Not My Blood

by Barbara Cleverly

  The minister smiled at the group and the smile reached his dark eyes, sparking them with complicitous humour. An intelligent man, Joe knew that much. Details from his Special Branch record were coming swiftly to mind. Eton and Cambridge. Rowing blue. Stroke in a winning pre-war Boat Race eight. Scientific and philanthropic family background. Wealthy. And—a progressive.

  The best England had to offer had dashed out in tweeds on a chill morning to attend a meeting with him. Why?

  Joe swallowed. “I’m honoured to meet you, sir,” he managed and resumed his seat.

  “The honour is all ours, Sandilands, if we’re to believe what we hear.” The minister stopped short and looked at him expectantly. All eyes turned on Joe.

  So, there it was: The first exploratory ball had been bowled. The crowd was waiting to see how he dispatched it.

  “Honoured, sir,” Joe repeated, “but puzzled! My message to Cottingham was simplicity itself, I had thought.”

  Ralph Cottingham looked down and examined his cuff-links.

  “What’s been going on? Shall I tell you what I think’s been going on?”

  The concentrated attention of his audience fed the performer in Joe. He decided to go for a boundary shot. He leaned forwards and caught each questioning face in a conspiratorial glance. “You’ve all been playing the Telephone Game!” His tone was one of playful accusation. “Or ‘Chinese Whispers’ as we used to call it in the trenches. I ring Cottingham at six this morning with a swift plea for access to certain files: Arrange for an expert to be on hand. It passes down the line and comes out at ten as: A range of four experts and a brass band.”

  It was Trenchard, notorious for his lack of humour, who gave a snort of laughter. The rest eyed each other uncertainly. Shoulders still shaking with amusement, the Commissioner took up the tale. “Rest assured, Sandilands, there’s nothing wrong with Cottingham’s ears or the brain between them. It was I who intercepted your message and took the matter out of his hands. Your request hoisted a signal, d’you see? Or do I mean, sprang a trap? It was Cottingham who, questing about, unwittingly got his fingers chopped off. Anyhow, the name of this school you’re interested in—St. Magnus—its file is stickered.” He sat back, content with his announcement.

  The questioning lift of eyebrows directed at him by Cottingham encouraged Joe to ask: “Stickered, sir?”

  “That’s what I said. A purple sticker. Anyone enquiring would be finding himself looked at carefully. It signifies that the contents are currently of interest at the highest level. MI5 would designate such material ‘Top Secret’ in their dramatic way. In fact—there’s not much to catch the attention in there. The interest lies in who precisely wishes to avail himself of it. What a surprise to find we’ve caught two of our own with sticky fingers—the Assistant Commissioner and his assistant!”

  “May I ask, sir, at whose request the file was stickered? By the department itself?”

  “No. As a matter of fact, by Military Intelligence initially.” Truelove admitted this reluctantly and added swiftly, “Though they had the sense to realise it had little to do with military or state security. Just for once, they agreed to pass it on to the Met.”

  Trenchard stepped in to clear up Joe’s evident mystification. “Your predecessor it was, Sandilands, who picked this up and decided there was nothing to it. Rumours passing between armchairs in clubs … yarning over the whisky … hysterical women demanding favours—you know the sort of thing.”

  Joe frowned and waited for more clarity. It was his experience that if you left a puzzled silence the commissioner often obligingly filled it.

  Trenchard went on: “Upshot was—the Met had the file marked. With much grumbling from the Education Department, if I remember correctly, hey, what, Anderson?”

  The education man winced and smiled politely. He directed a glance full of meaning at Joe and sighed. Joe did not respond. He might disagree with his boss occasionally, but he would always support him in public. “You resisted an application, minister?” he asked. “I’m wondering why?”

  Put on the spot, Anderson shrugged. “Nothing whatsoever in the allegations. St. Magnus is an excellent educational establishment. Its boys go on to the very best public schools and then on to Oxford or Cambridge as like as not. I ought to declare an interest—I was a boy myself there. My own sons have been pupils and speak highly of it. Malicious gossip—no more than that. But—harmful, I agree. And, no doubt, a stop must be put to it.”

