‘What if they were smothered?’
‘Then I suppose we wouldn’t be able to tell. But surely they would shoot them, smothering is just too ghastly.’
‘It’s all ghastly. I’m sorry but I cannot bring myself to perform such a . . . dreadful act.’
Jenny nodded.
‘I mean, I just can’t believe they would . . . it would be so . . . I can’t believe anyone would . . .’ But I was unable to finish my sentence. I recalled the words of Mr Old as he described the horrors of a city under siege. What’s a handful of nuns compared to that? And then I saw a vision of the men on the first day of the Somme, walking into the machine-gun fire because they had been ordered not to run. News of the terrible losses had produced an appropriate shudder of horror throughout the land, but it didn’t make them stop. Whoever was running the show carried on like a fireman shovelling men into the flames for another four years. What’s a handful of nuns compared to that?
There was silence for a while, then Jenny said with a sigh of resignation, ‘What are we going to do?’
It was a good question. I wondered whether another chap might simply have fetched a spade and started digging. Is that what Jenny expected of me? It began to drizzle more strongly and we took shelter in the porch of the church. We sat on a bench against the wall and ate our picnic. Jenny had packed raspberry jam sandwiches and a flask of tea and, despite the mournful surroundings, it did taste splendid and our spirits revived a little.
For a while we did not speak. We ate our sandwiches and listened to the patter of raindrops on the porch roof. When the sandwiches were finished, Jenny poured the tea. She had brought a china cup to complement the cup provided with the flask and which served as screw-on top. The tea was still hot; we nestled together and held our cups so that our knuckles touched. Jenny spoke: ‘This morning I telephoned the hospital again. They told me Aunt Agatha was still sleeping. That’s ten days now, Jack. That can’t be right, can it?’
‘I’m afraid I really don’t know. It does sound peculiar.’
‘Can someone die from too much sleep?’
‘I . . . I’m sure they know what they are doing.’
‘Are you? What if they want her to die?’
‘Jenny, that is silly.’
‘Is it? Why?’
I puzzled the question. ‘I’m sure if they wanted to kill someone they could find a simpler way of doing it.’
That seemed to pacify Jenny for a while. I said: ‘You know, after you . . . the day after our disagreement outside the Star and Garter I went to see Cheadle.’
‘The one who blotted all your copybooks.’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he still living in sin?’
‘No, I think that all ended a long time ago. He strikes me as very lonely now. He told me Cadbury visited him once. This would have been around 1937 or ’38 I believe. Cadbury said the nuns were still alive. He told Cheadle that if he wanted to understand he should go and speak to a chap called Mr Clerihew, who works in the ape house at London Zoo. Apparently he grew up in Africa and said he’d seen the nuns with his own eyes.’
‘In Africa?’
‘I’m not sure if he meant he had seen them in Africa, just that this chap was originally from there.’
‘Did Cheadle go?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Then there is nothing else for it, Jack, tomorrow we must go to the zoo.’
‘Yes, we could ask one of the monkeys what it all means.’
‘That is what we should do. We could go to Selfridges and look at the Biros, too.’
‘And the television receivers.’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘I’m rather afraid we would have to travel in third.’
‘Jack!’
‘Yes, I know but really—’
‘No, I mean, I was only joking.’
‘Were you? I thought you wanted to go to London.’
‘Oh, I do. But . . . you . . . I was teasing, I never imagined you would—’
‘It really isn’t too difficult to arrange, I’m just worried you might find it rather dull.’
‘Would you really take me to London?’
‘Of course.’
‘When? Tomorrow?’
‘If you like.’
‘To the zoo?’
‘Yes. Although I have to say I would be deceiving you if I thought . . . well, I’m sure this Clerihew chap left a long time ago, it’s completely hare-brained.’
‘Oh completely. It’s the most hare-brained thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘You see?’
‘Oh, I see, oh I really see. It’s just so wonderfully hare-brained. A whole herd of hares. Do they have herds?’
