With that, Sergeant Andrew Dean left Callum to do the dirty work. Unable to still his shaking hands, Callum pocketed the telegram. Without the distraction he couldn’t do anything but look at the deceased.
The deceased was young, no older than twenty-three at most. Simply looking at him was a punch to his gut. A mirror. Two men who found themselves outside of the clutches of conscription, a life in which they both should’ve been safe from death. And yet, the reaper had claimed this young man, or had he personally handed himself into the reaper’s greedy hands?
The floorboards and walls reverberated with the young man’s parents’ grief. That was a sound Callum was familiar with. He had heard the same keening screams from many families who had lost children, brothers or fathers to the war. Right in that moment, his cousin was in some undisclosed trench, fighting for his life against enemies he couldn’t even name. It had not been uncommon for Callum to search for a telegram in the post, just like the one warming his pocket. Thank the Almighty that one had not arrived yet, but such terrible things could happen in a heartbeat.
War killed those you loved. And it was clear to Callum that the poor soul who hung from the middle beam in the attic of his family home too was a causality of war – or at least the heartbreak that war could gift a person.
Pushing all dark thoughts to the far reaches of his mind, Callum barked out orders to those milling around him. Anything to get this over with, so he no longer had to be in this room where death lurked.
He would never forget the sound of the rope being sliced through. It was such a vicious sound that he felt it in his veins, as though they were being plucked like the strings of an instrument. It taunted him to the point that made him want to shout at his colleague and demand they hurried up. Perhaps it would have helped if he had assisted with the removal of the hanging boy, but his grandmother once warned him never to touch the dead.
Disturbing them would never lead to anything good.
Instead, he watched and contemplated what drove this young man to take his own life.
His Christian name was Robert, and his family name was Thomas. Mr and Mrs Thomas wailed like keening cats two floors below as his father interviewed them, attempting to ease answers out of their grief.
When did you find him? How was he behaving before he took his life? What do they think drove him to do it? Was he an unhappy boy?
It was clear from the banshee cries from Robert’s mother and the dead silence of her husband that answers were not so easy to achieve. Regardless, deep down Callum knew the boy’s death was tied to the telegram and the aforementioned Edward Jones, whose name was imprinted in ink on the message. No doubt his father would cross that line of questioning soon enough.
Another fork of lightning blessed the dark pit of the attic room in a flash of light. It cast across Robert’s paling skin, making him look colourless and muted. Much like the movie stars Callum would watch with his family on the small television box. Robert could have been in his favourite movie,The Wizard of Oz, except Robert was not skipping down the yellow-brick road. He was dead.
Callum retrieved the small black pad and pencil from his pocket to begin writing down his findings. Keeping his hands busy would stop them from shaking. At least, that was his hope.
Neck snapped. Skin bruised and burned. Bone visible. Rope used. Chair tipped over on its right side. Telegram found beneath the deceased. Eyes are open. Blue, but the whites bled through with red.
Callum didn’t stop writing until all the details he could see were noted down. Not that he could ever forget them. Each word he wrote got thicker than the next. The pressure he held his pencil down with increased until the lead snapped. By that time, Robert had been cut down from his hanging place and was laid out across the floor.
Lightning flashed again, followed quickly by the tremble of far-off thunder.
“Sir, what– what are we to do with the body now?”
There was no ignoring the discomfort on the older colleague’s face as he used such a title for a boy half of his age. Unable to address it, Callum glanced down, against his better judgement, and found Robert’s glassy sky-blue eyes staring directly up at him. There was sadness in those all-seeing eyes. It was so potent that just looking down at Robert caused his own to sting with tears.
“Cover him up,” he croaked, waving his hand in dismissal. “Robert will need to rest here until the storm lifts enough for a medic vehicle to reach the manor.”
“That might not be until tomorrow,” a fresh-faced police officer said, wincing at the reality. “We can’t wait that long.”
“What’s the rush? It isn’t like Robert is in one… I am aware of that.” Callum fought to hold his tongue, trying to feign a lack of discomfort when his insides knotted in the presence of the dead.
“By whose order?” the older officer questioned.
“Not mine. Any issues with what I have said you can take it up with the Sergeant.”
They didn’t argue back at that. No one questioned Andrew Dean, not even Callum.
“What about the–”
Mrs Thomas’s broken-hearted screeches rose in sudden pitch. They seemed to sing in synchronicity with the storm that ruled the world beyond Hanbury Manor. Callum’s footsteps pounded across the floorboards, stopping only when he reached the staircase. He peered down into the dark. From his vantage point, the entire manor seemed to sway from side to side, the shadows dancing, the walls cold to the touch.
“Sounds horrid down there, Inspector,” an officer said, coming to stand beside him. “Poor souls.”
“Poor souls indeed. We should allow them to say their goodbyes in peace,” Callum said, pain cramping his chest just where the telegram waited in his suit pocket. It would be what he would want if the tables were turned. “God knows if given the chance of one more night with someone I loved, I would take it.”
“I understand that, I do. But surely we cannot just leaveit… here?”
Callum sighed, pinching his eyes closed in hopes for peace but only to see the sway of Robert’s body, his bent neck and the bone poking out of his mottled skin. “His name is Robert, and you would do good to use it.”
