The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste

by Malcolm Pryce

  I stared at the distant mountains with wonder. ‘Where does Eden start?’

  ‘Beyond the mountains. It is a hard terrible journey through the Pass of Gabriel and down into the place the ancients called locus amoenus, the pleasant place.’

  ‘It must be truly marvellous.’

  ‘Yes, if you consider a leper colony marvellous.’

  ‘Leprosy in Eden?’

  ‘And much else besides.’

  ‘Your blasphemous tongue will see you damned, Mr Gape. I wonder that you can be so sure that you found the blessed realm.’

  ‘You can wonder all you like.’

  ‘Did you have any cast-iron proofs to attest to the truth of your discovery?’

  ‘Not cast iron, gopher wood.’

  ‘You jest!’

  ‘No, Mr Holt, I do not. They built a school house from wood provided by the natives, the trees in the valley being deemed unsuitable. It was an unusual wood, resinous and aromatic with a sweet talcum-powder scent. We had never seen its like before and asked the natives what it was called. Gopher wood, they said. They told us a legend their people tell, from long ago, about a man who appeared one day and bought a large amount from them in order to build a boat. This he then stocked with animals, two examples of each. That’s good enough for me, Mr Holt.’

  ‘But even so—’

  ‘Enough quibbling! We are at journey’s end and it is time to pack your bags.’

  ‘You surely do not mean to cast me out here in this wilderness?’

  ‘I do indeed. I have fulfilled my half of the bargain, or as much of it as I care to. The holy sisters you seek lie there beyond the Mountains of the Green Dawn.’ He reached out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Mr Holt, you are an amiable fool, but a fool nonetheless. I wish you luck. You will need it.’

  Chapter 15

  Towards evening the temperature plunged and it became bitterly cold. I stood for a long time up on Devil’s Curtsy, numb with the wind flapping at my coat. Below me the lights of the town twinkled more sharply than ever in the clear cold air. For the first time in my life I wondered what should become of me. Working for the Great Western Railway I had never needed to concern myself with such thoughts; it seemed no more likely that the railway would disappear than the sea would freeze. But the newspaper rolled up in my inside pocket told me that the North Sea had indeed frozen. They said the wind had come all the way from Russia, and warned you not to walk on frozen sea. It struck me as odd that the Russians were our enemies now. Most chaps I knew who had met Russian soldiers in Berlin spoke very highly of them. I couldn’t understand why they would turn on us like this. Was Jenny right to think the nuns who stayed behind had been murdered in their beds in order to shut them up? What did they know? If this were true, if our own chaps could commit such a wicked act, then the Russians would have had good reason to turn against us. They would be right to erect their iron curtain to keep us out. I walked over to the seat and sat down and held my head in my hands. The wind was swirling down below in the valley, making a keening sound. It swirled in my heart too. I thought of Jenny. Who was she to me? Just a lady who walked into my office ten days ago. Plenty of ladies had sat in that chair over the years, but never had there been one who entered my life as well as the room, the way Jenny did. When I left work and returned home I easily dismissed them from my mind, put them aside the way one puts one’s gloves on the hall table and gives them not another thought until after breakfast the following morning. And yet Jenny had somehow remained in my thoughts the whole time. And now unwittingly I had offended her.

  I heard myself gasp at the thought and I understood why. I had gasped upon contemplating the return to the life I had led before she came, the life that had struck me up until then – insofar as I gave the matter any thought – as highly acceptable. Now it seemed as empty as a burned-out house. And I no longer wanted to return to it, no more than a family forced from their home by fire would want to go and live in the burned-out shell. Was this the Devilishness of which Cheadle spoke? But what exactly had I done to make her talk to me in that waspish manner? Cheadle understood these things but he was as baffling as she was. First he told me to beware, to shun the company of ladies, and the next time we met he told me it is wonderful news, and the most wonderful of all, the best sign, was that I had upset her. This he told me is a marvellous development, and furthermore, if I were so fortunate as to win her heart, she would be upset with me all the time and I would never know why. In which case, why would I want to win her heart? The 11.23 Taunton to Manchester Piccadilly cried out as it entered Wildernesse, and the answer to the question was clear enough. To win her heart and live a life in which everything I did was wrong would still be glorious compared to the life that had sufficed me up until now but which now filled me with aversion.

