The Case of the 'Hail Mary' Celeste Read online

  The photograph showed Jenny leaving the Lyons tea shop with me, three days ago.

  ‘And don’t pretend you don’t care about her, you bought her dinner. I’ve never known you do that before. Didn’t think you liked girls.’

  I felt myself blush.

  ‘Her name’s Jenny. Sweet girl.’

  ‘I must warn you, Ron.’

  ‘I know, I know. I know what you are going to say. Believe me, I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I’ll do what it is necessary to protect Magdalena. She was going to show me the letter, but she’s friendly with this chap. Sugar daddy, I suppose you’d call him. He’s quite highly connected. Ever heard of Room 42?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know what it means.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. She knows this chap, he’s not part of Room 42 but he knows people who are. He told her, they will kill anyone who reads the letter. Told her to get out of the country. Now she’s gone AWOL, in order to protect me. She doesn’t want me to read it, but she doesn’t understand these things like I do.’

  ‘If you get the letter, how will it protect her?’

  ‘I will make the King an offer he can’t refuse. Her safety in return for his letter.’

  ‘And what if you give him the letter and they still kill her?’

  ‘Jack, are you saying the King’s word is not good enough for you?’

  ‘No, that’s a fair point. If the King gives his solemn word on the matter, then—’

  The Dingleman burst out laughing. ‘Jack, I wouldn’t give two figs for the King’s word! Of course I’m not going to trust him. I’ll make a copy of the letter. If the contents are so compromising that they will kill to keep them secret, then it seems to me we have a pretty good hand of cards.’ He saw the expression on my face. It really was disreputable to suggest the King’s word could not be trusted. He laughed again.

  ‘Don’t look so glum! Here!’ He took some tickets out of his jacket pocket. ‘Take the girl to see a show. Have some fun.’ He slid the tickets into my breast pocket. ‘Just don’t forget what I told you.’ He placed his arm on my shoulder and opened the door. My boys will drive you back to the station. You’ll find them in all the usual places if you need to get a message to me.’ We walked back into the room, the Dingleman’s arm still on my shoulder. The man with the Plasticine nose handed me the case containing my Formica.

  ‘And do yourself a favour, Jack. For your own safety, put that funny piece of wood in a container that looks less like a gun, will you?

  Chapter 7

  The following evening was a Saturday and I went to see Johnny Chattanooga and the Pasadenas with Jenny. I did not tell her the tickets came from the Dingleman; I said I had won them in a raffle at Buckley’s. I had decided on the journey back from Barmouth that this case was far too dangerous to allow Jenny to get mixed up in. I would have to find a way of distancing myself from her while I looked into it. I would have to tell her straight that she should not involve herself. The trouble was, I was pretty certain she wouldn’t take a blind bit of notice of me. At the same time, it was vital that I found Magdalena in order to protect Jenny. I didn’t doubt for one moment that the Dingleman would carry out his threat.

  We were given a table near the stage and the tickets included a bottle of Johnnie Walker provided by the Dingleman; we didn’t even have to pour it ourselves or pay for the soda water. We were a couple of swells. I had only been to the Astoria two times before, once to see a clown and once when the orphanage choir sang here at Christmas. I didn’t know much about Johnny Chattanooga, although I had seen the posters. Jenny told me his real name was Charlie Milliner and his younger brother, Harry, was the one playing the ‘gobble-pipe’. They played some lively tunes. ‘Is You Is or Is You Ain’t My Baby’, ‘There’s a Silver Moon on the Golden Gate’, ‘Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major’ . . . We danced for some of the slow numbers.

  Then the band took a break and Jenny said she had to go to the om-tiddly-om-pom. When she returned I asked her, ‘What’s a gobble-pipe?’

  ‘Saxophone.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So what’s . . . an accordion?’

  ‘Groanbox. The drummer is a skin-tickler, trombone is a tram and the string bass is a doghouse.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘An American soldier told me during the war. Guess what type of jazz they are playing?’

