Not My Blood

by Barbara Cleverly

  “In this weather?”

  “In any weather. They’re well wrapped up. Mrs. Dunne wouldn’t let them out otherwise. They’re enjoying the sunshine. See there!” Francis pointed. “They’re having a pretend tea party. We’ll have to interrupt their game.”

  Dorcas noticed he was still looking about him anxiously. His finger directed her towards a tombstone. Sitting on top of it were three little girls in bonnets and scarves, holding rag dolls and chattering happily.

  When they came face to face with the little group, one of them took off the bonnet, revealing a shock of short fair hair and a cross face. The child addressed Francis. “Have you brought Dr. Carter, sir? He said he’d come and see me today.”

  Astonished, Dorcas sank to her knees in front of the child. “Walter? Are you Walter?”

  “Yes, missis. An’ I want to see Dr. Carter and my Mum.”

  “He’s coming, lad. He’s coming. The doc always keeps his word.” Francis turned to Dorcas and led her a discreet distance away. “Walter, as you see, is a little boy who doesn’t at all mind playing with girls. They make something of a pet of him. He’s very gentle and,” he whispered, “not quite all there. He’s a regular admission,” Francis explained. “Signed for and supervised. His family doctor is his sponsor. Along with his mother. She signed the papers and forged the father’s signature. That was just a cross anyway. Verified by the doctor probably. Now he’ll be in trouble, I expect. I hope not. He’s a good bloke.”

  “Walter’s mother committed him? This little poppet?” Dorcas was aghast.

  “There were problems at home. The father is a big-fisted man with a short temper who feels duty-bound to toughen up his soft son. The household is going through straitened times, with the work drying up. Not so many horses about these days, and money’s short. Tensions in the family. Little Walter was bearing the brunt of all this. His mother feared for the boy’s life and took the drastic step of sending him away without his father’s knowledge. Chadwick was unwilling at first to take the boy under such circumstances. He’d done it before and got into trouble for it. I advised him otherwise on account of the good Dr. Carter has done us many a favour. And knows some of our secrets.

  “So here he is. I see to it that he’s having as happy a time as is possible in this place. Young Jessica here is trying to teach him to read. Walter’s a bit bewildered, but at least he’s alive. He’s not had the snip yet, they’ve—”

  Dorcas could not keep the horror out of her voice as she interrupted. “Snip? What do you mean, Francis?”

  He looked at her with the eyes of a clapped-out horse on its way to the knacker’s yard, pained and accepting. “It’s routine, Miss Joliffe. We’ve all had it. He says the state supports and encourages it. Can’t be doing with any hanky-panky leading to procreation of more idiots, can we? Too many of us already.”

  “But, Francis, it’s not legal! Every time they put forwards a bill, it’s defeated in Parliament.”

  Francis breathed in deeply and looked about him in despair. “How would we know? What could we do?” And, suddenly focussing his gaze: “Oh, my God!”

  His eyes, constantly sweeping the horizon, had suddenly fixed. His voice rapped out: “Children—quick march! Run and report to Mrs. Dunne. Now! Go!”

  The three picked up their dolls and fled.

  Picking his way towards them, two hundred yards distant, came the figure of Superintendent Chadwick.

  Dorcas shuffled close to Francis Crabbe. “Any use running for it? He’s between us and the car. And we couldn’t take off without Joe.”

  Francis grimaced. “I’ve nowhere to run anyway. What do you think he could do to harm you, posh folk that you are?”

  “It’s life and death, Francis. If he knows that we’ve found out about the killings, he’ll know that he’ll be swinging at a rope’s end within six months.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that. I’d like to see justice done, but he’s a clever man. Mad, as I’ve told you, and bad, as you’ve learned, but clever. Monomaniac like Napoleon. Running his own little kingdom. He enjoys having power of life and death over everyone. Here he comes, all smiles and a cosh—or is it a gun this time?—in his pocket. He’ll talk his way out of this. He’ll have made his plans. I know his mind. He’ll be planning a little motoring accident for you. ‘On these slippery roads, can one wonder? The young driver was clearly going too fast on that tight bend, that killer loop just outside Seaford,’ is what they’ll say. There’s no way out of this. Well … perhaps one.…”

  Advancing on them at a fast trot, one hand still in his right pocket, Dorcas noted, the menacing figure grew larger.

