The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Page 6

  D. H. AMBERLEY, BRISTOL—The prisoner is locked into a sealed chamber and the executioner pulls a lever that drops a pellet of potassium cyanide into a vat of sulphuric acid. This gives off hydrogen cyanide gas, perhaps more familiar to our readers as the Prussic Acid beloved of the lady authors of sensational murder mysteries. Strictly speaking cyanide does not smell of bitter almonds; it is bitter almonds that smell of hydrogen cyanide.

  THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF RAILWAY GOSLING CADBURY HOLT – ON THE TRAIL OF THE MISSING NUNS!

  The Oasis of El Garrabadhib

  We travelled in the early hours and late at night; by eleven the heat could break a man’s heart, and we spent the middle hours of the day lying torpid and enfeebled in the shadows of our camels, waiting for the cruel disc of the sun to begin its descent, too broken in spirit to even have the strength to curse the fate that had brought us there. Each night we gasped in wonder at those glowing snowballs in the sky, the beautiful desert stars. And then we drew in closer to our camp fire as the desert grew bitterly cold. Each night after reading the stars, Gimlee would tell me how many days were left before we reached our goal. And each time he would laugh as if party to a joke that excluded me.

  By the thirteenth day of travel, I was so emaciated with hunger, so worn out with sitting in the camel’s fo’c’s’le, so tormented by the incessant sting and bite of the bugaracha flies, that I no longer cared whether I lived or died and wished only for my death to be speedy and accompanied by one glass of cool water. I travelled in a perpetual swoon. And then we saw it. The Oasis of El Garrabadhib. The Fabled One, the Jewel of the Desert, the ancient Jhabra crossroads from where all routes to the continent of Africa were said to start. El Garrabadhib. Not since I was a child on Christmas morning had my heart felt such an upsurge of joy as the one that visited me then. I cared not what fate lay in store for me inside these ancient city walls. All I longed for was one slice of juicy pomegranate and a sherbet from a laughing virgin girl. And lo! My simple prayers were answered. As we approached the town a horn was blown by the watcher in the tower and the sound smote the still desert air with its shrill call. The city gates opened and children on donkeys rode out towards us as the cry rang out, ‘Kurjoomba! Kurjoomba!’

  We followed the throng down the main thoroughfare to the dusty square. Somewhere in the seething mass of humanity, I hoped, lay the object of my quest: a man renowned in every country of the desert, in every tribe, a legend and a god to some. His name was One-eyed Jheg. A tribal elder now, but in times past he had been a fierce warrior, a freebooter and wide-roving adventurer. A man who had dined with kings and, so it was said, worked for both the British Secret Services and the French at the same time, drawing a double stipend and still to this day drawing two pensions from the post office in Casablanca. But his greatest boast was to have seen the fabled lost Kurjoomba Holy Women. They said he had been there at El Gaberdine the day the nuns raided the fort in search of their stolen sisters.

  Chapter 6

  The two men were waiting for me beyond the ticket barrier at Barmouth and stepped into my path. One of them was slightly taller and had a distinctive nose. It looked like a Plasticine sausage that had been pressed into the centre of his face. He told me the Dingleman would like to talk to me and asked with forced politeness if they could pat me down for guns. I said I had no objection. I seldom carry a gun but I did have my Formica and they soon found that. It was clear neither of them was familiar with the latest scientific advances and they plainly doubted my explanation and so we agreed they would hold on to it and see what the Dingleman thought. Buckley’s Camp was on the hillside at the north end of Barmouth, overlooking the town and separated from the sea by a wall of sand dunes. We all bent slightly and dashed through the rain to the waiting car. The man with the Plasticine nose didn’t get in, but told me he had business to attend to in town.

