The Corpse in the Garden of Perfect Brightness

by Malcolm Pryce

  The exciting new force of atomic power will transform the railways of tomorrow. No more will steam be generated using coal – that one-time food of the dinosaurs. The hard, back-breaking job of fireman will be consigned to the museum, along with the filth and soot and ash. Gone too will be the conventional driver clad in oily rags. In his place will stand a pilot, his uniform a Prussian blue jacket with gold braid hoops on the cuffs, and a peaked captain’s cap. No more the grime-besmeared face with a look of permanent exhaustion. The engine driver of tomorrow will stand tall and preside – proud heir to Professor Einstein’s glory – over a gleaming white cockpit of a type familiar to fans of the space-travelling hero Mr Flash Gordon.

  It all sounded so utterly marvellous. I bought the atomic engine on impulse. Jenny, I knew, would be thrilled. The act of buying the toy felt mildly wicked, and I realised that I had never bought anything on impulse before. Visions of our son one day presiding over Einstein’s glory swam up before me.

  I returned to the deck and stood at the rail. Mr Quinn appeared between me and the sunlight.

  ‘I’ve found it,’ he said. He held out a copy of The Times, folded open to an inside page. ‘You’re in it, see? Man wanted for grisly murder. Your picture, too.’ I gave the article a nonchalant look. The photograph was a few years old, from the Register of Goslings, but it certainly looked like me.

  ‘I’m glad you are here, Mr Quinn, I’ve been looking for you.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes, I wonder if you would be kind enough to join me for a drink after dinner tonight. You see I have a proposition to put to you that could result in your acquiring considerably more than two hundred guineas.’

  Mr Quinn’s eyes lit up. ‘Really?’

  ‘As much as two thousand perhaps. But of course if you are not interested—’

  ‘No, no,’ he interrupted, attempting not to sound too keen. ‘I don’t mind listening to your proposition. I shall see you in the bar this evening.’

  He walked off, and shortly after, Jenny arrived. The wind had dropped. Scraps of blue sky appeared, behind tattered rags of cloud. It was a cold blue, pure and deep. The tang of salt on the breeze was sharp. Jenny and I climbed to the funnel deck. We held on to the rail and leaned into the wind, which was fiercer up high. The funnel emitted a throb that we felt in our bellies, and a lovely scent of smoke hung on the air, supplemented every so often by gusts that blew the smoke downwards to the deck before whipping it away again.

  ‘Who did you find to write to?’ I asked.

  ‘Cooper … Cooper’s parents.’

  ‘Oh, I see. How very nice.’ This disclosure had a dampening effect on my spirits.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ she said with concern.

  ‘Mind? No, of course not. Why should I … Why … why did you write to them?’

  ‘To see how they are. They were very kind to me when … their son died.’

  ‘Kind in what way?’

  ‘They sent money. My aunt and I really needed it.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Please don’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Jenny and I rarely fell out, but a tension had arisen between us that was hard to ignore.

  ‘You should inform your voice then, Jack,’ she said in a tone I had not heard before. It contained a hint of anguish.

  ‘What does that mean?’ My answer came out unintentionally sharp.

  If it was possible to flinch imperceptibly, this is how Jenny received my remark. She was silent for a moment and then said, ‘I was being silly, sorry. If you would prefer me not to write to them, then, of course, I won’t. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You must write to whoever you please. Really, I don’t mind.’

  ‘How can I believe your words, Jack, when you say them in a voice I never hear from you?’

  ‘No, really, perhaps this other matter has affected me. I don’t mind you writing … I was just curious to know what on earth you would find to write about.’

  ‘I told them we were on a ship heading to Singapore. I said it was our honeymoon.’ She looked at me, eyes sparkling behind the windblown hair, with an expression of impish fun, as if the admission had been especially naughty. What heart could fail to be melted? Because it was in some strange way true. ‘By Jove!’ I said. ‘By Jove!’

  ‘I also read some of the book, Trust in God, She Will provide.’

  ‘I have to say, I find that a very curious title.’

  ‘So far it seems rather fun.’

