He turned to give an order to the sergeant. “Go with Miss Joliffe, she knows the way. But don’t let her near the thugs—she’d do them irreparable damage. Pick up four lusty blokes to accompany you and two pairs of cuffs. Leave one officer with me, will you?”
Left alone with Sandilands, Gosling and one policeman, Bentink maintained a truculent silence. Not overly concerned. Joe decided to annoy him. “Constable, I think we’ll take the precaution of cuffing this one as well. He won’t outrun us, but the waiting pressmen will expect it. They’ve screwed in their flashbulbs, and they’re ready for a show.”
At this, Bentink raised a terrible face suffused with rage and hatred. Joe prepared to weather a frenzied outburst. But the voice, when it came, was controlled. He spoke with quiet force: “For the last time, I tell you, Sandilands: I have had nothing to do with your missing boys. I beg you to use your skills and resources to establish that. I am not a common criminal. Do you imagine I would involve myself with the offspring of Englishmen of quality? Men of breeding and background? Men of value to society like you, like me? Look elsewhere. And do it quickly before the world discovers what a fool you are.”
Joe reminded himself that the monster Caliban had at times spoken the most persuasive verse, conjuring up sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.
He stopped his ears and held out the handcuffs.
“RING, SIR?” GOSLING muttered to Joe as they accompanied Bentink out into the sunlight. “What was all that about? He had one on this morning, but I can’t say I noticed one on the film.”
“I could have sworn I saw one,” Joe said vaguely. “Ah, well—he seemed to think we did.”
CHAPTER 29
With two recent burials revealed already in the old cemetery, one or two incriminating pieces of evidence taken away in bags from the incinerator, and the remainder of the film cases in the capable hands of the Sussex force, Joe decided they could beat a retreat. Superintendent Crawshaw was too energetically busy, too preoccupied with his plethora of evidence to argue when they said they were leaving. Joe realised that, despite his London input, this had become a local case. The children were, as the sergeant had heartily said, ‘on our patch.’ They would be avenged.
The others? The lost boys? Joe feared they would never be recovered. Apart of course from poor Spielman, who was still in transit. Joe was looking forwards to discovering what Martin had achieved with his crowbar and his pathologist. The inspector’s swift actions would be noted by the top brass and Joe, for one, would not be surprised to be addressing the Sussex man as Superintendent Martin before the year was out. The bills of lading and the death certificate he probably had right now in his hands would hammer the last nail in Bentink’s coffin.
Unless the shadowy government agencies could come up with some Houdini-like escape trick at the last moment. Joe was a realist and determined always that the last person to be deceived would be himself. His career was hanging by a thread. He knew he’d vastly overinterpreted his instructions. “Creep about,” he’d been told. “Watch and discover. Report back.” No one had authorised him to go about insulting and slapping cuffs on one of the most influential men in the land. “The husband of the sister of the next prime minister but one,” sounded laughable, but Joe understood how that world worked. Ramsay MacDonald, son of a Scottish parlour maid, might well be prime minister, but the reins of real power were in other, more ruthless hands. Hands that would not falter when it came to signing Joe’s dismissal document.
He looked at the cheerful faces of his two young companions. Unaware, self-congratulatory, happy with their achievement. They had no idea.
But they were right in their innocent beliefs. The police force was the servant of the state and its countrymen. The Sussex bobbies had seen that clearly. “They’re our gypsies.” Any soul living within their jurisdiction had an unquestioned right to life and liberty. The Force did not exist to protect the interests of individual members of the government, and he would maintain that to the last.
But, at least, with the source of the euthanasian-eugenic organisation—Joe stopped himself and mentally substituted murdering machine—cut off at its source, he felt Gosling would be able to confirm Alicia Peterkin’s fears at last. She could pray for her boy without the hobble of unfounded hope. And there would be no more disappearances. There just remained Farman to be dealt with. Joe was looking forwards to sinking his boat.
