Mr Godley's Phantom

by Mal Peet

  All gone into the land of ghosts.

  He swigged water, lit a cigarette.

  His father had considered extremes of emotion, especially in women, to be symptomatic of an underlying medical disorder. His mother, unwilling for her marriage to become a matter of ongoing diagnosis, had avoided displaying them. From his parents Martin had learned how not to demonstrate excitement or fear. This self-management had served him well at boarding school and, until close to its end, the war. The ‘calmness under fire’ for which he had been Mentioned in Dispatches was more a matter of fearing embarrassment than not fearing the enemy.

  In so far as he’d thought about it at all, he’d assumed that people were equipped with, born with, a set of emotions just as they’d been given a set of organs. Hope, misery, fear, desire, love, etc. Lungs, kidneys, liver, eyes, a heart, etc. Alike, they were prone to disease, exhaustion, catastrophic failure. Some could be mended, restored, replenished. And some could not. The least little thing could make the difference.

  The Phantom’s engine had a V-twelve cylinder layout. Two banks of six cylinders turning a single crankshaft at the bottom of the V. Christ, a great beautiful complex lump of a thing. Twenty-four spark plugs bristling out of it. One of them fails, its partner takes over.

  As for himself, he’d run out of pity but he couldn’t fix it. It wouldn’t spark. Its adjacent cylinder, disgust, was working fine.

  But happiness?

  Martin stubbed the thought out along with the cigarette and studied his map. If he could cut northwards down the gorse-dappled slope below him he could be back at Burra Hall in less than two hours by following the track of a railway for much of the distance. By now he knew that on Dartmoor the word ‘railway’ did not have its conventional meaning. Railways were not, usually, tracks along which a train would run. They were railed roadways, constructed by unimaginable labour, along which teams of horses would drag wagonloads of quarried stone to be used in the building of harbours, churches, bridges, sea defences.

  Fifteen minutes later he came to a barbed-wire fence, slumped in places. A board bearing the faded words Danger Deep Pits leaned against a post. He followed the downward curve of the wire until it turned sharply to the right where the ground dropped away. Now he saw that he’d been descending the rim of a vast gouge – a monstrous bite – taken out of the hillside. The sheer sides of this wound seeped water into a shadowy pool about fifty feet below him.

  He tracked right, seeking a way down. The fence skirted another pit then gave up, grasping at a weathered wooden post at the rim of another excavation. It seemed to Martin, peering down, that this was a shaft of some sort, roughly circular. Beards of moss hung from its lip. He could not see the bottom of it. He picked up a stone and tossed it in, waiting for a splash or clatter. Neither came.

  He negotiated his way around the hole and discovered a descent of crude steps, possibly man-made, probably not, and clambered down them. He found himself in a baffling complex of towering cliffs, cuttings, slopes of spoil and pools of water above which iridescent dragonflies hovered and darted. Only their hum and the trickle of water broke the dense silence. Here and there tracks, made by long-dead quarrymen or sheep, threaded their way up and along narrow grass-crested parapets.

  Martin, his sense of direction lost, wandered through this desolation, seeking the railway. He climbed a low embankment and there it was, level and sensible, heading north and east alongside the quarry. Low ramps led up to it at intervals. Its rails had gone but stretches of sleepers, grey as stone, rusted bolts jutting from them, remained.

  There was the rusted remains of a donkey engine, its smokestack aimed at the sky like an ancient howitzer.

  A cluster of ruined stone buildings, roofless, the glassless windows gaping at the moor.

  He stood motionless, feeling the sweat trickle down his back.

  He’d been here before, many times. Walked though trashed villages just like these.

  Cradling the Thompson sub-machine gun in his arms. Following the point man – what was his name? Bentham? Bentley? – from whom fear radiated like the green light of radar. Which was why he was good.

  Through the rubble of places called Santo something or Saint something. Signalling the rest of the patrol to wait, come ahead, wait, overlap. Studying lopped towers of churches through the field glasses, looking for the shadow or glint of a sniper.