  Miss Frobisher joined us and greeted us gaily. An atmosphere of mild excitement seemed to have possessed the passengers, the same found on a morning when snow has fallen in the night for the first time in a winter, and folk emerge to leave the first footprints. Travelling by ship renders us all children again.

  Miss Frobisher was visibly excited. ‘You’ll never guess what,’ she said. ‘I’ve found out we have a very important guest travelling with us.’ We gave her a look of polite inquiry and she continued. ‘Solveig Connemara! The film star!’

  As if on cue, a regal lady appeared on the deck below us. She was holding the arm of a chap who was huddled against the wind. He wore a trench coat, with white spats, and had the unsteady air of one who has spent his twilight years in Florida and is now unused to inclement weather. He held a cane in a manner that suggested it was largely for show, but sometimes provided necessary support. Solveig Connemara wore a fur coat, a head scarf, and dark glasses that concealed most of her face.

  Miss Frobisher nudged my arm sharply and hissed, ‘There. See! I’m going to see if I can have a word with her.’ She left once more, filled with excitement at the prospect of this new errand.

  ‘Jenny,’ I said. ‘While you were writing your letters I happened to notice a rather fine souvenir on sale in the purser’s office. It’s a new type of train that runs by focusing the rays of the sun or something. It burns atoms instead of coal.’ I took it out of the paper bag and showed it to her. ‘The beauty of it is, atoms are so small you could carry enough to fire you from Paddington to Penzance in a thimble. Isn’t that wonderful! I thought we could keep this and give it to our son—’

  I could sense rather than see Jenny stiffen. ‘Our son?’

  ‘Yes,’ I continued excitedly. ‘Imagine it! Wearing a pilot’s uniform and standing at the helm like Flash Gordon.’

  She said again, ‘Our son?’

  ‘Yes, I mean, of course when—’

  ‘We don’t have a son.’ Her voice was a pained whisper, more pained than I think I had ever heard it before.

  ‘No, no, you are quite right, but I thought—’

  She moved away from me. ‘Well, that’s … that’s really wonderful. Perhaps next time you will consult me before you go buying toys for our son.’

  She strode off. This was so far from how I had pictured her response that I felt almost dizzy with shock.

  I remained at the ship’s rail for at least an hour before retiring to our cabin. Jenny was sitting on the lower bunk, staring at nothing. She did not turn as I entered.

  ‘Jenny,’ I said softly, ‘I’m so very sorry.’ I put the toy train in the rubbish bin just inside the door and sat down next to her. I spoke with head bowed to my lap. ‘It seems without ever intending to I have grievously hurt you and said or done something inappropriate, and I can only—’

  She placed her arm round my back and pressed her head down onto my shoulder, her words muffled slightly. ‘No, Jack, it is me who should apologise. I … I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘I expect you are tired,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure that is it. I’m sorry.’ And then there was no sound bar the endless squeaking of the ship’s innards and Jenny’s silent weeping.

  That evening, over dinner, Miss Frobisher told everyone of her discovery. ‘Three Academy award nominations for best actress. What a voice! Started out in Vaudeville. It shows. Child star. In Larry Long’s Five Singing Popsicles. Terrible what happened though …’

 
Miss Frobisher let the words dangle in the air, like bait. Mrs Carmichael took it.

  ‘She gave up singing, didn’t she?’

  ‘You mean you didn’t hear?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was the talk of the town!’

  ‘We’ve spent most of our life in the sort of town where the talk is of the price of goats,’ said Mr Carmichael.

  Miss Frobisher resumed her narrative: ‘She was playing opposite Johnny Sorrento in The Mule Comes Too. They fell in love. Thick as thieves they were. Barely twenty she was.’ She paused as if considering how best to broach what came next. She made an expression that suggested it was her painful duty to tell us. ‘He got her in the family way. But she was under contract to star in Oops, I Thought You Were Daisy and two more films produced by Sam Flamenco. Story is’ – she lowered her voice, and leaned slightly forward as if to stress that this particular piece of gossip should go no further – ‘Sam Flamenco made her get rid of it.’

  My ears pricked at the mention of that name. Sam Flamenco was the name of the producer whom Curtis had met on the boat to Borneo. I turned to Jenny, who was staring at me equally astonished.

