Not My Blood (23 page)

Prince Albert’s Hospital for the Mentally Afflicted
.

Gosling got back in and said, grumpily, “We’ve wasted half an hour. Not a hospital at all! It’s a mental asylum! A loony bin! The chauffeur would never have brought the boy here. We’d better get back onto the main road and pick up the trail again.” He started to turn the key.

“No! Stop!” Joe yelled at him. “It’s
exactly
where he might have brought him. And exactly the place where he could have received treatment. Spielman wasn’t mentally ill, we know that. But.… But. These places have the facilities.… Don’t they, Dorcas?”

She was finding her words awkward to get out. “I’m afraid they do. Perhaps you didn’t know that over ten percent of the patients in the country’s asylums are … epileptics. And, no, they are not mentally deranged or dangerous by our reasoning but by law are classed as defective, and the asylums have to take them in when they are submitted. A certificate signed by two doctors will
do it. If you consult the Schedule of Forms of Insanity you’ll find it: ‘Diseases of the nervous system.’ Epilepsy. K3. Listed alongside sunstroke and syphilis, probably.”

“So, a sufferer from epilepsy can be put away in one of these places and kept out of society for the rest of his life and no one will ever question it?” Gosling sounded shocked.

They stared at the darkening façade of the vast building. “A thousand patients, at least, they probably house in there,” Dorcas said. “So there’s a good chance that a hundred of them are epileptics.”

“And now it could be a hundred and one,” Gosling’s voice was grim. “A coincidence, are we wondering? Look, I have to say Spielman was showing none of the warning signs when he stepped into that Daimler with his book tucked under his arm. He’d had an attack just last week. I’m no expert but, as his games master, I had noticed they occurred at a few weeks’ distance from each other.”

“Prearranged? Taken away and locked up in a lunatic asylum without his mother’s knowledge?” Joe said. “I think we should find out.”

Was it the sun sinking lower behind the hills, the raucous calls of rooks returning to their nests in the elms that stood sentinel in the parkland, or a sudden dip in energy that made Joe’s heart drop to his boots? The crenellations he had been admiring were no longer stylish but forbidding. “Halt! Who goes there?” they said. Joe searched in vain for a password.

“What are we waiting for?” Gosling said urgently. “Let’s see if we’ve beaten Herr Spielman to it.”

M
ARTIN SANK TO
his knees in the slush and stared at the weapon. He took the paper evidence bag the constable was holding out to him, wrote on the outside in indelible pencil, added his signature, and then picked up the knife delicately at the join
between blade and shaft with his handkerchief around his fingers.

“On your bike, constable,” he said, handing over the bag. “Put this in the messenger bag and take it to the nick. I’ve told them to expect it by teatime. They’ll get it to Brighton tonight, and we might know by tomorrow whose prints are on there. If we’re lucky. Oh, and tell the sergeant I’m popping down to Ma Bellefoy’s for a cup of tea and a chat, will you?”

His welcome was what he had come to expect over the last few days: warm, even slightly flirtatious, but with an underlying reserve.

The inspector blew into his cup to cool his tea. “The best tea, Clara,” he remarked, “and served in the best china.” He sipped carefully. “Funny taste. Nice, though. Very pleasant in fact. What is it?”

Clara Bellefoy looked at him in satisfaction over the rim of her matching cup. “These were the last two of a set that got smashed, up at the school. Specials for governors and such-like. They were going to chuck them out, so I asked for them.” She allowed herself a tight smile and added: “Not that many perks in being a school-skivvy. Farman gave me a note to prove they weren’t nicked. Want to see it?”

Martin waved away the unpleasant suggestion.

“The tea—now that’s something you won’t get at the Co-op, Inspector. It’s called ‘Earl Grey,’ and the pleasant taste is bergamot. Or so it says on the tin. I only use it for special visitors. And no, I didn’t buy it, Mr. Sharp-Eyes! It got given to me—well, to Betty—by the school steward. Unwanted present to the staff from a parent. They didn’t like it and told him to pass it on to someone deserving.”

“And, naturally your Betty came to mind?”

“Course she did! I’m not stupid! She’s on most of those men’s minds! The only pretty girl for ten miles around—you’d expect it.”

“Still single at—what is she—nineteen? Twenty? What’s she waiting for?”

“She’s seen the mistakes her mother made, and she’s not going to repeat them. The right bloke will come along one day. I’m not losing sleep over it.”

