Not My Blood (5 page)

Then Martin’s voice: “Just a minute, Mr. Farman. Now, say
again—this has come to the attention of the
Metropolitan Police
? What, may I ask, is precisely your involvement,
Assistant Commissioner
?”

Joe smiled as he heard the emphasis, emphasis no doubt for Farman’s benefit.

“The boy was committed to my care by his parents. I expect you’re making notes? You may pencil in: ‘uncle’ and add: ‘Indian connections … diplomatic interest.…’ ”

“I don’t care if he’s the Mahatma’s grandson, we want him here as soon as possible.” Martin was clearly irritated by the suggestion of influence. Irritated to the point of rudeness. “He may be a witness in a murder enquiry. Do you know anything about this? Are you acting in an official capacity?”

“I know only what the boy’s told me. But may I make one thing quite clear? That boy is going nowhere tonight. If you want to interview him you can speak to him here in my presence or, if you can persuade me that it’s absolutely necessary, I will bring him down to you. Starting out tomorrow. It’s snowing heavily here in London and I expect it’s even worse down there in Sussex. It may not even be possible to undertake the journey. The best I can offer is to start out in the morning and spend the night at the boy’s aunt’s house in Surrey, thus breaking halfway what looks like being a difficult bit of motoring. In the meantime, believe me, I have no desire whatever to interfere, though I own to an interest.”

“Yes.…” said Martin more calmly. “It’s an interesting situation to say the least. Look here, sir—confidentially, the boy is a murder
suspect
and I’d sooner he was in police custody.”

“That,” said Joe, “is precisely what I am anxious to avoid. Would I be forcing a confidence if I were to ask what is the present situation of Mr. Rapson, master at St. Magnus School?”

There was a long pause at the other end. “I have no reason to doubt what you say but please recall that I have no proof of your
identity. I release information in respect of Mr. Rapson only because it will very shortly become public knowledge. His present situation is not a happy one. He is, in fact, dead. He is the victim of multiple stab wounds. As far as we can see, the last person to see him alive was Jack Drummond. So we have this situation—at the very least, Jack Drummond is a material witness in a murder enquiry, or—and I’m sure I don’t have to spell this out—is a suspect. You will understand why I want to interview him, why I want him here, in Sussex, where the crime occurred and where it must be resolved.”

“A witness, obviously, but are you telling me the injuries you describe could have been inflicted by a small ten-year-old boy?”

“You’re going rather too fast for me, sir. I repeat: I need to interview the boy. I want him down here without delay. Can I rely on your cooperation?”

“Yes, of course,” said Joe impatiently, “and I will make arrangements accordingly. But don’t expect us too early. Quite apart from anything else, the boy has no clothes other than pyjamas.”

“No clothes other than pyjamas?” Martin repeated incredulously. “How did that happen? He left here wearing his uniform.”

“There’s a lot of questions to answer,” said Joe, “and we could waste a great deal of each other’s time trying to deal with them over the telephone. If I say I’ll bring the boy to you as soon as I conveniently can, then let’s leave it there, Inspector—was it Inspector?—Martin.”

“Very well. I suppose I shall have to leave it there.” Frustration pushed him to the edge of insubordination. “And, not for the first time in my police career, I defer, against my better judgement, to superior rank … Sir.”

Joe turned away from the telephone as Lydia came through the door. She put her arm over his shoulder. “You look absolutely done in, old boy,” she said.

“I feel as if I’ve been through the wringer! And a hoity-toity
D.I. who is well aware of his rights down in Sussex is the last thing I need. Chap shows some spirit though. He’ll need it. Well—this has been quite an evening one way and another!”

“Can you stop? Can you stop and go to bed?”

“Bless you, Lyd,” said Joe, “but no. Soon perhaps but not now. Things to do. Don’t worry! Go to bed yourself. I have to notify the boy’s parents.”

“The boy’s parents!” said Lydia. “Yes, of course.”

