Caroline Graham - A Ghost in the Machine

As if reading his sergeant’s mind Barnaby said: “We’ll keep the questions to the point, OK?”

“Fine by me.”

“I don’t want you running off at a tangent over some esoteric quiddity.”

“Thought they were a rock group.”

Troy was laughing already in anticipation. He spotted The Three Tuns where they were supposed to turn. Manoeuvre, signal, mirror. And there they were in Clover Street, Camel Lancing. Evens on his side.

“Could you look out for fifteen, Chief?”

Troy was not quite sure what he expected. Perhaps a tiny hunched-up hovel with a witch’s hat on the roof, like one of the drawings in Talisa Leanne’s storybooks. Or a grey, castle-shaped construction, sinisterly shrouded in mist. Number 15 Clover Street was a small, semi-detached house of outstanding dullness. Even the garden was so drab as to be almost invisible.

“This is it,” said Barnaby. “Park by that laurel.”

Troy, quite overcome with disappointment, parked. But then, ringing the bell, he cheered up somewhat. First the door mat seemed to be covered in all sorts of mysterious signs and symbols and also the bell itself was in the form of a pregnant goat with green glass eyes.

“Chief Inspector Barnaby?”

“That’s right. Mr. Footscray?”

“We’ve been expecting you. And this is…?”

“Sergeant Troy,” said Sergeant Troy, producing his warrant card and having it waved away.

“Enter, please. Come and meet Mother.”

They stepped into a tiny hall on to a large rug featuring a lion and a unicorn, a crown and a begirdled woman holding a thistle. There was also a butler. He was a life-sized wooden cutout, badly if carefully painted and somewhat removed from the normal run of butlers in that he had full-feathered, floor-length wings with golden tips. There were some neatly folded newspapers on his tray and a notice reading “Donations: Thank You.”

“They’re here, darling.” George opened a door, then flattened himself against it so the two policemen could squeeze through. Then, to Barnaby: “I expect you’d like some refreshment?”

Neither man replied. Just simply stood and stared. They had entered a shrine dedicated to the worship of one of the most revered deities of the twentieth century. Every inch of the walls was covered with plates, mugs, tins, photographs, drawings and paintings reflecting her image. Bookshelves held china figurines in her likeness. She adorned biscuit barrels and gestured from coaches of golden filigree. A glass case held a hairdresser’s block supporting a lime-green, fur-trimmed brocade hat dripping with feathers.

In an armchair, peering from a swaddle of airy blankets, sat a tiny old lady. Little puffs of hair like cotton wool seemed to have settled on her pale scalp at random. Not a scrap of her face was clear of wrinkles but her eyes were blue as periwinkles, bright and sharp.

“Welcome,” she said. “Please sit down.”

The voice was a shock. It was quite loud and had a clackety rattly delivery, like a stick being drawn across railings. She was indicating a sofa, draped with a tapestry illustrating various royal residences. Barnaby sat on Windsor Castle. Troy got the mausoleum at Frogmore. Neither knew quite what to say.

“Hello,” said the old lady. “I’m Esmeralda Footscray.”

Barnaby introduced himself and Sergeant Troy. There was some more silence broken by the sound of cutlery, off stage, as it were.

Eventually Troy, gesturing, said, “Quite a collection.”

“From the moment of her birth.” She indicated several rows of box files stacked beneath shelves crammed with photograph albums.

“Must be worth quite a bit.”

“Money?” Esmeralda’s disdain knew no bounds. As Troy said afterwards, he felt like he’d been caught farting in church. “All these artefacts are saturated with sublunar energy to be transmitted whenever an urgent need arises. As you can imagine she needs constant recharging, especially after that last operation.”

“Sublunar energy, yes,” repeated the sergeant, just as if this was an everyday conversation. He stared out of the windows, which were heavily barred, and noticed that the door too had a quite an elaborate lock.

“This is our guidance source.” She stretched forwards with some difficulty and laid her hand upon a milky white globe. It glowed, the interior pulsating gently like an illumined heart. Troy looked around for the flex but could see none. “Formulated and constantly sustained by my guide, Hu Sung Kyong.”

“That’s very…er…”

Barnaby closed his eyes and shut his ears. He had had enough arcaneries, enough giddy convulsions of the spirit already in this case to last him a lifetime.

Troy became intrigued by some grey fluff at the corner of Mrs. Footscray’s mouth. Assuming it to be the beginnings of a moustache a closer look revealed small feathers. He found this rather disturbing. Surely she didn’t eat birds. He’d always thought spiritual-type people were vegetarians. She was talking at him again.

“You must remember the last time she took the salute at Clarence House?”

“I’m not sure—”

“As she left the dais she stumbled?”

“So she did!” cried Sergeant Troy.

“I had become distracted – only for a moment, but it was enough. I apologised immediately, of course.”

“Was it sorted then?”

“Naturally. The power line was still open, you see.”

George came in, pushing a trolly. Fearing some witchy brew from entrails sown at dead of night ’neath a gibbous moon and nourished by the sweat of hanged men, the Chief Inspector declined.

“Sainsbury’s Breakfast or Earl Grey, Sergeant?”

“Well, just a cup,” said Barnaby.

Troy was admiring the biscuits. Star shapes, about as big as ginger nuts, covered with white powder. He accepted one gratefully and took a bite. He had never tasted anything quite like it before. As he chewed he tried to name the strange spice that was now lingering in his mouth. Ginger it wasn’t.

George, having fed and watered the visitors and seen his mother settled, now spoke.

“You wanted to talk to me about Ava Garret?”

There was a snort from Esmeralda as Barnaby replied, “I believe you knew her quite well, Mr. Footscray?”

“Indeed. I was Ava’s mentor and the first person to appreciate her remarkable gifts. I oversaw her tutelage and accompanied her, for the first few months at least, to church meetings.”

George’s voice was also unexpected. Very weak, it came out all quavery and wavery, as if he was a crotchety old man. Perhaps Esmeralda had made him like that over the years. Sucking his strength to nourish her own. Other people’s lives, thought Barnaby, newly grateful for Joyce and Cully. And even Nicolas.

“You never doubted that she was genuine?”

“Not for a moment,” said George. “After every service people would be waiting to talk to her, to say thank you. Often in tears.”

“What about seances? Private sittings?”

“As to that, she couldn’t be persuaded. Ava believed she was born to be on stage.”

“And were you there the day Dennis Brinkley…um…?”

“Punctured the heavenly matrix? Certainly. And I can tell you, Mr. Barnaby, it was a daunting experience.”

While George expounded on this Sergeant Troy made one or two brief notes. Truth to tell his mind was not really on the business in hand. It was dwelling rather on the strange confectionery he had recently swallowed. For no reason at all the film Rosemary’s Baby came to mind. He recalled some strange root ground up by witches and fed to Mia Farrow that had been called something like aniss. Now, to Troy’s alarm, a discreet burp was releasing the definite flavour of aniseed balls.