The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste

by Malcolm Pryce

  I placed a telephone call to Weeping Cross police station and sergeant Dickson told me they had no record of the incident reported by Jenny. This was intriguing. Normally when they send a throttler home and tell her to put her feet up and have a cup of tea they dismiss the murder story but always record the report in the incident book. I pondered the story over my second cup of tea. In my experience, people only very rarely get throttled to death in a train compartment. Indeed, you are far more likely to encounter a German spy cold-bloodedly plotting the ruination of our land than witness a murder. Murderers on trains are more frequently found in novels by lady writers. I was pretty sure this wasn’t a murder at all, but a crime that could under certain circumstances resemble it. A crime that is far more intriguing, known as a Fishbone.

  I explained it that evening when I met Jenny. She was already standing outside the milk bar when the clock of St Bede’s chimed the hour. This pleased me because a lot of chaps said their girls were always late on such occasions. We sat in a booth in the window and ordered two strawberry milkshakes.

  ‘Have you been looking for clues, Jack?’ said Jenny.

  I laughed. ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking rather than racing around like Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Really? What about?’

  ‘It is my belief that your aunt did not see a murder being enacted in the adjacent carriage.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a flat tyre!’

  ‘Yes, I know this must come as a disappointment. But you see, it would be very unusual to see someone done in on a train like that. I’ve caught quite a few German spies but never a murderer.’

  ‘Are there many German spies?’

  ‘There used to be. There was a time when you could scarcely move for them.’

  ‘Are they easy to spot?’

  ‘Oh no, quite the opposite, their cunning knows no bounds. The last one I caught was five miles north of Banbury on the 10.27am Paddington to Leamington Spa stopping train. He greeted me with a warm smile that would normally have greatly charmed me. But you know what gave him away, don’t you?’

  ‘Was he eating a sausage?’

  ‘No. It was the cowardly duelling scar.’

  ‘I didn’t realise a duelling scar was cowardly. Don’t they have to charge into battle to get one?’

  ‘Not at all. If you knew the truth you would be filled with scorn. They call it Der Schmiss. It’s really just a peacock’s tail. In England when chaps used to settle their differences with a duel, they did so with pistols and real balls of lead. Usually one or both of them would go home in a wooden box. This was the English way. No cheap theatricals. A cold foggy dawn on the heath, two loud bangs and it was all over. Not so in Germany. There the act has been debased into a spectacle in which the contestants acquire a toy upon the cheek to foster the admiration of ladies. A blemish, deliberately acquired, that one must regard as a part of the German’s toilette along with his powders, potions and perfumes. There is not the slightest degree of danger involved in this type of duel. Both chaps wear chainmail breast shirts, collar protectors, nose protectors and even eye protectors. The only part not protected is the cheek. All that is required is that one drop of blood be lost.’

  ‘Oh Lord!’

  ‘Yes, indeed! Not only is there no danger to life, there is no likelihood that the duel will be painful. The rapiers these chaps use are sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel. The wound is so clean and surgically exact that it can entirely disappear within days and so sometimes the duelling masters will sew horsehair into the wound to ensure that it is at least visible. But the problem with that is it makes the cut smart like a wasp sting and so the German is generally averse to it. When all is said and done, a German duelling scar is nothing more than a shaving nick, the type that Englishmen inflict upon themselves up and down the land every morning and never give a second’s thought to.’

  ‘What did you do to him? Did you box his ears?’

  ‘I certainly would have liked to, but unfortunately the rascal hadn’t done anything wrong as far as I could see. There is nothing in the terms of carriage that prohibits a chap with a scar from travelling. But you can be sure I kept a close eye on him, lest he be tempted to make himself disagreeable to the ladies travelling on the train.’

  Jenny bent low over the straw from her milkshake and looked up at me. ‘So what did she see then if it wasn’t a murder? Although I would like to make clear that I am not yet persuaded that she didn’t.’

  ‘It is my belief that your aunt saw a Fishbone.’

