Entering reception, Kate looked around, then realised she was foolish to expect Benny to be just sitting there. There was bound to be some sort of procedure to go through. A friendly middle-aged woman behind the counter directed her to the ward. A busy staff nurse spoke to her briefly and gave a prescription for strong sedatives to be filled at the hospital pharmacy.
Driving over. Kate had several times imagined the coming meeting and how it would go, what Benny would look like, what state she would be in. What state would I be in, wondered Kate, if, within the space of a single month, I lost the two people dearest in the world to me? My husband and my child. How would I carry on? Would I want to carry on? What would be the point?
So, when she saw Benny, Kate’s first feeling was of relief. Benny looked as she always looked, neat and ordinary except for her rather striking clothes. She was sitting beside her bed, feet side by side together, hands folded quietly in her lap like a child being good. It was only as she got closer that Kate saw the difference.
Benny’s cheeks were blanched; her lips ashen. And she seemed to have shrunk in some indefinable way. She certainly wasn’t any thinner. Or any shorter. But she was definitely smaller. And her wig was crooked.
“Hello, Ben.” Kate kneeled down by the chair, took a soft, boneless hand in her own and squeezed it gently. “I’ve come to take you home.”
Benny’s pale lips moved. She whispered something that Kate couldn’t quite hear and got obediently to her feet. She seemed to be holding herself together with thoughtful care. And watchfully, as if bits might start falling off any minute.
What to do about the wig? Kate had no intention of leading Benny through the hospital and car park with it slipping over one ear, thus risking unkind remarks and perhaps even laughter. On the other hand it seemed disrespectful in the extreme to simply reach out and adjust it. In the end she gave Benny a hug, murmured, “Now look what I’ve done – I’m sorry – do you mind, Benny?” and put it straight that way.
During the journey home the one or two remarks that Kate offered were met with a vacant stare and almost inaudible mutterings. Kate was disturbed by the stare, which was without either light or intelligence.
But the worst moment was when they actually arrived at Appleby House, and she tried to help Benny from the car. Benny struggled on her own for a moment, then took Kate’s arm and tried to smile. It was a heartbreaker, that mockery of a smile, and it really did for Kate. She started to cry. Benny didn’t cry. Not then or for a long while to come.
Later that afternoon the Parnells called round to offer their condolences. Judith brought a large bunch of sweet peas and Ashley a bowl of glowing, nearly black cherries. They sat down in the kitchen, taking a cup of coffee. Ashley spoke first, awkward but with obvious sincerity.
“We were both very sorry to hear the news. He was an old friend, I believe.”
“Yes,” said Mallory. “A kind man. Very…decent.”
“Benny must be extremely distressed.”
“But she’ll have you, won’t she?” put in Judith quickly. “I mean—you won’t be going back straight away?”
“No. Not until the inquest is over.”
“When you do she must come over,” suggested Ashley. “For meals or just to spend time. She shouldn’t be on her own.”
Judith shifted uncomfortably in her seat and stared out of the window through which beams of sunlight poured.
“One of us will stay,” said Kate. She didn’t add that Benny hardly seemed to notice whether other people were present or not. “Apart from removal day, that is.”
“And when is that?” asked Ashley.
The conversation moved on. Mallory was grateful for Ashley’s lack of prurience. He had been braced for questions along the lines of: what actually happened? How come it was you who found him? What did the police say? Was it anything to do with those machines?
Mallory had had the first of these quasi-concerned exchanges that morning while out buying some milk. A man he vaguely recognised from Carey’s funeral stopped him on his way back to Appleby House.
After the opener: “How awful for you what a shock my deepest sympathy I understand it was an accidental hanging one of those big ropes in his museum,” the man, eyes shining, put his hand on Mallory’s arm. “Talking things through can be a great help. I live at Mon Repos and was a close friend of your aunt, name of Lattice. Please feel you can come at any time. Day or night you’ll be most welcome.”