Joe began to draught a long cable to distant Panikhat. Panikhat! For him, of so many memories. Panikhat. He would never have expected it to come into his life again. He thought of Andrew Drummond, who had been his friend, and Nancy Drummond, who had been—so briefly—his lover.

C
urtains of snow were falling across the river when Joe awoke in the morning. Woke! He had hardly slept. But there were voices from the kitchen and a reassuring smell of coffee. Lydia and Jackie were sitting side by side.

“I found a ham and some eggs,” said Lydia, “and I’ve fed the hero of last night’s entertainment and here he is!”

“Good morning, Uncle Joe,” said Jackie politely.

“Good morning, Jackie,” said Joe. “Do you never stop eating?”

“I like breakfast,” said Jackie. “I think it’s my favourite meal.”

“Got some for me?” Joe asked, and then, “There are things we’ve got to do. Lyd, can you do something about Jackie’s clothes?”

“That’s not difficult. I’ve had a look at the labels. I’ll ring up Derry and Tom’s, give them his size. They’ll have a commissionaire or a messenger of some sort they can send round, I expect. They should be open by now—I’ll give it a go.”

They heard her speak with crisp authority into the telephone. “… put me through to the school outfitting department please.… Oh, good morning. Mrs. Marcus Dunsford here. May I know to whom I am speaking? Mr. Partridge? Mr. Partridge, I have an urgent commission for you.…”

Joe listened while she steered the conversation through to a successful conclusion. “You can do that? Excellent! You may send
it to me here at Reach House, Chelsea.… And when shall we look for you?… Before noon?… 
So
grateful, Mr. Partridge!”

“While we’re waiting for Mr. Partridge to produce the goods,” said Joe, “we have things to do.”

“I’ll make a start. I’ll pack up Jackie’s bag for him. And make a few sandwiches. A flask of something hot for the journey.…” Lydia bustled out, leaving Joe with the boy.

“There’s things we ought to talk about, Jackie. Sorry, but—firstly, I sent a cable off last night to your parents to say what has happened.”

“Will they be cross with me for running away?” said Jackie anxiously.

“Worried, I expect, but not cross,” said Joe. “It was difficult to explain what had happened but I did my best. Now, you and I have to go down to the school and talk to the Sussex police about Rappo.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere near the school,” said Jackie almost in a wail. “I really don’t! Would I have to see The Fatman?”

“The fat man?” said Joe.

“It’s what we call Farman. He put up a notice and somebody changed the ‘r’ to a ‘t’ in his signature and now everybody—even some of the masters—call him The Fatman.”

“Well, the best I can offer is a slight delay.” Joe smiled. “I used the weather as an excuse for putting it off until your dad has had a chance to reply to the telegram I sent last night. We’ll set off from here when you’ve got your uniform and the streets have been cleared. Then we’ll thrash on down to Surrey to your Aunt Lydia’s house where we’ll break the journey. You’ll be comfortable there and you can meet your new cousins. We’ll spend the rest of the day and the night there before doing the final leg down into Sussex. I asked Andrew to send his reply straight to me down at Aunt Lydia’s. St. Magnus can wait another day.”

G
EORGE GOSLING PUSHED
his way through the crowds of boys milling about in the entrance to the hall on his way to the staffroom. An early and unscheduled meeting had been called by the headmaster for the whole of the teaching staff. It would be left to Matron and a couple of helpers to contain more than one hundred excited boys in the hall until normal classes could be resumed. He didn’t envy Matron her task. The boys had got wind of the event of yesterday and their awful unbroken voices screeched and yammered around him as he made his way along the corridor. Some of the little brutes even tried to accost him for information.

“Sir! Sir! Is it true?” This was Spielman, whose mastoid-infected ears had triggered the whole nasty business. “Was it Drummond who killed Rappo? They’re saying he’ll swing for it. Is it true? Will he swing? Sir? Sir?”

Gosling clenched his hands behind his back. The impulse to wipe the ghoulish fervour from the ugly little face was almost overwhelming.

