“So this one went straight from the wheel to the heart without passing through a steak or a cabbage?”
“Exactly. And we know what we’re looking for. All the school’s kitchen knives were sharpened the day before. Happens every six months when Rory turns up. Does a good job, they say. One missing. Six-inch-blade, chef’s knife. Could have been picked up by anyone working in the kitchen or passing by out of hours. It’s out of bounds, of course. But it’s never locked.”
CHAPTER 13
“Well, here we are, Miss Joliffe. It’s not grand, but it suits me well enough.” There was an edge of challenge in the voice as Miss Harriet Hughes, matron of St. Magnus School, ushered Dorcas and Jackie into her room.
Mindful of the head’s briefing, Matron ran an eye over the odd pair. Drummond appeared to be smartly turned out. Fresh clothes, straight parting, handkerchief in pocket. She observed no sign of distress caused by his recent experiences but didn’t wonder at it. It would take a blast from Big Bertha to shake the confidence of some of these privileged little persons. He was just a boy who’d put himself by his arrogance into the wrong place at an inconvenient time. And who had heaped further inconvenience on them by running away for protection to—what had the head said?—“a well-connected uncle with a vast potential for trouble-making.”
Matron had not been impressed by this. She’d crisply reminded Farman that almost all the boys in his school could claim such a relative—they weren’t running an orphanage in Wapping, after all. If you gathered together all the fathers and uncles of the current intake they could probably run an empire, she’d suggested. “Several empires, Matron,” Farman had corrected. “That’s exactly what they do. It keeps them busy and out of our hair. They entrust us with their offspring and expect to be relieved of all further paternal involvement. No—this uncle is a concern to us for the second of the qualities I mentioned: trouble-making. The man’s a policeman. Not one of our kind—old buffers shot in at a high level like Sir Renfrew or Lord Buntingforde to head a county force. Men who speak our language, share our patriotic values. I’ve made enquiries. This one’s risen through the ranks, you might say, on account of his record. Well-connected, as I say, but a professional bobby. Worst of both worlds.”
“Only if you have something to hide, sir,” Matron had said, deliberately to annoy.
She rather wondered why Farman thought he was about to be put under the spotlight. Pompous prat! What misdemeanour did he have on his conscience? Had he been dipping into the school roof fund? To spend on what? Matron reviewed the head’s known indulgences. Sweet sherry and first editions of Dickens novels. And his extracurricular activities? An occasional visit, on Wednesdays, to the Odeon in town probably, by himself, to see whatever flick they were projecting. Yet there was no denying that the appearance of this Scotland Yard man was making Farman twitch.
But it was the detective’s female companion whom Matron found more intriguing. The Joliffe woman was billed simply as “an associate and representative of the Minister.” That fire-cracker, Truelove. If Farman had a crumb of worldly common sense, he’d be keeping an eye on this one.
Perhaps it had occurred to him—“Liaise with her, Matron,” he’d advised. “Reassure, soothe, ch—” Matron was quite sure he’d been about to say: “charm” but had hastily edited out this fanciful demand and replaced it with: “chat—er—establish a female relationship. Bear in mind that this lady’s eyes and ears could well be in the service of a government minister.”
Matron wondered saltily if any other parts of this lady’s anatomy were engaged in ministerial service. It was difficult to imagine any involvement with political shenanigans. No, Matron would have guessed that any influence or exploitation in this quarter sprang from a motivation less honourable than whatever the unworldly Farman could conceive of. She was unarguably a pretty little thing. If you liked dark-haired, foreign-looking women. Some men did. With her slim figure, know-it-all dark eyes, and superior air, this one could have managed the Chanel boutique in Regent Street.
Harriet Hughes ran a smoothing hand over her own rich red hair. She might be “matron” by title and she might be approaching forty, but she was not remotely matronly. Her tightly belted navy uniform dress with its white collar and cuffs emphasised a neat waist and bountiful bosom; the dark chestnut hair waved in a controlled way about her head, giving off an intriguing waft of Amami setting lotion. Her features, in contrast, were disappointing, quenched by the glory of the hair. She wore no makeup, as required by an educational establishment, but had taken the trouble to pluck her eyebrows into a fashionable arch.