  ‘What types are there?’

  ‘Sweet, hot, corn, salon, lollypop, schmaltz, dillinger, gut-bucket, clam-bake, barrel-house.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have a clue.’

  ‘You have to guess.’

  ‘Lollypop.’

  ‘Clam-bake.’

  A chap in full evening dress, including a cummerbund, passed close to our table. He was accompanied by a lady. A white fox stole was draped over her shoulder and the eyes of the fox gleamed in the spotlight and seemed to stare at us.

  ‘I expect they are a couple of people from your first class, Jack.’

  ‘I expect they might be. Do you dislike them for that?’

  ‘No, why do you think that?’

  ‘I thought your voice sounded a touch harsh. People occasionally do dislike such people. Sometimes when I have been called to assist at an incidence of drunkenness in third class, I have been called names.’

  ‘What do they call you?’

  ‘The actual words are not important—’

  ‘If you’d rather not say.’

  ‘I’m not ashamed to say. If a man calls me a name and it is not true, it does not hurt me. I was called a butler once. I think I knew what the chap meant. Some sort of lackey, I suppose.’

  ‘What did you do to him for calling you a butler?’

  ‘I did not do anything to him for calling me that. He was making a nuisance of himself and I asked him to temper his exuberance.’

  ‘Temper his exuberance!’

  ‘Is there something wrong with saying that?’

  ‘No, it’s just that a normal person would have told him to shut his pie hole or something.’

  ‘I suppose you would say I am not a normal person.’

  Jenny reached across the table and touched my hand. ‘Of course you are not a normal person. That’s why I like you.’

  I must admit I was quite affected by those words of Jenny’s. I expect everyone quite likes it when someone says such a thing.

  ‘The look on your face!’

  ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘No, it’s . . . it’s you. Anyone would think a girl had never told you she liked you before.’

  ‘They haven’t. Why would a girl say such a thing?’

  Jenny rolled her eyes and then, perhaps feeling she had made me uncomfortable, changed the subject. ‘I saw that horrid doctor again. I told him I wanted to take Aunt Agatha home and he said that was out of the question. So I said, “What right do you have to hold her here?” and he wrote it down for me.’ She took a piece of paper out of her handbag and unfolded it. ‘He said he was empowered under the Mental Deficiency Act of 1913 as administered by the Board of Control for Lunacy and Mental Deficiency to detain indefinitely and at his pleasure all idiots, feeble-minded persons and moral imbeciles. To wit Miss Wilberforce had been categorised as a feeble-minded person, meaning one whose weakness does not amount to imbecility, yet which requires care, supervision or control, for her protection or for the protection of others.’ She looked up. ‘Then he said he had to catch his bus and advised me to stop questioning his authority. He said the line between feeble-minded person and moral defective was a thin one and he could easily adjust his diagnosis, particularly if I continued to make a nuisance of myself, and then I wouldn’t be allowed to visit her at all. Can you believe that?’

  It must have been the Johnnie Walker because I got rather tight during the course of the evening. The conversation was so gay and Jenny was such fun. I made the mistake of revealing to her details of the case that it would perhaps have been wiser to keep under wraps. I told her what the Di
ngleman said about the letter from the nuns of 1915. Not surprisingly, she was beside herself with excitement to learn that her aunt might have witnessed the theft of this astonishing item. She started making plans for how we would work together on the case. I tried to dampen her enthusiasm, but it wasn’t easy. It really would have been wiser not to say anything.

  ‘Well,’ said Jenny with an air that suggested the matter was settled, ‘we will have to find Magdalena and that letter. If Aunt Agatha really did see a letter being stolen rather than . . . a murder . . . well, whoever put her in hospital must want the existence of this letter kept secret. We must find it and demand they release her.’

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s wise—’

  ‘Wise?’

  ‘For you, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘It could be dangerous.’

  ‘I can’t just leave my aunt sleeping like that.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s being well looked after.’

