Death in Disguise by Caroline Graham Page A

foot as to scramble across the roof, replace the skylight, negotiate the twisty steps, and run downstairs in the brief moments between the lump of iron falling and himself re-entering the hall? Frankly it seemed impossible.
    The cowls creaked again and Christopher recalled his previous sensation of being overlooked. Perhaps he had hit on the explanation. If the would-be murderer (for what else could you call someone who aims a great lump of iron ore at a human skull?) had not left the roof at all but had stayed concealed, hiding… was maybe still hiding .
    He became keenly aware of the yawning space behind his back. Nothing but air. Oxygen, nitrogen and carbonic acid gas, excessively unsupportive. Fit only, when you came to think of it, for falling through. Just when he needed them most, Christopher felt the bones in his legs leak into his bloodstream.
    He moved quickly from the edge to the nearest chimney stack. It concealed no one. Nor did the second. Silently, heart bumping, he approached the last. Four lemon barley-sugar twists thick with soot. Soft-footed he began to circle the base. Half way round he had a wild desire to laugh, recognising the action from a score of spooky movies where the comic lead tiptoes round a tree followed by a man in a gorilla suit. But there was no one there. They must have climbed through the skylight, thought Christopher, while I was checking the gutter.
    He was turning to go when he noticed something sticking out from the gap between the chimney pots. It looked like the end of a metal rod. He tugged at it, slowly pulling out the whole thing. It was a crowbar.

    By the time Christopher had descended from the roof and made his way to May’s room, it was crowded with people. Standing in the doorway he did a quick count. A full house.
    He faced a most dramatic scene. Quite painterly in a Victorian narrative soil of way. Like one of those allegorised intimations of mortality showing an aged patriarch breathing his last, surrounded by tearful family and retainers, plus a mopey-looking dog.
    May reclined on a chaise longue looking, for her, quite pale. Someone had placed a fringed shawl of peacock-blue silk across her knees. Behind her the Master, white hair fairly sparkling in the sunlight, rested his hand lightly on her forehead. Suhami knelt at her side. Tim squatted on a footstool. Arno hovered, wringing his hands (really wringing them, like pieces of washing). Janet and Trixie, looking with but not quite of the group, stood a little apart.
    The Beavers were at the foot of the couch. Heather had brought her guitar and was quietly activating a few rather lachrymose chords. Ken said: ‘We’ve got a lot of healing to do here,’ and touched first his magnetic crystal then the sole of May’s foot with great solemnity.
    â€˜I’m all right,’ said May. ‘Accidents happen. Don’t fuss.’
    Heather started thrumming with a little more attack and now broke into a shrill quatrain, making them all jump.
O! zenith ray of cosmic power
Pour forth from thy celestial bower
Bright radiance in a golden shower
Sustaining here our star-born flower.
    Ken stroked his crystal again and looked sternly at everyone, then at the curtain pelmet as if accusing it of concealing vital information. At length he turned back to the recumbent figure and spoke. ‘You are now enfolded deep in Jupiter’s psi-probe and bathed in his miraculous healing influence.’
    â€˜Well I know that .’ May twitched at the silk shawl. ‘We are enfolded in miraculous healing rays at all times whatever the source. Now—I need my rescue remedy and some arnica for bruising. They’re in the little shell box. Would someone please…?’
    Arno moved first, saying as he handed it over, ‘Perhaps you’d like some oxymel too, May?’
    â€˜Why not? Honey never hurts. Thank you, Arno.’
    Delighted at being under instruction from the queen of his heart, Arno