  ‘A Fishbone?’

  ‘Yes. In this crime the nanny and boy are working together as a team. The nanny pretends to have a fishbone stuck in her throat, and appeals to a stranger for help. The gentleman goes to her assistance and places his hands upon her throat to dislodge the bone. While he does that, the boy picks his pocket and hides his wallet under the baby. Seen fleetingly through a train compartment window it might indeed look like the nanny was being throttled.’

  Jenny scrutinised me through half-closed eyes, as if weighing the evidence of my story. Finally she said, ‘Golly.’

  ‘Yes, it is fiendishly clever.’

  ‘It seems a very strange thing to do. Like something you would read in a book. Would anyone really do such a thing?’

  ‘Absolutely. I happen to know a girl who specialises in it. Her name is Magdalena. We were at the orphanage together.’

  ‘Do you know where to find her?’

  ‘Not easily, but I know where to find her father.’

  She placed her thumb and index finger to her throat. ‘Fishbone?’

  ‘That’s right. You will remember when you first came to my office I asked specifically about the behaviour of the boy during the throttling.’

  ‘Yes, you did. So even then you suspected. That’s awfully clever.’

  ‘So are you persuaded now?’

  She considered again. ‘I’m not saying yes and not saying no. We will ask my aunt what she thinks.’ She sucked the last of her milkshake and shot me a glance of mild horror as the burbling sound seemed unnaturally loud. ‘Oops.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry, I’m sure they’ve heard it before.’

  The tower clock struck a quarter to the hour. ‘We need to leave about seven,’ said Jenny. ‘I should have made it last like you.’

  ‘Have another.’

  ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t.’

  ‘I must be frank and confess that I will submit an expenses chit, so you might as well.’

  ‘I’ve never met a man who had expenses before.’

  ‘Mine are very frugal. In fact, if we have three milkshakes I shall only claim for two.’

  ‘In that case, I won’t have another.’

  I reached into my inside pocket and took out a card. ‘Perhaps you would be so helpful as to fill out this for me. It’s just some paperwork I have to do.’ I slid the card across the table, took out my fountain pen and handed it to her.

  ‘Are you keeping tabs on me, Jack?’

  ‘Just for my records. Name, address, next of kin.’

  ‘Shall we call it the Case of the Missing Aunt?’

  ‘No need to fill that bit out. I haven’t decided on a suitable title yet. I expect I shall just call it Jenny the Spiddler.’

  She made a mock gasp as if that were somehow quite thrilling, and began to write. ‘Tell me what it’s like to drive a train.’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t done that for ages.’

  ‘You can’t have forgotten.’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in that, it’s nothing special.’

  Jenny looked almost shocked. ‘Jack, how could you say that? Nothing special?’

  ‘Quite ordinary, really.’

  ‘Yesterday, every time you talked about trains your voice went soft as if there was nothing more important to you in the world.’

  ‘It would really bore you. But if you insist, I should say . . . I suppose it’s like being inside a corned beef tin, full of soot and ash and sparks and
smoke, with a din so loud you can’t hear a word the other chap says. Then it’s as if a giant picks you up and shakes you so hard your brains come out of your ears.’

  ‘Oh, Jack, I had no idea it was so terrible.’