“Well, I have to congratulate you, Clara,” Martin said with sincerity, glancing meaningfully around the pin-neat parlour. “She’s a credit to you. And the little lad—you’ve done a fine job by him. Where is Harry?”

“Upstairs in his room. He ran off when he heard you coming. Nothing wrong with his hearing. He doesn’t like strangers. Usually he goes all shy and can’t find the words to speak. Sometimes he gets quarrelsome and finds exactly the wrong ones. When he flies into a temper it can be very embarrassing to hear him. He tries his best to swear, Mr. Martin. I don’t know why. I try to teach him right and wrong and good manners but sometimes … sometimes … you’d say he’d got the devil in him. I think he learns those words from the lads who work in the stables. It must be that, because he doesn’t go to school, and he hears nothing of the kind at home.”

“Is he warm enough up there on his own?”

“Course he is! I always keep a fire going for him in the grate, and he’s got a new set of tin cars to play with. It’s his retreat. When he’s gone off up there I don’t bother him. He’s all right.”

Martin cocked his head to a photograph of Clara’s son and daughter, a studio print in a wooden frame sitting on the upright piano. “A fine-looking pair, missis. He’s a good-looking little lad. Takes after his ma. Same curly dark hair.” He leaned forwards and asked quietly: “What went wrong for him? If you could tell me, there might be something I could suggest … some help I could recommend.…”

His cup rattled in the saucer as Clara Bellefoy jumped to her feet, her face contorted with anger. “Shut up! Just shut up about
my lad, will you! I’m fed up with it! He’s what he is. It’s his mother’s fault, and I’m paying the price. Every day of my life. And I wouldn’t want it otherwise. There’s nothing anyone else can do for him.” She fell silent, biting her lip, and sat down again.

Martin picked up one of her phrases. “You say it’s your fault, Clara? How can that be?”

“None of your business.”

He persisted. “Most would blame God. Or the defaulting father.”

Clara sniffed and reached into the pocket of her pinny for a handkerchief. She blew her nose and then looked with defiance at the policeman. “I’ve more sense. It’s no secret around here, I suppose. Someone will pass the gossip on to you if you keep asking, so I might as well make sure you hear it right. He’s illegitimate. There. I told you that before.”

“So you did. I didn’t throw a fit at the mention of the word then, and I don’t on its second airing. Get on, Clara.”

“What does a woman do when she needs her job and the cottage that’s tied to it, and she finds she’s in a certain condition thanks to a man who’s gone off? The head could have thrown us into the street, you know, and no one would have blamed him. Well, she tries to get rid of the problem. Village ways. Village remedies. There’s always some old crone who thinks she knows what to do. I took advice. Fell out of the apple tree. Several times. And then the kid was born. I think the fall dislodged something. He was born not quite right. Though we didn’t know this until he got to two and wasn’t walking. Four, and he still couldn’t talk. Now six, and we wish he’d never open his mouth. As I said, my fault. My penance. That’s the end of it. Why are you here? Not to talk about my zany son!”

“Just to say thank you for the help your son was yesterday. He made quite an effort to tell us about the car in the lane. I appreciated that. And to let you know how we’re getting on, missis. A
murder was committed a few yards away from your back door—I thought you’d be interested. We’ve found the weapon.”

“What was it?”

“Six-inch knife. Any of yours missing from the kitchen?”

“No. I was here all the time with Harry and Betty when she got home at just after six. No one could have got in and taken one. It’s more likely to have been pinched from the school kitchens. They’ve got dozens up there. Have you counted them?”

“It was all happening around here at six that evening, wasn’t it? And I’m still intrigued by that car. It couldn’t have been a fancy man arriving for Betty, could it? It’s about the time you’d arrive to pick up your lady friend for a showing at the Gaumont. They’ve got one of those ‘Gold Diggers’ films on all week.”

“No. Betty got back and set about eating her supper straight away. Rabbit stew it was. I like to have her meal on the table ready for her when she gets back. It’s long hours she works. We didn’t hear the car. We aren’t blessed with Harry’s ears.”

“How surprised would you have been to look outside and see Mr. Rapson moving about on business unknown out there in the courtyard?”

“Very. The week before—not a bit. He’d been a nuisance. Always hanging about trying to talk to Betty. Mucky old tyke!” Clara shuddered. “Bringing her presents and sweet-talking. At his age! Disgusting! I can tell you, Inspector, if I’d attacked him with a knife it wouldn’t have been his heart I was aiming for! Well, I couldn’t be doing with that. Betty was getting very worried. She’s a kind-natured girl and wouldn’t have the guts to kick him in a soft spot or even say, ‘Boo!’ And we need the money she earns at the school to get by. So I decided to do something about it.”