The glorious weather, if not reflecting, at least improved their mood. Sunlight sparkled on the remaining flashes of snow, and the earth, thankful for the soaking, was greening over. Snowdrops gallantly shrugged off the drifts and stood to attention, promising an early spring.
“At the risk of being accused of—what was it? Something in German for pecking grass?—may I point out,” Gosling said as they sped along, “that we’re passing very close to the Prince Albert? As it was that good old bird—Chadwick?—who set us off on this trail and put Bentink in the bag, what about calling in for a cup of tea and saying thank you? We needn’t divulge much. I don’t think it would be necessary. I’d say he was very clued up—in everything but his crossword, of course. And it’s always nice to know you’ve been helpful.”
“It would be the polite thing to do,” Joe agreed.
“I’d like to see Francis Crabbe again,” said Dorcas.
And Francis Crabbe, when they pulled up at the asylum ten minutes later, was pleased to see Dorcas.
Out came the hand from under the grey cloak, and he flung back his hood to reveal a lined and lean but handsome face, marred by a very amateur short haircut. A face Joe remembered seeing a thousand times in the trenches. A face under duress but determinedly happy. A face he’d have chosen himself without a second thought to be his lieutenant.
“You came back!” Francis exclaimed. “Glad you did!” And, surprisingly: “Good timing! Chadwick’s not at home. He’s gone off to visit his old dad in Brighton, this being a Sunday afternoon. It’s what he always does. But I know he’d want to give you a cup of tea. Come in. Come in!”
Francis dismissed his accompanying crew. “No, lads, you can go straight into the hall, now. I’ll stay alert.”
He turned to his guests. “It’s the Sunday knees-up. Can’t work on a Sabbath, so we might as well play, the boss says. Talent show. Music Hall Memories, sing-along, that sort of stuff. Most remember the songs they knew before they came here, and we have a gramophone to learn the words from. It’s the best bit of the week. Crikey, can you hear them!”
They could indeed hear many voices raised in song as they passed the great hall. Gosling and Dorcas came to a standstill, bright eyed, singing along with an old Victorian music-hall song:
Father’s got the sack from the waterworks
For smoking of his old cherry-briar;
Father’s got the sack from the waterworks
They belted out the punch-line along with the full-throated roar from the congregation:
’Cos he might set the waterworks on fire!
Francis turned to Joe, and Joe was touched to see the man had a tear in his eye. “Did Kipling ever write anything so English? Dickens? Naw! It took some unknown Londoner to do it, and he did it in one line.”
“You’re right. It’s perfection. Says it all, really. It says why we pass our laws and why we choose to obey them or laugh them out of court. It’s what we fight for,” Joe said quietly.
“And why we win,” Francis nodded. “Now, that cup of tea?” He led them on, humming to himself.
Settled in the superintendent’s parlour, they chatted politely to Francis, who was warming his backside in a proprietorial way before the fire, until the tea he’d rung for appeared on a tray in the hands of one of the inmates. She served them, bobbed to Francis, and withdrew without raising an eyebrow.
“So Chadwick’s visiting his father, you say. A doctor also, I understand? He must be getting on a bit, the old feller?” Joe asked while the tea was being poured.
“Over eighty. He was s
uperintendent here before the present Chadwick. Ruled with a rod of iron, the old man did. Ran a tight ship.”
“Tell me, Francis: If this enterprise were a ship, what would be your role on it?”
“Chief engineer. I don’t set the course, but I keep it running.”
The easy conversation came to a halt when they’d been allowed their second sip of tea. The bald question came out of the blue.
“Sir, do you think I’m mad?”
Joe answered. “I’d say you are one of the sanest men I’ve ever met. But then I’ve never seen you drunk on a Saturday night. I might change my mind.”
“Mmm.… The boss says any man who says he feels like a tree or looks like a tree is sane and probably just a bad poet. Any man who says he is a tree is mad. So I’m wary about saying outright that … I am sane. It’s all relative anyway to the subject and the man investigating him. There are degrees of insanity as there are degrees of physical illness. I make something of a study of them. Well placed, you might say. I was the village schoolmaster and an anti-war firebrand before I decided to save the world from a blood-crazed establishment.”
