‘Are you sure?’
‘No son of England would cry upon being put into a heathen cooking pot.’
‘I am curious to test this hypothesis.’
‘What? And ruin your new coat?’
‘Yes, what a quandary I find myself in, the choice of the man you call Hobson, I believe. Perhaps I should be less ambitious and turn your hide instead into a travelling suitcase.’
Chapter 17
My rescuers took me to a hospital where the doctors gave me an anti-tetanus injection that made me very poorly. They called it an adverse reaction and for a week I drifted in and out of consciousness, beset by the most frightful dreams. And then on new year’s eve, the last day of God’s Wonderful Railway, I opened my eyes at eight in the morning to find a chap sitting on a chair next to my bed. He was holding a cloth cap tightly in both hands and staring intently at me. I was in a dormitory, coloured a drab shade of green, lightened with beige. The floor comprised square tiles in shades of chocolate and fawn. Wintery sunlight filtered in softly from two large windows at one end. At the other end was the door through which now a nurse pushed a trolley from which she dispensed hot drinks: tea, Milo, Ovaltine. Men lay awake, staring at the ceiling or reading newspapers. There was a hum from somewhere. The nurse, on seeing me awake, left the trolley and hurried out.
‘Good morning,’ I said to the man at my bedside.
‘Are you feeling better, sir?’
‘I’m really not sure if I could say, but I take that as a good sign.’
‘Yes, I fancy you would know if you weren’t feeling so well. My name is George Binks. I’m the chap you waved to from . . . from . . .’
‘I think it was a sewage treatment pool.’
‘That’s what they told me. Rotten place to find yourself. They said some toughs had thrown you in.’
‘And hit me on the head with a shovel. I’m lucky to be alive, thanks to you. I owe you a great debt of gratitude.’
‘It’s not necessary to thank me, sir, I did what any Christian man would do. I’ve come here to ask a favour of you.’
‘Of course, just name it.’
‘Have you spoken to anyone about it all yet?’
‘You are the first man I have spoken to since that night.’
‘I wouldn’t normally intrude like this, but you see, I recently became a father—’
‘My congratulations.’
‘Thank you. I’m a fireman for the Great Western Railway. I’m not sure if you have had many dealings with the railway. A lot of people have fanciful ideas about the driver and fireman. They imagine we are quite rich fellows but nothing could be further from the truth. It isn’t easy making ends meet and now we have a new mouth to feed, well, I would be in an awful fix if I were to lose my employment.’
‘But why should you do that? You saved my life.’
He looked down at the cap in his hands, and twisted it some more. ‘This isn’t easy for me to say, but there is no . . . well, let me put it this way. When you called to me from the water, what did you see?’
‘I saw you leaning with half your body out of the window, with another chap holding on to your legs. And I have a suspicion you were trying to look into the compartment next to you. I also believe you had put out the light in your own compartment by unscrewing the bulb.’
‘You are a sharp one.’
‘Not that sharp, I don’t know what you were doing. Were you playing a joke on a friend in the next compartment?’
‘Not quite, sir.’
‘My name is Jack Wenlock.’
‘Not quite, Mr Wenlock. It pains me to say this, but I was spying on a chap in there with his sweetheart.’
‘You were a peeping Tom?’
‘I’m far from being the only one to do it. My driver and I were travelling home on the cushions . . . it’s quite common.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to say.’
‘If you could tell them you waved to me but not tell them what I was doing . . . I should be very grateful. I don’t want to lose my job.’
‘Mr Binks, your secret is safe with me. I can assure you, I would not dream of reporting the man who saved my life. All the same, I think it is my duty to warn you that if you persist in this activity it could lead to your ruin. I happen to know a driver by the name of Groates was killed doing precisely the same as you not two months ago. He hit a bridge, you see. And his fireman Mr Stalham has gone missing – hidden his face from the world for shame, I should imagine.’
Mr Binks shook his head. ‘Oh no, sir, Fireman Stalham is not missing if you know where to look. He’s working as a chauffeur for Lord Apsley.’
