Don’t Cry For Me Aberystwyth (33 page)

‘Get off!’

‘Any more of this cheek and no one gets baptised in the river tonight.’

‘In this weather?’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘Too bloody cold.’

‘You namby-pambys!’

‘Woooh!’

‘Right, that’s it.’ He pointed at a man in the second row. ‘I’m not redeeming you for a start.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘What the are you here for, then?’

An old woman in the third row stood up and pointed at Herod. ‘You can’t be Hoffmann, Herod Jenkins. You’re a troll.’

That went down well with the audience.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Your father came out of the mountain at Devil’s Bridge and your mother coupled with him. I was there. We threw her out of the village.’

‘It’s a lie!’ shouted Herod.

Someone else cried out, ‘All right, then, how come you’re so strong and hairy?’

The crowd roared and demanded to be answered.

‘If you must know,’ said Herod, ‘I owe my tremendous upper body strength to an accident when I was little.’ He stared defiantly at the crowd and waited for quiet. ‘I fell into a vat of special strength-development liquid, like Obelisk in the Asterisk cartoons.’

This time the laughter was cut short by the entrance of a new player. It was the Army chaplain, the man I had seen preaching on an orange box at the shelter, the man who they say lost his wits in Patagonia after seeing something terrible at the Mission House siege. He walked onto the stage and took the microphone off Herod. Quiet suddenly descended as the mob sensed something even better than the Obelisk story.

Tinker, tailor, teacher, preacher, doily salesman, war veteran, misery-guts, rocking-chair maker . . .

‘You’re all completely mad!’ shouted the priest. ‘And this girl . . .’ – he pointed at Tadpole – ‘would made the maddest of you look sane. You want to know the truth?’

The crowd cheered.

‘There was no angel. It was a hoax made up by General Llanbadarn because it was the only way he could get the troops to go on his suicide mission.’

‘It’s not true!’ shouted Tadpole. ‘Of course there was an angel! Don’t listen to him.’

The priest ignored her. ‘Oh yes! The angel was just a silly girl in fancy dress, riding through a crowd of fools. God isn’t punishing us for that. He doesn’t give a damn. He probably thinks it was funny. I do.’

‘We don’t believe you!’ cried Tadpole.

‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ he shouted with glee. ‘This thing about the secret passage that only Clip knew about,
el pasadizo secreto
. There was no secret passage; that was code for something else. You want to know what it was? I’ll give you a clue. They also called it
la entrada trasera
. That’s Spanish for ‘the back entrance.’ It was code for sending a despatch by secure channels. You know where they put the secret despatch? Up Clip’s anus.’

There was a riot. The people abandoned the tables and tried to storm the stage. A column of bouncers filed out of side doors. The priest continued, undismayed. ‘Clip was a turncoat, you see. They used to tie messages to his collar, but the enemy put sausages out for him and he let them read the secret messages. He was a turncoat. A hand-licker. The Lord Haw-Haw of dogs. That’s why they had to use the secure channel.’

The bouncers fought furiously with the mob. I grabbed Calamity and dragged her towards the rear fire exit. The towns-people were almost out of control and very angry. The disappointment at finding their redeemer was Herod Jenkins the school games teacher was bad enough. But this slander to the sacred memory of Clip was too much for any human heart.

Tadpole turned on Herod Jenkins and shouted, ‘Say it isn’t true! Say you never did that!’ Herod looked round in bewilderment. Tadpole picked up a mop handle and advanced on him, the fury in her eyes flashing like bolts of lightning. ‘Say it isn’t true,’ she demanded. ‘Say you never did that to Clip.’