An unpleasant experience. All very well for Kate to say it was just human nature. There were certain aspects of human nature Mallory felt he could well do without, especially in his present state. He tuned back into the conversation.
“So I feel a bit embarrassed,” Ashley was saying, “introducing such news at a sad time but you’ve always been so kind…” He was speaking to everyone but looking mainly at Kate.
“It is a sad time,” repeated Judith firmly. “So I think we should be—”
“Sorry,” interrupted Mallory. “I missed that last bit.”
“They’ve found out what’s wrong with Ashley,” said Kate.
“That’s marvellous,” said Mallory. “At least, I hope.”
“It’s pericardial disease.”
“Pericarditis,” corrected Judith.
“They think it might be from when I was working in Africa—”
“Over ten years ago.”
“And the chances are it can be treated.”
“Oh – I’m so glad,” said Kate. “Let’s hope the waiting list—”
“We’re going private,” said Judith. “Seeing a Harley Street specialist the week after next.”
“Jumping the queue.” Ashley laughed.
“We are not jumping the queue. We’re joining a different, shorter queue. Thus leaving a space, incidentally, for a National Health patient.”
Kate filled an awkward pause by getting up from the table, saying, “I must find a vase for your flowers. They smell wonderful.”
While Kate was running water at the sink someone knocked loudly at the outside door. Ashley, being nearest, opened it, and with such an absent-minded, comfortable air Judith couldn’t help wondering if he’d done it more than once before. The postman stood fair and square, mail bags lapping at his ankles.
“Any empties?”
“’Fraid not,” said Kate. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“How many’s that so far?” asked Ashley.
Mallory started bringing them in. “Thirteen.”
“You must be overwhelmed,” said Judith. “And here we are holding you up—”
“Perhaps I could read some for you, Kate,” said Ashley.
Kate turned, scissors in one hand, a chopped-off bunch of sweet pea stems in the other. She was about to accept with gratitude when she noticed Judith squinting against the sun, her face a mask of malign intensity. She looked angry and jealous and afraid.
Kate said, “That’s kind of you, Ash. But, to be honest, most of them won’t be worth it.”
There were a few letters in the post as well. Some were for the Celandine Press but there were also a couple of bills. Mallory was just putting them under his coffee cup when Mrs. Crudge put her head round the door.
Judith hurried over to Ashley then and dragged him off, saying they had a million things to do. Mallory thought Ashley looked as if he had very little to do and would much rather have stayed behind. Through the open kitchen window Kate could hear them in the porch. Judith was saying, “Since when has she been calling you Ash?”
Mrs. Crudge came in a little further. “Just popped round to say I’m sorry about earlier, Mrs. Lawson. But I’ll be in ten sharp tomorrow as usual, all right?”
“Of course it is,” said Kate. “Stay and have some tea as you’re here.”
“That’s all right. I expect Ben’ll be making a pot.”
Kate was glad Benny had a visitor. Especially one who was an old friend. Perhaps she would feel able to talk to Doris. So far she had hardly spoken, either to
Kate herself or to Mallory. Of course, these were very early days. Kate put the flowers on the table and went off to attack the bags. Mallory, expertly concealing his enthusiasm, trailed behind.
But they had no sooner turned the nearest one upside down than Mrs. Crudge came in carrying a large plastic carrier.
“That was quick,” said Mallory.
“How was she?” asked Kate, nearly adding, “and how are you?” for Mrs. Crudge appeared pale and quite disturbed.
“I don’t know what to say,” replied Mrs. Crudge, sitting on the sofa. “It’s not Benny—I know that much.”
Mallory said, “She’s had a severe shock.”
“She looked straight through me as if I wasn’t there. Just put this in my hand and started shouting: ‘Take them away! Take them away!’ Then I was outside again.”
“What’s in it?” asked Kate.
Doris turned the bag upside down and out fell Benny’s beautiful peacock-blue jacket and long skirt, underclothes, stockings and shoes. Also her wig with the curls like brass sausages. Even the watch and earrings she had been wearing the night before.