  ‘Terrible? No, you misunderstand. It is wonderful. It’s something that is so . . . that is like . . . well, I mean, imagine riding through the night on an elephant in full flight, a stampeding elephant made of iron. It would be pretty hairy, I agree, but nothing on earth can resist you. It’s something you feel in your belly, that sound you hear from the bridge when a train passes underneath, that clackety-clack . . . it’s not like that in the cab, there are no gaps, just endless clacketyclackclacketyclack. And you feel each one like a horse kicking you in the behind or in the stomach. Those rails are so hard, the wheels so hard . . . And when you reach eighty miles an hour, you feel each piston stroke in the ribs, and the fireman shovels with fury now, faster and faster, and the old elephant snorts and snorts and roars and your ears go deaf with the terrific din, and the whistle, Jenny, oh the whistle is like, oh like a choir of ghosts screaming in your ear, on and on you roar, wailing, chuffing and chuffing, and wailing and moaning, screaming through the wayside halts, past the crossing gates, frightening the hares in the field at dawn, you see that red disc on the crossing gates and . . . and there are so many different sounds in each chuff, a boom, a roar, a wail, a moan, and then you thunder into a tunnel, oh imagine it! Those chaps sitting on the cushions, they would die of fright if they knew, if they understood what a risk it is thundering into the blackness at eighty miles an hour and no chance whatsoever if there happens to be a train already there, it’s wild, you don’t care, you can’t, there’s no point, like diving off the highest board in the world you just have to leap, and your nostrils fill with the perfume of sulphur and hot oil and coal, on and on and faster, until your whole being throbs, Jenny, throbs and you pull one more time on the whistle and . . . on—’ I banged my hand on the table and knocked over Jenny’s glass. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry . . .’

  ‘No, no, it was my fault for putting it there. Here, let me . . .’ She picked up her napkin and dabbed at the drops of spilled milkshake.

  For a moment we did not speak. I stared at the table.

  ‘It sounds . . . it sounds wonderful,’ said Jenny.

  I smiled. ‘Yes, rather. You know what some men say . . .’ I stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing important.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘That . . . well, I really don’t think I should say.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be such a flat tyre! What do they say?’

  ‘They say it is like the pleasure a man experiences privately with his wife.’

  Jenny’s eyes widened. I gave a sort of smile and picked up a spoon. Then I put it down on the table and turned it over. After a second I thought better of it and turned it back.

  ‘Well?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean . . .’ She paused and looked at me intensely. ‘Is it?

  We took the number 7 bus to Saint Christina’s Home for Lunatics, Mental Defectives and the Feeble-Minded, which lies some three miles out of town in Wildernesse. The traffic was quite heavy but after we crossed Mendicant’s Bridge it began to thin out and the night filled with the glitter and sparkle of the lights and flares of the factories. We drove slowly past Robinson’s the boot-blacking factory, Greaves and Weatherspoon the rat catchers, the Chicory Coffee company, Quails the nicotine throat pastille manufacturers, the crepe bandage wholesaler, the firm that makes ersatz chrism from coal gas, the mothball warehouse, the creosote mixer, Coal Tar toothpaste company, a quicklime merchants, and Chumley’s the biscuit works and biggest employer in Weeping Cross. We made frequent stops and the bus quickly filled up. It was the time of evening when the shifts changed. The smell of the sewage-processing works began to seep into the bus. The sewage works is quite extensive and occupies a patch of waste ground that also contains the bombed-out munitions factory and electricity works. In the middle of the waste ground, standing proud among the rubble, is a pub, the Kingfisher.

  The asylum opened in 1903. The building is very grand and, looked at from a distance, beyond the wrought-iron gates, like a country house. We walked up the drive, past the gatehouse and into a reception area where we explained our business to a lady sitting at a desk. There was a strong odour of disinfectant and lavatory smells, and the noise of muffled moaning and crying from somewhere far away. The receptionist looked displeased at our request and summoned a nurse with whom she discussed the matter in whispers. The nurse then went off and returned with a doctor who tried very hard to give us the impression that he was very busy and our visit was an imposition.

  ‘I thought I told you your aunt was sleeping,’ he said to Jenny.

  ‘That was yesterday,’ she said. ‘She must be awake by now.’

  ‘Why must she?’

  ‘Well . . . isn’t she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s really not like her to sleep for three days.’

  ‘It’s not like anyone. Do you think it’s easy? We’re operating at the forefront of medical science here.’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell us what is wrong with her,’ I said.

  The doctor breathed in deeply in a manner suggesting that his patience was almost at an end. ‘Hallucinations.’

  ‘She never hallucinates,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Of course she does. We all do. Do you think the world is real?’

