Prologue
1939
It is with profound sorrow I inform you that Edward Jones was killed in action on 25 December 1939 in the performance of his duty and service to his country. His remains have not been recovered. Please accept our heartfelt sympathy.
Inspector Callum Dean found the telegram on the floor beneath the dead body. It was left, face up, as the feet of its last reader swung like a pendulum above it. Being a stickler for details, he knew how important evidence was – and this stank of importance. Then again, anything could’ve been evidence that told the tragic tale of a young man’s death.
He picked it up, his calloused thumb caressing the frayed edge of the paper. Reading the words was horrifying, but it was better than looking at the deceased man hanging in front of him. His nails scratched over partially dried tear stains which marred the yellowed paper. A terrible shiver raced down his spine at the understanding that those tears had been shed before the young man took his life.
As he began to read, Callum had a sinking feeling of knowing exactly what he was holding.
It was a notice of death.
Wind screamed beyond the window, and rain lashed down upon the glass. Each droplet sounded more like the hammering of a fist as though someone – or something – demanded to be let into the Hanbury Manor’s attic. If he believed in ghosts and ghouls, Callum might have thought it was the spirit of the deceased attempting to break free from the place of their death.
Youthful fancies, his father would have said. Ghosts weren’t real, only figments of fear. And as Stonewell’s youngest Inspector, he could not give into such fantasies and show just how deeply frightened he was.
Callum leaned to his side, catching the glow from the single bulb, which barely emitted enough light to read the telegram. But it would do. Upon inspection, he recognised His Royal Majesty’s emblem across the letter’s header. It flashed at him as a fork of lightning lit the night sky beyond the attic room, casting the ink in its silver glow.
“Find something, Inspector?” Sergeant Andrew Dean questioned.
It took a few seconds for him to realise that the Sergeant was talking to him. Usually, his father called him by his first name, but he supposed the environment and those surrounding them meant they were playing a game of pretend with one another.
Callum had not noticed at first, but his father had been watching him closely ever since he found the telegram, a strange expectation on his face.
“A notice of death,” he answered. “It was on the floor, just there.”
He pointed to the floor where only the distorted shadow of the hanging man’s feet was now cast.
“Good find,” Andrew said, tipping his head in Callum’s direction. “Evidence is going to help put this all together.”
Unlike Callum, his father hardly batted an eyelid to the deceased. Nor did his new colleagues. He supposed they had been around death many times before, whereas for Callum, this was his first.
Although his insides were on fire every time he looked at the corpse, he had to steel his face. The oppressive warmth on his skin meant all Callum could think about was opening a window before the dust-ridden air of the room swallowed him up.
“Do you want to see it, sir?” Callum asked the question, even though he felt reluctant to hand it over.
To his surprise, Andrew shook his head. “Keep it. When we get back to town we can add it to the file.”
So, Callum did just that. He clutched the telegram tight as he looked up to find his father studying him with a pale face, tired eyes overspilling with a mutual emotion that seemed odd when in the presence of death.
“How… how do you keep so–”
“Poised?” Andrew whispered the word, wrapping a caring arm around Callum’s shoulder. “When you have looked death in the face time and time again, you grow used to its presence. Don’t worry, son, give it time, you too will become numb to it.”
It did cross Callum’s mind as to why Andrew hadn’t found the telegram himself, considering he’d been the first person in this room. But when Callum looked back up to the swaying body before him, he supposed Andrew had more pressing issues than a bit of paper to worry about.
Swallowing the bile that had crept up the back of his throat, Callum regarded his father and snapped with as much authority as he could muster. “We should cut the poor boy down.”
Seemed odd reducing the corpse as a boy, when they were likely both the same age.
“You’re welcome to do so,” Andrew replied. “And whilst you do that, I will go and speak with the parents to understand this lad’s movements in the hours leading up to hissuicide.”
“We have not determined that is the cause of death yet, sir.”
Andrew didn’t look too pleased with Callum’s response but did a good job fixing his expression. “Between the rope, the burns on his neck and the chair knocked over beneath him, I think it’s pretty clear what happened here.” He patted Callum on the back too hard for his liking. “Do not be distracted, Callum. Sometimes stories are as simple as we first believe them to be.”
His response was no different to a verbal slapping on the back of the wrist.
