects to get out of all that rubbish, but she seems determined to press on.’

  Well, Sukey said to herself. It’s obvious she wasn’t particularly impressed on Day One, but—

  There was a tap on her bedroom door. It opened a fraction and Fergus popped his head round. ‘I saw the light was still on and thought you might have fallen asleep,’ he said. His glance fell on the open diary. ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘I’ve just come to Vera’s description of her first experience of RYCE. It’s quite a hoot. Listen to this.’ They chuckled over the tongue-in-cheek style as she read the passage aloud. ‘Some of the earlier stuff is fascinating too – she must have been quite a character.’

  ‘I thought she was a super old dear,’ said Fergus, ‘and she had a great sense of humour. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the time she was enthusing about RYCE she was just doing it to wind Adrian up.’

  ‘She must have ended up being impressed by them, though,’ Sukey pointed out. ‘I mean, she wouldn’t have advised Ollie to go back for a top-up treatment if she hadn’t had faith in what they do. I can’t wait to read the next instalment.’

  Fergus slid off the edge of his mother’s bed where he had been sitting whilst they chatted. ‘You can tell me the interesting bits tomorrow,’ he said, stifling a yawn. ‘Goodnight, Mum.’

  ‘Goodnight, Gus.’ Sukey settled down to continue her study of the diary. As she traced the account of Vera’s gradual change of attitude from that of mocking sceptic to ardent disciple, she felt her skin prickle. She sensed that she was letting herself in for a very strange, potentially exciting and possibly disturbing experience.

  Thirteen

  On Friday afternoon at Burwell Farm, after the departure of the last of the day’s initiates, Percy Burrell followed his normal custom and retreated to his private sanctum in order to replenish by a prolonged spell of yoga and meditation the well of healing on which he had drawn during an exhausting week. Meanwhile his wife Edith retired to the office with her daughter Serena to assess results and consider the candidates for the following Monday’s intake. Before they settled down to their task, Serena poured two stiff vodka and tonics which they sipped for a few moments in a contented silence.

  From her extravagantly ornamented midnight-blue robe and the circlet of artificial foliage on her long dark hair, Sukey would immediately have identified Edith as the alter ego of Freya, so vividly described in Vera’s diary. There was no obvious likeness between Edith and Serena – Edith’s pallid complexion and classically oval face were in striking contrast to her daughter’s warm colouring and the gypsyish cast of feature inherited from her Spanish father, but there was a certain similarity in the shape and set of their eyes – Serena’s almost black, Edith’s a striking blue – together with an occasional watchful, calculating expression and a slight sideways tilt of the head that to an astute observer would have suggested a blood tie. This they took care to conceal; Serena was presented at the start of each course as an acolyte who had proceeded through the various stages of enlightenment to become a handmaiden to the leaders. Since the ‘initiates’ were invariably too preoccupied with their own reasons for being there in the first place to bother about anyone else’s, this explanation had never been called into question.

  ‘It’s been quite a good week,’ Edith observed as she savoured her drink. It was one occasion when they could safely indulge in anything stronger than herbal tea since her husband, a dedicated teetotaller naively convinced that the women in his life shared his belief in abstinence from all forms of alcohol, could be relied on to be safely out of the way. ‘Everyone went off practically singing for joy at their progress,’ she went on. ‘Especially Patricia.’

  ‘She the one suffering from agoraphobia?’

  ‘That’s right. Remember her first day when she had to be cajoled out of the car by her son and for the whole week wouldn’t set foot in the house without him? He and his wife are taking her to London for a weekend at the Ritz. They’re so delighted they’ve made her a member of the Circle of Lifelong Initiation and coughed up a very handsome donation.’

  ‘Well done, Mum.’ Serena took a long swig from her drink and put the glass down with a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘I don’t think I can claim much of the credit, it was more Percy’s influence. I think she rather fancies him.’

  ‘So do a lot of the women, especially the older ones. Haven’t you noticed how they always seem more responsive than the men to start with? I think it’s probably because they spend more time studying our literature before they get here.’

  ‘Well, that’s really the basis of the system, isn’t it? His books and the stuff he writes for the brochures are what tempt the punters in. After that it’s up to us.’

  ‘It’s the way he puts it across when they’re face to face with him that keeps them coming. He fairly mesmerises them – once he’s put the influence on them, they’re putty in our hands.’ A wicked gleam appeared in Serena’s dark eyes as she studied the contents of her glass before savouring another mouthful. ‘It’s a shame we can’t get him to offer “special treatments” as well, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perish the thought – he’d die of shock at the idea!’ Edith giggled. Then her expression changed and she gave her daughter a sharp glance. ‘Are you saying he does a better job than I do?’ she demanded with a touch of resentment.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Serena soothingly. ‘As I said, I’m thinking mainly of the women – there’s something about him that has them hanging on every word. I suppose it’s because he totally and utterly believes in it himself that they lap it up, whereas—’

  ‘I’m just play-acting? Go on, say it.’

