The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste

by Malcolm Pryce

  Her face lay in shadows. Somewhere off to my right a bright silver horn shone above a spinning shellac disk and the voice of Enrico Caruso, sounding as if he sang from a manhole beneath the street, filled the Eden night with the tinny refrain of Europe. I stood before the desk straining in the gloom to see the face of Mama !Mkuu, but her head, supported by the thin blue-white fingers of her right hand, was lowered as if she were reading the Bible, though I could tell that it had been many years since she had done that.

  A torch on the wall threw quivering pools of light upon the desk. The top was fashioned from a single great slab of dressed stone, and this was laid upon the ribcage of a beast so large it seemed not even a rhinoceros could have supplied it. The gleaming ribs curved like the spars from a ship of bone. Out of the belly of which fantastical beast did it derive? Surely it could only have come from those cold-hearted saurians that bellow in our darkest dreams and roamed this earth before the wickedness of Man so tested the patience of our Merciful Father that he was forced to destroy us all. A candle was seated in a silver holder. I watched transfixed as a fat globule of wax over-brimmed and fell precipitously down the candle side the way a human sacrifice falls when thrown from a cliff’s edge. My gaze was drawn with fascination to the infernal candelabra itself; it was covered with the most intricate designs of intertwining serpents and young ladies disrobing and entwining with the beasts in lascivious traffic. Next to the candle was a Bible of a size that would take two men to carry it to the table. It was opened to a page in Genesis and I saw with dismay that the page had been covered in scrawls and rude stick figure drawings of men and women in the same acts of defilement emblazoned on the candlestick. A quill made from an ostrich feather lay resting on the page, with inky blobs obliterating the verse. I could feel two eyes watching me keenly, the way perhaps a snake observes the mouse into whose eyes he will spit his venom.

  I opened my parched mouth and whispered the words, ‘Mama !Mkuu.’

  Slowly, gingerly, she raised her head. The candle painted her more golden than a Flemish Madonna. I saw with shock that her face, too, was ravaged by the cruel blisters and carbuncles of leprosy; her nose was enlarged and cratered like a potato; this lent the look in her eyes a quality that pierced the heart. It was the same aching puzzlement you saw in the eyes of a gorilla who has spent a lifetime captive in a zoo. The look with which he regards you through the bars contains a deep heartache for the green African trees of his half-remembered youth. And since he has known nothing but kindness from the human who daily tends and feeds him it never occurs to him that humans would be the ones responsible for his life sentence in prison. Instead he assumes some other among the animals – the wolf perhaps – must be responsible and that his keeper is a captive too. Thus, when evening comes and the keeper catches a bus home to his family, the gorilla thinks he has been locked up for the night in some dungeon similar to his own. And each morning when the keeper reappears and shares his food with the gorilla, the poor beast’s heart is wrung for pain at the gesture for well he sees the keeper does not eat the food himself, but gives it all to his friend while he himself grows thin. Thus does the gorilla love and pity the keeper. And the pale aching melancholy in his eyes was the same I saw that night in the eyes of Mama !Mkuu. Was this the dark secret Mama !Mkuu had discovered here at the umbilicus of the world? That we were the gorilla in the prison house we call earth? And was the pain in the agonised waters of her eyes the recognition that Christ was the keeper who betrayed us? Or was it merely a trick of light, the reflection of a candle in eyes seared with rheum and weary of staring out from a face that disease had laid waste and hardened into bark?

  In the gloom our eyes met, and she said, so softly that I struggled to hear the words,

  ‘Did you bring any gramophone records?’

  Chapter 20

  The lady from behind the counter came across and told us they would be closing in ten minutes. It was eleven. She asked us if we would like any more tea and gave our cups a meaningful stare that indicated she knew we were drinking brandy. We said no and wished her a happy new year. She began to close shop.