  JOE SEIZED A grey-cloaked figure, shook him, and shouted his demand. He released him on hearing the spluttering reply.

  “The graveyard! They’ve gone to the bloody graveyard!”

  They burst out of the front entrance to see Chadwick’s Talbot parked, engine still steaming, but no sign of the superintendent.

  “Bugger him,” said Joe. “Let’s find them! Graveyard—which way?”

  Turning the corner they caught sight, silhouetted against the declining sun, of Chadwick making at a fast pace towards the collection of headstones that marked the cemetery. As they watched, three small figures hitched up their skirts and ran from the scene. Chadwick forged on. He broke into a trot. Straight towards Dorcas and Francis Crabbe, who seemed, like frightened rabbits, to be huddling close for comfort and backing slowly away.

  Joe couldn’t hear the exchange of words as they hurled themselves across the squelching turf but his eyes, wide with horror, took in the scene that seemed to happen in slow motion in front of him.

  THE WORDS EXCHANGED were short and crude.

  “Judas!” yelled Chadwick, coming to a halt a few feet away.

  “Murdering swine!” Francis Crabbe shouted back, holding his ground. His voice was firm, even exultant, but the arm he passed protectively around Dorcas’s shoulder was trembling.

  The two men stood a few feet apart, raw emotion pulsing between them. A lifetime of unspoken words dammed up on each side, and there was no time to deliver them.

  “End of the road, Crabbe! And you have three others on your conscience now. They’ll have to go with you. If you’d kept your trap shut—but you never learned anything profitable in your useless life, did you?”

  “I learned this much!” screamed Francis. “From your Bible classes!” He held out a staying hand and thundered in a priestly voice: “ ‘I find then a law, that, when I would do good, evil is present with me.’ ”

  “I’ll put it on your tombstone,” Chadwick jeered. “An epitaph!”

  With a speed that took Dorcas by surprise, Francis plunged a hand into her satchel and came up with her gun.

  No warning, no bargaining. One shot. With a look of surprise, Chadwick buckled at the knees and slumped to the ground, a red hole between the staring eyes.

  Joe panted up with Gosling at his side. Gently he took the gun from Crabbe’s grasp and put the safety catch on. His next act was to seize a shivering Dorcas in a tight and wordless hug.

  Tactfully, Gosling went to check the body, which was lying collapsed backwards over a tombstone.

  “A bit slow on the draw.” With a toe he pushed a Browning revolver away from Chadwick’s hand. “He’s a goner, sir.”

  “Hit by a Smith and Wesson at point blank range, he would be,” Joe said, back in control again. “I don’t need to ask why, but I wish you’d left him for us to deal with, Crabbe.”

  “Couldn’t be certain he’d not get away with it. He always has. This was the only sure way. I’ve had mad fantasies about this for years, sir,” he admitted with a shaky grin. “Look at it this way—if I hadn’t shot, Miss Dorcas would have. I could feel her hands twitching. Right now she’d be in all kinds of bother. I’m not sure she’s the kind of lady who’d get over killing a man, even a monster like that. She might have had to stand trial. Wouldn’t want that. Anyway, I’m mad. Officially mad. What are they g
oing to do? Send me to a loony bin?”

  Francis Crabbe smiled a smile of pure reason.

  “Christ Almighty, Crabbe! I believe you’ve just set the waterworks on fire,” said Joe, admiring.

  CHAPTER 31

  They met for the last time in the equipment room, sitting at the table while whistling coppers cleared the place of documents and evidence boxes.

  Joe looked around him with the familiar blend of regret, anxiety and triumph that always accompanied the closing of a case. Anxiety was winning the struggle for his attention. He grimaced. “Tin hat and a one-way ticket to the Riviera, I think you suggested earlier, Martin? Advice we might need to take, all four of us.”

  “You’ve knocked the top off a beehive, Sandilands. And it’s you they’re all buzzing after. But I’ll tell you, if anyone needs watching it’s that professor we’ve got under lock and key in Tunbridge. I warn you, he’s got all sorts of mischief planned for you when we let him loose.”