The auditorium erupted; men and women picked up their chairs and used them as weapons in the manner of the saloon-bar brawl familiar from old cowboy films. I watched, temporarily immobilised by astonishment. The priest slipped out through the upstage curtains; and a shepherd, whom I took to be the Pinkerton, helped Eeyore and the donkey out by the same route. The mayhem spread through the crowd like fire in a fireworks factory. I grabbed
Calamity by the hand and we ran for the exit as the fighting crowd surged towards the stage. The thin black line of bouncers fought heroically until, on the point of being overwhelmed, they bowed graciously to the inevitable and joined in. We slammed the fire door behind us and wedged it shut with a wooden chair. The last image I saw within was that of Tadpole raising the mop handle high over the head of the cowering games teacher and demanding to be satisfied. ‘Say it isn’t true!’ she cried. ‘Say you never did that to Clip.’ Herod looked up at her in terror and then appealed to the howling brawling mob for understanding. ‘But we all did it,’ he wailed. ‘We had to! Don’t you see? We had to . . .’ And then came the time-honoured plea for exculpation, the last refuge of all moral pygmies: ‘I was only following orders.’

THE SNOW WAS falling thickly now, and softly; slowly transfiguring the sea front. It gathered silently on ledges; formed a little conical hat on the fibreglass boy soliciting for charity; and melted wetly on the black muzzle of Abishag. Her eyes shone, her flanks trembled with fear. No one had told her it would be like this. There was no riot at the stable the first time round in Bethlehem. Eeyore ran a comforting hand down her neck. Joe Winckelmann, wearing a dressing gown and a fedora hat, held the halter. Two police vans pulled up and officers piled out with truncheons gleaming and raised like kendo swords.

Calamity and I stood and watched the cops pile in. The snow formed leopard spots on the dark fabric of her parka.

‘So what did you need to see me about?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I was going to ask you to help me find a new assistant.’

Calamity’s face dropped. ‘An assistant?’

‘Yes, I thought you could ask around. You know, see if any of your friends want the job.’

‘Oh,’ said Calamity. ‘Sure.’ The stricken look on her face pierced my heart. ‘I’d be glad to help. Yes, of course. Sure.’

‘I’m going to need an extra pair of hands in the new year.

‘Yes.’

‘Especially with all the new responsibilities.’

‘Yes, you will—What new responsibilities?’

‘Oh, you know, being an associate partner of the Pinkertons and stuff. There’s bound to be more work, at least that’s what Joe Winckelmann says.’

Calamity looked at me in astonishment. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Joe Winckelmann, the guy from the Pinkertons. I would have asked you to help out, but it wouldn’t be fair. I know you’re probably snowed under—’

‘Louie?’

‘What?’

‘Louie!’

‘What?’

‘Is this a joke?’

‘Of course not.’

‘He’s here? In Aberystwyth?’

‘Yes. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.’

‘It’s a joke, isn’t it?’

‘He’s over there, holding Abishag.’ I pointed and Joe Winckelmann waved.

Calamity stared, eyes wide with wonder and disbelief; she looked at him and looked at me.

‘I guess you were probably trying to keep it a surprise but—’ The rest of my words were lost as she lunged into me and threw her arms round me.

‘Oh, Louie.’ She squeezed the air out of me. ‘You pig. You absolutely horrible wonderful pig.’

I put my arms round her and let her squeeze and we rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet, oblivious of the world; it could wait. When she finally let go I took her over to meet Joe Winckelmann. He reached out and shook her hand.

Calamity opened her mouth to speak, but only a puff of air and a tiny hiss came out. She tried again twice more, but each time could manage only a laryngitic squeak.

‘She’s very pleased to meet you,’ I said.

‘We’re going back to the stable for a Christmas drink,’ said Eeyore. ‘Are you coming?’

‘Maybe later. There’s something I need to do first.’ I turned
to leave, but Calamity touched my arm and walked over to the sea railings with me.

‘I’ve got something for you. Llunos gave it to me, I forgot about it.’ She reached into her coat pocket and took out a manila envelope. ‘It’s the trace on the phone call, remember? For the Queen of Denmark.’

Our eyes met in an unspoken understanding.

‘You haven’t opened it.’

No, I thought I’d let you do that.’

‘Sure, I can do that.’ I held the envelope gingerly, as if it was radioactive.

‘You know,’ said Calamity, ‘I quite liked having the Queen of Denmark around.’

