Not My Blood (14 page)

He seemed eager to bustle them straight inside, but Jackie with a sharp cry went over to the pile of luggage and was staring at the books. He bent and turned over a luggage label. “Spielman! These are Spielman’s things!”

Gosling stopped in his tracks and, with a sigh, went over to Jackie and exchanged a few quiet words. Turning to Joe he spoke with an air of resignation: “Only to be expected, of course. The first of many abrupt withdrawals, I’d calculate. News spreads fast up at that level. Our parents are … of a certain status in society, if you understand. Diplomats, politicians, Civil Service posted abroad—that sort of thing. The kind of people who can’t be doing with the slightest whiff of scandal. Spielman’s father is a diplomat so we’re not surprised that he’s the first to get wind of the—er—sad occurrence. And—worse—he’s got a very fussy mother. It’s Madame Spielman who’ll be the instigator of this panicking rush for the exit.”

He turned again to Jackie. “I think you knew him better than most,” he said gently. “Look, he’s sitting waiting in the trunk room just inside. Would you like to say goodbye?”

At that moment, a Daimler purred in stately fashion up the drive and braked behind the Morris. A chauffeur in grey uniform stepped out and saluted Gosling. “I’m here for Master Spielman,” he announced. He glanced at Jackie. “Is this him?”

“No, no! Wait a moment, will you? If you’d like to start loading these things, I’ll just go and get the young gentleman.”

He went inside and reappeared a moment later with a small boy.

“Spielman!”

“Oh, hullo, Drummond,” the child said warily. “You got away with it, then?”

“Can’t say. I don’t know what ‘it’ was, Spielman! They’ve brought me back to have it out. But where are you going?”

“My people have sent for me. Mama doesn’t want me staying in a place infested with murderers and such riff-raff.”

“Oh. We’d better say goodbye then,” said Jackie politely.

The chauffeur had finished his loading and jangled his keys in a marked manner. Spielman stepped forwards, eager to be off.

“Look—I’ll miss our talks about books,” Jackie said, grabbing him by the sleeve. “Wait a minute!” He dashed to his Afghan bag and took out his copy of
Treasure Island
. “Here, take this. I’ve finished it.”

“Oh, I say. Are you sure? Can I put my name in it? Thank you very much, Drummond. I’ll say goodbye then.”

The chauffeur held the door for him and the small figure, clutching his book, scrambled into the back seat. He didn’t look around as they drove off.

Joe noted the swift pat on the head Jackie received from his new form master.

As he led them down the corridor, Gosling leaned to Joe out
of earshot of Dorcas and Jackie and muttered, “Sorry about that, sir. You weren’t supposed to witness the departure. Bad for morale. They tried to schedule it discreetly.”

“At least the two friends had time to say their goodbyes,” Joe remarked.

“Not sure ‘friends’ would be the right word for that relationship,” Gosling said. “I don’t think Drummond will be heartbroken. Spielman didn’t fit in here. Made no effort to fit in. Not a sporting type. Only happy when his nose was in a book. And he had certain physical problems which are not best catered for in general schooling. It was all getting too much for Matron, I’m afraid. He wrote every week to his parents asking to be taken away, so, at last, he’s got his own way.”

“You fear a similar panic amongst the other pupils? More letters home begging a swift removal?”

“You’ve got it. It would be a disaster. But there are two things that could avert it.”

Joe looked at him questioningly.

“First—the behaviour of your nephew, sir. He’s a steady lad, I’ve observed. If he can settle down again as though nothing’s happened, it would help to calm nerves and silence tongues. As his form master, I can help with that. I’ve already been preparing the ground. Drummond should find he has no difficulties as far as his classmates are concerned.”

“And the second palliative action?”

“Would be initiated by you, sir. Top policeman? That’s what they’re saying. The very best outcome—speaking for St. Magnus, naturally—would result if you were to acknowledge that the crime has nothing to do with the school.”

“Apart from the uncomfortable fact that a killing occurred on school premises and deprived you of one of your senior masters?” Joe was taking exception to being steered into any premature conclusions by this young squirt. “Bit difficult to
brush a bleeding corpse under the axminster, I would have thought?”