  “Let him loose? Why would you do that?”

  “He seems confident he’ll get bail. Seems to think you’ll know why. Pity we couldn’t get him for the St. Magnus murders. I thought when the lid came off the Spielman coffin, we’d have it sewn up. Oh, it was all tickety-boo on the surface; death well documented and accounted for. All aboveboard. Nasty scene,” Martin confided. “Spielman blustering and claiming immunity, Madame Spielman shrieking and distraught. But—alerted—our doc confirmed suspicious death, signs of electrodes applied under the hair.”

  The inspector looked steadily across at Joe. “He’s a good bloke, that one. Came straight out and said if he hadn’t been warned to look for something a bit fishy, he’d have passed the body straight through. No question. Then we looked more carefully at the documents. And the bottom fell out of our theory. Two unknown medical signatures on the death certificate—both bona fide doctors used regularly by Chadwick. No, neither of ’em Dr. Carter. He’s well in the clear on the eugenics racket. And then we tracked the delivery van back to the Prince Albert.”

  He paused to puff his pipe into life. “That was a bad hour you put us through, commissioner. You were out there on the road. We were busting a gut to get hold of you and warn you. Leaving messages here there and everywhere. The school, The Bells, the RAC patrol boys. Ringing and ringing. But you’d disappeared … gone off the dial. Blimey, I’d have—” He glanced at Dorcas and censored the soldier’s phrase which had been on the tip of his tongue, “—been extremely concerned had I know you were driving straight into that snake pit!”

  “We were shitting bricks too, inspector,” Dorcas said.

  “So, you’re all off this afternoon, leaving me carrying the can?” Martin concluded with affected grumpiness.

  “Not all. Gosling’s staying on here for a bit.”

  “Liaising with the new headmaster when he gets here,” Gosling said. “Calming things down. Providing some continuity.”

  Martin expressed the hope that when the interviews took place, somebody would have the sense to check whether the applicant’s featured on the Eugenic Society list. He suggested a little blackballing might be advisable. “You know, Farman really thought we were making a silly fuss. Tried to make out he didn’t know he was sending those poor boys off to their deaths—they were just onward bound to further specialised treatment at the parents’ request. Huh! He’s got his lawyers quite convinced he’s been misunderstood! Deluded or what?”

  “Self-deluded,” Dorcas suggested. “The very best kind of liar. Like his Matron. She was just doing what the headmaster asked her to do, of course. Packing the boys’ trunks and waving them off.”

  “Matron aided and abetted, but I’m pretty sure she wasn’t privy to the hideous truth. Didn’t know because she didn’t ask. Well rewarded. Money closes more than mouths, it closes minds. She claims that, insofar as she had any thoughts at all, she reckoned all that discreet leaving by the back door after dark was designed to avoid any disturbance to the other boys.”

  Martin sighed. “Very persuasive lady. Runs rings round the men. She’ll move on unscathed. But not unchecked.”

  “From a London perspective, Farman has been quite useless when it comes to rolling up the conspiracy. They were too smart to give away names and contacts. He received his orders by telephone. Not always the same voice. And he, in turn, rang up the Prince Albert. Chadwick & Son, your friendly family undertaking business, established 1895. Purveyors of bespoke death through two generations.”

  “Christ! Why? Chadwick and Bentink—two butchers operating in my county? Why?” Inspector Martin’s outburst voiced everyone’s horror and disbelief. They listened in hope of enlightenment to a carefully delivered explanation by Dorcas, who was the only one prepared to take a shot at it, though Joe noted with understanding that her voice lacked its usual confidence.

  They nodded in agreement with her suggestion that eugenics was a two-sided coin. One side urged the improvement of the quality of the population by breeding selectively from worthy stock, which would appear to be Bentink’s philosophy, the other side urged and attempted to licence the removal of undesirable elements, preventing them from reproducing their faulty genetic makeup. An approach put into practice by Chadwick. The two faces, each unaware of the other, shone out from a freshly minted but utterly counterfeit coin.

  “Any chance these devils were working in concert, sir?” Martin asked.

