A Willing Victim (8 page)

The door was answered by a manservant with a bearing so stiff that he might have had a tray stuffed down the back of his jacket. Although Stratton was expected – and had readjusted his accent – the chap’s tone as he repeated the word ‘Inspector’ suggested that he was holding some particularly unpleasant article between his finger and thumb, just before dropping it in the dustbin. He ushered Stratton into a vast hall, decorated with wine-red flock wallpaper and heavy mahogany mouldings, and left him to contemplate the grand, curved staircase, hung, as far up as the eye could see, with gilt-framed oils of Tynan’s – or somebody’s – ancestors. Unless they were his wife’s family, Stratton supposed he must have bought them as a job lot and then adopted them, as it were, backwards.

After about five minutes, the man returned and led him past a series of half-open doors through which he could see glimpses of bronzes and marble busts and what he thought were Russian
icons, cheek-by-jowl with paintings and framed maps as well as the usual furniture. Stratton remembered that, besides all the cigars and brandy and what-have-you, Tynan’s books were full of descriptions of fine things of just this type. He also remembered what Diana had said about the man’s art collection, and the particular way she’d described both him and his house as ‘grand’. Stratton could see what she’d meant. It did all seem a bit, well,
staged
, somehow.

Tynan was waiting in his library, a large, high-ceilinged room at the back of the house with tall windows that looked out onto a terrace. Below it was a geometrical arrangement of low hedges that Stratton thought was called a parterre. As they entered, he rose from behind an enormous desk, a large man with a fleshy face and thick white hair swept dramatically off his brow, tweed-suited and wearing a tie that Stratton would have bet his last penny had some educational or military significance. The desk, like the rest of the furniture, was heavy, dark, and looked to be Victorian. Despite the fact that Tynan couldn’t have been more than ten years older than he was, the room, with its rows of leather-covered books stamped in gold and a plum-coloured smoking jacket hanging behind the door, had the air of belonging to someone from another age.

‘How do you do?’ said Tynan. At least, Stratton guessed that was what he’d said, and replied accordingly. Not only did his heavily jowled face have the sort of peering, disgruntled expression that indicated a member of a privileged social group having to deal with a troublesome underling, but he spoke in a sort of fluctuating whinny with half the words swallowed back in just as they were coming out.

‘I’ve asked my man to bring us some tea,’ said Tynan, indicating that Stratton should take a seat. Settling himself on the opposite side of the desk (in a considerably higher and more comfortable chair), Tynan leant forward and, steepling his fingers,
closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply. As he did so, his hands twitched slightly, as if an electric current was passing between the tips of his fingers. This performance over, he opened his eyes wide in an expression of almost malevolent intensity and said, ‘I understand you wish to ask questions about poor Jeremy Lloyd. We met on a number of occasions. Not socially, of course.’

Heaven forbid, thought Stratton. ‘How did you meet him?’

‘At the Foundation.’

‘The Foundation?’

‘The Foundation for Spiritual Understanding. A group of individuals who are, shall we say, Seekers After Truth.’ He pronounced the last three words in audible capitals.

Must be the ‘like-minded people’ mentioned by Father Shaw, thought Stratton. ‘When you say “truth” . . .?’

Tynan laughed indulgently. ‘What is truth, said jesting Pilot, and would not stay for an answer. As most of us don’t these days, I’m afraid. They are based near here. In fact, I was instrumental in acquiring a house for them. I admire their work enormously.’

‘And their work is . . . ?’

‘Their
aims
,’ said Tynan, with the air of one imparting a revelation, ‘are to discover and put into practice a precise system of knowledge about man’s place in the universe and his spiritual evolution. There is no reason why an ordinary man should not develop spiritually. One does not need to be a yogi or a monk in order to do so . . .’ Bloody good job for you, mate, thought Stratton, eyeing the fine-grained luxury around him. ‘However,’ continued Tynan, raising his voice in a clear rebuke to Stratton’s waning attention, ‘some form of guidance is needed. The vast inheritance of spiritual wealth from the East has – until comparatively recently – been ignored by the West.’ His speech, with its authoritarian rhythms and occasional startling emphases, reminded Stratton of DCI Lamb at his most dictatorial and bullying. Clearly, being a successful and
revered novelist, Tynan was well used to being listened to unchallenged. It was only, Stratton thought, the stroke of good fortune that made his stuff popular that separated him from the fate of being – as Lloyd, he felt, undoubtedly had been – not only a crank but a bore as well. ‘The ancient sages of the East,’ Tynan continued, ‘have much to teach us, if only we will listen.’

