‘You stay there, George Spencer,’ she cried and then, extricating herself from the door frame, ran across the bridge and climbed on to the parapet.
I shouted, ‘Hey, I say!’
The chap sauntered round the car towards her, not seeming to be greatly concerned.
‘Please, madam!’ shouted Jenny.
‘Do not concern yourselves,’ the chap said with an insolent grin on his face, ‘it’s only about three feet deep this time of year. The greatest danger is to her coat.’ He turned to her. ‘You could at least take it off first, darling. You know how much it cost.’
‘You . . . bugger!’ she cried, and then turned and jumped. Half a second later there was a splash.
‘You really do like to be the centre of attention, don’t you?’ said the chap as he wandered across to the parapet and looked over. The lady began to scream. I rushed over, jumped on to the wall and then scrambled down the bank to the canal. It may well have been no more than three foot in depth, but she was certainly giving every appearance of drowning. I took off my coat and jacket but there was no time to disrobe further. I jumped in.
‘Would you like me to send for a boat?’ the insolent fool shouted down. Although the water was shallow, the lady was thrashing around in a most violent fashion and I was obliged in the interests of her safety to give her a punch on the jaw in order to knock her senseless. The chap on the bridge shouted, ‘Bravo!’ The lady went limp in my arms and I scooped her up and carried her up the bank and noticed that the district nurse had joined us. She rolled out a blanket on the ground and I placed the lady down. ‘She’s not drowning,’ I said, ‘just a bit stunned.’
‘She’s not the only one,’ said the chap. ‘Well, I’ll be damned if I’ll let her ruin the upholstery. I only just got the old girl. Connolly hide.’
Jenny and the district nurse knelt down beside the lady and chafed her wrists and slapped her face gently. I took out my Gosling hip flask and poured a tot of brandy into the cap. I held it to her lips and she opened her eyes and sipped with rather more gusto than was perhaps seemly. The chap laughed in a sardonic sort of way and said, ‘Attaboy!’ and then added, ‘I would be a bit careful if I were you: give her a drink every time she jumps in the river and she’ll be doing it morning, noon and night.’ I turned towards the chap. It was clear that he was a gentleman, in dress at least. His suit was of tweed and cut in the style favoured by men given to filling their leisure hours with fishing and shooting.
Jenny looked up. ‘She could catch her death.’
‘Yes, that’s normally what happens to people who go swimming in the open in winter. Bloody fool.’
‘I must ask you, sir, not to use profanity in the hearing of a lady who has just been rescued from drowning.’
He looked puzzled for a second and then said, ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that. Elvey likes a bit of sailor talk. Just ask her groom.’
‘Even so, sir, the lady has had a most unpleasant experience—’
‘It’s her own bloody fault, isn’t it?’
‘That’s twice now, sir. I won’t ask you again.’
‘Oh really, what are you going to do about it?’
‘I have a good mind to give you a blue eye.’
‘Oh you do, do you? I’ll have you arrested for that.’
The lady, who had regained her senses, said, ‘Coward!’
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘I will give you two blue eyes.’
The man looked at me. He was a bit younger than me, late twenties perhaps, but I could see he was yellow. He swallowed. The lady snorted. He turned and went back to his car, saying to her, ‘I’ll let them know at the house where you are.’
He climbed in. ‘I wouldn’t worry yourselves too much about this. She plays tricks like this all the time.’ He drove off.
We were later to learn that this was the Countess Elvira Evegne de Castille-Sanchez, daughter of the Castille-Sanchez petroleum family. We read about the affair in the newspapers. It appeared that the argument which led to the countess jumping into the water had ensued after she told the chap that she was carrying his child, whereupon he first accused it of belonging to someone else and then broke off the engagement. You probably remember the exchange at the trial which caused such a fuss it was in all the papers. He asserted there were quite a few other men who could lay claim to the honour of being the father. To which the countess responded by saying she could be quite sure of the paternity on account of simple family resemblance, namely that just like his father the baby took great pleasure from kicking her in the heart.
Within ten minutes a more sedate-looking car, driven by a chauffeur, arrived and the countess took her leave of us, seemingly having fully recovered her sparkle. The nurse, who had introduced herself as Mrs Stevens, invited us to her cottage where she was kind enough to give me a hospital dressing gown and array my wet clothes on a clothes horse placed in front of the fire. She made us some hot cocoa and apologised for her rudeness earlier, although I did not see why she should.
‘There really is no need to apologise,’ I said.
‘Did you mean it when you said she was not astigmatic?’ said Jenny.
Mrs Stevens ran a hand down my clothing drying in front of the fire, and moved the clothes horse closer to the hearth.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to take the wind out of your sails. I didn’t believe your story, you see. We get all sorts coming here to ask about the missing nuns, some of them can be rather . . . ghoulish, and frankly it can get a bit tiresome. There is a great deal of affection around here for the holy sisters. They still talk about Sister Ludo.’
‘That was the daughter of the Russian strongman,’ I said.