  I pulled my coat closer to keep out the bitter cold and trudged through the snow that was lying thickly on the ground now. The flakes were like cold butterflies flying in my face. At the top of the hill I opened the little wooden gate and stepped into the street. At the end, where Dandelion Hill joined the road, a woman stood under the streetlamp. I knew straightaway it was Jenny, just from the attitude with which she held herself, a mixture of defiance and nervousness. My heartbeat became insistent. I pulled myself erect and strode as purposefully as I could. What should I say? She turned to look at me. She began to move towards me. A policeman passed on his bicycle, the lamp flickering with a feeble glow under the power of his dynamo. ‘Evening!’ he said in passing and I echoed the single word in reply.

  ‘Jack,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Jenny, how nice—’

  ‘Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry, I was such a cow. Please don’t send me away.’

  ‘But, Jenny—’

  ‘Please don’t, even though I deserve it. I wouldn’t blame you, if I were you, I wouldn’t have anything more to do—’

  ‘Jenny—’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything—’

  I stepped forward into the penumbra of the lamp, and took hold of Jenny’s shoulders gently. ‘But, Jenny, I have no intention of doing that. I was about to . . . I was about to ask you if you would mind very much if I took you to Ireland.’

  She stood and gazed at me as if my face was covered in writing that was too small for her to read.

  After a long silence she said, ‘Ireland.’

  ‘Yes, in . . . in . . .’

  ‘In Ireland.’

  ‘That’s the one. I thought, that is, I assume you have never been. Have you ever been?’

  ‘Jack! Of course I have never been. How on earth would I have been to Ireland? Oh, you are not joking, are you? I don’t think I could ever forgive you if you were.’

  ‘Well, that depends on whether you agree. I was rather afraid you would think it impertinent, in which case I would say—’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘No, I’m not joking. Wouldn’t it be . . . rather . . .’

  ‘Yes, it would, it would. We’ll have to take a boat.’

  ‘Yes, it leaves from Fishguard every day at nine sharp.’

  ‘How sharp?’

  ‘I expect as sharp as they come. The SS St Patrick entered service on the Fishguard Rosslare line only in July this year so she’s still very new.’

  ‘When will we go?’

  ‘Next week. I thought we could travel down to Fishguard on Monday and catch the boat on Tuesday.’

  ‘We’d have to stay in Fishguard then?’

  ‘Yes, I can make arrangements with the Railway Hotel there.’

  ‘We could travel as Mr and Mrs Wenlock.’

  ‘But that would be—’

  ‘Or Mr and Mrs Zanzibar O’Hanlon. Or we could be Dexter G. Scoopermooker the Third, and his wife Mary-Lou.’

  ‘Jenny, do you really want to travel under an assumed name?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be fun?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose . . .’

  ‘Unless you already have a wife, I’ve never really asked, so . . .’

 
; ‘Jenny, you know very well I have no such thing. You are wicked.’

  ‘I’m only teasing. Oh, Jack, it sounds wonderful. I’ve never been on a boat. Are they rather fun?’

  ‘I’ll say! The cabins have a new system of thermo-regulating louvre ventilation which allows each one to be heated or cooled separately according to the wishes of the passenger.’

  ‘That sounds wonderful. Has it got a big engine?’

  ‘Two independent sets of Parsons’ combined steam turbines, each set driving its respective shaft through single-reduction gearing. Steam is provided by four oil-fired Scotch boilers . . . Jenny, am I boring you?’

  ‘No, no, please go on, please, tell me about the boilers. Tell me everything. Will we be able to go on deck?’

  ‘I’ll say! There are three promenade decks, with the topmost being on a level with the navigating bridge. The first- and third-class dining saloons are located on the promenade deck and have large picture windows so we can draw the full benefit from the view and sunshine. The first-class saloon is decorated in mahogany and seats sixty-eight passengers at small tables, while teas are served in alcoves on either side. The galley is fitted with the latest electric grill and refrigerating chambers . . .’ My words fizzled out as I became aware of a look of bewilderment taking hold of Jenny’s face. ‘Jenny, tell me I’m not boring you—’

  ‘I thought I heard . . . listen.’

  We listened. From the darkness of the park a feeble voice called out. ‘Please help me.’

  ‘Who is that?’ I cried.