‘Such as?’ enquired Stratton in his blandest tone.

‘Philosophy. That is the love of wisdom. One can find wisdom through self-knowledge, but first one must free oneself from illusory constraints such as character, likes and dislikes, joy, sadness, pain. One can live unaffected by the world, yet play one’s part in it. The secret is,’ Tynan leant forward conspiratorially, ‘to see that it is
all
a play. When you see that your own life is a play and the whole work of society is a play, you gain independence from it because you can step away from it. It cannot touch you.’

Stratton felt that was a bit much coming from someone who was so keen on this ‘play’ that he had, as Diana had said, very obviously designed an impressive part for himself in it. ‘And Lloyd was a student of this philosophy, was he?’

‘Very much so. He was one of the first.’

‘So he would have come to the Foundation when?’

‘Nineteen forty-seven, I should think. Around that time.’

‘Presumably there’s a religious component to this . . . way of thinking.’

‘Religion?’ Tynan threw his hands in the air in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture. ‘Religion is based on duality. Me down here,’ he gestured at the parquet floor, ‘God hovering around somewhere,’ he jabbed a finger at the elaborate cornicing, ‘up there.’ No wonder Lloyd didn’t elaborate on any of this to Father Shaw, thought Stratton.

‘The philosophy,’ continued Tynan, ‘is the way of unity. We are separated from our true selves not only by our ideas of God, but by the distractions of the world.’

Bit rich coming from a man with a mansion full of worldly distractions, thought Stratton, wondering when the tea was going to arrive. ‘So this takes the form of lectures, does it?’

‘Yes, and study. There are exercises, too, and coming under discipline through a measured programme of physical and spiritual activities, early rising, segregation of the sexes, obedience, and so forth . . . but those are only for initiates.’

‘Initiates?’ This, Stratton thought, sounded suspiciously like one of Tynan’s own books, with robed people walking round in circles intoning things before waving their hands over sacred flames. ‘So they have ceremonies, do they?’

Tynan smiled indulgently. ‘It’s really very simple,’ he said. ‘The exercises and activities help people to gain understanding – to connect them to their true selves.’

‘And this is a community, is it? I mean, the initiates live at the Foundation?’

‘About twenty of them. Others visit on a regular basis.’

‘And the finances? Upkeep and so forth?’

‘The students pay modest fees, of course, and gifts are given by those, such as myself, who are able to afford it. I can assure you that no one is asked to contribute beyond their means.’

‘Did Lloyd pay fees?’ asked Stratton, wondering how he could have afforded to have done so.

Tynan shook his head. ‘In some cases, we are able to make provision.’

‘And what about when he left? Did the Foundation pay for his lodgings in London?’

‘I don’t believe so.’

‘A benefactor, perhaps?’

Tynan gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I have no idea, Inspector.’

‘I see.’ Stratton produced the photograph Wintle had given him and slid it across the desk. ‘What about this lady? Is she a student, too?’

The novelist looked down at the photograph and Stratton saw the beginnings of what looked like a dreamy smile – a memory of carnality, perhaps? – quickly replaced by a more serious expression. ‘Yes, she’s a student.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Ananda.’

‘An—? Could you spell it, please?’

‘A, N, A, N, D, A,’ said Tynan, as Stratton wrote. ‘It’s a Sanskrit word – means “bliss”. Sanskrit is the most ancient of languages. It’s not only the root of Hindi, but of all—’

‘She doesn’t look Indian,’ said Stratton.

‘She’s as English as you or me,’ snapped Tynan, clearly irritated at being cut off in full flow. Hardly surprising, thought Stratton, as he obviously wasn’t used to it. ‘It was the leader, Theodore Roth, who called her Ananda. He said it reflected her true nature.’

‘Do you know her original name?’

‘Mary.’

‘Surname?’

‘Milburn. Mrs Milburn.’

‘Do you know if she went by any other name? There are some initials on the back of the photograph.’

Frowning, Tynan turned it over, and then his face cleared. ‘I should imagine that L.R. stands for Lincott Rectory. That’s where the picture was taken – where the Foundation is based. It’s not far from here.’

