In the ape house we found a gorilla sitting on his own looking rather forlorn in a small cage. He sat and stared out through the bars, and seemed to peer beyond the faces of the school children who had lined up to taunt him. He seemed bored and if the taunting children had ever upset him in the past it seemed they had lost the power to do so. We watched for a while and both became possessed of the same feeling of dejection. After a while, the school children filed out, leaving an old lady wearing a headscarf. A zoo employee passed through and we asked him if he knew Clerihew, the keeper. He gave us a funny look and walked on. The woman turned to us and said, ‘I come most days, he doesn’t remember me any more, he’s getting old.’
‘Who?’ I said.
‘Clerihew.’
‘You know him?’ said Jenny.
‘Of course.’
‘We’re looking for him, you see.’
‘What do you mean?’ said the lady. ‘You’ve found him, haven’t you? This is Clerihew.’ The woman nodded at the gorilla. Jenny and I exchanged glances of surprise. ‘I remember him arriving in 1932. Queue halfway across the park, back then. The little mite was difficult to see then because he was so small. Just a baby. He had a little suitcase.’
‘What was in it?’ said Jenny.
‘Hot-water bottle, teddy bear and a pair of pyjamas in good quality Egyptian cotton.’
‘Did he wear his pyjamas?’ asked Jenny.
‘He did for a while. If you came early you could still catch him in them. But he grew so quick, it didn’t take long before he was out of them. The suitcase was on display in the museum for a while but it had to be withdrawn.’ The woman leaned in closer and said, ‘It was made of human skin.’
Jenny squeaked in surprise.
‘Some woman turned up and claimed it was her late husband. There was a mark in the leather. She said he used to have a tattoo just like it.’ The woman nodded, wished us a good day and moved off, saying, ‘Come here often enough and you get to meet all sorts.’
We wandered to the zoo’s small museum. There was a display about Clerihew. There were photographs of the crowds queuing round the block to buy tickets, and one of the baby gorilla wearing a nappy, looking as vulnerable and anxious as a human baby. There was also a picture of the African potentate, King Jhorumpha, officially handing the gorilla to the chairman of the British Rotary Club in Port Bismarck. King Jhorumpha was wearing what appeared to be a Mickey Mouse tie and grinning broadly. The caption explained that he had given the gorilla as a present to the King of England, whose postage-stamp collection he greatly admired. Jenny read the accompanying article from The Times that had been framed and affixed to the wall. Subset within it was a smaller story about a woman who had become hysterical whilst visiting the new star attraction at London Zoo and had to be taken to the infirmary. The lady, Mrs I. Gape, had convinced herself that Clerihew’s suitcase was made from the skin of her missing husband, who was also called Clerihew. The suitcase had been withdrawn from display and later sold to an American collector of curios called Hershey Lindt. This name had cropped up before, in Cadbury’s case file. I remembered there had been a report from the consul in British North Borneo relating the testimony of a seafaring vagabond called Hershey Lindt who claimed to have seen one of the nuns in a tramp steamer. Was it the same Hershey Lindt? To an English ear the name was unusual, but maybe in Switzerland Lindt was as common as Jones.
It would have been nice to take our tea and sandwiches on a bench in the park, but it had turned into quite a raw December day and really was too cold. Fortunately the zoo had made available a room in which it was deemed acceptable to eat sandwiches that one had brought along oneself and we went there. It was quite a drab place, with no windows, just a skylight and trestle tables in rows, like a works canteen, but it was warm and dry. To tell the truth, I was enjoying Jenny’s company so much I really didn’t mind about the room. We decided that after lunch we would take the bus to see Buckingham Palace, and then before catching the train back from Paddington we would visit Selfridges and look at the television receivers.
‘So, Clerihew is the gorilla,’ said Jenny.
‘Yes, it rather looks like it.’
‘Do you still think Cadbury wouldn’t play a practical joke on Cheadle?’
‘It is certainly very droll, but I think there is method in his madness. The gorilla must have some significance. I need to think about it.’
‘I telephoned the hospital again last night,’ said Jenny. ‘They said Aunt Agatha was still asleep but that she was feeling much better.’
‘I see.’
‘How can they know she is feeling better if she is asleep?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘She can’t feel anything if she is asleep.’ She reached into her handbag and took out a packet of cigarettes. She offered me one and we both smoked in silence for a while. Jenny said, ‘I had a dream about Sister Beatrice. It was horrible.’
‘Jenny, you mustn’t.’
‘They killed her and then pretended she had gone missing, when really she was already dead. Then they blamed her for setting the fire.’
‘I’m sure your dream was inspired by the ghoulishness of that place. Sister Beatrice is probably alive and well somewhere. We will have to find her.’
‘How will we do that?’
‘I really don’t have much idea.’
We sat in silence for a little while, lost in our own thoughts but probably the same oppressive forebodings. Jenny said in a brighter tone: ‘Is the case of the missing nuns the most baffling you have ever encountered?’
‘Pretty much, I’d say, although I have one on my desk at the moment which is pretty mysterious.’