‘I’m sure they must.’
‘Fibber. I can tell from the way you spoke that they don’t. What do they have, Jack? Flocks? Do they have flocks of hares?’
‘I seem to remember reading somewhere that a group of hares is called a husk.’
‘A husk? Oh, that is perfect. The idea is a husk of hare brains. You read that in one of your Gosling annuals, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, the 1935.’
‘All the same, it might not be quite that silly. Would Cadbury Holt go to all that trouble of finding his lost friend Cheadle to tell him something that was no use whatsoever?’
‘That’s precisely it, I really don’t think he would. Cadbury Holt wasn’t a foolish chap. If he really did find the nuns and return to tell Cheadle, I don’t believe he would have misled him or played a practical joke on him.’
‘Then we must go.’
‘Yes.’
‘Although I’m not completely convinced he wouldn’t have been joking, he does seem to have had quite a sense of fun. I mean –’ Jenny changed the tone of her voice to a saucy whisper – ‘did you really ask the vicar’s daughter to show you her drawers?’
‘I was wondering how long it would be before you brought that up.’
Jenny giggled. ‘Oh, Jack, don’t be a sour-puss. I think it’s really funny. In fact, I’m thrilled.’ She paused and said, ‘Please don’t think I’m wicked, but do you . . . was that brandy I saw you give that lady?’
‘Yes, I carry a small flask for medicinal purposes.’
‘Medicinal purposes?’
‘Yes, for ladies who faint and suchlike.’
‘I feel faint.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Very faint. I thought it might be nice to add a tot to our tea. Aunt Agatha used to do that before bed.’
I took out the hip flask and did as I was bid. ‘You realise, of course, that I could be dismissed on the spot for this.’
Jenny giggled and touched her cup to mine. ‘Here’s mud in your eye.’
We sat there lost in a reverie and I found myself wishing we could stay there for ever and never have to leave.
‘That chap was beastly, wasn’t he? Would you really have given him a blue eye?’
‘I think I might have, he certainly asked for it.’
‘I wish you had. I expect you see a lot of his sort in your first class.’
‘It is quite unusual to encounter one as ill-mannered as that.’
Jenny made a hmmph sound.
‘You mustn’t think I only serve the gentlemen. I help everybody. In fact . . .’ I stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘I suppose you will find me a total bore now if I tell you the most serious of all the crimes I investigate is the theft of a young boy’s postal order, or young girl’s, of course. There! See! I knew you would mock me.’
‘Jack! Please! I’m not mocking, I’m grinning because you are so . . . so . . . oh, I don’t know. Please go on, please tell me about the postal orders. Why are they so important?’
I paused again, partly because I did not entirely believe that she was not making fun, but then I realised it didn’t matter. She grabbed the lapel of my coat and shook in frustration.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I suppose the point is, a lot of people will
assume because of the modest sums that are generally involved with the theft of a postal order the matter is of no great moment. But nothing could be further from the truth. Whether the amount stolen be five shillings or fifty guineas or . . . or . . . five thousand guineas it is all one. No, I would go further and say the gravity of the offence is all the greater with the postal order than, say, the theft of a pearl necklace from the travelling bag of a lady of the aristocracy. Such ladies are used to the ways of thieves. To steal a lady’s necklace, though a mean thing to do, does not destroy the lady’s faith in the goodness of mankind. But consider a seven-year-old girl waiting for her birthday. Already two weeks before she starts to stare at the postman as he walks down the street. She knows it is impossible that he will have anything for her, he seldom ever does, the postman delivers only to the grown-ups and she is only too aware of this. Receiving parcels and letters strikes her as being so wonderfully exciting but she never gets any. Except on her birthday. Then she is queen for the day. So she starts to watch every day with an agony in her heart, an agony that only increases in strength the nearer the day approaches. Imagine it! Not only does she know that soon she will get some letters addressed personally to her, but one of them will be from her aunty in Scarborough who will send her five shillings to spend on anything she pleases. Five shillings for a girl who has never had more than a halfpenny on occasion to buy sweets. Her mother will take her to Barker and Stroud’s, to the toy department, and for a brief afternoon she will be in Heaven. Just think of how her expectation builds over the days leading up to her birthday – like a kettle on the stove, her poor heart will be whistling by the day before. And when the day comes, she stands at the window, nose pressed to the glass, watching for the postman. And there he is! He comes sauntering jauntily down the street, he approaches, he’s whistling, the bag seems more than usually heavy today, now he’s one house away. He walks up the drive and posts the letters for next door, it seems to take ages but really it can’t take any longer than usually. He’s done, he’s back on the pavement, no more than ten steps away now, nine, eight, seven . . . and then something strange happens, something terrible, unheard of, dreadful beyond this little girl’s comprehension. He walks past.’ I stopped, to catch my breath. ‘Don’t you see? A cad who steals a child’s postal order is not just stealing money, he’s stealing a child’s belief in the goodness of the world.’
