Not My Blood (17 page)

“Good God, Martin!” Joe’s voice rang out. “What the hell are you telling me? That your men have found the sledgehammer that crushed Rapson’s skull? And the bloodied handle is covered in fingerprints? And those prints belong to … the headmaster?”

“You’ve got it, sir.” Martin’s voice was equally loud. “Open-and-shut case. Will you shake out your manacles or shall I oblige? Now, didn’t someone say there was coffee on its way?”

He strode to the door and flung it open. An innocently smiling Gosling was a step or two away down the corridor. “Perfect timing, sir,” he said. “I was wondering how on earth I could knock with this in my hands. I found you some digestive biscuits—in Langhorne’s tin. I hope you like them.”

He bustled in, set the tray on a side table, and began to pour out the coffee with the exaggerated ceremony of a Savoy waiter. Joe watched his hands, noting the slight tremble and hearing the clang as he hit the sugar bowl with a spoon. “How are you getting on? One lump or two? Any developments?” Gosling was trying for a casual tone, but his voice emerged an octave higher than its usual pleasant growl, Joe thought.

“No lumps for me, thank you. Just a drop of milk.” Joe reached eagerly for his coffee. The real stuff, judging by the aroma.

“Two lumps please,” said Martin. “We’ve hardly got started, and we wouldn’t be able to tell you if we had,” the Inspector said pleasantly. “All we can say is, we may just have a little surprise for Mr. Farman before the end of the day. That’ll be all, thanks, Mr. Gosling. You can leave us to get on.”

Left alone again, they grinned at each other.

“Gotcher?” said Martin.

“Oh, I think—gotcher! But what exactly have we got?” Joe wondered. “Further and better particulars required, I believe. I’ll get some. Now, shall we proceed?”

“Of course. Look, as you seem to have taken to this room so well, why don’t you adopt it as your base? The staff will find it very convenient having you close by, and they’ll stop traipsing all the way down to the basement to bother me in the old equipment room. My men can come and go down there without taking their boots off all the time. How long are you staying, by the way? Nobody’s told me.”

“Possibly because I haven’t told anyone. I’ve set no time limit. The head clearly thinks he’s getting rid of me by the end of the
day. He doesn’t know that I’ve booked rooms for me and my companion Miss Joliffe down at the old coaching inn in the village.”

“The Bells?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, that can be the little surprise for the head, in case he asks. Sandilands is taking up residence. Right then, I’ll lock the door behind us, and we’ll retrace the footsteps of old man Rapson, shall we? Now why, if you’d just been stabbed, would you flee back up here? Wouldn’t you try to find Matron? Ex-nurse—she was probably the only one who could help. Have you seen the woman? She could stop a blood flow at ten paces. I’d put myself in her hands any day.”

“Telephone?” Joe suggested. “Something he had urgently to deal with … hide … pick up from his desk? He had an appointment to beat a boy at six, but I don’t think that would loom large in the circumstances, do you?”

They moved along the corridor and down the back stairs, now closed to traffic and neatly roped off with warning police notices on display. The hand rail was covered in graphite fingerprinting dust, and smudges of blood were still in place. Joe thought with concern of the small boy and his grisly encounter halfway down as Martin unemotionally pointed out the tiny prints. At the bottom of the stairs was a dried brown patch where the blood had ponded under Rapson’s belly.

“He lost a lot of blood. Heart wounds needn’t spout much, I know, but the pathologist says he’d suffered more than one blow. Now, we can get him as far as the door and beyond that into the rear yard. By the time we got here, the whole place was covered in snow and it was pitch dark. We lost the trace. Didn’t like to do much sweeping—might destroy sign. Thought it better to wait a bit and pray for a thaw. They say there’s one on its way.”

Joe stood with Martin shivering in the backyard, getting his
bearings. Martin produced a plan of the school and handed it to Joe. “They give these out to the new bugs. I’ve marked the dying man’s progress on it in red as far as it goes.”

Joe followed and peered into the distance. “He could have been coming from any direction. The rear drive and beyond that, the town—”

“And the two lodges, sir. Where most of the masters have rooms. His fellows,” Martin said with emphasis. “Down here in the country, we find people tend to kill each other within their class or social group.”