  Ron Dingleman was a gangster. He had also been at the orphanage. I was surprised to find him there the day I came looking for Magdalena, but I was sure it was no coincidence. He had arrived at the orphanage much later than the rest of us, when he was thirteen. Cadbury Holt was the oldest Gosling, he was born in 1902. The rest of us were born in batches between 1902 and 1914. I was born in 1911. Magdalena arrived in 1915, when we were both four. The Dingleman arrived in 1917. Children brought up in orphanages regard each other as brother and sister and are not romantically attracted. But the Dingleman arriving later, as he did, was different and he was terribly fond of Magdalena. We all were, but not in that way. The Dingleman was not, strictly speaking, eligible for the home because he was not the son of a railway man. They found him asleep in the firebox of one of the engines in the shed. A waif, half starved and bruised, who had besought the warmest bed he could find on a cold January night. He had no business being there, but the discovery inspired compassion rather than anger. Everyone who works on the railway is haunted by the memory of Benjamin Hawkins, an eleven-year-old cleaning boy who was burned to death after falling asleep in the firebox. Engines are cleaned round the clock and on a bitter cold winter’s night when the desire to sleep can be overwhelming, the cosy warmth of the little metal room can be a dangerous place for a small boy. When next morning the firesetter shovelled in live coals, he was still asleep.

  When they found the Dingleman he refused to speak and so, because the firebox had been made by the Dingleman & Byron foundry in Derby, he was named after it. Byron soon shortened to Ron. Subsequently, he always refused to say what his history had been prior to his appearance in the firebox. Magdalena says he told her, but she never repeated it. After he left the orphanage he became a bare-knuckle fighter and then, because there was not much of a living to be made, became a bodyguard for a local gangster, whose empire he eventually took over. He quit the ring completely after killing his opponent with a left hook.

  The Dingleman had taken a VIP chalet at Buckley’s. We had to park outside the main reception building and walk along a path between rows of chalets until we reached one at the end that was three times the size of the others. The front door led directly into the lounge, which was spacious but had the hard, cold air of a village hall, the sort where Boy Scouts hold their meetings. This is one of the chief drawbacks of linoleum; it lacks the warmth of carpet, despite being very modern. There were two doors in the back wall and an assortment of modern-looking furniture, of the kind you saw in magazines but seldom in the homes of real people. There was a sofa and some chairs arranged around what I believe is called a coffee table. Three spivs sat in the chairs. The most striking item in the room was arranged along the left-hand wall and almost took it up entirely. It was an iron lung. This consisted of a fat tube of beige metal with a meter on the top like one used on weighing scales. A boy’s head was visible, protruding from one end, like a junior human cannonball. He stared with quiet patience at a teddy bear pinned to the machine, just above his head. There was a pillow beneath his head placed on a shelf attached to the machine, and under this was a small occasional table spread with newspaper. The Dingleman was gently combing the nits from his son’s hair on to the newspaper. He looked up at me and smiled.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, standing up and reaching out a hand for me to shake.

  I shook his hand. ‘Ron! Well, this is . . . I mean . . . you’re in Barmouth! I’m not sure what to say.’

  ‘Say hello, that usually does nicely.’

  ‘Hello!’

  ‘How are you keeping? It’s been a while. I heard they are going to cashier you. That true?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say at the moment, but I don’t view the future with any confidence.’

  ‘They haven’t told you?’

  ‘Nothing has been said, although naturally it would be prudent to expect the worst.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve always found that a good policy in life. Dirty shame if they get rid of you, though. You’ve worked hard for that railway.’

  ‘I certainly have.’

  ‘Come and meet my boy.’ The Dingleman was always aff
able, unless you upset him. I walked over to the iron lung. His boy had a head shaped like a teardrop. His lips were small and baby like, and his eyes were clear and blue, and stared up placid and unblinking. He looked about eleven or twelve but it was difficult to judge from the head alone.

  ‘Hyperion, this is my friend Jack Wenlock. He works for the Great Western Railway.’

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Wenlock.’

  ‘My boy’s got ambition – tell Mr Wenlock what you want to be when you grow up.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘Of course he would, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, certainly I would.’

  ‘Well, sir, one day I intend to ascend by rocket propulsion into outer space.’

  ‘Like Buck Rogers?’

  ‘Yes! Once I am cured.’