Gosling gave one of his conciliatory grins. “Both incontrovertible facts, as you say, sir. But then, easier to account for and dismiss when you understand that the crime has, in fact, been solved to the satisfaction of us all and—more importantly—to the satisfaction of the Sussex Constabulary.”

“Solved?”

“Yes. Inspector Martin has a man in custody in the local jail. A man
known
to the school, indeed known to the whole town and the county but totally unconnected with us as an educational establishment. An itinerant knife-grinder.”

The affable features hardened into something more knowing, more sardonic as he confided, “It was he who put the fine edge on the weapon that skewered poor old Rapson.”

T
HE HEADMASTER HAD
chosen the sensible route, Joe estimated, in the preliminary social skirmishing and had decided to address him as an equal. His tone was neither lofty nor unctuous. Joe’s was civil and direct. They established that Joe would be referred to as “Commissioner Sandilands” and the head would be “Headmaster” or “Mr. Farman.”

Dorcas had been greeted politely, the Sir James connection acknowledged, and immediately assigned the suitably female task of escorting Jackie and his luggage to Matron’s room for what the head called “the usual inspections.” A quick search for head lice, Woodbines, smuggled comics, and any other contaminants from the capital, Joe guessed. To his relief, Dorcas had gone quietly.

“Delighted you could find the time to come down, Commissioner!” Left alone with Joe, the headmaster appeared to relax, and his knowing smile indicated that the irony was deliberate. His features instantly took on an earnestness as he continued: “I’m not going to make light of this—it could have been
a serious matter … a runaway boy, at large in London … recipe for disaster! I expect you’re only too well aware of the dangers. Thank God you were there to pick up the pieces.”

Joe noted that a certain evolution in the head’s thinking had taken place over the past thirty-six hours. He made no comment but wondered if he detected the pervasive influence of Sir James Truelove in this development. He’d wait to see the opposition’s cards on the table before he made his own play.

“Indeed. And thanks also to Andrew Drummond’s clear instructions regarding his son. You will have received …?” Joe’s hand went to his pocket.

Farman waved away his search for documentation. “All that is in order, I assure you. The boy’s mother will be here in a few weeks and will doubtless make her own arrangements at that time. Meanwhile, it’s
you
we have to deal with,
your
requirements and
your
decisions we have to hear.”

At last a flash of irritation. Joe was glad to hear it. He never walked comfortably along a path too thickly strewn with rose petals. He smiled affably. “My first concern is for the boy’s well-being, Mr. Farman. I’m confident that, together, we can decide on a course of action that will ensure it.”

Placated, the head was encouraged to play another card. “Continuity, that’s the key, Sandilands. Sure you’ll agree. Enough disruption in the boy’s life already, you know. He was bedding down nicely. Beginning to make friends. Scored a try at rugger the week before he bunked off. The other boys were noticing him and appreciating his qualities. Best I think for all concerned if he were to resume his place in school with the least possible fuss and bother.”

“Is that option available to us?” Joe asked. “In the circumstances? Blood spilled and all that?”

This was exactly the cue Farman had been waiting for. He sat back in his leather chair and a smile spread across his chubby
features. “Ah, yes. Only good news on that front, Sandilands. We understand now that Drummond was the accidental witness of Rapson’s last seconds of life. Fingerprints establish that they met on the back stairs. The sight of his form master bleeding and expiring right in front of his eyes would have been enough to send any youngster into a tailspin. As a witness, he will, of course, be required to give his evidence to Detective Inspector Martin, who is in charge of the case.” His smile widened. “Evidence of academic interest only now, I may add. Now that Martin has established the boy’s innocence of any direct involvement with the killing. A stabbing occurred, Sandilands, no one’s denying it. But it didn’t occur on school premises.”

“Not on school premises?” Joe repeated in surprise.

“No. At least, not in the school buildings as far as we can ascertain. Martin’s men have tracked him back from the place where he—er—succumbed. Thanks to an overnight three-inch covering of snow, things have rather ground to a halt. But we’ll get there.”

“You’re saying Rapson managed to travel some distance in his wounded condition before he fell dead down the back stairs?”

“Exactly that.”

“With a bit of luck and a long measuring tape, you may manage to track the unpleasantness all the way back to the chip shop in the High Street?”

