Not My Blood djs-10

by Barbara Cleverly

  “Returning?”

  “Always before midnight. Then Dr. Sutton took over, and he did exactly the same thing. Straight after tea on the first Wednesday of every month, a taxi would come to pick him up. Mrs. Sutton used to wave him off. Clearly no clandestine object to these excursions. Then our present head, Mr. Farman, took over seamlessly and-blow me if he didn’t keep up the tradition. The Wednesday taxi comes for him. At exactly the same time. Oh, sorry. It’s not much is it?”

  “On the contrary, it’s very interesting,” Joe said, trying not to sound disappointed. A monthly trip to Brighton was all too easily explained, even for a married head. Hadn’t Godwit put two and two together? Obviously too unworldly for such suspicions. “Well, well! Are we perhaps thinking … cinema visit?” he suggested innocently, having no wish to shock the old classicist.

  “The visits of Streetly-Standish predate the arrival of a picture palace, Sandilands. And he couldn’t bear the notion of moving pictures. A bad influence on the young, he thought. None of the men were involved with masonry or druidry or any such mumbo jumbo. Perfectly normal, all three.”

  “Think back, Mr. Godwit. Their behaviour when they returned-did they show any signs of, um, weariness, elation, resolve, mood or behaviour change of any kind?”

  Godwit pondered this for a moment. “Ah, yes. Two of those: elation and resolve. It would take a knowing eye to discern it.” He smiled with quiet triumph. “And a sharp mind to connect events.” He fixed Joe with a watery blue eye. “I don’t speak of it, but you don’t strike me as a loose-tongued gentleman, Commissioner? Thought so. I worked in Intelligence during the war. Too old to be of any other use, I’m afraid. Cryptography. Connections are what I’ve always noted. Like you, Commissioner, I had suspected post-coital euphoria of a culpable nature, but I eliminated the unworthy thought. I remember, however, being struck by a more than usually confident address to the school made by Farman at the Thursday assembly following one of his Wednesday outings and groaning inwardly with boredom because the theme he chose had been a particular favourite with both the previous heads. Of course, the boys were not to know that-they come and go so quickly.”

  “The theme, Mr. Godwit?”

  “Oh, an entirely innocent piece from … now was it Matthew or Luke? The usual stirring stuff headmasters churn out as an exhortation to the boys in their care. Ah! Matthew seven, verse sixteen.” He looked challengingly at Joe.

  Joe shook his head. “You’ll have to remind me, sir.”

  “It’s the grape-picking bit.”

  Godwit recited from memory in a suddenly firm and mellifluous tone:

  “ ‘Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles?

  “ ‘Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit.

  “ ‘A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.

  “ ‘Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire.

  “ ‘Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.’ ”

  “Ah, yes. The apple scrumper’s license to rob the best trees. I remember quoting bits of that to my father before he gave me a well-earned whacking for scrumping in our neighbour’s orchard. He wasn’t amused.”

  “Another Thursday morning favourite of the headmasters was the parable of the sower. Matthew again: chapter thirteen. He seemed to relish the bit about the seeds being scorched in the sun and withering away because they had no root. He finishes with much benignity: ‘But others fell into good ground and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold.’ Then he tells them they are good little seeds of good stock and he expects them to go forth and multiply. Thank heaven they’re all too young to fall in with his exhortations.”

  “Mmm … that chimes well with the views he was expressing to Miss Joliffe over lunch. He seems to have dismissed three quarters of the population of the capital as seed sown on stony ground, I’m afraid. Any mention of Sodom and Gomorrah? Noah and his Ark, perhaps?”

  Godwit beamed. “Rem acu tetigisti, Sandilands! I thought you’d get there.”

  “It’s a fascinating insight you hand me, Mr. Godwit. I shall go and confer with my local colleague and seek his opinion. If you have any further thoughts, I shall be pleased to hear them.”

  Joe closed the door as the old man left, and he stood, head bent, collecting his thoughts. He battled hard to ward off the swooping attack of the direst suspicions, gulping, chewing dry lips, breathing deeply, calling on common sense to come to his rescue. But panic was getting the better of him. When his knees began to twitch, he did what he had learned to do on the battlefield-he took action.