“You went to the head?”

“I did! I have to say, Mr. Martin,” Clara leaned forwards and spoke confidentially, “he didn’t seem very surprised. I think the rumours must be true, don’t you?”

“They haven’t reached me yet, Clara.”

“That he’s been seen with … you know … 
town
girls. The floozies who come down here from Brighton for a weekend … all marcel waves, cocktails at the roadhouse, cigarettes and
Soir de Paris!
Well, Mr. Farman made no fuss. ‘Leave it to me, Clara,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with it.’ And I thought he had. For days we were clear of Rapson. Then you find him knifed to death where he shouldn’t have been. In my backyard.”

Clara looked searchingly at Martin. “He wouldn’t have disobeyed the head for something unimportant. He was up to something, I’ll bet. And that car arriving—it must have been connected. A big, posh car, Harry says. We don’t know anybody who drives a car like that. Or any car. Nothing to do with us. We didn’t want him there at all, not ever, not alive or dead, Inspector. I wish you’d leave us alone. We’ve got troubles enough.”

“
A
H. THIS DOESN’T
get any easier,” Gosling remarked lugubriously. “We seem to be faced with a welcoming committee, sir. And the natives don’t look particularly friendly.”

He parked the car a few yards from the front entrance. No one made a move to get out. Gosling cautiously shut his window. A crowd of grey-robed figures had flooded out through the door and surrounded the car, some peering in through the glass, some tapping on the windscreen. Most were silent with huge inquisitive eyes; a few were chattering excitedly.

“Inmates, I’d guess,” said Gosling nervously. “Yes, they’re all dressed the same. Big grey capes. So—inmates.”

“Patients, you mean,” Dorcas said.

She jumped as a hand released the handle of the passenger’s door and jerked it open. “Welcome to the Prince Albert, madam, gentlemen,” said a cultivated voice.

This was instantly submerged by a babble of noise as comments flowed in country accents:

“There be three on ’em today!”

“Two men is that—and a lady? Where’s the fourth? They always come in fours.”

“But they were only here last week, wasn’t it? That’s enough. Send ’em on their way, Francis!”

Joe decided to show himself. He stepped out and walked around the car to confront them. The crowd retreated a pace. There seemed to be about eight of them, all adults, all male.

A voice from the huddle, identifying Joe’s bearing as military, called out in a cheeky parody of a sentry: “Halt! Who goes there?”

Dorcas slipped past Joe as he stood, for once in his life, lost for words. “A friend,” she announced. “Well, three friends! Who else would you be expecting? We’ve come to see your superintendent.”

“Of course you have!” said the first voice. A hand emerged from the grey folds of his cloak, and Dorcas took it without hesitation and shook it firmly, murmuring her name. “Always welcome. Francis Crabbe. Team leader. Sixth Watch.” His eye sought out one man in the crowd and he added: “They’re welcome—however frequently they come, Bert. And these are different people.” He turned again to Dorcas. “You haven’t been here before, madam, have you?”

“Our first visit, Mr. Crabbe, you are quite right.”

“Well at least you don’t arrive at midnight like the last lot! We never like the midnight visitors much. We try to keep them waiting outside as long as we can,” he confided. “But you time your arrival well. The superintendent is just sitting down to tea. Come this way.” Francis Crabbe hesitated, then said hurriedly, “Unless of course you want to go off by yourselves and wander about first. That’s allowed. Everything’s open. Except for the you-know-where,” he said confidingly. “You’ll need a key for that. But—no secrets here! If you ask the superintendent, he’ll be delighted to show you round the cells. But I don’t presume to give you a schedule.”

“I think we’d just like to see the superintendent first, as you suggest, Mr. Crabbe.”

Crabbe walked ahead, chattering with Dorcas along a wide corridor whose tiled floor shone impeccably. Joe noted electric lighting, paintings crowding the walls, tables lining the way, each with a white lace cloth and vase of winter greenery. From behind closed doors as they passed along, Joe picked up a strange melange of sounds: a buzz of conversation, shouts of laughter, the tinkle of a piano very badly played and a crooning voice from a gramophone. The pervading odour was a blend of Wimsol bleach and toast.