  ‘I hope it is.’

  ‘Perhaps you should read some Planck, then you wouldn’t be so cocksure.’

  ‘Are you saying planks aren’t real?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Planks? You mean wooden ones? I suppose they are probabilistically true, much like Dr Schrödinger’s famous cat. I suspect the question is ill-phrased and rather than asking if they are real one should ask if they are likely. And I suppose one could come to the conclusion that they probably are.’

  ‘Planks are likely?’ I said.

  ‘Highly likely. But not inevitable.’

  Jenny took out the tin of corned beef and offered it to him. ‘Can you give her this?’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not up to solids at the moment.’

  ‘Well, perhaps when she is feeling a bit better.’

  ‘What is the nature of the treatment you are giving her?’ I asked.

  ‘She has been artificially induced into a coma by administration of insulin via injection. The treatment is very modern.’

  ‘She’s in a coma?’ said Jenny.

  ‘We wake her once a day to have her cleaned and fed, then back she goes. We call it Depatterning.’

  ‘How long will you do it for?’ I said.

  ‘Until she gets better, of course. How long do treatments usually last?’

  ‘Yes,’ I insisted, ‘but how long will that be?’

  The doctor half closed his eyes as he thought, and said, ‘Oh, it could go on for years.’

  ‘But why does she need to be in a coma?’ said Jenny, starting to get upset. ‘What good will that do?’

  ‘What do you mean, what good will it do?’

  ‘She means, how can that make her well again?’

  He peered at Jenny, half squinting. ‘Are you perhaps a psychiatrist?’

  ‘No, of course I am not.’

  ‘So why do you insist on challenging the work of some of the foremost practitioners of the art? Why the hubris?’

  ‘She’s not challenging, she—’

  ‘How can putting her into a coma make her better?’

  There was a pause. The doctor took another weary breath. ‘It starves the brain of glucose.’

  ‘Is that good?’ said Jenny.

  ‘I would say it is excellent, although I suppose it does all depend on the yardstick one is using. Marvellous organ the brain, you see. Really quite wonderful, and, to tell you frankly, we really have no idea what
goes on up there. But we do know one thing. The old noggin uses glucose as a fuel so by cutting off the supply we get some pretty interesting effects. Starved of glucose the brain actually starts eating itself. It’s an ingenious treatment, because ask yourselves, what do we store in the brain? Memories. Until now we had no way of erasing them. Now the brain does the job for us. Three months of this and she will be restored. A tabula rasa. No nasty memories left to frighten her. You can give the corned beef to the nurse. I must be going or I’ll miss my bus. Good night!’ The doctor walked off like a soldier doing double march.

  Chapter 5

  Where is the loneliest place in the world? It is found in the heart of the signalman who leaves a troop train waiting on the wrong line, and then in a moment of confusion forgets about its presence and sends the express passenger through. Silas was Magdalena’s father, and he wrecked the troop train one terrible night in 1915. It was not always easy finding Magdalena, but Silas would know, and it was seldom difficult to find Silas because every day he would sit on the crown of Dandelion Hill, up by Devil’s Curtsy, watching the approach in the distance of the 5.23 Taunton to Aberdeen sleeper.

  I waited till just after five before leaving my office and making my way through town towards the hill that overlooked the town. Sleet was falling. You couldn’t really see the flakes in the gathering dusk, except beneath the streetlamps, but you could feel the wetness of them, like the touch of a dog’s nose. The traffic was at a standstill on Mendicant’s Bridge, and the lamps along the parapet, standing proud on stalks, glimmered in the swirling flakes. Trams trundled heavily along the centre of the road, and rolled to a standstill, bells ringing. With their electrical conducting arm reaching up into the netting of wires slung across the sky they looked like insects. At the crossroads a policeman stood with arms outstretched, like a statue; the sleet melted on him and varnished his dark blue coat, dripping off the rim of his hat. The sleet was dirty, like water from a miner’s bath.