Not My Blood (27 page)

“Five o’clock. Remind me where we were at five o’clock, Gosling.”

“Just turning out of the driveway of the asylum, sir. Sir? I hope you don’t mind—I thought all this sounded a bit off key. I rang my boss and asked him if there was anything of interest in Spielman Senior’s situation. Regarding his professional attachment to the German Embassy or his domestic life. Masterson’s going to ring back. I, er, didn’t mention your involvement, sir.”

“Very wise. We would always want to avoid a lecture on the dangers of fraternization. I hope you got further with the research clinic.”

“A little. Again, I can find no trace of young Spielman. The duty matron I spoke to refused to discuss patients or admissions. I threw everything I had at her, including manly charm, but she resisted me. Quoted hospital policy. I might be a scurrilous journalist, after all. Any rogue with tuppence in his pocket can ring them up from a phone box these days, she explained. Their
patients value their anonymity. But she did offer to make an appointment for
you
. Three
P.M
. This afternoon. Professor Bentink will grant you fifteen minutes. That’s if you are who you say you are. You must be sure to have your authorisation with you. Sorry, sir. It’s the best I could do. They’re well within their rights, of course.”

“That will do well, Gosling. Anything more of any urgency?”

“No sir. I’ve really got to dash—fourteen small boys waiting down in the gym for seven-a-side hockey. They’re armed with sticks. Lord knows what they’re up to! The rest of my report can wait until you’ve seen old Godwit. Sir—he’s always worth hearing.”

“Thank you, Gosling. Wheel him in will you?”

Mr. Godwit entered, twitching with excitement. “Ten minutes to go before my class,” he said. “I have something to confide.”

He declined to take a seat, and they stood together on the rug. “You remember asking me what the three headmasters had in common? I told you nothing. And I still believe nothing. But—”

“The slightest thing, sir, will interest me.” Joe was determined to encourage him. “They wore the same stone in their cufflinks. Each had a nanny called Edith. Each was a member of the Society of Druids?”

“No, no, nothing like that at all. But there’s one thing they have all done. A rather strange habit. Being so old—bridging the three tenures—I’m the only one who would have noticed and remembered. The first Wednesday of each month, Streetly-Standish used to go off into town—Brighton, I mean. By himself. No one thought anything of it. He never spoke of it. In the school carriage. Horse-drawn, of course, in those days. Oddly, he used to dispense with the services of the groom and drive himself.”

“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 pronouncing 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.”