  He raced downstairs to the equipment room and burst in on Inspector Martin, who was briefing his sergeant.

  “Martin! I need your help, man! I need some local knowledge. Could you possibly find out, using the telephone, what social, political or other meetings are held in Brighton on the first Wednesday of each month? And have been held there for at least … oh … thirty years. It may be the key to this whole business. Rapson’s murder, the boys’ disappearance. They’re all linked. It’s not upstairs and downstairs-it’s all the same thing.”

  Chilled by the set face and sharp tone, Martin dismissed his sergeant and listened to Joe’s brief account of fears he hurried to admit were unreasoning. The inspector responded in his measured, countryman’s voice: “Sit down. You’re not mad, just careful and damned suspicious. Like me. Help yourself to a cup of tea from my flask and listen in while I phone. I’ll try first Mabel in the city library. I’m sure she’ll have a list of gatherings. I warn you it’ll be a long and probably surprising one. Brighton’s a busy place, and there’s a lot of foreigners, loose-livers and eccentrics about with time on their hands.”

  Martin was put through to Mabel and spent an inordinately long time in badinage, Joe thought, squirming in his seat. But it seemed to pave the way for action. “Good girl!” said Martin when he’d finally conveyed his request. “Two pages of foolscap, eh? Well, go ahead. I’ll weed ’em out. I’m taking notes, and I’ll be repeating them for the benefit of my team who is here with me and hanging on your words. Now, just avoid any children’s hamster breeding clubs and ladies’ knitting circles and the like. I’m interested in hobbies, occupations, interests for middle-aged men, and it has to be on a Wednesday.”

  “After teatime,” Joe supplied.

  Martin got busy with his pencil, repeating out loud anything that might be pertinent to Joe’s enquiry, however odd.

  “Ballroom dancing lessons available every day of the week, eh? On the Wednesday: tango chez Alphonse, Viennese at the Pavilion, Scottish in the Palm Court.

  “That’s more like it-cercle français at the high school, every Wednesday.

  “German language lessons, every week day with Miss Gunter at her own residence. No, don’t bother just now. We can always come back.

  “Begonia propagation?” He glanced at Joe, who shook his head. “No, Mabel. Flower and dog breeding not a priority.

  “Poetry lovers, Tuesdays? Nice to know they’re still alive, but they don’t concern us.

  “Ah! Cinema, of course. Two picture palaces, three showings every day. Look again, Mabel. Anything special about a Wednesday? Ooh, er! That’s news to me! Not listed, eh? I’m not surprised. Hang on, I’m making a note of that and, no, I won’t ask how you came by the knowledge. I don’t want to spoil our relationship.” He turned, grinning, to Joe. “I think we’ve got something! Saucy French films on at ten in the evening. On Wednesdays. Coincides with the midweek soccer fixtures so fellers can lie to their wives about getting home at midnight in a state of excitement!

  “Liberal club … no, that’s a Thursday. Try the Conservative club, Mabel. Fridays. Young Cons, Sundays.” He sighed and waited while Mabel ran through her list.

  “What, Mabel? Say that again, love. I don’t think you’re pronounc
ing that quite right. Ah, got you! That’s ‘g’ as in ‘ginger,’ not as in ‘gaga.’ ” He scratched on his pad, suddenly pensive. “Wednesdays? Six o’clock. Monthly. Well-advertised. Well, it would be. No expense spared. Mabel, give me the address, my angel.… Well, where else, eh? Nothing but the poshest accommodation for those gents. But sadly, another dead end. No, I think we can file them with the poodle fanciers and the Salvation Army! Not much interest to us.… We’re looking out for do-badders, not do-gooders. Ah, well.… Thanks, love. Look, keep that list to hand, will you? And especially that gen on the continental art movies. Most interesting, that. Look, keep all this to yourself, will you? There’s a good girl! And stand by. I may need to consult you again.”

  He took his leave and replaced the receiver, puzzled and grave. “Stout lass, Mabel, but a bit of a chatterbox. Seemed best to rake over the trail, sir. Send her down the wrong rabbit hole. That last bit of info may give you something to chew over.” He held out his pad and showed the last entry to Joe.