“What shall I do?” asked Mrs. Crudge. “Take them to a charity shop?”
“Not down here,” said Kate. She started putting the clothes back. The chances of Benny ever seeing anyone wearing them must be a million to one. Even so. “I’ll do it in London.”
Later, after Mrs. Crudge had had some tea after all and a bit of a cry, Kate and Mallory planned a desultory early dinner – the rest of Mallory’s pea soup and bread and cheese. Benny did not share the meal, explaining, when Kate rang through, that she had stuff in her fridge that might spoil if it wasn’t eaten up.
Kate had no way of knowing if this was true and suspected it wasn’t. However, there was not much she could do. The fact that Benny had refused to eat with them and done her own thing was so extraordinary in itself as to cause slight concern. But she plainly did not wish to talk to anyone and that wish must be respected.
As they were sitting down to eat the telephone rang. Mallory leaped to answer it and Kate saw his expression change from hope to disappointment. He said, “Yes, fine…That might not be possible…All right. Thanks for letting me know.” Then hung up.
“The inquest,” he explained. “Ten thirty, Friday. The coroner’s court. There’s a proper letter in the post. I won’t necessarily be called but I should be there.”
“What ‘might not be possible’?”
“They say Benny—”
“Oh, no!” cried Kate. “She can’t…she’s in no state to answer questions. She can’t even talk to us.”
“Don’t get upset—”
“It’s just not on, Mal. If she was still in hospital they couldn’t call her.”
“I’ll get hold of Cornwell. He’ll have a word with them, explain the situation.”
But to both Kate and Mallory’s surprise when Jim Cornwell called around after a visit to Benny’s flat he said she was determined to go to the inquest. She was, in fact, quite fierce about this.
Both the Lawsons were disturbed at the news. Convinced that Benny had not really grasped what an inquest involved, they hoped, by the time Friday arrived, to have persuaded her against it.
12
The next thirty-six hours passed in a sort of limbo.
Things that had to be done were done. Benny pulled up a lot of weeds and watered tomatoes and peppers in the greenhouse. Doris came, cleaned, gossiped in a generalised, harmless way, and went. Kate and Mallory worked through nearly all the mail bags. Just a couple, the very first to arrive and consequently at the bottom of the pile, remained.
The submissions were almost as dire as Kate had feared. A few had the saving grace of being funny, albeit unintentionally. Mallory dipped into one, gushingly overwritten and starry-eyed, all about putting on a school musical. He had sat in on enough rehearsals of such mind-numbing entertainments to last him several lifetimes. All the performers wanted to be pop stars and the show was invariably misdirected by a completely talentless English teacher flinging himself excitedly about the stage like Warner Baxter in 42nd Street.
“Look at this,” Kate was exclaiming now. She had emptied the first of the remaining bags and was holding a long, narrow parcel wrapped in heavy watermarked parchment and sealed with red wax. It had an air of tremendous self-importance. Inside there were folds within folds of stiff brown paper tied with curtain cord and also sealed. There was a covering letter.
“It’s from a Mr. Matlock.” She opened the letter. “Sidney. Who is ‘the sole surviving member of a post-war observation team and whose work, scrupulously annotated, herewith comprises this noble document.’”
Mallory laughed out loud. “You’re kidding.”
“Maybe we’ve found another Spycatcher. It’s certainly in some sort of code.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Kate passed some sheets of foolscap over. They were set out in columns. Engine capacity and numbers. Fuel load. Departure and destination times. Locomotive base shed. Name and number of driver and fireman. It was proudly described The Precise History of Locomotives Departing and Returning from Euston Station to Nuneaton Trent Valley During the Years 1948–1957.
“Trainspotting!”
“Don’t laugh,” said Kate. “It’s his life. Poor old man.” She replaced the book in its envelope and decided to use registered mail when sending it back. That was another thing she had thought of too late: return postage. She would make sure it was mentioned in any future advertisements.