‘That sounds intriguing. Are you allowed to tell? Or are you one of those wicked chaps who get pleasure from teasing a poor girl?’
I pondered for a second whether it would be proper to tell about the case of Driver Groates and Fireman Stalham. There had been a small write-up in the newspapers so I decided there was no reason to be coy.
‘I will tell you,’ I said, ‘but you must promise not to reproach me if the whole thing gives you a headache. It has certainly given me one.’
‘I promise. Guide’s honour.’
I explained the details of the case. ‘Even more peculiar, the light in the ceiling had a bloody handprint on it.’
‘Whose hand?’ said Jenny.
‘The blood, of course, belonged to the dead driver, but the handprint was that of Fireman Stalham. There were also smears of blood on the outside of the door. Fireman Stalham was in such distress that they took him to hospital and he walked out in his dressing gown sometime between 3am and 4am. He has not been seen since.’
‘Driver Groates was dead with a bashed-in skull,’ said Jenny, repeating the details as if wanting to be sure she had got it right. ‘There was glass inside the compartment, but no sign of the thing Fireman Stalham claimed had been thrown in and which hit his driver. Fireman Stalham has done a bunk and no one knows where he is. There was a bloody handprint on the light bulb in the compartment roof.’
‘That’s it. So what happened?’
‘I give up.’
‘I don’t blame you, but if you ever manage to work that one out, I will speak to Mr Jarley at Lost Property and ask him to let me know the first time someone hands in a Biro.’
After the zoo, we took the bus to see Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament. Then we walked up to Oxford Street to Selfridges, where we made straight for the radio and gramophone department. The television set they had was an RGD and was already receiving a broadcast as we entered the department. On the screen was a chap explaining about the latest development in London called a supermarket. It was an American idea that represented an entirely new way of shopping in which you do most of the work yourself. He said, soon we should all be supermarketers. The salesman, noting our interest, walked over and explained some of the features. It was a 29-valve television sound and vision receiver of the cathode
-ray type. Picture size of 10 inches by 8. This was the same size as a blown-up photograph and meant more than one person could watch it in comfort. No more family arguments about who got to watch the television. It was available on hire purchase for an initial downpayment of £5 and 16 shillings, and twelve monthly payments of £4 15s and 9d. That didn’t include the aerial installation, of course. All the same, it struck me as quite reasonable, and really a television set could be had for an outlay not much more than the cost of a motor car. As we watched, the pictures of the supermarket reminded me, for some reason, of Magdalena visiting me last night, and the fear that had been in her eyes. Magdalena was no coward, and I could not get out of my mind the frightened way she had darted from the pub when the Dingleman’s chap arrived. I thought, too, of the gaiety with which Jenny had suggested the idea of digging up the graves of the nuns, as if we were in a sensational novel. But of course we weren’t. I began to reflect on the danger into which I had been selfishly leading Jenny. I knew if I were honest with myself that the reason I had allowed her to take part in the investigation of her case was most irregular. It was because I liked being with her.
We wandered back towards Paddington station through Hyde Park and I determined the time had come to put an end to things before someone got hurt. I decided I would tell her when we reached the point where we would have to leave the Park. But when we got there it occurred to me that we had been walking for some time in silence and that this was not the awkward silence that sometimes exists between two people but a completely different one that felt very nice and I reflected that I hadn’t ever enjoyed a silence in that way before. So I postponed my remarks until we reached the station. When we did I still found I lacked the courage and waited until we were on the platform.
‘Jenny,’ I said, ‘I think it’s probably best if I investigate this case alone.’
‘Not on your nelly.’
‘Yes, I knew you would say something like that but it really is too dangerous.’
‘I’m not scared.’
‘No, I don’t imagine you are, all the same—’
‘Didn’t I tell you I would do it anyway, no matter what you said?’
‘Yes, indeed you did, but, well, you see I ran into Magdalena yesterday, and—’
‘Oh.’
‘She’s scared for her life. She won’t say why, but this letter – she seems to think they will kill anyone who reads it.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Is it?’
‘I mean, it’s nice that you saw Magdalena.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. All the same . . .’ My words trailed off as the whistle of the approaching train attracted our attention. We said no more until the drama of arrival was past. Pish, posh, shhhh, ker-shhhhhhhhhhh. So many steam sounds. I don’t think there lives the man who is entirely unmoved by the theatrical bravura of a steam engine arriving or departing.
Once we were seated in our compartment, Jenny pressed her face to the window.
‘You see, she was quite windy and that’s not like her at all.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘She said she was going away . . . to hide. There’s no chance of her giving us this letter, so I think the only thing we can do now is find the nuns.’
‘Really.’ Jenny’s tone was quite flat and lacking in warmth.
‘Yes. We must find them and ask them what was in the letter and then appeal to the King. But the whole thing is fraught with danger and I really couldn’t—’
‘Do you know, whenever you say “Magdalena”, your voice changes pitch slightly?’
‘Does it?’
‘It’s like a catch in your voice.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘The way some men speak differently when they talk of their dead mother.’
‘How interesting!’
