A Meditation On Murder. Robert ThorogoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
said before downing the last of his tea.
‘Well, thanks for your time, Catherine, but I really think we must get on.’
As Richard got up from the table and left without so much as a backwards glance, he didn’t see the amused look that passed between mother and daughter. Because what Richard never knew—and would certainly have never understood—was that both Camille and Catherine were set on reforming him. They’d get him to loosen up. To relax. Admittedly, it hadn’t worked yet, but neither of them were prepared to give up. Not yet.
With a kiss for her mother, Camille followed Richard out.
Half an hour later, Richard and Camille arrived back at the murder scene and Richard found himself pausing before he entered the building.
‘Problem?’ Camille asked.
Richard turned on the spot—taking in how the Meditation Space sat isolated on the wide lawn, the main house standing bright white against the blue sky—and a few shrubs of colourful tropical flowers in bushes dotted here and there.
‘Why here?’ he said.
‘You mean, why commit murder inside a Japanese tea house?’
Richard nodded. It still didn’t make any sense to him. The tea house was extremely exposed, but its translucency and lack of any kind of sound-proofing also seemed to make it the least likely place you’d want to carry out something as private as a murder.
He started walking around the structure. It was a large rectangular box-shape just sitting in the middle of a lawn with thick cream paper for walls and thick cream paper for the roof. What was more, the light that was trapped inside it made the whole thing seem to glow. It was as if a strange spaceship had landed in the middle of the lawn.
As Richard got closer, he could see thick vertical bands of dim shadows through the paper walls. These were the wooden pillars that made up the building’s internal structure. There seemed to be about a dozen such vertical pillars along each of the long sides of the room. But how was the paper attached to each of these pillars? Richard looked closer at the walls and saw hundreds—if not thousands—of staples attaching the paper to the pillars. The staples were deeply embedded into the wooden frame, were all quite rusty, and had all clearly been there for some time.
‘I wonder how the walls survive hurricane season?’ Richard asked.
Camille watched her boss press his hand against the paper wall. Clearly it was thickly waxed; extremely strong. But even so, there’d be no way it could survive the worst of the region’s weather.
‘The frame would be okay, but you’re right, I’m sure they need to replace the paper from time to time.’
Richard finished his circumnavigation of the Meditation Space. There were no rips or tears in the paper anywhere, and the rusting staples made it clear that this current batch of paper walls had been in situ for many months.
‘So what do you think?’ Camille asked. ‘Could the killer have got through the paper walls?’
‘No way,’ Richard said. ‘Not without damaging the paper. And the staples all around the outside of the building make it clear that no one’s tampered with any of the walls any time in the recent past. They’re all rusty.’
‘Then what about the door? Could the killer have got in that way?’
Richard considered the wood and paper door. It was like the rest of the building: a simple wooden frame with thick white paper stretched across it tight like a drum.
Richard looked back at the hotel, a hundred yards away. A considerable distance, perhaps, but he could see that the Meditation Space was slap bang in view not just of the verandah, but of everyone who’d been up at the hotel. If Rianka said no one entered or left through the door to the Meditation Space once her husband had gone inside with his guests, then she was almost certainly right: no one had entered or left through the door.
Richard said, ‘The door’s kind of a moot point, isn’t it? As everyone says the room was locked down by Aslan before they even sat down. But let’s see anyway.’
Richard opened the door and inspected its latch lock. It seemed an entirely normal Yale lock such as could be found on the inside of any front door in the UK. It was screwed firmly into the wooden frame of the door—just as the housing was screwed firmly into the doorframe that it slotted into.
‘Camille, could you go inside the room and lock me out please?’
‘Of course.’
Leaving Richard outside on the grass, Camille entered the Meditation Space and shut the door, the bolt of the Yale lock automatically slotting into the frame as it locked the door fast with a firm metallic clunk.
Richard could see that there was no handle on the outside of the door—or any other way to get purchase on the smooth papered surface. There was no keyhole on this side of the door, either, and the door fitted tight within the doorframe. Richard tried to get his fingers into the gap—tried to imagine how the door could have been opened or jemmied from outside without damaging it—and failed.
‘Okay, so I think that answers that question,’ he said. ‘Once locked down from the inside, there’s no way anyone could have broken in through this door from the outside. Not without damaging the frame or ripping through the paper walls.’
Richard heard the bolt clunk back, and Camille pulled the door open.
‘So no one got in through the door any more than they got in through the walls,’ Richard said as he entered the Meditation Space and once again was hit by the pounding heat and searing light. He yanked out his already-sodden hankie and dabbed at his forehead. Really, the heat was unbearable.
‘You can take your jacket off,’ Camille said.
Richard looked at his partner as though she were insane. He then returned to the job in hand.
The room was a perfect rectangle and Richard was pleased to see that he’d been right. There were twelve vertical wooden pillars running down each of the long sides, just as he’d expected. The paper attached to the outside of the pillars was translucent—of course it was, it was cream paper—the floor was highly polished hardwood planks, and there was nothing else in the room to break the perfect geometry of the space apart from half a dozen prayer mats, the wireless headphones and the cotton eye masks.
There was no way the killer could have been hiding in the room before the witnesses arrived. And Richard had just proven to his own satisfaction that it wasn’t possible to break into the room after the door had been closed and locked down from the inside.
This meant that there were only five possible people who could have killed Aslan Kennedy: the five people of the Sunrise Healing who were already in the room with him when he closed and locked the door.
Richard’s irritation spiked. He could feel in his bones that there was something about the room that was important. Something to do with it being made out of paper. After all, why was it inside this building that Aslan was killed? At the very least, it offended Richard’s sense of the natural order of things that paper could prove so impregnable. It was only paper for heaven’s sakes, but Richard knew that for all that it was possible to break in from the outside, the Meditation Space’s wall and ceiling might as well have been constructed from stone, and the door from iron.
‘It really is a locked room. Isn’t it?’ Camille said.
‘I’d agree with that. Which means that if Julia’s not our killer, then it has to be one of Saskia, Paul, Ann or Ben.’
‘But why would any of them want to kill Aslan?’
‘Precisely,’ Richard said just as he saw a flash of light across the room where the wooden floor met the paper wall.
‘Camille?’
‘What?’
‘You know what, I think that’s another one.’
Richard