“Oh, we’re only human in the capital, Martin—we’ll have a go at anybody, but I see what you mean. That’s the farmyard, the huddle of buildings over there? A good trysting place?”

“Of a summer evening, perhaps. Not that night, sir.”

“Or to the left? What’s the row of brick and flint buildings?”

“Maids’ quarters. Staff houses. Not bad accommodation, considering. I’ve seen worse. There’s a couple of manservants lodged down there, sharing, and the cottage at the end is where Mrs. Bellefoy lives with her two kids. She was a maid here for years, but she’s retired now to look after her son, and her daughter Betty does the maid’s work in the school.”

“How old is Betty?”

“About twenty. Father never came marching back from the war. Posted missing. He was a farm groom here at the school. Betty’s brother’s a lot younger. About five.” Martin’s voice dropped. “And we ought to say—
half
brother. The kid’s illegitimate. Mrs. Bellefoy came straight out with it when I interviewed them. Bold as brass. A ‘last little fling’ she told me. No shame. Her ‘little slipup’ she called the lad. Though who she slipped up with she wasn’t about to divulge. They don’t have an easy life, but they seem to be managing pretty well. You can go and talk to them if you like. But they say they heard and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the lad—he had something to communicate.”

“What did he give you?”

“Not much. He’s—er—not sure what the word is. He was born not quite right. In head or limbs. And there’s a reason for that. She may tell you. Anyhow, while I was talking to them he was listening. He doesn’t always catch on, but something got to him. He got all excited and started burbling about a motor car. His ma was a bit embarrassed, but she let him rave on and told me what he was trying to say. He’s very keen on cars, apparently. He sits by the road for hours just watching out for them. Gets very excited when he spots a new make. He knows the engine notes and can identify all the village cars and their owners. He was up in his bedroom playing when he heard one in the lane, his ma explained. Opened the window to get a look. He couldn’t see it—too dark—but he listened. It came up slowly, stopped and waited a bit, then set off again. Strange car, not a local one. Big engine.”

“Did he tell you what time this happened?”

“The lad can’t tell the time by the clock, but he remembers the stable bell rang six just after the car left.”

“Interesting?”

“Better be! By God, it took some getting! Though I agree—it doesn’t sound much.”

“A visitor arriving for Rapson?”

“Could be. But then it could just be someone lost in the blizzard and checking the signposts. We’ve found one or two tire marks, but I think they’re all later than the ones we’d be interested in.”

“You’ve got a lot of work done in the short time you’ve had, inspector,” Joe commented.

“And more to do. Mustn’t stand about nattering.” He handed the keys to Joe. “If I can leave you to find your way back, I’ll just nip off to my own HQ and see how my blokes are getting along. There’s a sergeant and a PC. It’s not much, but they’re both good men, you’ll find.”

“So—we’ll go our separate ways for a bit?”

Turning to leave, Martin paused and grinned. “They are separate, aren’t they? You’d say the old house is reasserting itself—imposing its original character. Above stairs, below stairs. And never the twain shall meet.”

“Except surreptitiously halfway up the back stairs from time to time. Are you about to make a snobbish comment, inspector?”

“Just observing, sir. We do seem to have a different angle of elevation when I compare our vision of the case. Me—I’m nose to the ground, following blood stains through the farm yard to discover who hated a man enough to sink a blade between his ribs.”

“While I’m upstairs ordering coffee and swapping stories with Academe, worrying about a set of over-privileged sons of important men. Sons who’ve gone missing, perhaps. Well, so be it. Let’s get on, Inspector. Who knows, in the end we may well meet each other halfway up or down those bloody stairs. But, Martin, something was drawing a mortally wounded man to climb back up them with his last breath, and I want to find out what it was. ”

Joe looked at his watch. “I have an hour before my encounter with the meat pie. If you want me, you’ll find me rummaging in Rapson’s rooms. If I need anything I can always step out and click my fingers. I’m sure a Gosling will come flighting in, saying ‘You clicked, sir?’ ”

He let himself into Rapson’s office and made straight for the telephone. He checked that he had a line to the outside and that it didn’t pass through an internal exchange before asking the operator for a London number.

“Hello. Sandilands here. Get me your Super, would you? Oh, is he indeed? Look, I don’t care if he’s french-kissing Wallis Simpson! Drag him to the phone and tell him I’m waiting.