  Joe read, swallowed, and looked back at Martin. “Oh, my God!” he whispered. “I think the Yard’s found the bloody light switch!”

  “And I don’t much like what it’s illuminating, Commissioner.” Martin got to his feet in alarm. “I’ll tell you straight where I stand! Me, I’d have shut the buggers down years ago!” He held up a hand to deflect argument or criticism. “There’s not many would agree with me, I know. An unfashionable point of view … not modern … not smart … and perhaps I’m talking to someone who knows better?”

  He waited for, but did not seem to be surprised to receive, a denying shake of the head from Joe.

  “This lot.…” the inspector hesitated to use the name he’d written in his book.

  “Let’s call them the ‘ginger-with-a-g’ group, shall we?”

  “… go all the way to the top. Untouchable. Society’s darlings. If you go poking a stick into this select anthill, you know who’ll come buzzing out? Churchill, H. G. Wells, George Bernard Shaw, Marie Stopes, a Huxley, a bishop or two, a royal or three, practically all the scientific establishment, the Times leader writer, and a dozen peers of the realm. Up? Down? North? South? Where the hell do you go with this?”

  The inspector gave a cheerless laugh. “Sandilands DSO v. Britannia Inc. If I were you, I’d put on a false moustache and a tin hat and beat it to the Riviera before they can train their big guns on you.”

  “Too late for that,” Joe said. “I’ve heard the creak of the ranging handle. But don’t be concerned, Martin. A bit of fancy footwork will keep me out of their crosshairs.”

  Martin looked at him pityingly. “Those were probably old Rapson’s last words.”

  “Rapson didn’t have a clear conscience plus a small army of policemen working to save his skin. I can start by getting a full list of members. Then we know who we’re dealing with. Special Branch will have one. How many of them do you suppose there are, Martin? Not just the Southeastern Chapter-over the country as a whole?”

  “Fewer than a thousand, probably. Two hundred of those south of the Thames? It’s hardly the Women’s Institute. They’re choosy about who they take on the books, but they don’t hide from public view.”

  “No. They rather flaunt themselves-call themselves an ‘Education Society,’ if you please! Still, if they’re in the open, it’ll make our enquiry a bit easier.”

  Martin grimaced. “It’s their best defence-their public image, their well-known names. Look, tell me, sir, if you had any sort of a case against a … what shall I call it? A conspiracy? A cabal? A ring of murdering excuses for humanity? Where would you ever find evidence for it? I say ‘you’ not ‘we’ because this is way out of my league.”

  “But not your county, Martin. You are the man with the handcuffs. The comfortless answer to your question is: We find our evidence in a hospital graveyard under unmarked stones, as like as not,” said Joe dully.

  “Better book the dogs, then,” said Martin.

  CHAPTER 21

  Joe had asked to see Jackie Drummond in the morning break. Rather than meet him in Rapson’s study, with its bad memories, he elected to walk with him along the corridor to Matron’s office, where he’d arranged for Dorcas to be waiting. Matron was on duty in the tuck shop and not likely to return for half an hour.

  The boy seemed perfectly calm and pleased to see them again but, by his slight reticence, Joe recognised that the school was drawing him back again into its routine and ethos.

  “Uncle Joe! Dorcas!” he said cheerfully. “I hope you had a good night at The Bells? Mummy and Daddy didn’t care for it much.”

  “Now you tell us! Not wonderful, I agree. Though Dorcas had gold taps in her bathroom. And I did enjoy an early-morning swim in their pool.”

  Greetings over, Joe told him that the local inspector was certainly not looking for Jackie in connection with the killing.

  “No, it didn’t seem like he was when he interviewed me yesterday, sir.”

  “Martin interviewed you? Without me being present? Or Dorcas?”

  “It was more like a chaps’ chat, sir. I told him everything, just as you said I ought, and he said thank you very much, my uncle must be proud of me, and I was at liberty to go. I’m at liberty, Uncle Joe!” He savoured the words. “Glad that’s all over!”