  A bicycle folded double by a half-track.

  An eviscerated horse between the shafts of a toppled cart.

  Houses improbably intact among the rubble. Pushing open the door of one to see a black veil of flies lifting from a dead boy’s face.

  That idiot Jackman grabbing up a booby-trapped album of pornographic postcards. His severed head, still grinning, bouncing on the cobbles.

  He squinched his eyes shut, driving it all back into darkness. Turned round before opening them again, needing to open them because the whirring pits of dizziness were opening at his feet. He made his legs take him along the dismantled railway. After stumbling two hundred yards or so he felt more or less all right again and stopped to light a cigarette. He inhaled, swearing at himself. He looked to his left and was surprised to see, beyond a pair of padlocked iron gates, a narrow metalled road.

  He shrugged the rucksack off and took out the map. Two faintly dotted parallel lines indicated a walking track running alongside the railway for a mile or so before veering away northwards. As far as he could make out, it joined, five miles or so out of Burra, a back road winding between Leeworthy and Lydford. Sometime after the map had been drawn – during the war, probably – this track had been tarmacked. Turned into something you could drive along.

  He walked on briskly, heading for what he now called home, keeping his eye on the road until it parted company with the railway.

  On the following Sunday, with the map on his lap, he drove the Morris van out of Burra. At an unmarked junction he turned left and after twenty minutes, during which he met or saw no other vehicle or human being, passed the quarry’s padlocked gates. Three miles beyond them, the road ended at a little huddle of buildings perched on a bare hill. Military buildings, obviously. Low huts made of prefabricated concrete sections under curved corrugated-iron roofs.

  Martin parked the van and went to investigate, although it was clear that the place had been abandoned. Two of the buildings were doorless. He looked into the first one he came to. It was empty and intensely cheerless, pellets of sheep shit scattered over its concrete floor.

  He walked around the site. Six slabs of concrete into which eyelets for guy-wires were set suggested that a radio mast had been the purpose of the place. He imagined the poor bastards manning it up here in the winter.

  He returned to the Morris and drove back to the quarry. The gates were chest-high and easily clambered over. He had some difficulty orienting himself, but eventually he found his way to the depthless shaft. He chose a larger stone this time. It vanished without a sound. He did it again.

  Then he lay on his back with his head resting on his hands and watched the slow reconfiguring of the clouds, thinking. Dreaming.

  PART TWO

  Something Apparently Inconsequential

  May 1948

  1

  SERGEANT ARCHIBALD BULLER of the Okehampton station, Devon County Constabulary, stood by his car for a moment to admire the proportions of Burra Hall, which this morning were enhanced by spring sunlight. Before he could knock on the door it was opened by a distraught young woman.

  ‘Have you found him? Is he all right?’

  ‘No news yet, miss, I’m afraid. May I come in?’

  In the kitchen he introduced himself to Martin Heath, who looked like he’d had a sleepless night and was in need of a shave.

  ‘We’ve sent a Missing Persons Alert to all stations,’ the sergeant said, ‘and we’ve contacted Exeter City police. That’s as much as we can do for the time being.’

  Annie Luscombe moaned softly and went to lean against the sink where she stood, s
niffing and chewing a thumbnail. Buller sat himself at the table and took out his notebook. Martin Heath, who had been pacing the room smoking, sat down opposite. Buller noted the tremor in the chauffeur’s hand when he lifted the cigarette to his mouth.

  ‘I need to go through the details with you, if you don’t mind. You say you drove Mr Godley to Okehampton where he took the one-fifteen train yesterday to Exeter for an appointment with his solicitor. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the name of this solicitor, Mr Heath?’

  ‘I … I’m afraid I don’t know. I don’t think he ever mentioned the name to me.’

  ‘I see. Do you happen to know, Miss Luscombe?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I … There might be something in his study, I s’pose.’

  ‘Right-oh. Perhaps we could take a look in there in a minute.’ He turned back to Martin. ‘And he, Mr Godley, told you to meet him off the return train, the four thirty from Exeter.’