  ‘The boy can dream, eh? Space man! All I ever wanted was to be was a bookie’s runner. These nits are a blessed nuisance.’

  ‘You didn’t seem to mind them when you were his age.’

  ‘No, but I minded that metal comb the nurse had. I’ve still got holes in my head from that. Could use me as a tea strainer.’

  I smiled at the boy. ‘I bet you didn’t know your dad had them, did you? It’s just a phase. Wait another year or two and they’ll get tired of you and move on to someone younger.’

  ‘You are a kind man, Mr Wenlock,’ said Hyperion. ‘The railway company is lucky to have you.’

  The Dingleman grinned with pride. He put his arm on my shoulder and guided me across the room to the sofa. We sat down. One of his men handed us each a Scotch and soda.

  ‘Chin, chin,’ said the Dingleman, raising his glass. I raised mine in return.

  ‘So, what brings you to Barmouth, Jack? Come for a swim?’

  I smiled. I strongly suspected he already knew why I was here.

  ‘Oh I just thought—’

  Before I could finish the sentence, he nudged my arm and said, ‘It’s all right, I already know why you are here.’

  There was a knock on the door and we all looked towards the sound. The Dingleman nodded to one of the men nearest the door and he opened it. The man with the Plasticine nose entered carrying a suitcase. He placed it down on the coffee table, clicked the fasteners and opened the lid. Inside were three items. The man took them out one by one. A hat. A wallet. And some false teeth, smeared with blood. The Dingleman picked up the hat and looked inside. There appeared to be spots of blood in the lining. He put it down and examined the wallet. He tut-tutted.

  ‘Some poor chap fell in the sea,’ he said, ‘came on the same train as you. Damn fool thing to do, go swimming in December.’ He looked up at the man and said, ‘I don’t suppose you were able—’

  ‘We were unable to save him,’ he said.

  The Dingleman nodded.

  ‘Ron,’ I said. ‘This is . . . what have you done to this—’

  ‘Not done anything. He fell in the sea, my boys tried to save him but the waves were too strong. Isn’t that right?’ He looked up at the henchman.

  ‘Yes, they were just too strong. All we managed to save were his hat and teeth.’

  ‘You be sure to see that his widow gets them.’

  ‘Ron,’ I said again. He raised his finger in a gesture admonishing me to silence. ‘Come!’ he said. ‘Let’s go outside and admire the lights of Barmouth.

  We walked out into the cold wet night. The wind howled softly and the lights of the camp gleamed in the wetness. Ron took out a cigarette case and offered me one. We smoked.

  ‘Times are changing, Jack,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said simply. I didn’t know what else to say. He was almost certainly right. Times were always changing. And people always complained about it.

  ‘They betrayed us, you and me, they betrayed us.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘The who is a long story.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Wait till you lose your job in January, then you’ll understand.’ He puffed his cigarette and narrowed his eyes as if in deep thought. ‘Do you read the papers? I do. They don’t even want to hang us any more, did you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard.’

  He sighed. ‘Now they get boffins to write papers about us instead, to explain why we did what we did. To understand us. All to do with our childhood. They wouldn’t want to write papers about mine. I never told you about the time before they found me in the firebox.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘Never will. Who wants to be understood? It’s none of their business.’ He paused and added, ‘Hyperion’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘I heard you had a boy, but I didn’t know about—’

  ‘The polio? Two years ago. He’s not really mine. Remember the Tooting Thunderbolt?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chap I killed in the ring. Hyperion was his son. He was there, in the front row, the night it happened. I sent money to his mother. In secret. She found out and came to thank me. I liked her. She’s doing time now. For helping girls who got into trouble. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I think I do.’

  ‘You get ten years for that. For helping people. That’s what I mean, about them betraying us. Look at you. You gave them your all. Tooting Thunderbolt had a dodgy ticker. That wasn’t his real name, of course. Just a stupid name for the posters. Real name was Cyril Samuels. The doctors warned him not to go in the ring. Been invalided out of the Army. Shell shock. Couldn’t find work, but had to feed his boy, didn’t he? So he went in the ring. Spent four years on the Western Front and came back in pieces. Do you know what Victorian pastiche is?’

