Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

He walked round the area of the big machine carefully. It was easy to see what had happened. There was a wooden rack set up on a frame around twelve feet square standing directly alongside the catapult. Six huge wooden balls were secured there. A seventh, heavily stained, was lying a short distance from the dead man’s head.

Gresham called into the station to ask for a photographer. This looked to him like an accidental but it was always advisable to have a record of the scene. Then he went back to the sitting room to find the guy who had called them out, looking slightly less green and drinking a cup of tea. Palmer had already produced his notebook.

“Got the medic sorted, Palmer?”

“Yes, Sergeant. Dr. Cornwell. He’s been notified.”

“My aunt’s doctor,” offered Mallory. “He’ll be so—”

“Could you tell me how Miss Frayle came to find the body, Mr. Lawson?”

“He – Dennis – was expected for dinner at Appleby House – which is where I live – and Benny too. But he didn’t turn up.”

“You were on social terms then?”

“He was a family friend,” replied Mallory quietly. “I’d known him all my life.”

“Surname?”

“Brinkley.”

“Did he live here alone?”

“Yes.”

“Any idea who his next of kin might be?”

“I’m afraid not. His parents are both dead—thank heavens. I believe he had a cousin somewhere in Wales but I don’t think they’ve been in touch for years.”

“Right,” said Sergeant Gresham. “Now, this person you reckon found the body…”

“Benny Frayle,” supplied Palmer.

“She seems to have been sick, by the way—”

“That was me. Sorry.”

“I presume she rang you from here?”

“No. She made her way back…somehow…to Appleby House.”

“Somehow?”

How was Mallory to describe Benny’s terrible perambulation? Her blind stare and lumbering mechanical stride. The screwed-up blinking eyes and gaping mouth.

“Do you remember what Miss Frayle actually said when she arrived?”

“No.” He saw no point in mentioning Benny’s strange repetition of the word “rook.” “She was…well, she seemed to have no grasp at all of what was going on.”

“Understandable,” said Gresham. “And you came straight round here?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get in?”

“The kitchen door was unlocked.”

Here the volume of sound outside the house became suddenly louder. There was knocking at the front door and Palmer disappeared to return almost immediately murmuring, “Photographer.”

“How did you let him in?”

“Key in the lock, Sarge.”

Gresham’s questions continued, all entirely off the beam as far as Mallory could comprehend. At one point he was asked why he had called the police in the first place.

“I don’t understand.”

“Most people under such circumstances, having dialled nine, nine, nine, would have asked for an ambulance.”

“What on earth for?”

“There are procedures to be followed, Mr. Lawson. The body has to be pronounced dead. It has to be removed.”

“You don’t think of…I was all over the place. Christ—you’ve been in that room. How would you have felt?”

Cool as a Cornetto, thought Palmer, giving his note-taking wrist a break. That’s how the sarge would’ve felt. Palmer thought he’d like to be as detached, as laid-back as Gresham one day. That is, sometimes he thought he would. Other times he wasn’t so sure.

“So you didn’t feel there was anything…out of order?”

“Out of order?” Mallory frowned at the sergeant, puzzled. Then the puzzlement became incredulity. “You can’t mean—”

“Suspicious, sir, yes.”

“Of course not. That’s…ridiculous. Unbelievable.”

That was the sergeant’s opinion too but it didn’t hurt to stir the pot. All sorts of things had been known to float to the surface on these occasions. Not necessarily relevant to the case in point but often very interesting.

At this stage in his reflections the doorbell rang again. Once more Palmer jumped to it and shortly afterwards Jimmy Cornwell came into the room. He went straight across to Mallory.

“God, Mallory. This is just appalling, Dennis. What actually happened?”

Mallory described what had happened. Cornwell listened, occasionally compelled to interrupt. He said, “Christ! Not Benny,” and, “That terrible place.” Then he went with Gresham to identify the body. Cornwell rolled Dennis over, glanced briefly at what was left of his face, nodded and walked quickly away. In the kitchen he filled a glass with tap water and, once more in the sitting room, opened his case.

“Look, Mallory – I’m going to give you these tablets. And I want you—”

“I’m all right.”

“Believe me, you are not all right.” He turned to Sergeant Gresham.

“How soon can he leave?”

“Presumably Mr. Lawson will want to wait until the body has been removed. And the house secured.”

“Of course, yes,” blurted out Mallory. The thought had never occurred to him, though he hoped it would have done when the time came.

“What would be helpful is for us to talk to the last person to see Mr. Brinkley alive. Do you have any ideas in that direction at all, sir?”

“Not really. It could have been someone in his office. Or maybe a neighbour saw him coming home.”

Palmer noted Dennis Brinkley’s business address. Dr. Cornwell stood over Mallory until he had taken two of the tablets. Then he scribbled on the bottle and placed it next to Mallory’s nearly full tumbler before leaving. Meanwhile Sergeant Gresham, after having checked over the sitting room, could be heard moving about in the rest of the house.

“What’s he doing?” Mallory asked Constable Palmer.

“Checking for a note, Mr. Lawson.”

“A note!” It took Mallory a moment to work out the connection. Then a manic desire to laugh seized him. The idea that Dennis, Dennis of all people, would decide to end his life at all, let alone by releasing a cannon ball, then laying his head in its path, was utter lunacy. Surreal, in fact. Uncontrollable like hiccups, the laughter forced its way out of Mallory’s mouth in little moaning shouts.

Palmer watched helplessly. The usual method of dealing with hysterics was out of the question here. There was no way he was going to risk being up on an assault charge with only six months’ probation under his belt. Sergeant Gresham came in, summed up the situation, threw the remaining water at Mallory and sent Palmer for a towel.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Lawson.”

“No, no.” Mallory mopped his face. “You were…I mean, it’s all right.”

The ambulance arrived and left a bare ten minutes later, bearing Dennis away. The small crowd, satisfied at being present at the final curtain, slowly dispersed. And not long after, the police prepared to do the same.

Mallory was left then in sole possession of Kinders. His first act was to ring Appleby House but there was no response. Presumably Kate was still at the hospital. He would find out which one, but first there was the clearing up to do. Mallory’s stomach heaved at the thought but there was no way he could decently leave it for anyone else.

He took a large paper towel roll and a black bin liner and went back into the war room, putting all the lights on and leaving the door wide open. He scooped up most of the vomit and other mess, filled the bag with stained towels, knotted it tightly and threw it in the dustbin. He wiped the ball as well as he could, then washed it clean in the kitchen sink. Then he filled a bowl with hot water, mixed in some Dettol and washing-up liquid, found a scrubbing brush and some old dusters and went back to finish the job. When he had finished he scoured his hands at the kitchen sink until they looked like newly boiled lobsters.