They checked out the remaining manuscripts. One, described as the writer’s “hilairos adventures in Morroco,” was called: Thongs Aint What They Used To Be. It had beer stains and lots of strangely placed quotation marks. Kate liked “fish ‘and’ chips” best. There was a thriller calling itself fast-paced, with a plot that started on page 160 and finished three paragraphs later. A comedy – Lord of the Flies – about a randy window cleaner, and a sad ecological tome about a tribe of frogs who caught a virus from polluted lily leaves and were making their way to the promised sea led by a philosophical windbag, Old Croaker. The others were mainly dreary diaries styled after the manner of Bridget Jones, but without the jokes and decent prose style.
“No good?”
“Makes Tom Clancy look like Homer.”
“I thought Homer had a beard.”
“Let’s open a bottle.”
The three of them ate together that night. Mallory and Kate, walking on eggshells, made innocuous conversation. They touched on the garden, the hopeful news about Ashley’s illness, the warm beauty of the day. Benny said very little but ate most of what was on her plate before laying her knife and fork edge to edge together. Kate recalled a phrase her mother frequently used about people recovering from an illness or unexpected disaster. “Going gently along.”
Earlier, before Benny arrived, Kate and Mallory had discussed whether or not to mention the inquest. They decided, if Benny herself did not bring the matter up, they would not. Both still hoped she had changed her mind. But then, toying with a bowl of raspberries still warm from the sun, Benny began to talk about it.
First she asked a few questions and was reassured. Yes, they would be taking her and bringing her home. Yes, Mallory was certain they would all be able to sit together. No, there wouldn’t be a witness box and judge and people in wigs. And he was sure there was still time to get some sort of dispensation if Benny was worried.
But Benny was not worried. Something – she had assumed it was the drugs, though they must have worn off by now – was holding the terrible events of the present and immediate past at bay. It was as if she viewed them through the wrong end of a telescope. Far distant and shrunken, they had lost the power to harm. But Benny also understood that this situation was temporary. That the pain – and she knew it was there, crouching, biding its time – was merely on hold.
She didn’t have the time or energy, though, to grieve right now. Things had to be put right, procedures followed,
starting with the inquest tomorrow. That was the first step. Then the investigation. Then the capture and punishment of whoever had committed this wicked, wicked crime.
The coroner’s court was packed. Everyone from Forbes Abbot who was not housebound or working was present, and several, it was noted, who should have been at work and who appeared to have taken the day off.
As cleaner of the premises that had housed the lethal machinery Mrs. Crudge had half expected to be called and had had many serious conversations with Ernest as to how best to present her evidence and what hat to wear. Now, uncalled but still feeling entitled to a certain status, she seated herself in a prominent position next to the Lawsons and Benny Frayle.
The proceedings opened with evidence from Mallory Lawson of Appleby House, Forbes Abbot. On the evening of Tuesday the twenty-fourth of July he was expecting a friend Dennis Brinkley for dinner. When Mr. Brinkley did not arrive he called at his house in Hospital Lane, Forbes Abbot. Here he found the body of a man, later identified as Mr. Brinkley. He did not touch or handle the remains in any way but notified the police.
Sergeant Roy Gresham of the Causton Constabulary gave the time of his arrival at Kinders as 8:23 p.m. and continued: “After viewing the body I called for an ambulance and a police photographer. I obtained the name of the dead man’s doctor from Mr. Lawson and contacted him. I examined the scene and could see no outward sign of foul play or that any other person had been present there.”
At this there was a cry from the court and Doris saw Benny’s auburn wig turning urgently to Kate, who was sitting next to her. Everyone was straining to see who had called out and murmuring among themselves. The coroner appealed for quiet and Benny subsided, Kate’s arm around her shoulder.
“I also,” concluded Sergeant Gresham, “failed to discover a note or message of any kind from Mr. Brinkley.”
“You wouldn’t,” cried Benny, not bothering to lower her voice.
A Ghost in the Machine Page 20