“I expect you could be doing with a cup of tea after your morning on the road? I have the facilities.” Matron pointed to a kettle sitting on a gas ring by the hearth.
“How very pleasant this is,” said her guest politely, looking around the room. “I should love to have a cup of tea if it’s really no trouble.”
Matron lit the gas and reached for the pot and tea caddy.
The boy Drummond sighed and shuffled his feet.
Miss Joliffe launched into a conversation. “We’re on the ground floor, here, aren’t we? Don’t you find that a little inconvenient when your charges are two floors above your head?”
“Not at all. Glad to be out of earshot!” Matron confided. “In any case, I leave repression of noise and high jinks to the duty master. If there’s a medical emergency—night or day—someone pulls on the bell rope to summon me.” She gestured towards an old-fashioned row of bells, each one bearing an ancient name, fixed above the door. “A remnant of the old house. This place was built to be a nobleman’s country residence about two hundred years ago. It was turned into a school in Victorian times. Most of the fabric has been made modern and utilitarian. You know—the butler’s pantry is now the tuck shop and so on.” She smiled. “You find yourself in the old housekeeper’s room, which accounts for the bells. I’ve kept the connections in place for two of them. One is in the head’s study, the other one is on the second floor. The dorm prefect and the duty master only have the right to summon me. I have a small bedroom and bathroom adjacent to this room—a suite, I like to call it—and I always leave the door ajar at night when I’m on call.”
Miss Joliffe seemed fascinated by these humdrum domestic details. “Ah! The housekeeper’s room! The hub of the house. No small burden—the care of a hundred boys,” she murmured.
“It’s a hundred and twenty. Four dormitories. Plus the two sick rooms, of course. And it’s worse in the winter. But compared to my previous posting—I was a nurse at the military hospital in Brighton during the war years—this is a.…” Matron remembered the presence of Jackie and edited out the military phrase she had been about to use. “Look, Miss Joliffe, let me deal with young Drummond, and then we can settle down for a proper chat.”
Jackie, who was growing increasingly bored, chirped up with a helpful suggestion. “Matron! My form’s having library lesson now. It’s Silent Reading. My favourite!” he added for Miss Joliffe’s benefit. “I’m missing it. Am I allowed to go?”
“The library’s just down the corridor on this floor,” Matron said. And, seizing on the possibilities: “Silent Reading? If they can’t speak to each other, the other pupils can’t question Drummond or rag him. Perhaps a good way of getting him back into the routine? Yes, Drummond. You may go. I’ll have your bags sent up to the dorm. No illicit contraband in there I hope? No tooth-rotting sherbet fountains? No mind-rotting Comic Cuts? Well, as you’ve spent your time out in police custody, I think I may safely say—off you pop, then!”
Matron’s eyebrows arched in amused disbelief to see Dorcas Joliffe sink anxiously to her knees and deliver urgent instructions and advice to the boy. “Great heavens, Miss Joliffe! This is a prep school in Sussex, not an opium den in Limehouse!”
She appeared taken aback by the girl’s sharp response. “No stabbings reported in Limehouse this week yet. Can you say as much?” The Joliffe girl watched at the door as the boy scoote
d down the corridor and entered the library before she added, “He’s had a most upsetting experience, he was telling me, and could well be in danger himself. It’s no bother to keep an eye on him. Indeed, Sir James suggested that I should.”
Matron’s slate-green eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Ah, yes! Sir James. The name that opens a thousand doors. Are you by any chance a member of that family, Miss?”
“Not his family—his faculty.” The girl grinned. “I say his, but he doesn’t own the university quite yet. Though he does stump up most of the money that keeps our department afloat. There’s not much cash washing about in higher education these days, and a Cinderella subject like psychology needs all the support it can raise.”