Farman weathered the sarcasm, smirked, and ran with it. “Ah, yes! An undignified spat with a townie? Some argument over the cod and mushy peas? We should have given it some thought perhaps.” His smile faded as he uncovered his big gun and fired his shot. “But no need for fancies of that nature. Inspector Martin, whom you will shortly meet, has the perpetrator under lock and key in the town jail.”

“Enter the gypsy suspect?” Joe asked mildly.

Farman frowned. “No. An itinerant workman, but not, it
appears, a gypsy. ‘The
usual
gypsy suspect,’ I imagine you were thinking.”

Again Joe had provoked a burst of antagonism. Farman heard it and adjusted his tone. “But this has little to do with me. It’s Martin’s business.
Police
business. You will be able to chew it over to your heart’s content with your colleague.” He got to his feet. “Two things to do before you set off back to the metropolis. So we’d better get on with it. It gets dark so early these days and the roads are very uncertain, don’t you find? You’ll want to see your nephew happily established in his routine, and you’ll want to confer with Martin. Shall we start with Martin?”

Sensing that the curtain was about to go up on the second act of a well-choreographed performance, Joe tilted his head politely and headed for the door.

“W
ell, here you are,” Farman announced. “Temporary police HQ. The old sports-kit storage room. Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but the best we can do. Martin’s already in there at work. Early bird. Good man. I’ll introduce you.”

As he flung the door open and walked in, he said as an afterthought: “By the way, Commissioner, we’ll lay a place for you—and Miss Joliffe of course—at the top table for lunch. Twelve o’clock sharp. Martin shuns our company and chooses to bring his own sandwiches. Now, Sandilands, may I present—”

The two officers fixed each other with a calm police stare. They went through the ritual of introduction, waiting for Farman to leave, each taking the other’s measure. As Joe had feared, the Sussex Detective Inspector looked unfriendly, irritated at being disturbed earlier than anticipated. He was as tall as Joe and handsome in the fair, corpulent way of Sussex men. Large parts of his ruddy cheeks were covered by a luxuriant mustache to rival that of Ramsay MacDonald. Smartly suited, wedding ring. A pipe smoker, judging by the thick atmosphere.

It was Martin who jumped in first to break the silence that followed the welcome closing of the door behind Farman’s billowing black gown. “I don’t know if you’re a man who takes advice when it’s given with good intent, sir, but I have some to offer.”

Portentous. Unsmiling. Joe braced himself for the ritual clearing of the decks, the assigning of roles, the growling warnings about territory.

“Avoid the meat pie. The pastry’s made with lard, and the meat’s made with something I’ll swear never mooed.”

“I always listen to advice,” Joe replied carefully. “Sometimes I take it. I’ll fill up on the rice pudding,” he finished with a grin.

“Sensible course, sir. That’s actually good. They keep a couple of Jersey milk cows somewhere in the vicinity and likewise ponies for drawing the grass-cutter and the snowplough. They’ve got chickens and such-like. A sort of school farm or menagerie. Out the back. I’ll show you when we go on our mystery tour—the Last Reeling Steps of Rapson. Any idea, sir, how far a man who’s just been stabbed in the heart can travel? You’re going to be surprised!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Joe said. “In London our record’s a hundred yards. Knife still in the wound. But then we breed them tough in The Smoke.”

Martin stepped forwards to pull up a chair for Joe on the other side, the visitor’s side of the desk. “Sorry, sir, for the accommodation. What space I could make I’ve already filled, I’m afraid. And there’s as much again down at the station.” He moved a few files and piles of paper around on the dust-covered desktop and settled himself again. “Do sit down, and don’t worry, sir. I’ve chucked out the field mice and the spiders.”

It was more than Joe could bear to sit with his back to a door. It was a phobia, he supposed, one he shared with other fighting men, and, like a fear of snakes, there was no reasoning it away. But he’d learned to live with it. He took the chair that had been set for him and moved it, placing it at one side of the desk, angled towards the doorway. He sat down casually and slipped one leg over the other, relaxed and friendly. “Not taking up residence, Inspector. Quite happy to perch here. And if some fiend bursts through the door wielding a cricket bat, I’ll ’ave ’im!”

Martin smiled, understanding the reason behind the defensive stance. “Ah!” he said and looked more closely at Joe’s face. “The commissioner had a Good War?”