  ‘You mustn’t have too much,’ said Cadbury. ‘You have an ambulance to drive.’ He registered my look of surprise. ‘I think it best, don’t you?’ He took out a ring of keys and slid them across the table. ‘This is the ignition key. The smaller key will open the Laura Bell suitcase when you find it. I expect you have guessed its contents.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I assume it to contain the missing Railway Gosling annual.’

  ‘The manuscript, no more. I fibbed to you when I said a copy had been printed. It was never printed. The case also contains the accounts sent to me by the other Goslings who went in search of the nuns sold at the slave auction. One day you will publish it. One day, when it is safe to reveal its contents. Until then, the responsibility falls on you, the last of the Goslings, to keep it safe and, of course, to keep yourself safe from harm.’ He placed his palms down on the wheels of his chair and pushed himself closer to the table. ‘The plan the holy sisters came up with was completely hare-brained, of course. There was no reason why they would need to be actually in the North Atlantic in order to pray for those who were unfortunate enough to be sunk in it. The Lord is not known to be deaf and can hear a prayer from Povington just as well as one from the ocean. But those devils in Room 42 adopted the proposal because they had something far more base in mind than the creation of a floating chapel.’ Cadbury paused for a second as if even now he could not quite believe the truth he carried in his heart. ‘You must prepare yourself, Jack, for what I am about to say.’

  ‘Cadbury, I do not think I have much faith left to shake.’

  ‘Yes, good, good. You see . . .’ He paused, as if wondering how best to tell the dark secret. ‘Dear old England was standing on the edge of a cliff. Days away from surrender. There was only one hope. To drag the Americans into the war. The American public was violently opposed, but public opinion is a fickle thing and could easily change. And what could be more calculated to bring about that change than the greatest atrocity story of all time? What if the beastly Germans torpedoed a ship carrying twenty-three nuns engaged on a mission of the Lord? Twenty or so holy sisters bound for the cold and deathly North Atlantic shipping lanes where they would pray for the souls of the dying and dead? Perhaps there was not a man among them who would have devised the idea himself. I don’t imagine there was a man in Room 42 capable of inventing such a scheme. But when the letter from the nuns arrived, perhaps the idea suggested itself. They probably thought they had no alternative. Maybe they didn’t. It was decided to leak the exact position of the ship to the Hun. But there was a problem. The Germans were too honourable to sink a ship full of nuns, so they had to be sold a lie. Hence the secrecy surrounding the affair. They were told the ship contained the British war cabinet escaping to Ireland, en route to America. Well, you can imagine how that revelation was received in Berlin. The idea that the cowardly rascals in Westminster in order to save their own miserable hides would counterfeit a lightship . . . The Germans sent their U-boats out to sink it without a note of compunction.’

  ‘Magdalena said it was the reason the King had to change his name in 1917, but why?’ I said.

  ‘He changed his name for the same reason a common burglar adopts an assumed name and whistles a tune of feigned innocence.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘You see, I have told you how the information was received in Berlin, but how did it get to Berlin?’ Cadbury paused with the air of a conjuror about to embark on his greatest trick. ‘How do you think the Germans found out?’ Cadbury repeated. ‘King George telephoned his cousin the Kaiser and told him.’

  There was a small pop of air as we all exhaled in surprise.

  ‘A treasonous act, I think we can agree.’

  ‘It was all so long ago,’ said Jenny. ‘Would it really matter now if the truth came out?’

  ‘Ah, that is the point,’ said C
adbury. ‘Perhaps if it were not for this tide of Communism sweeping the world, things might be viewed differently. But consider, what might happen in this brave new world if the truth about the King became known? All those working men and women who fought in the war, who lost their brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers to the Germans . . . and what for? To build a fairer society. Who knows how they might feel? Is it inconceivable that a popular uprising might sweep away the old order entirely? Would you bet against it? That is what they fear.’

  ‘So how did the nuns end up in Africa?’ said Jenny.