  ‘Yes. But he wasn’t on it.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Well, I assumed he’d missed it for some reason. So I waited for the next one, but he wasn’t on that, either. So I drove back here. I thought perhaps Mr Godley might have phoned Annie, Miss Luscombe, with a message or something. But he hadn’t. I drove back to Okehampton in case he was on the last train, the nine o’clock. When he wasn’t on that, I went to the police station.’

  ‘Where you explained the situation to the night duty officer and provided a description of Mr Godley. A very detailed and useful description, if I may say so. All the same, a recent photograph of Mr Godley would be very useful. Is there one somewhere?’

  ‘I don’t know. Annie?’

  She had, it seemed, become distracted by anxiety. ‘What? Pardon?’

  ‘The sergeant wants to know if there’s a recent photo of Mr Godley anywhere.’

  ‘I shouldn think so. I don’ think he’ve had his picture taken since I’ve been here. Not that I know of.’

  She watched disapprovingly while Sergeant Buller poked about in the study. There were no photographs of any sort on the mantelpiece or the shelves, a fact that Martin had not previously registered. There was no correspondence lying about and the large bureau was locked.

  Martin said, ‘Look, um, Mr Godley is not in the best of health. He has, well, attacks. Fainting fits. He might have collapsed and …’

  ‘Yes. I called the Royal Devon and Exeter first thing this morning. Three elderly gentlemen were admitted during the past twelve hours. They were all conscious and confirmed their names. None of them was your Mr Godley.’

  Detective Inspector Ivan Sheepstone, a Yorkshireman, had an inordinate fondness for Cornish pasties. Nowadays, of course, they weren’t a patch on the pre-war ones. Mostly potato and swede, and such molecules of meat as they contained were of doubtful provenance. Still, Carr’s Bakery made a fairly decent one, all things considered; well-seasoned, with a tawny coxcomb of crisp pastry. Sheepstone was halfway through one of these delicacies, with his handkerchief spread on the desktop to catch the crumbs, when Detective Sergeant Raymond Panter’s head poked round the office door.

  ‘Sir? Just had a call from Exmouth. Seems one of the locals was doing a spot of fishing early this morning and found a pile of clothes on the beach.’

  ‘Uh-hmm?’

  ‘Well, sir, it seems to me that they might fit the description of what that old boy was wearing. The one that’s gone missing. Godfrey.’

  ‘Godley.’

  ‘Yessir. Black coat, grey hat and scarf. And a walking stick.’

  Sheepstone extracted something fibrous from his teeth and examined it forensically. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s a nice enough day for a trip to the seaside. Call Exmouth back and tell them we’re on our way. Oh, and Ray? Tell them I’ll want to talk to the chap who found the clothing.’

  He was a bearded and burly man in his forties. His name was George Rowsell. He happened to be the brother of PC Arthur Rowsell of the Exmouth station, the fourth member of the group gathered on the beach.

  ‘And this is the exact place, Mr Rowsell?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Sheepstone gazed out over the water. Far away to his right, the green undulations of Lyme Bay’s western coast folded into the distance. A plume of train smoke doodled along its edge. To his left, some half a mile away, the ragged ledges of Orcombe Point descended to the sea, the red sandstone in this light the colour of raw beef. Overhead, peevish herring gulls sought balance on the stiff breeze.

  ‘How can you be sure, Mr Rowsell?’

  ‘I fish from this spot reg’lar. Tis where the deep water channel come closest to the beach, see? Tha’s why if he went in here yesday afternoon, well, he could be anywhere by now, miles along the coast. Might never find’n at all.’

  Panter said, ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Like I say, the deep water come in right close here. See that sandbar fifty yard off? When the tide’s goin out, the whole est’ry empty out atween that an’ the beach. Tis like a funnel. The water come through here faster’n a man can run. Helluvan undertow an’ all. There’s bin several few drowned over the years, daft enough to go inter the water here. There was that boy swept out back in thirty-seven, wun’t it, Arthur? We never found’n.’