Remembering a newspaper headline, Stratton said, ‘Wasn’t that—’

‘The most haunted house in England? That’s the one. All that was before the war, of course. I’ve written a bit about it myself, as it happens – articles for newspapers, and so on. We got it for a song at the beginning of 1947 because it was in such a mess, and of course it was far too big for a modern vicar and cost a fortune to heat.’

‘If twenty people can live there,’ said Stratton, ‘it must be enormous.’

‘The larger bedrooms have been made into dormitories,’ said Tynan. ‘And we’ve managed to use some of the loft space, but you’re right,’ he chuckled merrily, ‘it can get a bit crowded, especially with all the visitors. Everybody mucks in, you know. Bit like the army.’

Oh really, thought Stratton. Everything he’d ever heard about the army suggested that it was the Poor Bloody Infantry who did all the mucking in while those in charge ponced about with swagger sticks and gave orders. More to the point, he felt, might be something Pete had once said to him about army logic being completely different to the ordinary sort, to the extent that it was either mind-numbingly contradictory, or missing altogether.

‘The church put the place up for sale,’ Tynan continued, ‘but nobody wanted to take it on – too big, and it hadn’t been inhabited since before the war. The current incumbent had moved into a much smaller place, so it was just left to rot. The students have really worked hard on it, though, and done wonders. No ghosts now, of course.’

If there ever were, thought Stratton. God Almighty, there was quite enough airy-fairy stuff to wade through without adding apparitions and poltergeists and Christ only knew what else. Indicating the photograph, he said, ‘Do you know her well?’

‘I wouldn’t say “well”.’ Tynan sounded defensive.

‘Has she not been at the Foundation long, then?’ asked Stratton.

Tynan peered at him suspiciously. ‘She came to live at Lincott Rectory about a year after we bought it, to help Mr Roth. I suppose you might say she’s his Right-hand Woman.’

‘So you’ve known her since 1948,’ said Stratton. ‘Eight years. That’s quite a while.’ Affecting not to notice that Tynan’s look of suspicion was now tinged with outrage, he asked blandly, ‘Do you know anything about her background?’

Tynan frowned for a moment, and then, with a relief at having attained safe ground that he could not quite manage to disguise, he said, ‘That is the past. What matters is the present.’

‘I’ve found,’ said Stratton, in as neutral a voice as he could manage, ‘that in a murder investigation the past often has a hell of a lot of impact on the present, so it would be helpful if you could tell me anything you know.’

‘That is the point,’ said Tynan, as if explaining something to an exceptionally backward child. ‘I know very little about Ananda because I have never considered it important to enquire. That is not what our work is about. One thing,’ here, he smiled at Stratton as if conferring a favour, ‘that I do know, however, is that she’d lived at Lincott Rectory before. She was the vicar’s wife.’

‘That would be . . .’ Stratton glanced down at his notebook, ‘the Reverend Milburn, would it?’

‘That’s correct, yes.’

‘Quite a coincidence, her coming back.’

‘If you choose to believe in such things,’ said Tynan, ‘then yes, it is. When one looks beyond the surface, one sees that everything happens for a reason. Ananda came to the Foundation with her son – he was a baby then – and she stayed.’

‘And the reason for her coming back?’

‘Those things,’ said Tynan, loftily, ‘that float into the mind of the individual who is attentive and still, and whose mind is open to them, are the gifts of the wise.’ In other words, thought Stratton, you’ve got no idea. ‘It has been said,’ Tynan continued, ‘that they set an idea in the atmosphere which is appropriate to the time and wait for some open heart to pick it up. It has been said that the man who picks it up has the ability to feed others in the spiritual sense.’

Stratton would have dearly liked to retort that it has been said that the moon is made of green cheese but that had turned out
to be bollocks as well. Instead, he said, ‘What about the vicar – the one who was her husband. What happened to him?’

‘I have never asked. And,’ Tynan held up a hand as if stopping a flow of traffic, ‘before you say anything, I know nothing at all about Lloyd’s background.’

‘I see. And what is . . .’ Stratton glanced at his notebook, ‘Ananda’s relationship with Mr Roth?’

‘Purely platonic. I give you my word on that. Anything else would be unthinkable . . .’ He tailed off purposely, leaving words to the effect of ‘you grubby little man’ hanging soundless in the air.