  ‘Simple,’ said Cadbury. ‘The nuns commandeered the U-boat. The German U-boat intercepted the Laura Bell and fired off a torpedo. It hit her amidships and the Laura Bell began to sink. The U-boat rose to the surface prepared to provide aid to the survivors and lo! What did they see? To their horror, instead of the British war cabinet, the sea was filled with nuns. The German mariners rescued them. And that is where the tale takes the most remarkable twist. The holy sisters commandeered the U-boat. It was Sister Ludo who did most of the fighting. Sister Clodagh stole the captain’s pistol and with it they took over the ship. The German sailors were locked below and the armoury raided. The sisters armed themselves and forced the captain at gunpoint to show them how to sail the U-boat. He perhaps was undecided but his mind was made up by the appearance at that point of a Royal Naval frigate on the horizon. The nuns, thinking rescue was at hand, signalled their presence by semaphore. The frigate fired upon them and they were forced to dive. An hour later they surfaced and radioed the frigate advising the captain of his mistake. But the frigate fired again. They turned tail and the frigate chased them south. At first, they assumed it was simply a terrible mistake: that the English captain was unaware that the U-boat contained the British nuns. But after the third encounter it became quite clear that the English captain knew precisely who they were and was under orders to sink them. They fled. It was the German skipper who worked it out. The Royal Navy continued the chase and the nuns sailed south and off into the realm of mystery and myth.’ Cadbury paused, and emptied the last of the brandy into the cups. We raised them once more in toast and wished each other bon voyage. The ship’s horn sounded insistently, and the clock showed ten past. From far off we could hear the sound of singing. ‘They put the German sailors ashore on a quiet stretch of coast in Portugal. They were later shot as traitors by the German authorities. The Kaiser was as anxious as anyone to keep a lid on the affair.’

  At a sign from Cadbury, Magdalena stood up and placed her hands on the bath chair. ‘So now you know it all,’ said Cadbury. ‘My advice to you both is to assume new identities, and be very cautious. Jack, you are the last of the Goslings, and the duty falls to you to preserve the truth, to publish the missing annual. The duty also falls on your shoulders to find the other nuns, the ones who were sold at the slave market. Shanghai, Chicago, Peru . . . the South Seas, the trails lead everywhere. You must find them, Jack. But in order to do any of this you must make sure you stay alive. In order to do that I suggest you make use of the contents of this.’

  Magdalena opened her handbag and took out a letter. She placed it on the table.

  ‘The letter,’ I said.

  ‘The letter,’ repeated Magdalena.

  We stared at it. Lilac envelope edged with crimson and blue chevrons. Three stamps: bananas, a pineapple and a king’s head in profile. I placed my hand on it.

  ‘We must go,’ said Cadbury. ‘You must keep the letter hidden in a safe place and let it be known it will be published in the eventuality of your untimely death. Then you will be safe.’

  ‘Have a good life, Jack,’ said Magdalena. She kissed me lightly on the cheek, and then kissed Jenny. The horn of the Star of Kowloon sounded once more, and Magdalena wheeled Cadbury away.

  Epilogue

  The Star of Kowloon and the old ambulance left the port at around the same time. The ship was bound for a small settlement on the western seaboard of Africa, and the ambulance drove north through streets that were beginning to fill with revellers moving to the final public house in which they would spend the moment when the year turned. We had no destination in mind, we merely sought a stretch of railway line in the quiet of the country with a level crossing where we could bring a Great Western Railway train to a temporary halt. No particular one, any train would do. It turned out to be the 11.40 Bristol Temple Meads to Liverpool. The driver and his fireman were not particularly surprised to discover a signal against them a few miles north of Yate. What happened next greatly surprised them. A man and a woman appeared at the side of the engine and said they urgently needed to be married – in the next five minutes; and the ceremony absolutely had to be performed by the driver of a mainline GWR express. This privilege of office would, they explained, expire in five minutes. The fireman helped them aboard and the driver removed from the breast pocket of his jacket a small leather Book of Common Prayer that he had carried all his life in anticipation of such a moment but had never once had to use. He performed a short ceremony. As the young couple said the words, ‘I do’, the fireman pulled on the whistle and in answer there came an eerie echo across the land. It was midnight and all the trains in the country were sounding their whistles to salute or lament the passing of the four great railway companies and the creation of the new British Railways.