Jenny stared into my face, her eyes wide with astonishment. ‘Oh, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’d never seen it like that before.’ She pulled herself towards me on the bench and held her face nestling next to mine. I laid my cheek on the top of her head. Her hair tickled and filled my nostrils with a sweet clean wet scent, like a lawn after a shower. Since she did not pull back in protest, I allowed myself to press my head against hers more firmly. And she in turn pressed herself closer to me. Jenny sighed and spoke into the folds of my coat.
‘I wish someone had stolen my postal order.’
Chapter 11
We arrived back in Weeping Cross shortly after six. I walked Jenny to her bus stop and said goodbye. Then I returned to my office to check the post. The door was ajar and a faint scent of coal tar soap greeted me as I opened it. It called up a host of other smells: boiling cabbage, laundry steam, Kiwi shoe polish, floor wax, paraffin, smelly feet, a sort of faint musk that collects behind the ears of boys who do not wash very carefully, Kipper’s wet fur and doggy odour, chalk dust and the heavy cologne of the masters, candles, ink, disinfectant, TCP antiseptic, chlorine bleach, and many others. It was the smell of the Railway Servants’ Orphanage. Sitting in my chair was Magdalena.
‘Hello, Jack.’
I stared into her face. When Mr Barker came to the orphanage to choose a girl to put in the Lindt advertisement, there really was no doubt about who he would pick. Magdalena was beautiful with a sadness in her eyes that could put a spell on you. When she stared into your eyes she made you feel very uncomfortable or very much abashed and in love. We were all charmed by Magdalena, no one had any choice in the matter. And though there was a lot of jealousy when she left every morning to pose for the artist, no one could really begrudge her the special treat when the painting was finished. It was wonderful. A Swiss milk maid wearing a pink dirndl and holding a bucket of creamy milk. Behind her was an alpine background of intensely blue sky, vivid green meadows and a dazzling snow-capped peak. The Swiss maid had wild tousled hair the colour of treacle, bright eyes and cheeks with exaggerated apple-red spots, like a tin soldier.
‘Magdalena!’ I stuck out my hand. She shook it solemnly. She was mocking my stiffness, I knew that. But I did not mind. Magdalena’s teasing sprang from a heart that cared.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ she said.
‘To tell you truly, Magdalena, you also look rather like a ghost. Have you been poorly?’
‘I‘ve been better, that’s for sure. You seem to be keeping well. I hear you’ve got a girl. That’s not like you, Jack. She must be very nice.’
‘I’m afraid Ron Dingleman has got the wrong end of the stick, there.’
‘Just tell me to mind my own business, it’s fine.’
‘She came to see me on business, her aunt was a passenger that got into a fix; we went to the Lyons tea shop.’
‘As I said, it’s none of my business.’
‘She’s a very nice girl, Magdalena. You’d like her. I would like to introduce you, I’m sure—’
Magdalena laughed in a soft and bitter sort of way. ‘That’s probably not a good idea.’
