It was the little girl’s turn to bat, and she stood on the first base, licking her lips in concentration. When the ball came, she took a tremendous swing at it, and then was off, running towards the second base.
It was her long skirt which let her down. She tripped over it, and went sprawling, accidentally revealing a pair of dirt-encrusted legs that Boulting considered just perfect.
Almost without realising it, his right hand was down his trousers, and he was imagining having the little girl to himself for the afternoon. First of all he would bathe her and wash her hair, then he would towel her down and comb the hair until the knots were gone. Naturally enough, she would be nervous, but he would be very, very gentle with her. And then he would realise that she didn’t actually want him to be gentle – that she had a blazing passion which equalled his own – and that he could be as rough with her as he liked.
Hold back! He ordered himself.
Hold back!
Don’t squander your pleasure all at once!
Think of something else!
The distraction that he settled on was the ambush – there really could be no other word for it – which had occurred the previous August, in front of St Luke’s porters’ lodge.
He had been approached by two men with serious expressions on their faces and the light of evangelism burning in their eyes. One of the men had been in his sixties. The other was in his late twenties – and was missing his right arm.
‘My name’s Tom Smith,’ the older man told Boulting, ‘and I am proud to say that all three of my fine strapping sons are fighting bravely for their king and country in France.’
‘And my name’s Hector Judd, formerly of the Oxford Light Infantry,’ the one-armed man said.
‘We’re Parliamentary Recruitment Committee canvassers,’ Smith said. ‘If you want me to, I’ll explain what that means.’
‘I don’t need you to explain it,’ Boulting had said.
Nor did he. It all went back to the Derby Scheme, created by the Earl of Derby, Lord Kitchener’s deputy in the War Office. The reason why Derby had come up with this scheme was that, by the middle of 1915, the rate at which men were enlisting in the army had slowed down quite considerably, and since soldiers were getting killed in ever larger numbers in France, it was obvious that – unless there was a sudden upsurge in volunteers – conscription (which would be bad politically) would have to be introduced.
In essence, the scheme was an attempt to encourage – or perhaps even manufacture – that necessary enthusiasm. In practical terms, this amounted to tracking down every man who was old enough to fight, and handing him a letter from the Earl of Derby that explained how much his country needed his help.
Boulting’s first instinct was to refuse to take the letter that Smith was offering him, but then he changed his mind, and decided it might be quite amusing to go along with the game these two pathetic pieces of humanity were playing.
He read the letter from the Earl slowly, occasionally casting a quick, covert glance at the canvassers, who were waiting for him to finish like eager and impatient puppies.
‘So what does it mean when it says that I should “attest to joining the armed forces”?’ he asked, when he reached the end of the letter.
‘It means that you promise us you will enlist within forty-eight hours,’ Hector Judd said.
‘Or, if you prefer it, we can take you to the recruiting centre now,’ Tom Smith told him, ‘and once you’re sworn in, they’ll give you a special signing-on bonus of two shillings and ninepence.’
‘Two shillings and ninepence!’ Boulting said in mock awe. ‘I’ve never had that much money before. I don’t know what I’d do with a whole two shillings and ninepence.’
Hector Judd scowled, recognising sarcasm when he heard it.
‘Well, will you do it?’ Smith asked, and it was plain that though he was the older of the pair, he was also the more naïve, so the sarcasm had gone right over his head. ‘Will you come down to the recruitment office with us?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d like time to think about it,’ Boulting said.
‘What is there to think about?’ demanded Judd. He waved his stump angrily in Boulting’s direction. ‘I’ve already made my sacrifice for my country – now it’s time that you made yours.’
Boulting recalled a song which had become very popular in the previous few months.
‘“I gladly took my chance, Now my right arm’s in France”,’ he sang, imitating the music hall artist he had seen perform the number, ‘“I’m one of England’s broken dolls”.’
By the time he’d finished, the other two men were glaring at him angrily, but he wasn’t worried, because one of them was an old man and the other was a cripple, and neither of them posed a serious threat. He was not even bothered when he noticed Gough, the head porter, glaring at him with pure hatred from the lodge door. True, Gough was tall enough and strong enough to cause him problems, but, when all was said and done, he was still nothing but a servant – and the day when the quality started being afraid of their servants was the day the world would come to an end.
The little blonde girl was fielding now, which was much better – much less likely to overexcite him and bring to a sudden sticky end what should have been a much longer process. And yet, even out there – standing perfectly still – she was causing his heart to palpitate, and he knew that he needed to stop focussing on her for at least a couple of minutes.
This time, he did not turn his thoughts to events that had occurred months earlier, but instead recalled what had happened that very morning.
Reading between the lines of the newspapers, it had been obvious to Boulting for some time that far too many of the men approached by the Parliamentary Recruitment Committee canvassers had answered in a manner which, whilst probably not as crass and unfeeling as his own response, had nonetheless been equally as negative. As a result, conscription had finally been introduced, and Boulting himself had received a curt letter, informing him that he should report to the conscription office at the time indicated.