  ‘Please help me, please, sir.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘You stay here under the lamplight, I will go and see who it is.’ I walked back to the little wooden gate and through into the park and downhill in the direction from where I thought the sound had come from. ‘Hello?’ I called. There was silence. I trod gingerly, I could hardly see a thing. ‘Hello?’ There was a rustle. A dark figure stood up in some bushes and began to run away from me, downhill. ‘Hey!’ I cried. Up above me from Devil’s Curtsy there came the sound of a woman’s squeal. Not long drawn out, but short, like a yelp. As if someone had been surprised and a hand placed over her mouth to stifle her complaints. A car door slammed. Tyres screeched. I turned and ran back, but by the time I reached the street, the car and Jenny had gone.

  Chapter 16

  It was Christmas Eve. Twelve days had passed since they took Jenny away. Most of the time I had sat silently in my office, staring at the phone. The police had been very kind. They had done all that could be expected: mounted a search of the area, and knocked on doors, house-to-house. They had asked after Jenny down at the Anaglypta Mill. But the one piece of information that might have helped them, I withheld. I did not mention the Dingleman. I assumed he had abducted her because I had failed to deliver the letter to him, in which case he would surely contact me. But he didn’t. And when I asked after him at his usual haunts it seemed he had gone to ground. No one knew where he was. I sat and stared at the phone, reasoning that he was no fool and since nothing could be gained by hurting Jenny, this episode would serve as the prelude to giving me another ultimatum. I sat in my chair, like a boxer stunned to his knees by a well-placed hook, who, impelled to beat the count, rises too early; who looks in bewilderment at the baying mob in the ring seats and wonders who and where he is.

  I returned to my office after lunch to find a letter in a buff envelope bearing the initials of the Great Western Railway. I took a quick glance at the contents to confirm what I had suspected: it was a letter of dismissal. The letter told me my employment would be terminated on the fourteenth of January. At the beginning of the year, as 1947 passed into 1948, God’s Wonderful Railway, and the other three great railway companies, would cease to exist. In their place would be the new railway company called British Railways, whose symbol would be a lion riding a unicycle, something previously only seen at the circus. On the stroke of midnight, all the trains in the land would toot their whistles. I returned and sat at my desk, shivering. The fire was dead and the coal scuttle had been emptied in a manner that suggested the economies that were required of the new railway company were already in effect.

  I fetched my hat and sought a well-thumbed piece of paper inside.

  One Saturday night he took out his money and said us would tramp to Yorkshire. For he’d worked there before and it was all rock, and beautiful for tunnels. I didn’t know where Yorkshire was, I had never been more than twenty miles from Bristol before. We were gone four years, and I wasn’t but just seventeen year old . . .

  The railways were built by these people. Who had the right to end the great railway companies? Who? All my life, I had never asked for anything except the permission to serve the railway. They tell you never to leave a baby unattended in its pram out in the back yard. Because a magpie would peck out the baby’s eyes. The magpie is cruel. But men are worse. My eyes smarted and tears brimmed up. I groaned like a cow in an abattoir. I pressed my eyelids tightly shut. But the tears were squeezed out and slid down my cheeks. I felt the cold trickle, and heard the soft thud as the drops fell to my desk.

  I placed my hand over my eyes and wept. Damn it. Damn them and bloody, bloody bugger them. I picked up the client’s chair, raised it above my head and dashed it to pieces on the ground. With the pieces I lit a fire in the grate. I built a pyre over some crumpled newspaper and then lit the paper. In less than a minute I had a fine blaze and the room began to warm. I turned out the light and sat for an hour at my desk, listening to the crackle from the grate and the distant moaning of the engines at the station below. Periodic wails, sighs, gasps, clanks and the sweetest sound of all: chuffing.

  I went for a walk. In the High Street I stopped outside Barker & Stroud’s and stared at the Christmas display in the show window. It was a crib, rather a grand one: a wooden shed made by a skilled joiner, two realistic manikins of Mary and Joseph in a scene littered with toy sheep and donkeys. A Salvation Army band approached along the pavement, playing silver tubas and trombones; the insistent rhythmic thrashing of the tambourines reminded me of a steam engine climbing a gradient. As they passed someone put a gentle arm on my forearm. Serge cloth, a blue so dark it was almost black, edged with red trim. It was the tambourine player. I looked into her face and realised it was Mrs Gape.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Wenlock? You look most unwell.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Gape.’ I forced a smile and we stared into each other’s eyes. I saw a kindred spirit. ‘Mrs Gape, I must ask you, when you were in my office, you hinted . . . or rather expressed doubt that the nuns did indeed disappear from the train.’