‘I happen to know Lord Apsley’s chauffeur is called Sturridge.’
‘Whatever name he chooses to go by, it’s the same chap. He’s not hiding from the world for shame, as you put it, but to stay out of prison.’
‘Well, then I will reassure him on that score. Although his employers will take a dim view of his activity as a peeping Tom it is hardly a crime worthy to send a man to prison for. What happened was a terrible accident.’
‘That all depends on what he saw through the window of that train carriage, doesn’t it?’
‘And what did he see?’
‘No, perhaps I’ve said too much.’
‘What did he see? What could he see, that—’
‘He saw two chaps.’
‘Two chaps?’
‘Behaving in a way . . . a way . . . they could be arrested for it.’
I sank back into my pillow and emitted a gentle puff of air and said softly, ‘Two chaps. On the Great Western Railway . . .’
‘Not just any chaps. One of them was rather important.’
‘Who?’
‘Lord Apsley. And he was with that other chap who hangs around with that sort. Cheadle Heath.’
‘Cheadle Heath? No!’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes. But he’s . . . he’s not—’
‘Everyone knows it.’
‘But why would Fireman Stalham having witnessed such a thing go and work for Lord Apsley?’
‘I expect for the same reason any man who had a family to feed would go and work for a man of means. The question, perhaps, should be why Lord Apsley would employ him knowing what he knows.’
‘Well, why would he?’
‘Because that way he can make sure Stalham shuts his trap.’ He stood up and said, ‘Well, I’ve said my piece.’
After he left, the doctor arrived. I told him I was leaving that very minute and, although he deemed that unwise, he did not make a great effort to stand in my way. My clothes were returned and it seemed the hospital had been kind enough to have them dry-cleaned. The sight of them reminded me of that evening a week ago and of the chit of paper bearing the telephone number I should call. I fished it out of the trouser pocket only to discover that it, too, had been dry-cleaned and the number was no longer legible.
On my way out I ran into Ron Dingleman. He was walking along the corridor, wearing a dressing gown and pyjamas. He had a bandage round his forehead. We stopped and faced each other in the corridor as if meeting for the first time in many years.
‘Where you off to all in a hurry?’
‘I’m going to see Cheadle.’
‘I fancy I should wish you a happy new year.’
‘I would prefer it if you didn’t, to be honest, Ron.’
He looked pained and nodded. ‘Yes, there’s not much happiness about that I can see.’
There was something about that phrase and the voice in which he uttered it that took me aback. This seemed to be a shadow of the Dingleman who faced me. All the vitality and cocksure insolence had gone; he was like a deflated balloon.
‘What happened to your head?’
‘Got hit by a hammer.’
‘Oh Lord! How dreadful. Did someone attack you?’
‘You could say that.’ He seemed oddly uncertain. ‘Did your girl enjoy the show?’
‘Oh, Ron, they’
ve taken her. To Room 42.’
He nodded as if this news didn’t greatly surprise him. ‘They said they would spare Magdalena if I gave them the letter. But she knew better than me, she knew better than to trust their word.’
‘But where is Room 42?’
‘I don’t think it is anywhere in particular. Magdalena said they shoot people there.’
I looked at the bandage around his head. ‘This chap who attacked you . . . I suppose you must have made a lot of enemies over the years.’
‘Yes, but most of them are in the ground.’
‘Do you know the man who did it?’
‘Oh yes, known him all my life. You are looking at him.’
‘Are you telling me you hit yourself with the hammer?’
‘I am.’
‘But what on earth for?’
‘I’ve had enough of the place.’
‘The hospital?’
‘The world.’
I narrowed my eyes with puzzlement. Ron Dingleman really was the last person I would ever have expected to talk this way.
‘That’s not much of a reason.’
‘My boy died.’
I paused in shock and cried, ‘No!’
He gave a grimace in answer. He patted my arm as he moved past and said in parting, ‘When you see Cheadle, tell him I know who stole the money from Kipper. I’ve always known.’