‘Yes. Ludmilla Preobrazhenskaya, but they all called her Sister Ludo. No one who was there will forget the day she lifted a calf above her head at the St Swithin’s Day Fair. She once caught two chaps stealing lead from the pantry roof; got them both in a bear hug then tied them up. One of them managed to wriggle free enough to reach the priory telephone receiver and call the police for help.’ We chuckled and Mrs Stevens smiled as if secretly pleased at the effect of her words. ‘Are you really from the railway company?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Although perhaps not exactly acting in an official capacity.’
‘Were you hoping to visit the priory? If so, you’re in luck. Usually the gunners are firing every day in December right up until Christmas Eve, but this year they stopped at the end of November. It’s a nice walk across the fields.’
‘I don’t quite follow,’ I said. ‘Are you talking about the Army?’
‘Who else?’
‘But what has that got to do with the priory?’
Mrs Stevens looked a touch confused. ‘The priory is on the firing range, of course.’
‘Is it?’ said Jenny. ‘We had no idea . . . do you mean a real firing range?’
‘The Army took over the whole hamlet of Lower Povington by compulsory purchase in 1915.’
She took one look at the expressions of bewilderment on our faces and said, ‘I’ll just be a tick.’ She stood up and walked across to a sideboard and pulled open the drawer. She rummaged through the contents and took out a folded-up letter and handed it to me. It was from the War Office, dated 2 June 1915.
TRAINING AREA, LOWER POVINGTON
DEAR RESIDENT
In order to give our troops the fullest opportunity to perfect their training in the use of modern weapons of war, the Army must have an area of land particularly suited to their special needs and in which they can use live shells. For this reason you will realise the chosen area must be cleared of all civilians.
The most careful search has been made to find an area suitable for the Army’s purpose and which, at the same time, will involve the smallest number of persons and property. The area decided on, after the most careful study and consultation between all the Government Authorities concerned, is the hamlet of Lower Povington, comprising approximately five square miles centred on the c
hapel of Povington Priory.
For more precise information, see the map pinned to the chapel door.
It is regretted that, in the National Interest, it is necessary to move you from your homes, and everything possible will be done to help you, both by payment of compensation, and by finding other accommodation for you if you are unable to do so yourself.
The date on which the military will take over this area is the 9th June next, one week from now. All civilians must be out of the area by that date, and there will be no possibility of return.
The Government appreciate that this is no small sacrifice which you are asked to make, but they are sure that you will give this help towards winning the war with a good heart.
For the sake of clarity, no attempt will be undertaken to restore the burned-out priory.
C. H. MILLER
Major-General I/c Administration,
Central Command
Jenny moved next to me on the sofa and put her head on my shoulder. We read the letter together. When we had finished, I handed it back.
‘We had no idea. What does it mean about not restoring the burned-out priory?’
‘There was a terrible fire, in May 1915. They were all killed.’
‘How awful!’ I said.
‘Do you mean,’ said Jenny, ‘twenty-three nuns took the train and disappeared, and the ones who didn’t go on the excursion were . . . were . . .’
Mrs Stevens made a pained expression. ‘Yes, the ones who stayed home were burned in the fire. All twelve of them.’
‘And then the Army took over the land?’
‘Yes,’ she said in a whisper.
‘Don’t you find . . . isn’t that rather fishy?’ said Jenny.
‘We don’t talk about it,’ she answered simply but in a voice that seemed to contain a collective sense of shame, as if to say she knew jolly well these things should have been spoken of, but no one had possessed the temerity to, and with the passage of time it had become harder to look into the dark past. ‘We prefer not to.’
‘Was Sister Beatrice burnt too?’ said Jenny.
‘Some people think she is the one who set the fire. At least, that’s what the police said. She wanted to go on the excursion, you see. It was something to do with the War Office and she applied and . . . was rejected.’
‘We read about it in a newspaper cutting,’ said Jenny.
‘So where is she now?’ I asked.
‘I really couldn’t tell you. The police never caught her. Some people round here say they’ve seen her over the years, but I doubt it.’
‘But she might be alive?’ said Jenny.
‘She might, but I couldn’t even begin to tell you where to look for her.’
‘Do you believe she set the fire?’ said Jenny.
‘No, I’m sure she didn’t. I’m sure it was just an accident. As I said, we prefer not to talk about it.’
‘I’m awfully sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you are all heartily sick of this matter.’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘You must do a lot of cycling as a district nurse,’ I said. ‘I rather fancy that was a Super-eeze from the Birmingham Small Arms Company I saw you riding, with a three-speed hub, am I right?’
Jenny shot me rather a fierce glance and said to Mrs Stevens, ‘Is there anything left of the priory?’
‘The roof has gone, and much of the great hall. Robbers have helped themselves to the lead and anything of value. There are trees growing out of it all now.’
