Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

Troy laughed. “Measured things differently in those days, Chief.”

“No, no. Look at the finish – the precision in all of these machines. I suspect they were an obsession with Brinkley. He’d never overlook a fault like that.”

“So…?” Troy wandered round the trebuchet, looking upwards. “The ramp has been messed with.”

“That’s right. See if you can find some steps. Make sure they’ve been dusted.”

Troy found some lightweight alloy ones in the garage, brought them in and, having already sussed whose day this was for walking the plank, climbed straight up.

“How does it look?”

“Ratchet, two huge screws, a block underneath to support it. These balls must weigh a ton.”

“How’s the block fixed?”

“Screws again.”

“So to alter the angle…?”

“Just remove the screws, rejig the ramp, put them back and retighten.”

“Taking the balls out first.”

“Blimey, yes. Otherwise the whole lot would come crashing down.”

“How long might that take?”

“Half an hour tops, I’d say.”

“The result being that the next time he reached out and tugged on the rope…”

“Kersplat!” Troy climbed down again.

“But why pull it at all?”

“Maybe he just played with the stuff,” said Troy. “You know—like some blokes like trains.”

Barnaby decided to leave it there. SOCO’s report should help them to a clearer understanding of the exact situation in this strange room on the day Dennis Brinkley was killed. The chief inspector collected the rest of the pictures from the stone slab, which he now saw was engraved in gold with rather beautiful calligraphic script. He read out the lines.

“Throwing first he struck the horn of the horse-haired helmet, and the bronze spearpoint fixed in his forehead and drove inward through the bone; and a mist of darkness clouded both eyes and he fell as a tower falls in the strong encounter.

“ The Iliad , Book Four”

After a moment’s silence Sergeant Troy spoke. “Re-pressed, that’s what they are, these loners. Going around that respectable and timid and law-abiding, and all the while hoarding this mad stuff. Police files are full of them.”

Barnaby said mildly, “He didn’t actually do anything.”

“Bet he did. Otherwise why knock him off?”

After examining Dennis Brinkley’s flat Barnaby returned to Appleby House to be told that Miss Frayle was presently in her own flat above the stables.

Though the stables themselves were in a neglected state, with half the doors missing and the stonework flaky, the architect had done a grand job on the conversion. Totally in period, he had even accommodated the original clock tower, though the metal face and coach-and-horses weather-cock were now heavily stained with verdigris. The hands on the clock had stopped at seven.

Benny had seen the two men climbing the stairs. A narrow veranda with wooden rails ran the length of the flat and she came along it to meet them. She was smiling and Barnaby could see the smile was not one of triumph but simply an expression of relieved satisfaction.

“Chief Inspector, it’s good to see you again.” She held out her hand. “Welcome to my home.”

And very nice too, thought Sergeant Troy, taking it all in. He was thinking of getting some work done on his loft but it was a cramped little hole and would never look anything like this.

“Nice, isn’t it?” said Benny. “It’s only one living space wide, of course, so every room opens into the next – like a box puzzle. But as I live by myself that doesn’t matter. They used to store all the spare tack up here. And animal feed.”

“Miss Frayle,” said Barnaby, “I need to talk to you—”

“Would you like some tea? We’re in the kitchen already, as you see. On the spot, as it were.”

“We’ve just had lunch, thank you,” said Sergeant Troy.

“Through here then.”

They disposed themselves about the sitting room. Troy at a satiny oval table on a spindle chair, the chief inspector on a tapestry settee and Benny in a high-backed wing chair by the old-fashioned mantelpiece. Barnaby couldn’t help noticing how carefully she lowered herself into this chair, how gently she rested her fingers on the padded arms.

“I want to thank you, Inspector, for personally coming to tell me about this latest development,” said Benny, “but Mallory has already put me in the picture. If only I’d known, I could have saved you a journey.”

“There are other matters. One or two questions.”

“Oh, really?” She straightened her shoulders, setting them firmly back. “Fire away, then.”

“I’m afraid I have to ask you to recall the night Mr. Brinkley was killed.” He thought it wise to get the bad stuff over first. He was expecting fear and trembling. Perhaps a perfectly understandable refusal to confront such appalling memories.

But Benny simply said calmly, “I understand.”

“Why were you actually there, Miss Frayle?”

“Dennis was coming to dinner at seven thirty. After waiting twenty minutes or so I went to look for him. He was never late, you see.”

“How did you get into the house?”

“Through the kitchen.”

“You didn’t ring the bell?”

“I did but he didn’t come. I wasn’t too surprised. The front door was usually locked and bolted. Much easier, he used to say, to go in straight from the garage.”

“I see.” It must have been unbolted for the paramedics, presumably by Lawson. So where did he get the key?

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary when you went through the flat?”

“No.”

“Please, take a moment to think. The smallest detail could be important.”

“I walked straight through the kitchen, checked the two other rooms, and then – found him.”

“Was the door to this place with the machines closed?”

“Yes.”

And then Barnaby understood how precariously her calm was maintained. He watched her open the door again. Saw the terrible image flare behind her eyes. All colour left her face. Even her lips were white.

“Can I get you something?” Troy pushed back his chair. “A glass of water?”

Benny shook her head. Barnaby observed a tic, jumping fiercely just beneath the crescent of fat under her left eye and recognised that he had made a mistake. He should have worked up to or around this. Started with questions that would have seemed innocuous; eased her gradually into that dreadful place. Her relaxed demeanour had misled him. Too late now.

“So, did you enter the room, Miss Frayle?”

“Yes. I went in. Just enough to. Then I ran away.”

“Straight to Appleby House?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember going back. Only waking up in the hospital.”

She was staring around at the furniture, at the windows and pictures as if she had never seen them before. The awkward silence lengthened. Barnaby hesitated. Troy spoke up.

“Actually – I hope it’s all right – but could I change my mind about the tea?”

“Tea? Of course. Yes, yes.” Benny, propelled to her feet by convention and good manners, re-entered the present moment. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Sergeant Troy, encouraged by a nod of approval from the DCI, followed her into the kitchen. Barnaby heard them chatting, clattering cups. The odd phrase filtered out. They seemed to be talking about cats, books, someone called Ashley. Visiting Croydon. There was a crackling of paper and a cry from Troy: “Oohh…I love those.” Then they came back, the sergeant carrying a heavy tray.

As Benny poured the tea she was thinking how wrong it was to make quick judgements when first meeting people. She had thought Sergeant Troy ill-mannered, even unkind, but today he couldn’t have been nicer. Look at him now, passing the ginger nuts.