‘Me too. She was a fine lady.’

‘It sort of brightened the day up a bit.’

‘It certainly did.’

‘It was like she was our friend.’

‘That’s exactly what I thought.’

‘And, you know, if she’s our friend it feels a bit wrong to trace the call; it’s like prying.’

‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

‘It’s silly, anyway, because it had to be her, really, didn’t it?’

‘Of course. As you said, no one would make such a thing up. And who else would have that kind of money?’

We both stared at the unopened envelope. I remembered the sign I had been considering for the office: Pandora Inc. And I recalled the look of baffled wonder on the face of a little boy in pyjamas, imprisoned in the reflex of a Christmas bauble. A child with the wisdom to accept the gifts that life offers and not enquire too closely; wisdom that the people in my client’s chair have lost.

‘You’re right: we shouldn’t pry.’ I said. ‘What’s the point? We know it was her, right?’

‘Absolutely.’

I put the envelope in my pocket. ‘No need to open it, then.’

The town hall clock struck eight. Calamity looked over in the vague direction of the sound. ‘Myfanwy will have reached Bow Street by now,’ she said.

‘I know.’

I walked back to the office and stopped to speak to a man by the bandstand. The man wore a distinctive black leather coat. It was Caleb. He turned to face me and gave a slight nod.

‘That’s a nice coat,’ I said.

‘Yes. I got it in the war. It’s German. Real leather.’ He rubbed the lapel appreciatively between finger and thumb.

I said, ‘I think I understand it all now: about a man, a woman and a stolen coat. I understand how long ago a group of men played cards and conceived a terrible crime; one so shocking it made the priest go mad. I understand why all their names were on a list left in the pocket of a coat. And I understand why a man met a woman in the reading room of the library and went across the street with her to a cheap hotel. And in the morning this woman stole the man’s coat and with it the list of names. She sold it to a soldier and that man was you. And when a while later some spooks turned up asking about the coat, this woman, who it turns out was Mrs Llantrisant, sent her lover to get the coat back and he stole it from you as you lay wounded in hospital. That thief became the celebrated Hoffmann.

‘Over the years, many men have searched for the list. Some have sought the woman who stole the coat; and they have taken the path of genealogy; because she was, it seems, the granddaughter of the Sundance Kid. Others have sought the man called Hoffmann, and their quest led through the dark, sequestered vales of physiognomy. Because he was, it seems, defined by that tantalising, insubstantial horizontal crease in his face which generations of school children have been informed was a smile. All the people – be they wayfarers on the high road of genealogy, or pilgrims on the low road of physiognomy – have reached
journey’s end in the chimerical town called Aberystwyth. And there they have all come to a sticky end at the hands of two men who were guardians of the secret; men called Erw and the Pieman. Oh yes, I understand it all now, except two things. What was the crime? And if Hoffmann stole your coat, how come you’re still wearing it?’

Caleb nodded like a schoolteacher pleased with my progress. He looked down at Tiresias, who appeared to be listening intently; as if I had put my finger on the two aspects of the case that had always puzzled him.

‘You see,’ he said, ‘there were two names on the list that shouldn’t have been there, two men who had no business being in that weekly card game. One was General Llanbadarn; and the other was Sánchez, the bandit leader.’

‘Llanbadarn was playing cards on the eve of battle with the enemy?’

‘Yes. Llanbadarn had four of a kind; Sánchez had a straight flush. Sánchez would raise and Llanbadarn would see him and that old pot just got bigger and bigger. Sánchez put his boots on the table, and Llanbadarn his shirt. Then came Sánchez’s hat and Llanbadarn’s Sam Browne. After that they bet the dog, the mistress and the locket containing a picture of dear old Mama. Llanbadarn bet the farm; and Sánchez raised him with a gold mine. Eventually they had nothing left in the world to bid with, and that’s when Llanbadarn played the big one, the ultimate stake; perhaps the greatest since the gods on Mount Olympus played dice with human destiny.’