‘I’m sure you would like each other immensely.’
‘No, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t.’ She reached into her bag with fingers that trembled slightly and fished out a cigarette. I lit a match for her and she drew until the cigarette was alight.
‘Your hands are shaking.’
‘I had a migraine earlier.’
‘I thought they stopped.’
‘They did. Now they are back. I’m in a bit of a pickle.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘I stole a letter.’
‘Yes, the Dingleman told me.’
‘I expect he told you all about it, then.’
‘He said it was addressed to the King.’
‘He told you to find me, didn’t he?’
‘No, of course not.’
She smiled as if to say she didn’t believe me, but it didn’t matter. ‘Will you buy me a bottle of brown ale?’
‘I’d be happy to.’
‘Your telephone rang just now, I answered it. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind in the least. Did you take a message?’
‘Yes. I wrote it down, see.’ She pointed at a slip of paper next to the phone. ‘It was the man from that bookshop on the square. He said he was going away and wanted you to help him with his suitcase.’
I picked up the slip of paper and read. I slipped it into my pocket. ‘I will go and see him first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Tonight. He said it had to be tonight.’
‘To help him with a suitcase?’
‘He said it was a matter of life and death.’
Outside, a thick smog had fallen on the town, and the sound of St Bede’s chiming seven was muffled and faint. It was so bad even the cinema had closed. They said those sitting further back couldn’t see the screen. If you held a yardstick out, you couldn’t see the end of it. The buses passed at walking pace, with a chap holding a burning rag walking in front. The lights glimmering reminded me of the lights of a ship that passes in the night. It was like being blind, and yet the blind were the only ones who knew their way in it.
Magdalena didn’t want to go to the Central across the road, so we walked down the street with no pub in mind. She said she couldn’t see her feet, and it was true.
She took my hand and held it as we walked.
‘It’s just so we don’t lose each other,’ she said.
‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’
‘It could
easily happen in fog like this.’
‘Yes, it could. You are quite right.’
She squeezed my hand and pressed herself next to my side.
‘Do you think it’s true what they say,’ she said. ‘Mothers losing their prams in this and never finding them again.’
‘They could certainly lose them for a while, but I can’t see why they wouldn’t find them when the fog lifted.’
‘Yes, that’s true. I’m glad. I would hate to think of the baby in the pram and no one coming to feed him ever again.’
‘I heard about a chap who wheeled his aunt in her bath chair to Boots to exchange her novel. He left her outside and when he came out she was gone. He didn’t have the first idea where to start looking. It was so thick you had to feel your way forward on your hands and knees. He found a police box and telephoned the police station and they sent two men to help, but it was no good. They had to go home and come back when it had cleared the next day. Turned out the aunt had been there all along, but the fog was so thick inside Boots the poor chap got confused and left by the wrong entrance – the one on Priory Gate instead of Monk’s Row.’
‘Hmm, smell that!’
‘It’s from the traffic policeman, he’s burning rags I think, soaked in petroleum.’
‘I do so like that smell.’
We walked slowly, shuffling our feet rather than picking them up in the usual fashion; it was safer that way, otherwise you could step off the kerb without realising it and twist an ankle. The normal noises of the city were muffled, as if we had cotton wool in our ears. I also had the feeling that there was somebody following us. I didn’t really see how they could and I tried to push the thought away. It was probably the eerie quality of the night working on my imagination. In the distance, as we walked, we heard the crack of small explosions, which I knew to be the detonators they lay on the track to warn the driver of the presence of signals he would otherwise not see. Drivers hate fog. You can’t even see the top of the signal. The fireman has to climb down from the cab, walk up the track to the signal, climb up the ladder and feel the position of the signal with his hand.
‘Let’s go in here,’ said Magdalena. ‘I don’t like walking in this any more. It’s . . . it’s green. Don’t you think the fog is green?’ She pushed her face close before mine to make sure I understood her drift and I could see she was unnerved too.
The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Page 13