  ‘What do I know?’

  ‘It seems to me you know an awful lot.’

  ‘Now is not the time. Perhaps in the new year I will come to your office and we can—’

  ‘I’m afraid you may not find me there if you do. You are aware of the government’s plan for the railways.’

  ‘Yes, but . . . you do not mean to tell me they have given you your marching orders?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  Her face became suffused with sympathy. ‘Oh, I am so sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Please don’t concern yourself.’

  The rest of the Salvation Army band had reached the corner of the street. Mrs Gape cast swift glances, anxious not to lose them. ‘You may recall during my visit to your office I mentioned a postcard from Mr Gape. It was sent from Bristol, on the day Southend was bombed by a Zeppelin. That was the tenth of May 1915. They set sail that day. And yet the nuns were reported missing from the train on the seventeenth of May. How can that be? It is my belief that the disappearance and nationwide search was a fiction, designed to disguise what had really become of the nuns, something . . . terrible. And before you ask, I don’t know what that is.’

  I walked along the canal towpath. It was dark and dank; the waters glistened like treacle, the lamps from the streets above glimmering in the depths. I walked, enjoying the cr
unch of gravel under the soles of my shoes. Every hundred yards or so the path ducked under a bridge. Above, men cycled to or from work, dark shapes with weak flickering dynamo lights on their bicycles. Under the bridges, water dripped in the murk. I could tell from the pungent smell of yeast and hops on the night air that we were passing the Trencherman’s Brewery and beyond that the smell of sulphurous fumes from the gas works mingled with the stale oil of the canal. I wanted a drink with a fervour that is normally foreign to my nature. After the gas works the smell gave way to the sewage works, and this indicated we were in Wildernesse. I climbed the dark bank at the next bridge and clambered over the wall, landing with a crunch on to the side of the road. I followed it to the wasteland and headed towards the lights at the main road up ahead, the yellow light that came from a pub window. I thought of those tales of Cornish people who used to set up false lights on the coast to lure ships to their doom so that they could plunder them. I was struck by just how cruel a trick that was. It really is quite infamous when you consider it, far worse than sticking a man up on the highway. I walked across the remains of the bicycle works. It had been making munitions during the war and been bombed. Amid the piles of rubble and shattered brick there could still be seen glinting twisted machinery. People said it was not wise to walk across this ground at night, it had become the home of people who were up to no good, but tonight I didn’t care. Because, for perhaps the first time in my life, I was up to no good.

  I had spent a lifetime confronting men who were ‘up to no good’. Violent men who fought with bloody faces, men who stole from others, who drank themselves silly and caused a nuisance to other sober and respectable passengers. For the first time tonight, I understood why they did it. I understood the plain truth that had eluded me all the years. They did it not because they were bad people who found entertainment in being reprobates, but because there was nothing else left to do. They were desperate. The sober and respectable people preferred to read of this desperation in a newspaper kept at arm’s length, which they could fold up and leave behind on the seat when they left the train. I had been appointed to preserve their right to read undisturbed. They were no better, just luckier. They had never known desperation. Tonight, I had nowhere left to go. I considered the words of Mrs Gape. If it were true, as she surmised, that the nuns had not really disappeared from the train, but secretly embarked on the Laura Bell, and that the search had been an elaborate pantomime to cover up their disappearance, what difference did it make? They were just as lost. Even if they really had fetched up in Africa and Mr Gape had been turned into a suitcase, it made no difference to the plight I found myself in, the only one that mattered, the disappearance of Jenny. If the Dingleman had taken her because I had failed to deliver the letter, what could I do? Magdalena had the letter and made it quite clear she would not surrender it. Perhaps if I could find her and tell her about Jenny . . . but she said she was going away and no one knew better how to disappear and not be found than Magdalena. As for Jenny’s plan of finding the nuns and appealing to the King, even if I could find them, what good would it do? Did not Magdalena say the King was in it up to his neck? Which meant such an appeal would presumably incur his displeasure. There was nowhere left to turn, except the place that desperate men find comfort in for a while.