On the step of her cottage Mrs Stevens pointed us in the direction of a path which took a short cut to the priory across some fields. After about a quarter of a mile we came to a stile and notices warning us that we were entering an Army live fire range and forbidding us to proceed any further. But there was no fence, and so we carried on. After a while, the shattered fragments of building could be discerned amid the trees ahead, and rising above them a church spire. Beyond that we could see the broken roof of the priory, with a tree growing through the rafters. It continued to drizzle, lending the whole scene a forlorn aspect, although one should imagine it could be quite pleasant in summer with numerous drowsy bees humming and birds twittering. Mrs Stevens told us the area was full of animals, rabbits and foxes and deer, who were not deterred by the occasional explosion and were happy to occupy the land vacated by man. But today there was not even a bird. The path arrived at what would once have been the main street of the village. Grass and weeds had broken up the surface of the road and it appeared like a green lane. There were the ruins of shops and cottages on either side. The post office had a red posting box set in the wall with most of its bright red paint gone, revealing the metal beneath. The windows were broken and the door hung from one hinge. Within we could see a counter; some paper was scattered on the ground, and the smell of damp and mould came from the piles of broken timbers tangled up with plants. Next door was what had once been the shop. An enamel sign still advertised that they sold Vimto and hot chocolate. We looked around, talking in whispers for some reason. It was not that we feared being apprehended by the soldiers, of whom we saw nothing, but the general sense of being in the company of ghosts. At the end of the main street, adjacent to a brook, was the chapel and graveyard, accessed by a rusty iron gate. The yard was a mass of brambles, but one or two graves had the dried remains of flowers placed on them. Not recently but certainly within the past year. There was a yew tree patiently presiding, no doubt having seen many things, good and bad, in its life. In its shadow we found the twelve gravestones of the holy sisters who had died in the fire. Twelve headstones all bearing the same date of 29 May 1915. We stood and stared solemnly, as if come to pay our respects.
‘Do you believe it was an accident?’ said Jenny. ‘Twenty-three of them disappear from a train. And then the ones who didn’t go, who might be able to reveal what happened, were all killed in a fire. Then the Army took over the town and cleared everybody out.’
‘I really don’t know what to believe. Maybe Sister Beatrice started the fire.’
‘I don’t believe that. If you ask me, she’s the scapegoat. That’s just a story so people don’t search for the real explanation for the fire.’
‘So why did she go missing?’
‘She guessed what the game was, I suppose. First the fire, then the police looking for her. She must have known they wouldn’t believe she had nothing to do with it.’
‘But the police, Jenny, would they really accuse Sister Beatrice of deliberately setting the fire if they didn’t—’
‘No, it’s too fishy, the Army taking over the land like that. Do you believe it was just a coincidence?’
‘I have to say it would be very easy to believe it was not a coincidence, but to think that would require one to imagine the people who run our country capable of an act so wicked, so heinous that, well, really!’
‘Perhaps they are.’
‘Do you really think so? To deliberately fake an accident, burn twelve nuns to death, in order to, I suppose, stop them talking?’
‘We know the ones who disappeared from the train were on some sort of secret mission for the War Office. That suggests the War Office knows what happened to them. Or at least has a very good idea.’
‘Jenny, we are not Germans. We are English. All around the globe, right now as we speak, the people of our colonies and dominions give thanks to us for taking them out of the dark night of tyranny and savagery. They love us because through our mercies they too can be English.’
‘You sound like the chap on the Pathé news.’
‘Jenny!’
‘If they are so grateful, why do we need so many soldiers to keep them in order?’
‘What has that to do with the nuns?’
‘Nothing, everything. I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. You say they are grateful and yet we have armies in their countries, why do we need them?’
‘To protect them from the jealousy of nations who are not so well favoured as to fall under the reign of His Maj
esty. They love the King.’
‘What happens to the ones who don’t love the King?’
‘I don’t know what you mean. Why would anyone not love the King?’
‘You read about it in the papers. Rebellions. Sometimes they don’t seem to love the King at all and they are put down by the Army.’
‘Quite right too, you can’t allow that sort of thing to spread.’
‘But when the Army put down a rebellion what they mean is they shoot them, they fire at them, at women and children . . .’
‘No, Jenny, I’m sure they don’t do that.’
‘You mean when they fire into a crowd to put down a rebellion they don’t shoot women and children?’
Jenny stopped and stared at me intently, possessed by a passion that I had not seen before. She looked at me as if hoping I had the answers, but I didn’t. ‘Jenny, a rebellion in Africa is a different matter, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. You say you can’t believe our people would kill the nuns, but is it really possible to believe it was a coincidence?’
‘I would rather believe that than believe our chaps . . . I mean, think it through: you would need to order soldiers to do it . . . kill them in their sleep or something.’
She shrugged helplessly.
‘If . . . if I thought our chaps were capable of that . . . were capable of ordering chaps to do that . . . all my life I have believed in the goodness of—’
‘I know, Jack. So have I, but look at the ground.’
Stupidly, I did, even though I had already seen the gravestones.
‘We should dig them up,’ said Jenny.
I gasped. ‘Jenny!’
‘That way we’d know. Don’t you want to know?’
‘How would it settle the issue?’
‘Because we would see if they had died . . . differently. If they had been shot, or beaten with an iron bar or something . . .’
The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Page 12