Cheadle stared up at me from his bed, sunk into his pillow like a stone thrown from a building landing in snow. He seemed to have shrunk, and receded from the world.
‘You remember Tumby Woodside,’ he said. ‘The day Lord Apsley thrashed him to death.’
‘Don’t play games with me, Cheadle. You know very well I sat in the same assembly hall as you and watched.’
‘Yes, I know. But there is so much you don’t know.’
‘What has Tumby got to do with this?’
‘He was thrashed for stealing the money from Kipper’s collecting box. But it wasn’t him. It was me.’
I took a step back and almost lost my footing. If he had punched me on the nose the effect could not have been stronger. ‘No, Cheadle.’
‘Yes, Jack. I did it. And I watched Apsley beat Tumby knowing that he was innocent.’
‘You stole from a dog?’
‘Yes, I stole from a dog. That’s another blot on my copybook.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘It’s not hard. I was fifteen and had never tasted chocolate. Then they painted that Lindt advertisement on the wall by the station, do you remember?’
‘Of course.’
‘Switzerland. You can’t imagine what longing that picture unleashed in my heart. The Matterhorn so white, that spotless blue of the sky, the green grass and Magdalena as the milk maid . . . Where was this place? I thought it was called Lindt, a country near to Heaven. If you tasted the chocolate it would transport you there. That’s what I thought. Every day I stared at it, Lindt. A funny word, but one that has come to dominate our lives, really, hasn’t it?’
‘I don’t see how.’
‘No, Jack, you don’t. I never met anyone who was quite so good at not seeing the wood for the trees.’ He reached across and grasped my hand. ‘It’s good to see you though.’
‘I can’t believe you watched him being thrashed like that,’ I said.
‘What would you have done?’
‘I would never have stolen from Kipper.’
‘I gave him some too.’
‘Kipper?’
‘He liked it. There was none left on his mouth afterwards.’
‘Jolly lucky for you. If Lord Apsley had seen it—’
‘It wouldn’t have made any difference. He knew I had done it. Don’t ask me how, he was always watching me. He used it against me, you see. I had to do what he wanted.’
‘Beastliness!’
‘Yes, Jack, beastliness.’
‘When?’
‘All my life. I can’t stop, even though I want to. I rather fancy it is the same power that the torturer has over the man he torments on the rack. It’s a form of bewitchment. It never goes. I don’t want ever to see him again, but still I do. I don’t expect you to understand and, to be frank, I don’t greatly give much of a damn whether you do or not. It’s all wretched.’
‘Why didn’t you . . . tell on him?’
‘Think about it. Tumby was thrashed for stealing. The evidence was the chocolate around his mouth and the Lindt wrapper in his pocket. Where did they come from?’
‘A kind gentleman in the street gave them to him.’
‘I gave them to him.’
‘But—’
‘I gave them to him. Do you know what that means?’
‘You . . . he . . . why didn’t he say?’
For answer Cheadle simply stared at me, eyes glittering with a lifetime’s accumulated pain.
‘He took the beating rather than betray his friend.’
This time he spoke, but in a whisper so soft it wouldn’t have disturbed a mouse. ‘Yes.’ Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes. ‘I warned you. I told you to take your happiness and be grateful for it, not to inquire into things that would not make you happy, but you chose to ignore me and here you are.’
‘But Lord Apsley . . .’
‘He’s not the man everyone thinks he is. He’s rotten, Jack, rotten right through. A coward and a—’
‘I know he’s rotten, Cheadle. It’s all rotten. But surely he’s not a coward. He’s a hero . . . isn’t he?’
‘What? The hero of Elandslaagte? No, Jack, he’s not. Did you never wonder what it was, the shame deeper than beastliness? It’s blubbing. At Elandslaagte he cried for his mum on the field of battle. The men refused to serve under him; he had previously had a man shot for blubbing, you see. That’s why they sent him home and gave him the Gosling project.’