  ‘And I’m sure they are trying to make her forget what she saw. No, we must—’

  ‘I really think it’s too dangerous for—’

  ‘Are you scared, Jack?’

  ‘Not for myself but, you see, there is something I didn’t tell you. The day after you came to my office I received a visit from some rather unsavoury chaps who suggested I would be better off leaving this case alone.’

  ‘I see, so you are scared.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘One of them was Lord Apsley, who used to be at the orphanage. The other two said they were . . . from Room 42.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I’m from number 37 Moreton Crescent and I mean to get to the bottom of this. We must find Magdalena. What places does she frequent?’

  ‘I’m not sure if she frequents anywhere, it depends on . . . who she’s with.’

  ‘Isn’t there somewhere you can ask?’

  ‘Before the war she used to visit the Star and Garter. There was a chap there, I never met him, a Lithuanian called Andruis. He looked like Desperate Dan, they said.’

  ‘Then we must go there and ask.’

  ‘To be honest, if Magdalena doesn’t want to be found, it will be very difficult. She’s very good at not being found.’

  ‘In that case, we must find the nuns.’

  I laughed.

  ‘If they sent the King a letter they can’t be very far away . . . don’t you want to win the Heinroth Prize and find your mum?’

  ‘Yes, I do, but I don’t see how that will help your aunt.’

  ‘We could go and ask the nuns what was in the letter . . . then we could go and see the King.’

  ‘No, Jenny, I know this is all rather exciting, but—’

  ‘Oh, Jack!’ She flashed me a look of such intensity that it almost made me jump.

  I made a dismissive gesture with my hands. ‘Well, if you can find the nuns you are a better girl than all the other Railway Goslings combined.’

  ‘You said the chap who wrote the missing 1931 Gosling annual found them.’

  ‘Cadbury Holt? Yes, so they say.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘Cadbury was the oldest, nine years older than me, so he seemed like a grown man. He was good at everything. He could run faster, and was stronger. Unlike the rest of us he wasn’t scared of fierce dogs. He was the best boxer and won cups competing with boys at other schools. He was good at maths and scripture and English. He was good at woodwork. He could make dovetail joints that held without the need for glue. He could tie sailor’s knots. Even the potatoes he grew in the garden behind the kitchen seemed better than ours.’

  ‘Oh dear, he sounds like a goody two-shoes.’

  ‘No, no, really he wasn’t. He wasn’t afraid to get into trouble. He was charming, and quite . . . dashing. After he left in 1918 he came back a month later sporting a pencil-thin moustache on his top lip, like the film star Jupien Duvalier. It was as if he had always had it, even though I knew he didn’t. You remember you asked about the Chinese temple boxing? It’s not really a secret. Cadbury taught it to me and the other boys. He had learned the art from a scripture master who spent nineteen years as a Protestant missionary to China. It’s quite amazing what you can do if you know the pressure points. It’s saved me from many a beating and possibly worse over the years.’

  ‘Hmm, I’m still not convinced he wasn’t a goody two-shoes. Tell me something really bad.’

  ‘He could be wicked, I can assure you. He even smoked cigarettes. Cheadle used to run away quite a lot and we would be sent out looking for him. One day Cadbury and me were together looking for Cheadle and we met the priest’s daughter sitting on a wall by the canal. She blew a raspberry at us. And Cadbury gave her three cigarettes if she would . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, if she would . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If she would say the words “Bloody Christ”.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Yes! And smoked the cigarettes.’

  ‘OK, that’s better. Where will we find him now?’

  ‘In a lion’s stomach I suppose.’

  ‘What happened to all his files and papers?’

  ‘Mr Jarley at Lost Property has the archive . . .’

  ‘There you are, you see, you can ask Mr Jarley for Cadbury Holt’s papers. There’s bound to be a clue in them. What about his friends?’