Francis hesitated, then took courage and spoke firmly: “The maddest man in this whole institution is Chadwick. The superintendent. The only difference between him and the inmates is that he has the key. I know it’s an old joke. This is the one time it’s true.”
Joe broke in. “Francis, listen. We’re not government inspectors. We’re not qualified to even hold up our end in a conversation about psychology or psychiatry or mental illness, let alone give an opinion on a specific case.”
Francis said urgently, “But the lady is!” He turned appealing eyes on Dorcas, and his words came in short bursts. “You told me … when you came … that you studied … psychology. I thought you’d at least listen. None of the other toffee-nosed old hens who visit could give a monkey’s, but you—”
Dorcas took the slopping tea cup from his hand and placed it carefully in the saucer. She kept hold of the hand. “I am listening, Francis. If our conversation is over their heads, these two noodles can just go back to the hall and join in the singsong.”
“No! No! He’s a policeman, isn’t he—the big one? I need him to listen. It’s not about me, miss! I don’t count for anything. I’m not trying to talk myself out of here. It’s the children! No one will ever hear me out when I try to tell them about the children. ‘He’s raving,’ they say and report me to Chadwick. Then I get a beating and lose privileges for a month.”
Joe put down his cup and said carefully: “Go on, Francis. We’re all listening to you.”
“It’s always after dark. They arrive. The Specials. Not like the ordinary admissions. They’re taken up to the you-know-where, and they don’t come out alive. Whatever they do—him and his gorillas—it’s quick at least. I think it’s electricity, but they have bottles of stuff up there as well.”
Joe could hardly breathe. He caught Gosling’s shocked face. He was aware of an urgency in Francis Crabbe, whose eyes went constantly to the mantel clock, and he forced himself to question swiftly, “How frequent, Francis—these arrivals?”
“Irregular. Once or twice a year. One year it was three times. I’ve written them all down in a book. He’s no idea I have it.”
“Good Lord!” Joe said faintly. “Can we get into this room?”
“No. He’s got the key.”
“But Francis, you mentioned it when we came last time, said it was open to view and did we want to take a look,” Dorcas said.
“I wanted you to ask to see it! Make trouble for him. I always have a try when there’s a woman in the inspection group.”
“Why does he keep you on, Francis, thorn under his saddle that you are?” Gosling asked gently.
“He needs me to run the place. I keep the lid on and the wheels oiled. I try to see justice is done in a place that is outside the realms of justice. I protect the inmates from him and I protect him from the inmates. Rome survived its mad emperors, but it wouldn’t have got far without its tribunes of the people. I’ve made myself indispensable.”
“Well, as a policeman I could demand to view the premises,” said Joe. “We’ll wait. But we’ll need more evidence of wrongdoing.” Joe was thinking aloud, still stunned by Crabbe’s revelation. His mind was running on the likelihood that all physical traces of those passing through would have been destroyed with oiled efficiency. The room would have been cleaned and belongings incinerated.
“Proof? I’ve got proof!” Francis was suddenly gleeful. He looked at the clock again. “Not much time. He’ll be back early today—he’s gone in the fast car.”
“Remind me, Francis, what kind of car does your boss drive?”
“He’s taken the Talbot today, sir. It’s a big grey one.”
“Do you know its number?”
“It’s a Sussex registration: BP4200,” he said impatiently.
Gosling shot a look at Joe, eyebrows raised in alarm. “Well run, little Harry,” he murmured.
“Look, you gentlemen stay here just in case. I’ll take the lady to the library. It’s just a few yards down the corridor.”
With a quick nod of reassurance for Joe, Dorcas got up, patted her satchel, and set off with her guide.
“HERE YOU ARE, miss.”