‘I went to Povington Priory. I saw the graves. The nuns who stayed behind, I suspect they were killed. By our chaps.’
‘Yes, I daresay they were.’
‘Nuns, Cheadle.’
‘Oh, fuck the nuns!’
‘How dare you!’
‘Fuck the nuns, Jack, fuck them all. Who cares about the nuns?’
‘I thought we all did.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Don’t you care about England?’
‘Not particularly. Did she ever care for me?’
Cheadle lay still for a while. The distant tower of St Bede’s chimed nine. Machines hummed downstairs, there were shouts. The smell of chemical cleaning agents stored in the room seemed to grow stronger.
‘Cheadle, where is Cadbury? I believe you know.’
‘I don’t know where he is now. I hope he’s still abroad, for his own good. Did you read his case file?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a chap who keeps popping up in the story, Hershey Lindt.’
‘Yes, he’s everywhere. An exporter of elephant-foot umbrella stands, from Port Bismarck, big-game hunter, seafarer. I’ve sent him a telegram.’
‘Didn’t the name strike you? The Lindt advertisement. Chocolate?’
‘Hershey, Pennsylvania. Chocolate Town, USA. Are you saying Hershey Lindt was Cadbury? That’s rather a silly game to play, isn’t it?’
‘Is it? Quite droll, I would have thought.’ A rare smile cracked the mask of his face. He sighed the world-weary exhalation of a man whose sinews still function but whose heart has given up.
‘So, was it all a lie then, about you living in sin with that woman?’
‘Oh no, it was a blessed truth! Her name was Florence. She was a shop girl, in a haberdasher’s. I had an office in Cheltenham Spa station at the time—’
‘Which one?’
‘Malvern Road. I caught her standing on a footbridge about to do some desperate mischief to herself. She pretended at first she was just watching the trains, but it’s odd how you can tell, isn’t it? Some instinct warns you. I persuaded her to go with me to a café for a cup of tea. She told me sh
e had lost her position as a result of a misunderstanding and did not know how she would support herself. Her husband had been a merchant seaman during the war and died when his ship went down in the channel. I wouldn’t say she was pretty, Jack, I rather think life had taken its toll on her, but occasionally I managed to make her laugh and when she did . . . well, she made me laugh too. I insisted on taking her home to her digs and made her promise to meet me again in two days’ time, to reassure me that she was feeling better. Then I did something rather extraordinary. I went to see her employer and persuaded him to take her back. Well, you should have seen her face when we met two days later. She gave me a bobbin. I expect you will laugh. What would a chap like me need with a bobbin? She laughed too, she said it was all she had. I’ve still got it.’ He stopped and pressed his lips together, and his brow creased. ‘I’ve still got it.’ He went quiet for a while, before continuing.
‘She didn’t last long back in her job. Someone had been telling tales about her. When she was dismissed again, we went to Ilfracombe together, posing as man and wife. I arranged it with one of our railway landladies, it was foolish I suppose, but once in a while everyone deserves the chance to be foolish. We had such a lovely time, walking along the prom holding hands and eating ice cream. In the evening we ate fish and chips and sat on a bench and admired the illuminations. We knew it couldn’t last, even though neither of us could have said exactly why. So we gulped our pleasure and did not give a fig for tomorrow. I’ve discovered this is the only true philosophy. You stumble on happiness but rarely, like you stumble on half a crown in the road. When that happens the only sensible policy is spend it and have the pleasure of it. Put no store in tomorrow. When we returned, I was dismissed. Someone had been telling tales on me, too. So we moved to Hereford, where we hoped we would not be known, but misfortune dogged us all the way. We had no money, life became very difficult. That’s when we began to quarrel. I still shudder to recall those fights. The words we exchanged. That’s when I raised my hand to her. I rue the day, Jack. Then she left. That’s it really.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘But Ilfracombe . . . that was . . . remember those summer trips to Barmouth?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Weren’t they grand?’
The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Page 22