  Commissioner Trenchard waited for the exchanges to be over, then allowed himself an acid smile and continued as though oblivious of the interruption. “But, ironically, the poor blighter to whom I was about to assign the investigation of this ants’ nest is your good self anyway, Sandilands. And you won’t thank me! So. You might say this business has been short-circuited by your convenient personal interest. I hope I make myself clear?”

  Sir James Truelove assumed that this was anything but clear and added helpfully: “It’s all working out rather well, sure you’ll agree? Sensitive issue. Concerned parents who have the ear of the top level of government, and who have my ear, need elucidation and reassurance. Needs careful handling. We’re sending you down there to infiltrate the suspicious area—as our Trojan Horse. A wonderfully crafted and entirely convincing interloper! They’ll drag you in and form a line to tell you all, you’ll find. But first, you’ll have to be briefed … you’ll need to know the truth … the reason why this school has come to our attention. I warn you—you may find what we have to reveal, in view of your close familial association with one of its boys, er.…” He hesitated and, sending a propitiating glance towards Dorothy Peto, the one female presence in the room, finished limply, “somewhat disquieting.”

  “Is that what you’d say, Sir James?” Miss Peto fixed him with a quizzical smile. “I’d call it damned alarming!”

  AS HE STOOD on the pavement squinting through the snow to spot a taxi, a hand grasped his elbow. Joe turned to find the education minister standing beside him. With an effort he remembered the man’s quite ordinary name: Aidan Anderson.

  “We’ll share a taxi if we can catch one of the blighters out and about,” the minister said. “Ah! Here we are!” He stepped boldly into the road, umbrella extended, fingers to mouth, uttering a peremptory whistle. The taxi skidded to a halt. “Chelsea, cabby,” Anderson said.

  “Are we going in the same direction?” Joe asked.

  “No. You’re going west. I’ll drop you off and return to my club in St. Jameses. Well, I thought, as briefings go, Sandilands, that’s exactly what we were handed. Unsatisfactory amounts of information. Unfair that you should be caught up in what is no more than a personal struggle for power and notoriety. I thought I’d tell you.”

  Joe looked with greater attention at the austere features as the man settled back in the cab. A cadaverous, academic face echoed the long, spare limbs. Large nose, large feet, large hands, Joe noted. A man a good bit older than himself, he calculated. With—what had he said?—two sons having passed through St. Magnus, he must be approaching fifty and Joe wondered, as he automatically did, what Anderson had done in the war.

  “I have the advantage of you, Sandilands,” he confided with a tight smile. “I’ve seen your file. Splendid. Quite splendid! Complete misuse of your time—that’s what we’re looking at. They’re loading up a Holland & Holland to shoot a squirrel! But you know nothing of me. Briefly: Oxford man, Cavalry, wartime Military Intelligence turned politician. If you can be bothered to ask about they’ll tell you—a fanatic about education. And I won’t deny it. I can think of no more urgent cause. It is the duty of our country to produce a generation of scientists and thinkers. The only way we shall uphold our position in the world to come.”

  Joe thought uneasily that he could only wait for the revelation that was undoubtedly hovering in the air. Into the space he had been left for comment, he muttered disjointed phrases including the words: “Patriot? Of course. Aren’t we all? See what you mean.… Cause for conc
ern.…”

  “I thought as much. I thought I recognised a man who would put his country before the personal aspirations of a single renegade.”

  Joe guessed he was talking of Truelove and waited for more.

  “Truelove! Minister for Reform? Minister for Mischief, more like! The man’s eyes gleam with naked ambition—did you see it? He’s a man who’ll use anything and anybody to further his own career. He doesn’t care much whose reputation he smirches in his climb to the top. He’s using this new free-wheeling post of his to snatch at and absorb areas of interest that should rightly be the preserve of other departments. Education, as you’ve just seen demonstrated, is one. Watch out—he may next have his sights on law and order. Indeed, I know that he has.”

  “One small prep school on the southern coast of the country would seem to be a very small target, Anderson. I can’t see how a scandal there might advance his assault on the premiership,” Joe said bluntly.