  “No sign of it. I think they operated totally independently of each other, though it’s clear that at least Chadwick had some suspicion of what Bentink was up to. Both were members of the Eugenist Society through the generations. They were at least each aware of the other’s existence and, perhaps, proclivities. And what did our fine, idealistic Utopians do when push came to shove? Chadwick betrayed Bentink, just handed us his card. Simple as that. Distraction. Laying off the blame.”

  “And successfully,” Dorcas said. “We fell for it. Well, no. It was my fault. I was only too pleased to seize the chance to hurry you along to the St. Raphael clinic, which I had decided deserved an investigation.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” said Martin. “If ever a place needed a light shining on it, that one did! Bentink is now busy blaming everyone he can think of and calling in favours from the greatest in the land. Think on!” the Inspector warned. “With all the discretion that bloke has guaranteed over the years for god-knows-what delicate conditions amongst the high and mighty, some of them will be only too ready to hear his pleas. The embarrassing secrets he must hold in his files! These birds’ll go to a lot of trouble to squash a revelation of anything from syphilis to face lifts.”

  “Does this make us lose our faith in humanity?” Gosling wondered out loud.

  “Always,” said Joe. “If we have any humanity in us. But then I find, in most cases, there’s usually someone quite unexpected lurking ready to pick up the torch and shine it around. I’m thinking of Adam and Francis Crabbe. Men who know what’s right and go straight for it with no regard for their own safety and no thought of reward.”

  “Reward? Farman was rather partial to a bit of that. I’ve applied to get a look at his bank statements. Should be interesting,” Martin said. “The money trail? Did you get a line on that?”

  “The cheques came anonymously from a very reputable London bank, numbered account. I wouldn’t be surprised to find it was a holding account bulging with donations from a eugenic faction.”

  Joe thanked Martin for all that he’d done at the Sussex end of the operation. “On the bright side, we leave you well placed for promotion on the satisfactory outcome of all this, Martin. No, it was well done, and I shall say so!” he added seriously. “If anyone’s prepared to listen to that bungler Sandilands when I get back to the Yard.”

  Martin’s opinion was that the hardest part of the task awaited Joe back in London. “You’ll never get to the spider at the centre of all this. Contacts will be cut, doors will bang shut. The establishment will close ranks on you. Too many reputations at stake.”

&
nbsp; “My own as well,” Joe admitted.

  He sketched out his plans for further action on his return to London. The nine lost boys were lost no longer. Eight at least had been brought back into the light, and Joe was determined that they would be acknowledged. The parents who still remained would be confronted with whatever evidence he could get together. He realised it was too late for a lawful conclusion for most of these cases, whose trails had led to a cold gravestone at the best, but he would do what he could.

  This was not a task he could delegate to one of his superintendents. Any such enquiry would spread poison, invite recrimination, risk unbalancing the status quo. It was a course of action that would wreck a police career. It was for his shoulders alone.

  For the last time, Joe laid out the nine faces on the table top, and Martin, Dorcas and Gosling silently studied them.

  “Farewell ceremony, sir?” Martin asked.

  “Ave atque vale, I think Godwit would say. No sooner greeted than bidden farewell. But no longer lost,” Joe said. “Thanks to Hercules here.” He grinned at Gosling. “And thanks to Edwin Rapson. I’ve had some strange guides through my cases but never one as unlikely as Rapson: murder victim, rapist, blackmailer and would-be killer of his own flesh and blood! But it’s the thread of his researches that led us through the labyrinth.”

  “You keep saying that, Joe,” Dorcas said. “Threads, knots, webs, mazes. Have you got to the middle yet? This spider Inspector Martin conjures up?”

  “No.” Joe shook his head. “But I know I’m close. These lads will lead me to him. It’s not over yet.”

  Gosling seemed to take this as a cue. “Sir!” he said, putting up a hand in his excitement to catch Joe’s attention. He reached out and with the gesture they’d become accustomed to, he moved the sepia print, the oldest boy who still remained nameless, to the left of the lineup. “Sir. I think I know who this is.” He took a brown file envelope from his briefcase. “Found it an hour ago. Out of place. Deliberately misplaced? Rapson ferreting about?”