Francis ushered her into an empty room. It was evidently well used. Tables and chairs were available for the browsers, even a couple of armchairs. The walls were lined with full bookshelves, and there were further piles on a table under the window. Dorcas reminded herself that this establishment was the size of a large village and she might expect to find a facility of commensurate size. One wall that caught her attention was devoted to books suitable for children to read, many of them ABCs and nursery rhymes.
“No, miss. It’s over here.” Francis made off to the far wall and began to search in the adult section under the letter S. “If you want to hide something, hide it in plain sight. That’s not bad advice. And there’s nowhere much you can hide something in a place like this.”
He ran an eye along the row and tugged on the spine of a book until it was protruding an inch beyond the others. He stood back.
Dorcas peered more closely and uttered a soft cry. “I know this book,” she said. “And I know its two previous owners. Take it out, Francis, and open it up at the first page inside.”
Francis took Treasure Island down and did as Dorcas asked.
“There’s two names here. Jack Drummond—crossed out. And under that, Harald Spielman, miss.”
Hardly able to get the words out, Dorcas whispered, “How did you manage to get hold of it?”
“A lad arrived in daylight. Unusual that. Last week. He wasn’t fetched. He was dropped off by a Daimler. The chauffeur left him with me at the front door and buzzed off, cussing about the weather. The boy didn’t know what was going on. Thought he’d been taken to London, I think. Looking about him, impressed by the size of the building. He handed me this book because it was too big for his pocket. And he’d read it before, anyway. ‘You may have it, my good man,’ he told me. I put it away in the pocket of my cloak. I know a fine story when I see one. We can always use spare copies in the library. Then I saw the names. First time I’ve ever got hold of a name, miss.”
Francis was eager to leave. “Can you put it away? In your bag?”
“Of course.” Dorcas swung her satchel in front of her and undid the buckles. She held the flap up, and Francis Crabbe carefully turned the big book on its side to slide it in, spine first. She was alarmed to see his eye light up as he caught sight of the Smith & Wesson. The eye, she remembered, of a man sent here for misuse of a firearm. A countryman familiar with rifles and shotguns.
Francis caught her wariness and smiled. “Never realised psychology was such a dangerous pursuit, Miss Dorcas. Come on! Let’s get back.”
They were halfway back to the parlour when Dorcas remembered what Joe had told her. Something so essential she stopped and tugged Francis by his sleeve. “Wait
a minute. There’s another boy. I have to find him or find out what became of him.” And by a huge feat of memory she came up with a name: “Walter Weston, he’s called.”
Francis pursed his lips, unwilling, it seemed to reply. Then: “The blacksmith’s son, would that be? Local lad? Fair hair? Big lad for his age?”
“That’s the one. He went missing at the same time as Harald Spielman.”
Francis looked up and down the corridor and listened. “We may have time. Look, follow me and run if you can. What have you got on your feet?”
Dorcas lifted up a leg and showed him her low-heeled serviceable boot.
“They’ll do. It’s still a bit sticky in the graveyard.”
CHAPTER 30
Joe poked the fire. Gosling poured more tea and helped himself to a second slice of jam sponge.
The clock chimed the half hour.
The clock chimed the three quarter hour.
“That’s enough!” Joe snapped. “What kind of trusting idiots are we? To sit here and be made fools of by that maniac? He’s probably taken Dorcas hostage and forced his way out of the house. He’s got her into one of the boss’s stable of motor cars and they’re halfway to Brighton by now.”
“Calm down, sir,” Gosling advised. “You know the girl better than I do, I think, so you ought to know she just wouldn’t allow any such nonsense. All the same.…”
They raced to the door together.
“THERE’S THE OLD graveyard, miss.”
He pointed to a collection of ancient headstones leaning at drunken angles to each other, confidingly close, passing on gossip. Some stones were flat on the ground, some at the height of a low drawing room table.
“It’s a favourite place for the little girls to come and play. A safe place. They don’t understand the significance. They can get away from the adults here and the rougher lads. They use the tombstones to play house.”
Not My Blood Page 29