  “Yes, so am I, Jackie.” He managed to avoid catching Dorcas’s eye. “And I am proud of you, my boy! I wish we’d known each other earlier. So much to talk about. But the first thing is-what are we going to do with you now? Your mother will be here in three weeks’ time, and of course she will decide what’s best for you. I have some ideas myself, and I shall put them before her. But you, Jackie, tell me what you’re minded to do with yourself.”

  Jackie looked down at his feet. “Honestly, sir, it’s not as bad as I thought it might be. The other boys haven’t ragged me. Not one bit. The dorm prefect, that’s Lloyd 2, moved me up next to him and told the others I was a toff who’d stood up to Rapson, and he’d got no more than he deserved. Not really sure what a ‘toff’ is, but I think it’s not a bad thing to be. Funny though. Didn’t think I would, but I rather miss Spielman. I’d have liked to tell him what I’d been up to. He’d have made a story of it. I suppose that must have made him my friend, do you think? Can you have a friend and not know it?’ ”

  To Joe’s alarm, Jackie’s voice quavered and his lips began to tremble. With a small cry of compassion, Dorcas dashed forwards, put her arms about him and hugged him close. Jackie didn’t seem to object. Without releasing him, she whispered in his ear, “Of course you can! A story takes two-one to tell it and one to listen. A pair. He was thrilled when you gave him Treasure Island, and he’ll always keep it-with your name and now his on the inside page. That’s a good link. When people ask, he’ll say, ‘Drummond? Oh, Drummond! My first friend. Remember him well! Tell you a story about him!’ Spielman thought of you as his friend. It’s just taken you a bit longer to catch on, clot! Remember him, Jackie, and what it felt like to know someone you’d smack a bully in the watch chain to protect, and go out and make another one. You can start with Lloyd 2-he sounds a discerning lad.”

  After what Joe judged to be a ridiculously long hug, Jackie finally broke away, grinned, and announced, “In that case I think I should like to stay on here at St. Magnus. Just as long as Rappo’s not coming back to get me. It’s a lot better with Mr. Gosling in charge of us. He never whacks!”

  Arrangements in place, Jackie dashed off to play indoor hockey, leaving Joe and Dorcas staring at each other.

  “Now what was all that about? Was it wise, all that spoiling? Not a good idea for a boy to get dependent on female attention in a place like this.”

  “What do you know? Jackie’s from a loving family who show their affection readily. He’s used to being grabbed and hugged. And it’s more than a good idea, it’s essential! It’s a crime against nature to send little squirts like that away from their mothers!”

  “He’s nearly ten, Dorcas. A lad that age revels i
n the company of his fellows. The pack instinct, don’t you know. If he’d been born a Spartan, he’d have killed his first man by now.”

  “Look, Joe, I’ve been involved with … witnessed … some pretty groundbreaking experiments. I shouldn’t be telling you because it’s very hush-hush, and the piracy that goes on in the experimental psychology world you wouldn’t believe!”

  Joe was alarmed. This was out of character for Dorcas. She loved to gossip, but she was never indiscreet. She had her own secrets and knew how to keep those of others. But he sensed in her an excitement, the troubled excitement of someone who has something unpleasant to convey. He listened.

  “Monkeys are the nearest living relative of Man’s-thanks to Darwin everyone knows that. I looked in on some work being done in the laboratory with baby monkeys, work designed to find out what are the essentials in the normal development of human infants, whom they much resemble. Fascinating stuff! Food and physical closeness quite simply are the two most vital things and the greater of these is physical closeness. Hugs, Joe! A monkey infant will forego food in favour of a hug. If you deprive it of its mother, it will seek its comfort from an inanimate piece of fur-or even a bit of old cloth-in preference to food when it’s made to choose. They’re very like humans in their responses.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Given a choice between Hector the Horse and a sticky bun, I’d have gone for the bun every time.” Joe thought he’d keep it light. He was not comfortable with the direction of this conversation.

  Dorcas sighed in exasperation. “Can’t you be serious?”

  “Very well. ‘Made to choose,’ you say? I’m not sure I want to contemplate the method by which they made their infernal discoveries. Or why anyone thought it necessary to bother.”