Boulting was pleased by neither the decision nor the letter. The first year and a half of the war had been a golden time for him, because so many married men had joined up, leaving behind them young daughters who were both unprotected and vulnerable to approaches by any man who reminded them, even a little, of their beloved daddies.
Oh yes, it had been wonderful, so why had the government, and the army, and the Germans, all conspired to spoil it for him? And why, if he must report to the conscription board, did he have to do it at the barbarically early time of ten o’clock in the morning?
He had not expected a warm welcome, so it was no great disappointment or shock when the captain glared at him from across the desk and said, ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’
Boulting looked back at the captain. He was still in his twenties, and had the sort of regional accent you did not normally hear coming from the lips of officers and gentlemen. So it was likely he had risen through a field promotion, and field promotions were, in Boulting’s opinion, a big mistake, because you didn’t make a king out of a turnip simply by putting a crown on its head.
‘Well?’ the captain demanded, impatiently.
‘What have I got to say for myself?’ Boulting mused. ‘Well, there are many things I could say – and on such a wide range subjects, too – but I really don’t have a clue what it is that you’d like me to say.’
‘You could have joined up when war was declared,’ the captain said, now it was clear that Boulting wasn’t going to play by the rules the way that everyone else did. ‘Millions did join up, you know. Or you could have attested under the Derby System, when you were approached by the canvassers, but you didn’t do that either. What’s the matter? Are you a coward?’
‘I don’t think so, no,’ Boulting said, ‘but neither do I see the need to deliberately expose myself to enemy bullets, when there seem to be so many other men eager to fill that role.’
‘And am I supposed to be offended at being insulted by a man who, in peacetime, would probably be expected to enter my house by the back door?’ Boulting wondered.
The captain smiled. ‘Well, you had your chance,’ he said, ‘but you did nothing, and now the decision’s been taken for you. As of this morning, you are a second lieutenant in the Welsh Engineers.’
‘The Welsh Engineers?’ Boulting repeated with disdain. ‘Aren’t they mainly those grubby little miners who dig their foul stinking tunnels right under the Hun’s lines?’
‘Sir,’ the captain said, his smile broadening.
‘What?’ Boulting replied, mystified.
‘You are now subject to King’s Regulations, and even if I would be told to enter your house through the back door in peacetime, I am now your superior officer. So what you should have said is, “Aren’t they mainly those grubby little miners who dig their foul stinking tunnels right under the Hun’s lines, sir?” And yes, that’s exactly what they are.’
‘They’re not really my style, you know,’ Boulting said, then he caught the dangerous look in the corner of the captain’s eye, and added a reluctant, ‘sir.’
‘No, I imagine they’re not,’ said the captain, who looked as if he’d really started enjoying himself.
‘I doubt I’d even understand what they were saying … sir,’ Boulting continued. ‘I’d really be much more comfortable with a commission in one of the Guards regiments.’
‘You sail for France next Wednesday,’ the captain said. ‘Bon voyage, old chap!’
Boulting didn’t argue. What would have been the point, when he had no intention of going to France and becoming just one more name on the ‘killed in action’ page of The Times? His family was rich – fabulously so – and had estates in the West Indies. He could slip away to one of those estates, and spend the rest of his war pleasuring himself with dusky prepubescent maidens.
A woman appeared on the waste ground. She was perhaps in her early thirties, and wore a turban on her head. Her breasts – great floppy things – hung pendulously over her big stomach. It was hard to believe that she could be the mother of the little blonde-haired angel, but that was probably exactly what she was. And if that were true, it was likely that by the time the angel was her age, she would look like that, too. But that was the advantage of doing things the way he did – because, long before they got to be fat and ugly, you had used them, squeezed them dry, and moved on.
The mother looked across in his direction, but before she had time to get a proper look at him, he stepped off the bricks and became invisible to her. Not that there was any real need to do that now, because the time element meant that her grubby little lamb was quite safe from Albert the big bad wolf.
As he walked away from the waste ground – with the winter wind freezing his ears, and the frosty air nipping at his ankles like a demented ferret – he was whistling quite philosophically.
When he got back to his rooms, he would pack a few essential things in his Gladstone bag, and catch one of the morning trains to London. After that, it was just a question of going down to the East India Docks and bribing his way onto a suitably luxurious ship that would soon be setting off in the right direction.
He was half-way down Walton Street when he felt a sudden tingle at the back of his neck which made him come to an abrupt halt. He had the greatest respect for his instincts – they were highly tuned, as they had to be if he were to pursue his guilty pleasures without fear of apprehension. And what his instincts told him was that, at that moment, he was being watched.
It wasn’t the police.
He was sure of that.
He knew that the police had been watching him from time to time, hoping, in their bumbling way, to be able to catch him in the act. But he always knew when they were there – his instincts picked up their presence as clearly as if they’d brought a brass band with them.