  ‘Get rid of what?’ said Mr Carmichael, and then the realisation hit him like a blow. ‘Oh! I see. Oh no, how … infamous!’

  Miss Frobisher nodded. ‘It was either that or her career was over. Never the same afterwards, though. Oops, I Thought You Were Daisy ran into financial problems. The production was abandoned after a month. After that, Solveig just disappeared. Never married. Took to drink. Fell quite low, they say. Poor thing.’ She lowered her voice again. ‘They say there was a spell in prison, too.’

  Mr Carmichael nodded.

  ‘After all that, I never expected to see her with him.’

  ‘Who?’ said Mrs Carmichael.

  ‘That chap she’s travelling with – it’s Sam Flamenco.’

  I had not seen any of his movies but knew the sort they were: tales of derring-do and high adventure, often featuring spies whose lives one suspected bore little resemblance to the lives of real spies. Tonight I felt as if I had fallen into one of his films. There were few more ordinary men in the world than me, and yet I found myself being pursued by an agent of a shadowy organisation called Room 42, intent on my murder. I in turn was in pursuit of a chap called Curtis, who, it seemed, was himself engaged on a quest to find my own mother, a woman I had never entertained the slightest hope of ever meeting. And now tonight on this very ship was a man who had recently gone into some sort of partnership with Mr Curtis. If this really were a film and I saw it at the cinema I should say it was far-fetched.

  After dinner I set out to discover Mr Flamenco, who had dined in the First Class dining room aft. I found him in the bar, surrounded by a group of people, three ladies and two gentlemen, whom I took to be his dining companions. He was telling a story and they were hanging on to his every word.

  ‘The ship eventually arrived on the shores of a mysterious island, marked on no maps or charts, and surrounded by a thick bank of fog with magical properties that made the compass go haywire. Captain Squideye had been searching all his life for this island. It was known by the name Shimushir and was said to contain a portal to another realm. In the land beyond the portal there grew a flower whose perfume had the power to mend a broken heart. But the portal was guarded by a huge monster, a giant ape called Chomghuürgha. He lived on top of the mountain, and down below lived a tribe of islanders who would appease the monster with human sacrifices. They said the monster was particularly fond of white women.’

  The three ladies squealed in feigned shock. He paused to enjoy the effect, like the showman that he clearly was. Then added, ‘Miss Connemara will play the lead. It will be the glorious consummation of her stellar career.’

  ‘The part calls for a virgin,’ she said drily, ‘but he couldn’t find one in Hollywood.’

  More shocked laughter erupted.

  I stood, fidgeting nervously behind the backs of the group, unobserved, wondering how to interrupt and what on earth I would say.

  ‘You probably think I’m a bit too old for the part, but Sam has a good make-up team, and he tells me if you drink the water on this island it restores you to the first bloom of youth. That’s if the monster doesn’t gobble you up first.’

  ‘Is the monster real?’ one of the men asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mr Flamenco. ‘It has to be. We can’t afford a model.’

  The second man turned to Miss Connemara. ‘But aren’t you afraid?’

  Miss Connemara laughed. It was clear she had been drinking quite a bit. ‘Afraid, honey? Some hairy brute putting his beefy paws all over me and promising me the Gate to Paradise? It’s the story of my life.’

  They all laughed again, although the joke struck me as having a well-worn air to it. Mr Flamenco noticed me lurking, and said with undisguised irritation, ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, Mr Flamenco, I was … well … I was wondering …’

  ‘Sure, buddy. Solvy!’ Miss Connemara turned to me and said, ‘What’s your name, honey?’

  ‘Er … Wenlock.’

  She picked up a studio portrait of her looking much younger from a pile that lay on the table and scribbled ‘Wenlock’ on it. She thrust it at me. I took it dumbly. They all returned their attention to Mr Flamenco and his story.

  Just then I saw Mr Quinn approaching. I put the photo in my jacket pocket and walked over to meet him.

