‘So what now?’ asked Priya, as she and Francis stood outside the front of the house ten minutes later. The police had departed at speed, leaving visible tyre scars across the mass of tiny, variously coloured stones.
‘Since we’re allowed,’ said Francis, ‘I wouldn’t mind a little stroll in the grounds to clear my head. Want to come along?’
‘Sure,’ said Priya.
They crossed the lawn and came to the bridge over the ha-ha. The field beyond was empty.
‘Where have the cows gone?’
‘To another field, I imagine,’ said Francis. ‘Unless they ate some shrooms and went on a wild trip.’
‘Very funny, Francis. So, did you notice anything I didn’t in that room?’
‘Pretty useless, wasn’t it? I’d been hoping we might find something the police had missed. But we were way too late for that.’
‘Worth seeing the video material, though?’
‘Certainly was,’ said Francis. ‘Shame Fleur didn’t get a chance to download the Sunday morning footage too. I wonder what it was that our murderer didn’t want anyone seeing.’
‘Maybe something in an interview that gave him away. Or a sequence from Saturday night. Grace being on such friendly terms with Anna and Marv … then introduced to him …’
‘Yes,’ said Francis, thoughtfully. They walked on together down the field. ‘OK,’ he continued, ‘let’s go back to basics and establish where we are. Rory and his pals are now, or soon will be, with DCI Julie. She is obviously not allowed to use any leverage on him, for fear of risking any case she builds up being thrown out by the courts. But none the less I suspect she’ll get him to admit that a) the three of them were drinking “shroom tea” on Sunday afternoon, and b) that there was enough left in the pot to send Grace a bit doolally had she tried some.’
‘D’you think she did?’
Francis shrugged. ‘I don’t.’
‘So how about the psilocybin in her autopsy?’
‘I stick by my original thought: that our murderer fed it to her. The question remains, why was Rory being so cagey?’
‘That was definitely his LSD in her bloodstream, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I would,’ Francis agreed.
‘But you don’t think he’s … responsible?’
‘For?’
‘Pushing Grace off.’
Francis shook his head. ‘No way. There’s no motive. Unless he was working for or with Jonty, and I can’t really see that. Anyway, if he’d been involved in her death, I don’t think he’d have looked so worried.’
‘Surely that’s exactly what he’d have looked?’
‘I don’t think so. If he’d pushed her off those battlements himself, he’d have been acting his socks off to play the innocent. However, if he’s been a bit stupid leaving hallucinogens around, or selling someone a tab he shouldn’t have, and then someone has died, of course he’s going to look shit scared.’
They had reached the bottom of the field, where a fence marked off the woodland on the other side. Three strands of barbed wire ran along the horizontal wooden rails.
‘After you,’ said Francis.
‘Is it OK to climb over?’
‘Of course it is. Bit of barbed wire? Not a problem. I’ll hold it down for you.’
‘What if this land is private?’
Francis laughed. ‘I suspect it all belongs to Wyveridge. Even if it doesn’t, it’s a little-known fact that there’s no law against trespass in this country. As long as we don’t damage anything – which we’re not going to, are we?’ With this, Francis hoisted Priya over onto a shady patch still covered with the brown, composting leaves of last autumn. He climbed over after her and they cut down through the shade of the trees towards the sunny open ground on the far side.
‘Right,’ said Francis, ‘so the bottom line is that we know nothing for certain. However. Thanks to you, Priya, we appreciate that there is a man at this festival with a very valuable asset that needs protecting – his reputation: as a decent, ecologically minded, sharing, caring, family guy. Now there’s no denying that, as a result of some things that have happened over this weekend, that reputation is still intact. One huge potential news story, very damaging to our man and his brand, has been replaced by another. Add to that the fact that if both these deaths really are murders, we’re not dealing with a run-of-the-mill operative here. Bryce’s death was made to look convincingly natural. So much so that Dr Webster and I – and possibly the police too – were almost fooled. When and if we’re allowed to see the post-mortem results, things will hopefully be a bit clearer, but whoever it was bumped off Bryce, they did a good job.’
‘Is one way of looking at it,’ said Priya.
‘Sorry, Priya. I didn’t mean …’
‘I understand what you’re saying. Go on.’
‘OK, so for the time being, the police have, quite publicly, pulled their resources off the Bryce case. Maybe our murderer – or murderers – are thinking they’ve got away with one crime, and may yet get away with another. So this, I think, is our way forward.’
‘I’m not sure I follow you.’
‘Our suspicions are centred on three people, none of whom have their eyes closed.’
‘Jonty … and … Anna and Marv?’
‘Exactly. They all know I’ve been snooping around, if only because I’ve spoken directly to all of them. Now what I think should happen is that someone, ideally not me, should let them know that my enquiries have drawn a blank; and that the police are coming round to the idea that Bryce died of a heart attack or an aneurysm, which may or may not be related to his fondness for ecstasy in the 1990s and his ongoing taste for cocaine. And that, unrelated to all that, Grace took some acid, had a bad trip and threw herself off the battlements. We can also let our suspects know that Rory has been arrested. And why.’
‘So … we’re suggesting that … Rory is potentially in the frame for … what?’
‘No need to spell it out. The news of the arrest will be enough. Then watch the smile on the face of the tiger – or tigers – as they start to think they’ve got away with it. That’s when people let things slip. Especially in the company of a young woman they find attractive.’
Priya smiled. ‘You want me to talk to Jonty?’ she said.
‘It would certainly be interesting.’
‘And Anna and Marv?’
‘Let’s start with Jonty.’
They were coming out of the woodland now, blinking in the bright sunshine. Beyond, the ground levelled and became grassy again, a wide strip running to the river. Down here, well below the little town, this was a much wider affair, a gleaming, eddying stretch of water perhaps forty feet across. On the far side were fields of corn, still damp and bent after the weeks of rain. On this side, the green meadow ended in a steep bank, below which was a band of reeds, their blond heads tossing in the light breeze. There were a few low bushes nestled into the bank, but no trees. Except one, that is, fifty yards or so downstream, at the point where the river made a sweeping bend before narrowing slightly. It was a magnificent oak, with a wide trunk spreading up to thick branches, eminently climbable.
‘Now that,’ said Francis, ‘unless I’m very much mistaken, is the tree that your ex-boyfriend decided to sit in while he contemplated his rejection. I’m surprised he didn’t know it was an oak, but there you are. Arboreal nomenclature isn’t everyone’s forte. The only remaining question is: how long did he spend up there, crying over spilt milk?’
‘Hours probably,’ Priya said. ‘Knowing him.’
Francis looked over at her then, standing by the river in her neat little coat, her eyes bright, her long dark hair blowing to one side. For a moment, he paused. His younger, more impulsive self would have rushed over and taken her in his arms. But no, not now, not yet.
‘Come on,’ he said briskly. ‘We’d best be getting back.’