He looked up and down the street and could see nothing and no one the least suspicious-looking.
But it didn’t matter – it didn’t matter a damn – because he could still sense them out there.
He went back to St Luke’s by a roundabout route, and employed any number of diversionary tactics – entering the Lamb and Flag by one door and leaving by another; taking a sudden turn down Turl Street, then turning left at the first cross street – but it made no difference, because when he finally reached St Luke’s, he could still sense that the presence was with him.
Standing there, in the gateway, a dozen yards from the porters’ lodge, his instinct told him that he should go straight down to the railway station and catch the first train to London, but though he recognised that this would be his wisest course, he could not bear the thought of leaving without the collection of erotic photographs he had hidden in his room.
It won’t take a minute to pick them up, and then I’ll go straight to the station, he told himself.
Gough appeared in the doorway of the porters’ lodge.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.
‘Has anybody been looking for me, Gough?’ Boulting asked.
‘Looking for you?’ Gough replied. ‘Now why would anybody have been looking for a yellow-bellied coward like you, sir?’
Hearing those words – from that man – was like plunging into ice-cold water, Boulting thought.
It took your breath away – it really did.
‘How dare you?’ he raged. ‘How dare you!’
Before he knew it, he was striding furiously towards the head porter. He would thrash the man to within an inch of his life, he told himself, and he wouldn’t even have to pay a fine, because by the time anyone found Gough, he himself would be long gone.
Gough watched his approach calmly, and when Boulting had covered about half the ground between them, the head porter held up his hand and said, ‘If I was you, sir, I wouldn’t come any further.’
Boulting realised he had come to a halt. He didn’t understand how it had happened. He certainly hadn’t consciously willed it – and yet some tiny controlling spot somewhere in the back of his head seemed to have thought it was a good idea not to take Gough on.
The head porter was still standing there, watching him through eyes that were filled with contempt.
‘I’ll have your job for this, Gough,’ he blustered. ‘I’ll see you kicked out of this college for openers, and then I’ll make sure you never work anywhere else, ever again.’
‘You must do as your conscience dictates, sir, and I will do the same,’ Gough said, before taking a step back into the lodge and closing the door firmly behind him.
Boulting took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down, and wondered what to do next.
There seemed to be no one else around – the army people were probably out on manoeuvres again – and it was a long walk from the archway to his staircase.
Should he risk it?
Gough had said that no one had been asking about him.
No, what Gough had actually done was wonder why anybody would ask for him, which was not the same thing at all.
And anyway, Gough had turned so strange that there was no point in paying attention to anything he said.
There would be no danger in collecting his precious pictures from his room, he told himself – no danger at all.
And even at that very moment, there was a part of him which knew that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
NINE
8 October 1974
Albert Boulting went missing in 1916, and James Makepeace was last seen in 1943, and those disappearances corresponded – more or less – to the times the two (as-yet-unidentified) bodies were bricked up in the air vent in the cellar of St Luke’s College. Therefore it follows that the dead men in the vent have to be Boulting and Makepeace, doesn’t it?
No, it doesn’t. Coincidence is not proof, which is why, when the police find a body that matches the description of a missing girl – right do
wn to her shoes and the birthmark on her left arm – they will still not confirm it actually is the missing girl until the girl’s parents have made a positive identification.
Having said that, I’ll admit that I’d be very surprised indeed if the bodies don’t turn out to be those of Boulting and Makepeace, but that’s a long way from stating categorically that it has to be them, because the simple fact is that people who disappear often do ‘pop up’ again unexpectedly somewhere else, sometimes many years later.
So what I need to find out – doing the best job I can with my limited resources – is whether either Boulting or Makepeace ever actually ‘popped up’ again, and it is this mission which has brought me to the charming Northamptonshire village of Kneebury Thrubwell.
I have not come alone, but instead – in the back of the light blue Vauxhall six-hundredweight van, which I hire for such occasions – have brought with me all the costumes which comprise the wardrobe of what I like to think of as my one-woman repertory company.
When I arrived in the village – Norman church, thatched cottages, duck pond on the village green with real ducks bobbing complacently up and down on it – I still had no firm idea about who I would be. So, in order to assist me in reaching my decision, I headed straight for that repository of all local knowledge and wisdom: the village pub – which, in this particular case, was named (probably by the sharp-suited geniuses in the brewery’s public relations’ department) The Headless Rider of Kneebury Thrubwell.
The morning meeting of the village dipsomaniac society was already in session when I arrived, but it was no closed, insular society, and I found that my offering to buy a round of drinks was enough to ensure that I was treated like a long lost member.
My new friends were a retired postman, a retired shopkeeper, a retired garage mechanic, and a ne’er-do-well who was looking around for something not to retire from. When I asked them about the Boulting family I unleashed a positive flood of anecdotes, gossip and innuendo.
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