  I had already surveyed the bar so as to work out how best to put Jenny’s scheme into practice. There were a few alcove tables along the perimeter wall in near-darkness that would do the trick. Mr Quinn made my task easier by first putting his cabin key down on the table and then ordering both a pint of beer and a single-malt Scotch. I was pretty sure he would not have placed such an order had he been paying for himself. He downed the pint quickly, with the happy result that he soon needed to visit the lavatory, leaving me free to pour the chloral hydrate into his whisky unobserved.

  During the next hour he ordered three more whiskies, and made frequent trips to the lavatory in order, he said, to throw cold water onto his face. Apparently the sea air was making him drowsy. During one such trip, Jenny came and took his key, and also the copy of the newspaper he still carried. On another occasion Mr Carmichael strolled past and exchanged a few words with me.

  ‘I’d be careful of that chap, if I were you,’ he said. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I thought he had an honest face.’

  ‘Honest? I hardly think so.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope he is.’ I laughed. ‘He just told me he used to be a locksmith and there wasn’t a single door on this ship he couldn’t open.’

  Mr Carmichael’s eyes started from their sockets. ‘Just be careful. I have an instinct for these things, and it never lets me down. He’s a queer fish.’ He nodded solemnly and walked off.

  Apart from the drowsiness, there seemed little evidence that the Mickey Finn was having much effect on Mr Quinn. I explained to him my plan. ‘I’ve been observing you since Southampton,’ I began. ‘And you strike me as an honest man. I have an instinct for these things and it seldom lets me down.’

  Mr Quinn looked quite surprised by this estimation of his character.

  ‘Am I right, Mr Quinn?’

  ‘Er … yes, of course. Honest … that’s me. As the day is long.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. You can’t imagine how pleased I was when I discovered you would be our table companion. I’ve been looking for a man I could trust for quite some time now. I have a job you see, one that requires a certain amount of ’ – I paused to give the word a special meaning – ‘discretion.’

  Mr Quinn struggled to look suitably grave. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘You strike me as a man who understands the need on occasion for discretion.’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Particularly in matters where large sums of money are concerned.’

  Mr Quinn wore th
e expression of a boy from a family too poor to buy sweets who somehow inherits the sweet shop. Then a stray thought darkened his countenance. ‘This … this undertaking … is it … is it …’

  ‘It is entirely legal, Mr Quinn. On that you have my word. I want you to carry a suitcase from Singapore to Kuala Lumpur on the train. An act that is legal in the entire Malayan archipelago.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mr Quinn. ‘Good. A suitcase?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it particularly big?’

  ‘Not at all, a very modest suitcase in size … about the size of six loaves of bread.’

  ‘Six?’

  ‘Maybe seven.’

  He nodded. ‘And for this you will—’

  ‘Pay you two thousand pounds in cash. Half in Singapore, the rest at your journey’s end.’

  He now looked as if he had eaten half the sweet shop. ‘My word!’ He darted a glance to either side in a way that was sure to alert anyone watching that something nefarious was going on and said softly, ‘I don’t mean to pry, Mr Wenlock, but is there … will there be anything in the suitcase?’

  I too looked to either side before leaning in conspiratorially and whispering, ‘Only some money.’

  ‘Money. Yes, I see.’

  ‘I need to move the funds between my casino in Singapore and the one in Kuala Lumpur.’

  Mr Quinn’s eyes widened. ‘You own a casino!’

  ‘More than one. Five actually. The story of how I came by them would make your hair stand on end, but the pleasure of telling it to you must wait for another day. The important thing to remember is this: it’s totally above board, just a piece of accounting … housekeeping. About twelve to fifteen thousand pounds. The case usually weighs about eight or nine imperial pounds. Will that be too heavy for you?’

  Mr Quinn answered in a voice filled with wonder, the sort day trippers use when first catching sight of the giant stalactites of Cheddar Cave. ‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘I should be able to manage that nicely.’

  ‘I would do it myself, but I don’t travel well by train—’

  ‘I thought you used to be a train driver?’

  I coughed to disguise the sharp pain in the heart his remark occasioned. ‘I did! But then I went down with coal mange … never been the same since. Can’t go near a train. Broke my heart it did. Really, you will be doing me a great service. Will you help?’