“Oh, I doubt it,” he said dismissively. “Down here in Sussex they tend to go in for penal servitude for life for youngsters these days.” Masterson’s brief came back to him:
Ingratiate yourself with both boys and staff. Make sure that they trust you
. Gosling leaned over and smiled his crooked, boyish, all-pals-together-in-adversity smile. “But you seem to know more about this than I do, Spielman. Why is it that the sports master’s always the last to find out what’s going on? Hey! Foster! Tonsils giving you any trouble today? No? Good man!”

He was the last to enter the staffroom. He slid in quietly but he’d been noticed. The head looked pointedly at his watch and the other twelve teachers, gowned and huddled in their usual groups, smiled, gratified that they were not the target of all eyes. Unconcerned, Gosling gave a formal nod to the headmaster and said in a cheerful voice, “I’m two minutes late—frightfully sorry,
sir. Matron needed a little help marshaling the mob and I happened to be passing.…”

“I’ll hear your apologies later, Gosling. We have more important matters than staff punctuality on our agenda this morning.” The voice, icy and dismissive, was at odds with the Pickwickian corpulence.

George chose a seat, as he always did, near the door and to the side of the gathering. From here he had a clear view of his colleagues and could come and go attracting the least attention. One of the staff, more observant than the rest, had once jokingly remarked on this ability of his to disappear or materialise at their elbows: “Remind me, if you can, Gosling—who was it Macbeth described as ‘moving like a ghost’?” And after a token pause to allow for a response: “Ah, yes, of course, I believe it was the wolf. A creature with which, I suspect, you have much in common.” He’d turned to enjoy the smirking appreciation of his colleagues.

George had regretted his automatic riposte: “No. I’m sure the mysterious mover you’re thinking of was ‘Murder’ himself, not his watchdog, sir.” Bloody stupid! Always a mistake to indulge in arm-wrestling with the Head of English Lit. And particularly when you’d accepted a skirmish using your opponent’s choice of weapon. Edmund Langhorne. King of the Quotation. Arrogant tosspot. And now—quite unnecessarily—his enemy.

George’s sports shirt and slacks were the most unremarkable Lillywhite’s had to offer but they marked him out as an alien element amongst the swirls of custard-stained heavy black repp worn by his academic colleagues. His insouciance signalled that he didn’t much care if he was viewed by the rest as a form of pond life. A sports master filling in with the odd geography lesson or two could only survive the condescension of his fellows by affecting a jolly ignorance of their scorn. He could only know his place, do his lowly job well and bite his tongue. George reckoned
his rowing blue, his boxing medals and his broken nose gained him respect from the pupils, though with the staff he’d swiftly acquired the reputation of a pugilist and, inevitably, the nickname of “Gentleman George.”

George settled to listen to the official account of the fiasco on the back stairs yesterday. It was going to be interesting to hear what version of the story the Head would expect them to swallow.

Farman flipped a finger right and left under his nose, checking his moustache was standing at the ready, and cast an eye over the staff, gathering attention. “Gentlemen!” He tucked up the trailing sleeves of his academic gown and clamped them to his sides. He rocked forwards and back on creaking shoes for a moment. He harrumphed noisily. Like a lumbering flying boat scrambling to take off, Gosling always thought.

“Gentlemen! Good morning! You’ll know why we’re here. You’ll all have heard the tragic news. You’ll be aware of Edgar Rapson’s death in mysterious circumstances.” At last airborne, he began a steady ascent: “I won’t say more than that for the moment. It would be inconsiderate of me … nay … possibly unlawful if I were to enlarge on those circumstances at this time. But I think it would be appropriate if we were to pause now in order to remember a valued colleague. All stand.”

Valued colleague! George Gosling sighed. He sprang to his feet, adopted a suitably grave expression and lowered his eyes.

The eulogy winged its duplicitous way over bowed heads, faces fixedly sober for the meagre two minutes it took to remind them all of Rapson’s achievements, character and skills. They looked up with more interest when Farman got on to his outline of the previous night’s events. In death Rapson cut a far more dashing figure. Gosling ran a discreet eye over the company, on the alert for any off-key reaction to the circumstances of their colleague’s death.