  “Truelove wants to make his mark with a root and branch reform of the English school system, both fee-paying and state establishments, and—am I being fanciful here?—I’m guessing that if he can hold up one rotten apple as an example it will justify his case. He’s obviously not going to take on—say—Rugby or Eton, but a tiddler amongst schools, a small country prep school—that’s a much more likely candidate. This man has a nose for publicity. He frequently stoops to manipulating the press. He has the barons in the palm of his hand already.”

  “What headlines are you imagining in the Daily Mirror if his plans come to fruition?”

  “Oh, something on the lines of: Murder and corruption rife in English schools. Are our children safe? The article worded so as to make tongues wag and voices call out demanding to know how widespread the problem is. The next thing will be an impassioned speech to Parliament. Truelove is an inspired orator. He’ll make use of any scandal you can uncover to fuel public outrage. To put out a fire in a heroic way, Sandilands, you first have to start your fire. He’s set it, I do believe, and you are being sent in to locate the blue touch paper and put a match to it for him. Mind you don’t get your fingers burnt.”

  WHEN JOE RETURNED at noon, he answered a bellow from Alfred’s room.

  “We’re all in here!”

  “Great Heavens! You’re throwing a party, Alfred?”

  The room was humming with heat and noise. Three small boys were scrambling about on their stomachs on the carpet, organising the railway. His sister Lydia, watching their antics, rolled her eyes at Joe from over their heads, conveying acute boredom.

  “If you wouldn’t mind stepping into the hall, sir?”

  Puzzled, Joe followed him.

  “Seemed the safest way—keeping them all together under my eye. Your Jackie.…” He grinned. “… or ‘Andy,’ as we’re calling him for the duration, is getting on well with my two. I popped a pinny on him, seeing as he was a bit lacking in the clothes department like. And they can get a bit mucky rolling about on the rug. Hard to tell one from t’other. Peas in a pod. But you were right to be concerned, sir. Someone did try to get at your sister—or your lad.”

  Joe stiffened. “I see that all’s well but—Alfred—who? How?”

  “No idea. I thought I’d better keep hold of him for you to take a look at.”

  Jenkins took a small fuse from his pocket and said carefully: “Sudden power failure. Poor young gentleman got himself trapped in the lift. Right between floors 2 and 3. I’ll have to call the engineers back again. Unless I can fix it myself. You never know.”

  “What! He’s still up there? In the lift?”

  “Yes. Top half on your floor and available for interview, you’ll find. You can go up and talk to him through the safety bars.”

  “Ah! He’s talking is he?”

  “Hardly. Cussing a lot. Must say I can’t get much sense out of him. Though Miss Lydia did manage to get the package off him. Just asked him nicely to pass it through to her when she handed him a cup of coffee. That was before he began to get suspicious, and he didn’t quibble. I don’t think Miss Lydia’s twigged yet. Thought I’d better leave it to you to explain. Anyway, I’ve told the feller we’ve been having problems with the lift. Not sure he believes me. Not sure I believe him if it comes to that. He’s no Derry and Tom’s boy.”

  “What makes you so certain of that, Alfred?”

  “Didn’t know the name of his department head. Doesn’t know a Partridge from a Peacock apparently. And he tried to tell me the package was for someone name of Sandilands. You’d told me it was for Mrs. Dunsford. It wasn’t much, but enough of a discrepancy to sound the alarm for me. You never lose that ear for a wrong note even when it’s coming from a smiling face. He could have waylaid the genuine delivery boy on the doorstep, offered to carry it in.… It’s an old trick. Anyway, I thought he’d better be detained for your inspection.”

  Joe grinned. “A good thought. And a good maneuver. If our chap proves to be who he claims to be—and of a mind to sue for unlawful detention—we can offer our sincere apologies, along with a lot of convincing guff about lift mechanisms. Your contraption has got previous, after all, Alfred. I’ll go and have a chat with him. But first, a phone call to the Yard, I think!”

  “MY DEAR CHAP! How can I apologise?” Joe sank to his knees on a level with a sullen face. “Damn lift! It caught me last week. I was stuck for twenty minutes. Let me assure you we’re doing all we can. Engineer fighting his way through the snow as we speak. I can report that the municipal ploughs and gritters are out on the highways and doing a dashed good job. Won’t be long now! Can I pass you a drink through the bars? Oh, I see my sister’s already obliged.… Banana then?”