‘Were you sweet on Magdalena, Jack?’
‘I hardly ever see Magdalena—’
‘That’s not what I asked – I asked if you were sweet on her.’
‘Everyone was sweet on Magdalena.’
‘That’s not what I asked either, I don’t give two hoots about everyone.’
‘Jenny.’
‘You see? When you say my name there is no catch in your voice. So, were you sweet on her? I imagine you must have been if everyone else was.’
‘No, you don’t understand. We grew up together, like brother and sister, so I didn’t think about her like that. I mean, she was awfully pretty and . . . Magdalena was like a bird that has fallen out of its nest. She was odd in a very nice way. We were all shocked when Tumby died—’
‘Who’s that?’
‘He was one of the Goslings.’
‘Last time you said you didn’t want to talk about him.’
‘No, I said I didn’t want to talk about Cheadle. I don’t think I mentioned Tumby.’
‘So what did he die of, then? Measles?’ There was an edge to Jenny’s voice that I hadn’t heard before. I frowned and stared at her. She flicked her eyes away from the window, to me, and then back as if there was something very interesting going on outside, but there wasn’t.
‘He was caught stealing from Kipper our collecting dog and Lord Apsley was forced to thrash him before the whole school.’
‘And he died?’
‘Yes. During the thrashing, Magdalena cried out in pain as if she were the one being beaten. In a way she was. Because of her Alice in Wonderland Syndrome, she would get migraines that made her senses swap over so she could hear colours, and see sounds. She told us she felt each stroke of the cane. She begged them to stop and said Tumby didn’t steal the money. They asked how she knew, and she said Kipper told her. They had to drag her outside for some air.’
‘Drag?’
‘Help.’
‘So why say “drag”?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t mean anything by it. Once outside in the yard she screamed again and said, “He’s dead!” Then Lord Apsley stopped and said, “Don’t be silly, he’s just sleeping.” And he carried Tumby off to the infirmary.’
‘They beat a little boy to death?’
‘He had a weak heart.’
‘They always say that.’
‘Who does?’
‘People.’
‘Magdalena and Tumby were very close.’
‘The dog told her it wasn’t Tumby?’
‘Yes.’
‘She sounds stupid.’
‘I don’t think she was.’
‘Bully for you. I’m sure you thought she was just lalapaloosa.’
‘I don’t know what that means.’
‘Super-colossally fantabulous.’
I was aware of a growing sense of vexation within me. I didn’t know what had happened but the sun had slid behind a cloud. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Jenny banged her head against the window glass. ‘Oh yes, everything will be just spoony if we have a cup of tea.’
‘Spoony?’
‘Snazzy Jack, super-solidly Fifth Avenue, groovy and totally cheezle-goddam-peezle.’
‘You really have some funny expressions. Where did you get them from?’
‘An American soldier.’ Jenny’s voice became different when she said that. Softer but with a weary sad bitterness. ‘He was our lodger for a while. I moved in with my auntie and he put his snore rack in my room.’
‘A GI?’
She saluted sarcastically. ‘Yes, sir! From Chocolate Town, USA.’
‘I didn’t know there was such a place.’
‘Hershey, Jack, Hershey Pennsylvania, where they make the chocolate.’
‘The town is called Hershey?’
‘They named it after the chocolate.’
‘Well, that’s—’ I stopped.
‘It’s what?’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘Well, you do now.’
‘Were you . . . was he . . .’
‘He was funny.’
‘He stayed in your room?’
&nbs
p; ‘Where else?’
‘So there was the three of you, then. I mean, your auntie would have always been there with you.’
‘Not always.’
‘Not?’
‘Sometimes she went out, and then there was just the two of us.’
‘But . . . was that wise?’
‘Oh, I wonder. Let me see now, was it wise?’
‘I mean two of you—’
‘That’s right, a boy, a girl, both of whom could count to two.’
‘But that’s not . . . how old was he?’
‘As old as his tongue and a little older than his teeth.’
‘Same age as you then.’
Jenny glanced away from the window again. I was aware of having made a joking remark, but I hadn’t intended it so. I wasn’t laughing.
‘Two years younger actually. He was nineteen. So yes, we were both very wise.’
‘I think you are misunderstanding me, all I meant was . . . was whether it was proper—’
‘It’s a bit late to act the fire extinguisher, and anyway you can hardly talk, can you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A bit of a cheek, I call it. You gushing on and on about Marvellous Magdalena and then getting all shirty because we had a lodger. We were doing our bit to win the war.’
‘Who’s being shirty?’
‘The King of Timbuktu.’
‘Timbuktu doesn’t have a king. Just a vizier.’
‘Fancy that. Did you read it in your Gosling annual?’
‘Cheadle told me.’
‘Fuck Cheadle.’
‘Jenny, how dare you be so . . . waspish!’
‘Cheadle ruined you all, Jack.’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘I know that.’
‘Just because he blotted our copybooks—’
‘He fell in love, for God’s sake. With a woman, instead of a train. He probably wasn’t the first.’
‘But he—’
The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Page 16