  ‘We?’

  PC Rowsell said, ‘Me’n George’re with the lifeboat.’

  ‘Right,’ Sheepstone said. ‘And the tide was going out yesterday afternoon?’

  ‘Yup. Low water was just afore six.’

  ‘Have you alerted the Coastguard, Constable?’

  ‘I have, sir. As far as Weymouth.’

  ‘Good. Tell me, Mr Rowsell, how was the clothing arranged when you found it?’

  ‘Very neat, sir. Coat folded just so, scarf folded on top of that, shoes on top of the scarf side by side like in a shop. Glasses inside one of the shoes. Hat an’ stick longside. The hat were upside-down with a stone in it. Twas like he meant to come back fr’um.’

  The staff at Exmouth railway station were less than helpful. The stationmaster, a rather bumptious fellow with an ill-advised moustache, told the detectives that he normally had business with the train driver or the guard that denied him the luxury of scrutinising disembarking passengers. The ticket collector thought he might have seen an old man in a black coat getting off the four o’clock, but he couldn’t be rightly sure.

  Panter opined, driving back to Okehampton, that the ticket collector was ‘a brick or two short of the full load anyway’.

  2

  LATE IN THE AFTERNOON Martin Heath was running a chamois leather over the Phantom’s glasswork when he was distracted by an appreciative wolf whistle. A man he’d never seen before, but had been expecting, stood just outside the coach house’s open doors with his hands in the pockets of his raincoat.

  The man said, ‘Hell’s teeth. A Rolls. What a beauty.’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin said. ‘A Rolls-Royce Phantom Three Sedanca de Ville, to be precise. Are you from the police? Your Sergeant Buller was here this morning …’

  The man produced and briefly displayed a warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Raymond Panter, Devon County Constabulary. You are Mr Martin Heath?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you drive this thing, do you?’

  ‘Yes, sometimes.’

  ‘Lucky beggar. I’ve never even seen one before.’

  ‘Have you found Mr Godley?’

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind coming over to the house. My superior officer would like a word.’

  The clothes and shoes, the cane and the spectacles, were displayed on the kitchen table. Annie looked up at Martin, white-faced, when he came in. The tall man with thick greying hair and a Yorkshire accent introduced himself.

  Then he said, ‘Mr Heath, I’d like you to examine these items carefully and tell me whether or not they belong to your employer.’

  Martin lifted a shaky hand to his face and said, ‘Oh, Jesus.’

  ‘Mr Heath?’

  �
��They’re his. Where did you find them?’

  ‘Please examine them more closely, Mr Heath.’

  Martin approached the table, but could not bring himself to touch anything. His hands dithered. ‘They’re his,’ he said.

  Sheepstone said, ‘You are absolutely sure that these are your employer’s clothes and that he was wearing them when you last saw him? And that this is his walking stick?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Annie said, ‘Oh, Martin.’

  He said, ‘Where did you find them?’

  Panter said, ‘They were discovered on the beach at Exmouth early this morning.’

  ‘Exmouth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Annie said, ‘They think Mr Godley drowned hisself. In the sea.’

  Martin lifted his head, frowning. ‘That’s, that’s ridiculous. Why would he do that?’

  Sheepstone said, ‘Well, we’re hoping that you might help us find the answer to that question.’

  ‘No,’ Martin said. ‘No, no, no. I took Mr Godley to the station because he had an appointment in Exeter. He was his normal self. He told me to meet him off the return train.’ He gestured at the table. ‘This is some sort of mistake. Obviously. I mean, how would Mr Godley have got to Exmouth, of all places? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘We’re working on the assumption that he took the train on from Exeter to Exmouth, although we are unable to positively confirm that.’

  ‘No. I don’t believe it. He would have said something. He’s very … particular.’

  ‘Did he say anything at all to you, Mr Heath? Did you have any conversation in the car?’

  ‘Not really. He said something about the weather. He asked me to fetch his travel blanket before we set off. He feels the cold.’