  A growl and a furious shaking of the grille gripped between large fists betrayed contempt for Joe’s levity. The narrowed eyes directed a violent rage at him, but Joe detected something more—perhaps also a fear amounting, he guessed, or desperation barely under control. It was more than an attack of—what had Lydia called this unreasonable fear of lifts? Claustrophobia? Vertigo? Joe didn’t think a ticking off from Mr. Partridge was the consequence exercising the prisoner’s mind. The man had a feral aura, giving off a sense of danger caged, the whiff of a wolf at bay. Joe was, for a moment, glad of the protection of the creaking metal barrier between them.

  He decided to take the tension down a peg. “Hang on, old man! We’ve rung your store to tell them you’ll be delayed. But—wouldn’t you know it!—they haven’t missed you yet. Look, I’m afraid I have to go now.” Joe got to his feet and dusted off his knees. “I shall have to leave you in suspense, hey, what! I’m taking my family away for a week. Weather permitting, of course. Best of luck!”

  “Not known to me,” Joe commented to Jenkins. “Nasty piece of work, I’d say. Well kitted out, did you notice? Good silk tie, expensive fedora. Nothing showy—but good. I couldn’t detect a hidden weapon. Though you can hide a knife easily enough under good tailoring. Even a gun. Well-muscled type too. I wouldn’t like to try conclusions with him.”

  “Wonder what he was after in your flat, sir?”

  Joe shrugged. “I think you know. Something that wasn’t there yesterday morning. The boy. But why? No idea, Alfred! We’ll leave him where he is for a bit. I’ve summoned the two best shadows we have at the Yard. When they’ve checked in and got themselves in position you can put the fuse back in and let him loose. I’d like to know where he goes and whom he contacts. I’ll ask the boys to let him run and get what they can from surveillance before he goes to ground and—if they can judge the moment—jump on him!”

  “Frog march him to the Yard on some pretext,” Jenkins said with satisfaction. “I’m sure they’ll find he’s tied his shoelaces the wrong way. Leave it to me, sir. Your luggage is by the door ready for off. I’ll give you a hand while Miss Lydia gets your nephew into his new uniform. She says she’s packed what you need.” He smiled. “And a fair bit more, I’d say. I put the lad’s fancy bag on top of the pile.”

  Joe was struggling to push the l
ast of the suitcases into the back of the car when a passing businessman in dark overcoat and bowler stopped to lend a hand then went on his way. Joe barely caught the “Reporting for duty, sir,” as they bent together over the back seat. A discreet glance around gave him no sight of a second presence in the eerily deserted street. Overcast skies, chilly wind. The few pedestrians braving the weather were hurrying, heads down, through the snow, their outlines blurred by overcoats, mufflers and umbrellas. Perfect stalking weather. Joe felt for a moment an ancient stab of excitement, the hot impulse to pursue his quarry on his own two feet.

  He wouldn’t keep his men hanging about. He hurried back inside and herded Lydia and Jack into the car, murmuring goodbyes to his landlord and a casual, “Well, there we are at last. Thanks for your help, Alfred. All arrangements in place, I think.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “He’s fallen asleep, Joe,” Lydia reported as they chugged their way through the last of the London suburbs. “Thought he might. He went to bed very late last night and was up and about early, and then there was all the excitement of playing railways.”

  “To say nothing of the snug little nest you made up for him in the back there.”

  “Are you ever going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “If I knew myself I certainly would.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you gleaned nothing from your hastily arranged meeting at the Yard? I don’t believe you. Who did you manage to drum up to see you? Anyone available, or did you have to consult the tea-lady?”

  “Oh, there were people there. An Education minister, two private secretaries, Miss Peto, the Commissioner himself.… Will that do to be going on with?”

  “Big guns! But what was Miss Peto doing there?”

  “There’s a child involved. Waifs, strays, children and tarts—they all trigger a female presence. I was offered the flower of the Force to escort young Jackie back into the lions’ den. I turned down the offer for the time being since I have you on hand, Lyd. I’d rather handle this school with discretion and walking in escorted by a female policeman in full kit would not be the way to do it. A concerned family member—that’s fine. But all these characters played walk-on roles—the star of the show was the Secretary of State for Reform.”