  ‘There’s only one really, Cheadle Heath. You remember I told you, he . . . he’s not a Gosling any more, he blotted our copybook.’

  ‘Yes, I remember, but you didn’t say what he did . . .’

  ‘I would prefer not to.’

  ‘Was it so terribly shocking?’

  ‘Yes, frankly it was. He . . . he went to live with a woman.’

  ‘A woman!’

  ‘In sin.’

  I could see Jenny making an effort to contain a sly smile. ‘Oh, Jack! When you told me in the Lyons tea shop that he’d blotted everybody’s copybook, I assumed he must have murdered a priest or something. But this is much worse.’

  That really was perhaps the most shocking thing I’d ever heard and there was half a second’s silence. Then Jenny giggled and I found myself laughing too. It really must have been the liquor. I’d never laughed at what Cheadle did before.

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘He used to live above the Chinese laundry in the Shambles. I haven’t seen him since 1938.’

  We went to the Star and Garter to find Andruis. The saloon bar was half empty. The landlady had fat jowls and a big bosom piled high with beads; she stood looking bored behind the hand pumps. Three men were standing next to the cribbage table, smoking and looking shifty. This pub did not have a good reputation. I ordered a bottle of pale ale for myself and a glass of lemonade for Jenny. We stood and observed the men while we drank. They were thin and nervous, with sallow complexions, the sort acquired by men whose main job is to sell stolen goods in pubs. They seemed at home here. I told Jenny to wait and carried my drink over and interrupted their conversation. I asked them if they knew a man called Andruis.

  They exchanged glances and their eyes contained the glint of expectation, as if the evening had finally started to get interesting. One of them spoke. He differed from the others in being a good nine inches shorter, and skinnier. His ears were slightly too big for his head and he had bright sparkly eyes. Strangest of all, his head seemed placed too low into his collar, giving his face the slightly startled look that I have noticed characterises the weasel.

  ‘What does he look like?’ said the weasel.

  ‘I’m afraid I really couldn’t say. I’ve not had the pleasure of his acquaintance.’

  The response to this was very caddish. They all swapped glances but in a way that involved looking down their noses as if to say ‘La-di-da’.

  ‘I realise that might strike you—’

  The door to the gen
ts’ lavatories swung open and the squeaking hinge drew their attention. A man who looked like Desperate Dan emerged. He was tall and wide at the shoulders, his nose was comically snub and he had a lantern jaw. He was built like a stevedore, but gave the impression that an honest day’s work was not something he greatly cared for.

  When he reached us, the weasel said, ‘This chap is looking for someone called Andruis.’

  ‘Andruis,’ Desperate Dan repeated. ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘I was told he was quite . . . a tall chap, like you. I was hoping you might be able to help me find an old friend, Magdalena. She used to come here quite a lot, before the war. My name’s Jack.’ I held out my hand to shake. He ignored it.

  ‘What war?’ he said.

  I think this was meant as a joke and certainly his companions treated it as such. If you ask me, it was a very poor joke, especially in view of the many terrible things that took place during the war and which were still very fresh in the minds of every decent person.

  ‘Who told you he was here?’ said Desperate Dan.

  I paused to consider. His tone was unfriendly and I decided this was futile and it would be best to leave. ‘A chap.’

  ‘A chap?’

  ‘Yes. A chap told me.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘I . . . I’m afraid I don’t know his name.’

  One of the others chimed in. ‘Sounds a bit fishy to me. Chap told him but he doesn’t know the chap.’

  Andruis glanced at his friends. Their faces wore the stiff vacancy that tough chaps like to hide behind, but there was also the beginning of a smile brewing on their countenances. You could tell they thought some sport was about to begin.

  ‘I just wanted to get a message to her, but if it’s a trouble to you—’

  ‘Perhaps she’s gone to Barking,’ said the weasel in a manner that suggested he was uttering a private joke.

  Andruis stepped forward and pointedly stood too close to me. ‘Since you are here, why don’t you have a drink with us?’