Evidence was offered as to the dangerously aggressive and violent behaviour of Riley. He had caused the death of the accused’s uncle and had also made an attempt on the life of the accused which was only foiled by the quickest thinking. (Here the piece of metal was produced.)
No one but Andrew Carter ever knew the real reason why Tim had to die. Troy had hit on it whilst tossing ideas about, but the supposition had been one of many not to be pursued. The fact was that, caught up unwillingly in the rush down to May, Tim had indeed been distressed at being separated from his beloved Master and was making his way back when the knife had been thrown. He had seen the action, looked back, seen the murderer. And been seen in his turn.
Carter was sentenced to eight years in prison, of which he served six and a half. Having left the residue from the sale of his watch in the hands of a shrewd investment analyst, by the time he was paroled the amount had substantially increased. A few weeks later, wearing most of it round his waist in a money-belt, he skipped the country.
He travelled around Europe for some months - living high, spending and gambling until some serious unpleasantness in Marseilles involving a marked deck in a poker game caused him to move on. He flew to America then, choosing to land at San Diego, attracted by the idea of the sunshine state. He hired a car there and drove up the coast. Unfortunately, just outside Sausalito, he was waylaid, savagely beaten and robbed of all he possessed by a couple of mafiosi disguised as New Age shamans.
EPILOGUE
Sylvie Gamelin left the Manor a few days after the case was solved, refusing her mother’s offer of the keys to the London house and moving instead into an anonymous hotel in Victoria. Here, for over a month she stayed in her room, resting, coming out just to eat at the in-house restaurant and, once, to visit the family solicitor.
The revelations about Arthur Craigie (as she now could not help thinking of him) had shocked her deeply. Accepting that his conversion - which had taken place before they met - was genuine, Sylvie still could not regard his teachings with the uncritical admiration of former times. This seemed to double the sense of loss she felt at his death and also add confusion, so that she felt unable to grieve cleanly.
The lengthy breathing space at the hotel helped sort these feelings out and she began gradually to appreciate that the veracity of the insights received were independent of her teacher’s moral character. And to know that her experiences during meditation were not a matter of self-indulgent conjuration. They were true, if mysterious, encouragements that she was right in her decision to seek a way of life that included some sort of spiritual discipline.
It was during this period that a letter, forwarded from the Windhorse, arrived from Willoughby Greatorex asking her to come and see him. She went with some reluctance, expecting a firm avuncular lecture on the future disposition of her trust fund only to find that the matter in question was the reading of her father’s Will. Guy had left all of which he died possessed to his daughter. Although Sylvie always knew this to be his intention, she was still dismayed when it turned out to be so. Before she left, Sir Willoughby handed her a large manila envelope - saying that it was her father’s wish that she should have it. He did not know what it contained.
Back in her room, Sylvie put the envelope at the back of her wardrobe and tried to forget about it. She did not need further reminders of her father. One of the things that occupied her most during this period of solitary introspection was the knowledge that, although innocent of the murder of which she had so vehemently accused him, Guy had died knowing that she believed in his guilt. And, whilst her feelings towards him in a general sense had not changed, she bitterly regretted this single misapprehension. Several times, sitting quietly and trying to get some sort of sense and order into her thoughts, she had tried to ‘reach’ him by closing her eyes and concentrating so intensely on his image that her head began to swim. All this mental activity, however, was in vain. Guy remained resolutely unreachable and so, presumably, unaware of his daughter’s remorse.
Eventually she opened the envelope, tipping the contents out on to the bed. She had half expected to find share certificates or insurance policies and was nonplussed at the sheets of folded paper, photographs, ticket stubs and programmes that tumbled all over the duvet. She picked up the topmost piece of paper and smoothed it out.
It was a school report; Christmas term 1983. There were a lot more. Every one, in fact, from that year until she left. Plus paintings, maps and scientific drawings and a lace-edged collar lumpily embroidered ‘S.G.’ that had mysteriously vanished soon after she brought it home. There was some sheet music and one piece, ‘The Robin’s Return’, had been vividly inscribed by felt-tipped pens. A lock of hair twisted into a rubber band. She remembered when it had been waist-length she had insisted on having it cut, simply because her father said he loved it long. She found some ticket halves attached to a postcard of a gorilla on which was written Our Day At The Zoo.
She sat working through the pile, not always reading, sometimes giving things scarcely a look. But gradually, and at last, she came to know the extent of his loneliness and pain. Absorbing it, she let it mingle with her own. At the very bottom of the collection was a smaller sealed envelope with her name on. It held a letter which begged her forgiveness. The writer understood that his protestations of affection were unwelcome but perhaps, now that he was no longer present in person, they could safely be accepted in the sincere and loving spirit in which they had always been offered. He wished only for her happiness. She had been the single undeserved joy in his life. He was, always, her devoted father.
Sylvie held the letter for a long time. She sat completely still until the room grew quite dark, making of her profile an inky silhouette against the sodium-orange glow from the streetlights. She felt disturbed and regretful to the point of anguish. She thought back across the years of their estrangement and, in the light of the letter and the poignant heap of mementoes, no longer saw his observance and pursuit of her as spiteful and oppressive. She remembered him hovering in the doorway opposite her apartment, trying to hide when she came out, herself screaming abuse across the street.
Now she thought, what had he done after all that was so terrible? Neglected her, as no doubt thousands of busy parents did their children and then tried to make up for it, grossly overplaying his hand as he did in every other area of his life because he couldn’t help it. It seemed to Sylvie, the single piece of paper quivering in her hand, amazing that she had been able so easily and continuously to harden her heart against him.
The Master had said, ‘Try to know each other in that which is eternal.’ She had not tried to know her father at all, and now the letter was all she had and to lament over the omission all that she could do.
These perceptions made her so miserable that she was driven from the hotel to walk the surrounding streets. Around and about she strode through piles of damp yellow leaves, hardly taking note of passers-by and her surroundings, briefly resting sometimes on a bench before striding on fiercely. She would walk until exhausted then return to her hotel and sleep. Once she found a public garden and whiled away a whole afternoon concealed amongst the shrubs, trying to empty her mind and attend only to her breathing as she had been taught - but with little success. Regret, that most suffocating and sterile of emotions, consumed her in a way that drained the present of light and warmth, rendering a peaceful future seemingly impossible.