“Ah! Bacchus! Do you need a moment to straighten your tie? Good. Now listen. I’m down in Sussex. Do something for me,
and do it fast. Call me back on the number I’m giving you.” He read it out. “And here’s a name: Gosling. That’s right, young goose. George Gosling. See if you’ve got anything on record? Private investigator perhaps? Could even be a teacher. Oxford, he tells me. Very recently down—he must be about twenty-two. Athletic type. Boxing—that narrows your choices a bit. He’s haunting St. Magnus School, Seaford, at the present moment, and he’s annoying me. The man’s out of place here, and I’d like to know why. I’d be glad of anything you can turn up.”

He turned his attention to the contents of the drawers. No disturbance here. A quick search revealed that the right side and the top two on the left contained notes and correspondence concerned with the school. The bottom two on the left held Rapson’s private papers, Joe judged. He examined these first and found little of interest. A sheaf of old letters to various correspondents: his mother, who was living in a retirement home in Brighton; one or two old school or army friends. Of more interest was a letter from the local bank manager suggesting to Rapson that he was extracting rather more money from his current account than his salary could sustain, and what steps did he propose? The sums were not breathtaking. Many men received similar letters weekly. Still, Joe had known men murdered for twopence-ha’penny.

He dug about and found a cheque book issued by the bank and began to dredge through the counterfoils. The sums expended were neatly recorded. Apart from monthly withdrawals for—Joe assumed from the small amount—spending money, there was a monthly whack for his mother’s accommodation, one or two odd amounts spent at a London tailor’s, and a London hotel bill covering the same period of time. Joe twitched with excitement when he found the stub of the cheque that had triggered the manager’s concern. Made out to himself for cash only a week ago: a withdrawal of fifty pounds. Joe flipped backwards through the book and found a similar self-payment (cash) the previous month for
twenty pounds. And, a month before that, a further twenty. And a monthly twenty in cash each first of the month until he got to the end of the book.

Joe had encountered payment details of this kind before. They usually went towards supporting a betting habit or a mistress or blackmail. He noted the sudden jump in the last month to more than twice the previous amount and remembered that it was always the way of blackmail payments to increase. He’d never known any to peter out. It usually took a death to cancel the arrangement.

He jumped when the phone rang and eagerly picked up the receiver.

“Hopkirk? Good man! What do you mean—right family, wrong species? Good Lord! The cheek! Did they tell you all this willingly? Not important enough to get them hot under the collar, eh? What does it take—mass slaughter of the royal family to get them going? And you were able to do a trade. Tell me about that trade. Well, it’s surprising but in its way, reassuring. Have you informed Inspector Jenkins? Leave that to me. I’ll ring him myself. I shall enjoy that! He’ll be intrigued to know what he thwarted! A ragbag of information, but I’m glad to have it anyway. Gives me the illusion of being back in the driving seat! Tell me—what calibre shot does one use to bring down wildfowl?”

J
OE WENT OUT
into the corridor and cleared his throat. Gosling was instantly at his side.

“I was just passing on my way to the gym. All games indoors still today. I say, are you looking for someone, sir? I can find you a messenger.”

“I coughed, and you answered. Perfect arrangement. Come inside, Mr. Gosling. Take a seat, will you?”

As the young man settled gingerly on the edge of the chair opposite him, Joe caught a glimpse in the anxious brown eyes of
the boy he had not so long ago been—uncertain and vulnerable. He decided to take advantage of his uncertainty.

“How long have you been at the school, Gosling?” he asked in a headmasterly voice.

“Not long at all, sir. I came towards the end of the Michaelmas term. I’m a temporary replacement. On supply, as we say, in the trade.”

“Ah, yes. The
trade
. Teaching. Would that be the one you’re referring to?”

Gosling nodded and swallowed.

Joe affected to consult his notes. “Oxford degree (a good one) in English Lit … something of a linguist … oarsman … boxing blue … Army Cadet Force member with a commendation for unarmed combat. The list goes on. What’s a star like you doing supplying rugger lessons to ten-year-olds? I’m wondering. One might have expected you to be snatched off the graduation podium, scroll still in hand, mortarboard at a roguish angle, by a talent scout for some grand office of state: the civil service, the military … something of that calibre. But you choose instead to hide yourself down here on a remote cliff top.”