  ‘Is it a type of cake?’

  ‘Might as well be. He wrote some poems in the trenches.’

  ‘I hear a lot of chaps did.’

  ‘Sent them off to the magazines. They sent them back, saying they were Victorian pastiche. That was his reward for serving his country.’

  ‘Ron, I must ask. That man whose belongings you brought in. There was blood.’

  ‘What do you expect, falling from a train into the sea in a storm? My boys tried to save him but they couldn’t. That’s all you need to know.’

  ‘All the same, I have to—’

  ‘He was on his way to kill Magdalena.’

  I was shocked by this but did not allow it to register on my face.

  ‘I know you’ve come here to find her. So did he. But he fell into a trap. He’d been hired, you see, to kill her. There’s not much that happens that I don’t get to hear about. That postcard Magdalena sent to Silas was a red herring. I sent it. I thought, if he comes to Barmouth then it’s true what they say. And he’ll pay the price. Well, he came.’

  ‘Silas thinks she’s here. He’s chuffed.’

  ‘Don’t give me a sermon, Jack. I played the trick on Silas to save his bloody daughter’s life. You’re looking for her too.’

  ‘But not because I mean her any harm.’

  ‘I know that. But you can help me find her.’

  ‘Have you quarrelled?’

  ‘No, but she’s done a runner. She’s in trouble. I want to help her. I can protect her, but she doesn’t believe me. I can protect her but I can’t find her, she’s too slippery. You know what she’s like, how she used to go missing from the orphanage. Cheadle used to run away too but we always found him, didn’t we? Or at least Kipper did. But Magdalena, she was a will-o’-the-wisp. Even the dog couldn’t find her. How did she do that?’

  ‘My feeling is Kipper knew where she was, but liked her too much to betray her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I know that sounds rather foolish, but that’s how it struck me at the time.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound foolish, Jack. It makes perfect sense.’

  ‘I don’t know where she is. I heard she might be here, that’s all.’

  ‘I know. But you will find her before I do. That’s what you’re good at, detective stuff. All I can do is threaten people. But this ti
me threatening won’t work. She’s too scared.’

  ‘I thought she might have done a Fishbone.’

  ‘She did. She stole a letter from some toff. Turns out he was a courier with a letter for His Majesty the King. Who says Magdalena never gets lucky?’

  ‘She stole a letter addressed to the King?’

  ‘Yes, to the King.’

  ‘Then she must give it back.’

  ‘I don’t think that is on her list of priorities.’

  ‘Surely, Ron, you know that if I retrieved a letter addressed to His Majesty, stolen on the railway, I should have no choice but to return it.’

  ‘This letter is important to me, Jack.’

  ‘But it belongs to the King!’

  ‘Trust me, if you have to upset me or the King, you are better off upsetting the King.’

  ‘What is she so scared of?’

  ‘She’s scared of being hanged.’

  ‘For stealing a letter?’

  ‘For reading it.’

  ‘That sounds like quite some letter.’

  ‘Guess who it was from.’

  ‘I really have no idea. Letter to the King . . . could be from anyone. Was it from overseas?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that hardly narrows it down.’

  ‘You’ll never guess in a million years, and even when I tell you, you won’t believe it.’

  ‘Perhaps you might as well tell me, then.’

  ‘It was from the nuns, the ones who went missing in 1915.’

  He said it so casually that I thought at first I must have misheard. ‘Ron, no . . . you must be . . . are you . . . but they are dead.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘They must be . . . mustn’t they?’

  ‘Well, if they are, they still have the capacity to write letters. Soon as she read it, she knew she was in trouble. She says they will kill anyone who knows what is in the letter. I want it.’

  ‘But it belongs to the King! How can you ask me to give it to . . . to . . .’

  ‘I’m not asking you to give it to me. I’m asking you to trade it. For the life of this girl.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a photograph and handed it to me. It was a picture of Jenny. ‘You give me the letter, nothing happens to her.’