  The train in which the marriage ceremony was performed was number 4070 Godstow Castle, the one with a sloping throatplate in the firebox and the characteristic double cough in the chuffs. Perhaps for a man with a stone heart, the reappearance of that old friend on their wedding night – the same engine whose sweet double chuffs had serenaded them on their first encounter – might be dismissed as a coincidence, and not as evidence of the directing hand of the Great Stationmaster. But none of those present on the footplate that night, nor indeed on any footplate on any night during the time of the Great Western Railway, could ever be said to have such a thing as a heart of stone.

  Appendix I

  Letter found in the estate of Jack Wenlock

  The Sisters of Lacrismi Christi

  Leprosy Sanctuary

  Havilah

  Eden

  Africa

  Wednesday 3 September 1947

  To His Majesty King George VI of England

  Buckingham Palace

  London

  Your Majesty,

  I write to you from a land beyond the Mountains of the Green Dawn, and beyond all imagining.

  I have every reason to suppose the contents of this letter will astonish you and I recommend Your Majesty finds a suitable chair before reading further. Some weeks ago a chest of drawers was found floating in the Sulabunga River and the natives, perceiving it to be a white man’s machine, had it conveyed to us here in Havilah. We found the top drawer to be lined with an edition of the Cape Town Times dating from April 1947. The front-page story described Your Majesty’s Royal Tour of South Africa. Well, imagine our shock to discover England has a new King! The last news we had of dear old Blighty was in 1929, when your brother was on the throne. Your Majesty, if you are a kind man – something which the noble countenance in your photograph gives me hope to believe – would it please you to give leave for we lost souls here in Havilah to return to England?

  Our dearest wish is that we might die in the arms of the land that bore us.

  I include with this letter a manuscript setting out a full and detailed account of our wanderings since we disappeared from the pages of history in 1915.

  If Your Majesty is kind enough to reply, he might like to know that no postman will venture up the Sulabunga for fear of being eaten. However, a note addressed to Chief Jhorumpha and left with the secretary of the Port Bismarck Rotary Club will stand a good chance of reaching us, eventually. I hope Your Majesty will not regard it as impertinent if I add that a packet of Peek Frean’s Garibaldi biscuits included with his message would make some old ladies very happy.

  I remain in hope, your humble and obedient servant, />
  Mama !Mkuu

  Appendix II

  THE ORDER FOR THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

  Fifteen years later, in 1963, Her Majesty’s Stationery Office published a document entitled The Reshaping of British Railways by Dr. R. Beeching. More popularly known as the Beeching Report, it recommended for closure 5,000 miles of railway line and the following 2,363 stations:

  Abbey Town

  Acrow Halt

  Acton Central

  Addingham

  Adlestrop

  Ainsdale

  Airmyn

  Aldeburgh

  Aldermaston

  Aldridge

  Alford Town (Lincs)

  Alfreton and South Normanton

  Alresford (Hants)

  Alrewas

  Altofts and Whitwood

  Alton Towers

  Ambergate

  Andover Town

  Apperley Bridge

  Appleby (Westmorland)

  Appledore (Kent)

  Ardsley

  Ardwick

  Armathwaite

  Armley Canal Road

  Armley Moor

  Arram

  Arthington

  Ascott-under-Wychwood

  Ashbury

  Ashburys for Belle Vue

  Ashby-de-la-Zouch

  Ashby Magna

  Ashcott

  Ashdon Halt

  Ashey (Isle of Wight)

  Ashington

  Ashley Heath Halt

  Ashley Hill

  Ashperton

  Ashton Charlestown

  Ashton Gate

  Ashwater

  Ashwell

  Askham

  Aspley Guise

  Athelney

  Avoncliff Halt

  Avonmouth Dock

  Awsworth

  Aynho for Deddington