Harriet Hughes had no time for Cinderellas. “Psychology? How to make a science out of common sense? Say it in Greek!” Her tone was scathing. “Knowledge of the soul. Sounds a teeny bit like hubris to me. Or gobbledegook. I’ve had too much experience of blood and guts to believe in the soul. I’ve seen exposed every organ you can imagine—and a dozen more—and never a glimpse of a soul.”
“I think you know as well as I do that it’s not to be found on a marble slab, Matron. But we may find it in a laboratory one day,” the girl said with a smile the Sphinx of Egypt would have envied.
CHAPTER 14
Martin unlocked the door of a room on the first floor of the main building.
“Rapson’s study. I thought we’d start here and work our way backwards. Nice little diggings he’s got here. Central. Handy. Most of the other masters are out in the Lodge buildings round the back—there’s a rear entrance that used to be more important when the place was a gent’s res. On the south side—that’ll be the way you came in—it’s all for show. The ‘domestic offices’ as the head calls them plus the staff and academic staff quarters are shoved away on the town side. Security nightmare. No thought to protect anyone inside the complex from anyone outside.”
“Or vice-versa,” Joe said thoughtfully.
“I expect it’s never been necessary. No reports of misdemeanours of any kind. I checked the records. One case of arson which was dealt with internally with utmost discretion.”
Joe nodded. “I see. Police excluded?”
“That’s right. The kid probably got six of the best and his Woodbines confiscated. A village lad would have been sent to the Scrubs and birched or put on the next boat to Australia. Nobody seems to lock anything in this place. Except me, of course. I’ve made the half square mile we’ll optimistically refer to as ‘the scene of crime’ as secure as I can in the circumstances.”
Joe peered into the room with appreciation. “Well if ever I tried schoolmastering, I’d hope for a retreat like this,” he commented. It was spacious and well lit by two bay windows. It was supplied with a substantial desk and sets of drawers and a filing cabinet. Joe sank into the black leather chair behind the desk and looked about him. “What’s behind that door?” he asked, pointing.
“Now wouldn’t we all like one of these?” Martin said opening it. “A walk-in filing room. All the storage space you could ever want.”
“This chap was—remind me—classics and form master? All this is rather grand isn’t it? Why, I wonder, does Rapson come in for such lavish accommodation?”
“I asked. There is a reason. The cupboard you see over there, more of a room really, is where the school records are kept. Rapson found himself chosen—or did he volunteer?—to compile a history of the school last year. He was given this pitch to facilitate his enquiries.” He nodded to the telephone on the desk. “Even has his own communications with the real world.”
“The desk’s a bit untidy,” Joe said tentatively.
“Yes. We’ve logged everything, finger-printed and photoed it. You can touch what you want, sir. The disorder is down to young Drummond. He left a note under a paperweight.” He indicated that this was still in position, and Joe leaned over to read it. “Apologises for bunking off and messing up the desk. Bit of a puzzle. Why would he do that? Throwing a tantrum because Rapson failed to arrive to deliver the promised whacking? One reason for calling him back. I look forwards to having a chat with the lad.”
“You’ll find him a good witness, Martin.” Joe decided to confide in the inspector. “Sit down, man. Join me at the desk. Something to tell you. I can explain one little mystery. And hand you another one.”
He took Rapson’s black notebook from his pocket. “So.… This was removed unwittingly from the room. Jackie still doesn’t know he had it in his bag.”
Martin fell on the series of photographs, and Joe watched him clear a space and repeat the process of ordering that Marcus had used. The inspector’s face grew grim. “I don’t like what I’m seeing,” he said gruffly. “I can think of no acceptable reason for a master having these in his possession. Can you?” Joe shook his head. “I’m not thinking these are prize-winners—faces from a victor ludorum gallery, are you? Look more like last in the sack race, wouldn’t you say? Why am I thinking—poor little blighters? We must suppose for a start that they’ve been got at. By sexual perverts? Is that what we’re dealing with? Are these some sort of ghastly trophies? More your sort of Metropolitan scene, sir,” Martin said, mustache bristling with distaste. “Not much call for perversion of this nature in Sussex. Brighton, perhaps, but that’s London-on-Sea as far as policing’s concerned.”