  ‘You do it awfully well,’ Serena assured her, seeing her mother was on the verge of becoming seriously offended. ‘No one would ever guess. And besides, you have plenty of the men eating out of your hand.’

  ‘I didn’t do a drama course for nothing.’ Edith slowly sipped her drink with a dreamy expression. ‘I had ambition in those days. I always fancied myself in the really dark, dramatic roles like Electra or Lady Macbeth, but somehow I never quite made it beyond a few undistinguished TV ads. Then I met Percy. I was completely carried away, I thought there was something magical about him, he seemed like someone from another world—’

  ‘He’s a fruitcake,’ said her daughter flatly.

  ‘Yes, I know, I realised that later – but he had me under his spell for quite a long time with all his guff about shackles and wheels and the unlimited. It wasn’t lo
ng before I started to get bored with it, but it was obvious I wasn’t going anywhere with my acting career and I could see there was money in it if I could handle him right.’

  ‘So you pretended to be converted.’

  ‘I was converted at first – almost, anyway. I just never let on that I’d lost faith.’

  ‘I’m amazed he’s never rumbled you.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten everything I learned at drama school, I’d have you know,’ Edith said huffily. ‘He still adores me and trusts me utterly.’

  ‘It’s always surprised me how you managed to persuade him to go commercial.’ The conversation was taking a familiar turn but, knowing her mother never tired of telling the story and to compensate for having ruffled her feathers, Serena gave her the opening she wanted.

  Edith sat back in her chair, smoothed the folds of her dress, adopted the relaxed, gracious attitude of a celebrity being interviewed on television and launched into the many times retold account of her husband’s return from his years in the East burning with what she described, with a dramatic throb in her voice, as a completely altruistic desire to guide the whole of mankind along the path to spiritual enlightenment. There was, she solemnly declared, never any thought in his head of personal gain, but it had soon become clear that his health would not stand up to the ascetic existence of the mystics from whom he learned so much during his travels.

  At this point in her narrative Edith gave a sentimental sigh, finished her drink in one final gulp and held out her glass for a refill. Serena shook her head and put the bottle of vodka back in its locked cupboard. ‘One’s enough,’ she said firmly. ‘You don’t want to give the game away by getting pissed. Top up with plain tonic if you’re still thirsty.’

  Edith pulled a face. ‘It tastes vile on its own,’ she said pettishly.

  ‘You’re not having another vodka. It was a double I gave you the first time.’ Edith pushed her glass away and sank into a sulky silence. ‘Please, Mum, do go on with the story,’ Serena coaxed.

  ‘You’ve heard it all before.’

  ‘Never mind. Tell me again – I never get tired of hearing it.’

  ‘Really?’ Edith brightened. ‘Well, it went like this.’ She composed herself once more in the attitude of interviewee as she recounted their early struggles working from a small house in North London until Percy’s wealthy father died and left them enough capital to buy and convert a larger property. It was Edith, whose shrewdness in commercial matters far outstripped her thespian talents, who found Burwell Farm, recognised its potential for accommodating a much larger number of the sad and struggling souls her husband had dedicated his life to helping and persuaded him that provision of such an idyllic environment more than justified any consequent increase in fees. ‘It’s just as well he doesn’t realise just how high some of them are,’ she finished, with a sly glance at her daughter. ‘You came back from your wanderings just in time to take over the business side of things.’

  At the word ‘business’, Serena gave a knowing smirk. She finished her own drink, glanced at her watch and reached for a folder. ‘Time’s getting on, we’d better get down to some work.’

  The RYCE system was simple and straightforward. Initiates enrolled for five two-hour sessions from Monday to Friday, either for mornings or afternoons. At the end of their first week they were asked, during searching private discussions with one or other of their leaders – whom they knew as Freya and Xavier – to assess their own progress along the path to the Unlimited. They were then asked, with many an encouraging reference to Inner and Outer Wheels, if they wished to sign on for further stages, with the offer of concessionary fees for block bookings. It was a tribute to the influences to which they had been subjected that there were plenty of takers.

  At the same time their attention was drawn to a range of complementary, so-called ‘rejuvenation’ therapies, available for a supplementary fee. Charges for these were comparatively modest – unless the participants happened to have any special requirements which were never mentioned at the time of booking, but negotiated directly and in secret with the ‘therapist’ – either Serena or Edith – before the start of treatment.

  ‘I see there have been three requests for rejuvenation,’ Edith observed. ‘Any prospects there, d’you reckon?’

  ‘Not with Mollie and Sheila – all they want is aromatherapy—’

  ‘You mean, Oriental Spiritual Stimulation,’ Edith said reproachfully as she made a note in her diary. ‘Or OSS if you can’t be bothered to give it its full name. You really should use the right terminology, dear, even in private. One of these days you’ll slip up in front of an initiate and that would be embarrassing, to say the least.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum. Anyway, Josie’s booked them with you for next Tuesday. You can sort out with her which goes first.’

  Josie Garrard was the young woman who had arrived on a bicycle the day of Sukey’s first visit to Burwell Farm. She ran the office with a calm, unflappable efficiency which, coupled with an apparent total lack of awareness of or curiosity concerning the actual proceedings during the courses offered by the RYCE Foundation, made her the perfect employee. She welcomed the initiates (whom she privately thought of as ‘the punters’) on their first day, handed out their information packs and dealt with such practical matters as the booking of additional courses and appointments for supplementary therapies.

  Edith continued her perusal of the list of bookings. ‘What about Henry?’ she asked. ‘What’s his problem?’

  ‘Ah, he’s a bit more promising.’ Serena passed her tongue over her full, sensuous lips as if anticipating a particularly tasty morsel of food. ‘He’s been complaining of stabbing pains in his head so I’ve booked him for Indian head massage – I mean, Oriental Cranial Healing – but from the look in his eye I’m pretty confident it’s not only his head that he wants massaged.’

  ‘Good. Make sure you give him plenty of encouragement – but not too much healing at first. We want him to come back for more, don’t we? Now, what about next week’s intake?’

  ‘All newcomers for the morning sessions – three men, three women. Ages range from thirty plus to early fifties. One of the women’ – Serena flipped through a sheaf of forms held together with a paper clip until she came to the right one – ‘name of Jennifer Newlyn, sounds quite tense and neurotic. Josie says she’s been on the phone several times, desperate for a place and at the same time making a provisional booking for her friend Susan Reynolds.’

  ‘Provisional?’ Edith frowned. ‘We can’t afford to take chances on people failing to take up their places,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s been confirmed and the deposit paid. We had one cancellation, but that was filled almost immediately.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ Edith thought for a moment. ‘Susan Reynolds – that name rings a bell. Isn’t she the woman who came about the garden machinery that was stolen?’

  ‘That’s right. She works for the police, calls herself a scene of crime officer. I’ve got my doubts about her.’

  ‘Oh – why?’

  ‘I’ve got a hunch she’s here to snoop.’

  Edith raised an eyebrow. ‘Whatever gives you that idea?’

  ‘She came back a second time, to tell us our stuff had been recovered.’

  ‘So what’s odd about that?’

  ‘The police had already told us. Besides, she made out she just happened to be doing another job in this area, but I don’t think she was telling the truth.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The first time, she came in a van with her equipment in it – I could see all sorts of stuff in the back when she opened it to take something out. The second time, she came by car, so it seemed to me that she couldn’t have been on a job.’

  Edith shrugged. ‘Maybe her van was off the road for some reason.’

  ‘She couldn’t possibly have packed everything into a small car like the one she turned up in. Besides,’ Serena went on, frowning into her g
lass, ‘after she’d told her story about the missing mower having been recovered, she made some excuse to go and chat to Jarvis and then hung about asking me questions about Oliver Drew and Vera Masters.’

  ‘Did she now?!’ For the first time, Edith appeared perturbed.

  ‘So I think it would be a good idea to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘Will do.’ Edith made a note.

  ‘Should we mention it to Percy?’

  ‘Certainly not. We don’t want to let him think the police might be taking an interest in us – remember the trouble we had with the medics a while back? Besides, if he gets the notion that we find the possibility disturbing he might start asking awkward questions. We don’t want that, do we?’

  ‘No way!’ The two women exchanged conspiratorial glances. Edith turned her attention back to the matters in hand. ‘About this request for OCH – Percy would be so pleased to hear someone’s asked for that, it’s his new baby and he’s convinced it has special rejuvenating powers, but I suppose if what Henry’s really after is one of your specials…’

  ‘There was definitely that look about him when he discussed it with me. He mumbled something about being prepared to pay extra for a longer session and I told him to make a booking in the normal way and we’d talk about it before beginning the treatment. I think he understood me perfectly.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Edith gave a satisfied nod. ‘In that case, we’ll make sure everything’s prepared – and we certainly won’t mention it to Percy. It’s a good job he’s such a trusting soul.’ She glanced at the clock on the office wall. ‘Let’s run through the afternoon punters and then go back to the house – he finishes his meditation in half an hour and he likes me to be there when he rejoins the real world.’