Sensing that the Inspector was beginning to flounder, Joe took over. “I agree, it’s a possibility which we must consider. And I concede that, sadly, it is a perversion that plagues the capital. Children are harvested, Martin—scooped up off the streets and railway platforms. Bought and sold like apples. Sometimes by their own families. Our Vice Squad closes down one of their ghastly scenes of operation one day, to find it’s sprung up the next in a neighbouring street. But I expect you see as clearly as I do the essential difference between these operations and the potential horrors we could have to deal with here?”
“Oh, yes. Class. Wealth. These aren’t kids off the street. Someone was paying a vast amount per annum to have them moulded, body and mind, into gentlemen. These polished little pippins don’t get shipped off and hawked about on a London costermonger’s barrow.”
“I agree. It’s local. We’re looking at something particular to this school. If it’s not just a silly schoolmaster’s odd fantasy—and I wouldn’t rule that out—it starts and finishes here at St. Magnus.”
“And my murder victim seems to have had the key to it,” Martin sighed.
“We won’t get any further until we get these chaps identified. I’d say they were taken over a period of years. Any ideas?”
“We’ll get the oldest member of staff in here to do an identity parade,” Martin said. “The puzzle is, Rapson wasn’t by any means the oldest established beak. He’d been here six years, that’s all. He wouldn’t have known most of these personally.”
Out in the corridor a bell clanged. Martin looked at his watch. “They’re on their break now. The common room’s just outside. I’ll nip out and collar one of the oldest exhibits. There’s a cobwebbed old classics master who looks as though he’s been a fixture in these parts since the Prince Regent was down here paddling in the briny. I’ll go and ruin his coffee break.”
He came back a moment later with a begowned and shriveled figure unwillingly in tow. “Commissioner Sandilands, may I present Mr.—er—Godson?”
“How do you do, Commissioner. Godwit. Classics and Scripture Knowledge.” Godwit extended a cold and bony hand, which seized Joe’s with surprising energy. “I’m told I can help you with a problem.”
“Mr. Godwit, we’d like you to look carefully at the photographs we’ve laid out on the desk and try to identify these faces which we think belong to old boys of the school.”
“Good Lord! Faces from the past!” Godwit put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and examined the exhibits with all the care they could have wished. “I can hand you seven out of the nine,” he said after a while. “Who’s taking notes?” H
e rearranged the order of the photographs to his satisfaction. “Numbering from the left and furthest back in time. I’ll suggest their intake year.
“Number one: Not known to me.
“Number two: Jefferson. Pre-war. 1910ish.
“Number three: Murgatroyd major … 1914. Distinctive, if unfortunate, features. The only son of his mother. His rather … elderly … mother. She died shortly after her son. Both victims of influenza. Murgatroyd remarried, and there have been a further two boys here after this one. Both successfully completed their spell at St. Magnus. Their father was a most generous benefactor in his day.
“Number four: Hewitt-Jones. 1916. Ghastly little tick! Never thought I’d set eyes on him again.
“Number five: Sorry, not a face I remember, but I’m placing him here because the tie’s changed, do you see? So he’s postwar.
“Number six: Pettigrew. That’s Pettigrew the London grocer. Made a fortune in the war. He had four sons, but I’m happy to say he only sent us the first. Clarence, I believe. Horrid boy! Quite horrid! A fighter. Transferred at the head’s request. In other words: expelled. The remaining brothers went elsewhere to trouble others. Let’s say 1920.
“Number seven: Peterkin. 1921 or ’22. Sad little chap, but clever. Yes, clever. Knew his Herodotus on arrival, I remember. Runaway, I’m afraid. Bullied by the other boys, they said.
“Number eight: Houghton-Cole. 1929. Ah! He went out in a blaze of glory. Set the cowsheds on fire.
“Number nine: Renfrew. Transferred to Templemeadows just last year. We weren’t good enough for Papa, apparently. 1932. Will that be all, gentlemen?”
“Just one more thing, sir,” Joe said. “Your first impressions of this group.… Does any common characteristic strike you? What is it that these boys have in common?”
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