Not My Blood

by Barbara Cleverly

  Donald Carter poured himself a much-needed tumbler of whisky and waited.

  “YOU DON’T OBJECT if I bring my colleague Inspector Martin, do you, doctor? I believe you two know each other?”

  “We do! Always a pleasure, Martin. Assistant Commissioner, how do you do?” Dr. Carter shook the firm hand offered him and pulled up another chair. “Sit down, both of you, and tell me how I can help you.”

  “By revealing the contents of one—or two, possibly three—of your files. Patients’ records. Inspector Martin has obtained the requisite authorisation from the local magistrate. A search warrant, Carter.” Sandilands slid a folded document on to the desk. The doctor’s eyes, reading upside down, took in the chiseled script of the headed sheet: His Majesty’s Metropolitan Police. He gulped. “We could, using this, look into anything in here that takes our fancy.” The icy grey eyes surveyed the room, calculating and commanding and taking it all, lock stock and filing cabinet, under his authority.

  Sandilands waited for the doctor’s nod and his murmured: “I understand that,” then he turned a less stern gaze on Carter. “But I’d much rather do this neatly and quickly by dipping into your mental filing cabinet. You agree?” he suggested.

  The doctor nodded again and put a hand on the file sitting at the ready on the desk before him. “I may need to check dates and so on, but I’m ready to speak to you.”

  “The Bellefoy family up at the school—”

  “The Bellefoys?”

  “Yes, all three of them. Tell us a little about young Harry and his problems.”

  “Oh, very well. He’s five years old. I don’t need to check his birthdate because I was present at the event, and it was Christmas Day 1927. I registered his mother as Clara Bellefoy and his father: unknown.

  “The child was born slightly prematurely, and possibly this affected his development, both physical and mental. He’s quite a strong boy but somehow badly wired up. Clumsy. Uncoordinated. He was late to crawl and late to walk. But his mother and sister take such good care of him his condition improves by leaps and bounds. They spoil him of course. I’ve had to speak to them. Not that they take any notice. Harry’s mentally defective, you’ll have realised if you’ve seen him. You have? Poor speech and reasoning. I’ve had him tested, and he’s two years behind on the scale we use. But again—those women are working wonders.”

  The policemen had listened quietly, giving nothing away.

  “And Betty Bellefoy? If I were to look, what, I wonder, would your file reveal about any broken limbs in December 1927?” This question came from Inspector Martin. The CID man blinked, pursed his lips, and kept silent.

  Ah. Well, it had been worth a try. Seeing no way out of this, the doctor got up and went to his cabinet. “Here you are. Bellefoy, Elizabeth. Born 1913.”

  “In your own words, doctor,” Martin encouraged. “It’s all right, man. It’s only us. The boy’s in no trouble. We’ve got a puzzle that needs clearing up, that’s all.”

  “You’ll find Betty suffered a broken ankle falling out of an apple tree—the Bath Beauty at the bottom of their garden, on … December 24th, 1927. Multiple fracture—it was the devil to set. That what you want?”

  “So—not Clara at all? It wasn’t Clara who threw herself out of the tree to dislodge an unwanted child from the womb?”

  “No, it was little Betty. And not the first time she’d tried. I suppose it was the extra weight this time that did it.”

  The doctor’s head went up, he sniffed, tooted into a large handkerchief, and glared back at them.

  “I was called in. They’d hidden the pregnancy under layers of pinnies, as women do, and the girl had gone on skivvying at the school, condition unnoticed. They were planning to deliver the child in secrecy if it couldn’t be got rid of, but what with the ankle and all and Betty in double agony, Clara gave in and summoned me. The poor child, in her pregnant state, must have been exposed every day of her hard life to the sight of the man who’d brought it about. The man who, the previous March, had raped her. She was only just fourteen, gentlemen.”

  “And Betty’s baby became officially Clara’s,” Martin said heavily. “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. If a mother’s young enough not to stretch belief beyond bounds, she’ll sometimes take the blame. ‘Afterthoughts’ they’re sometimes called, these children. It happens that an auntie takes a child in with nothing said. It’s better than the alternative: the orphanage. Or the loony bin. But it’s the criminal father I’d like to get my hands on, doctor. Did the Bellefoy women ever tell you his name?”

  “No. They never did. Just ‘a man at the school.’ It could have been anyone from the headmaster—well, perhaps not him—down to one of the school stewards. Randy lot, some of those boys. Get up to all sorts of mischief in the summertime with the girls from the village. Those old cart sheds are nothing but an invitation to cider-fueled bucolic debauchery.”

  “And young Betty had got involved with some lad who’d not known when to stop?”

  “That sort of scene. Not in the least unusual—it’s the way most marriages start, officer, and no one bats an eyelid. I think Clara had some scheme of her own that she didn’t want me to be a party to. ‘Just leave it to me, doctor,’ she’d say. ‘I know what I’m doing, and you can be sure it’ll be the best for Harry.’ She’s a determined woman. Resourceful. And she loves that child dearly.”

  Dr. Carter fell into deep thought and was left untroubled by the pair of police officers while he pondered.

  “I say—could these questions have anything to do with the murder that’s taken place up at the school just the other day?”

  Martin replied. “We believe they are connected, doctor.”

  “If they are, then you must have guessed the identity of the father and possibly the reason for his killing? Oh, no! How sickening! I don’t want to contemplate such a horror! Him? That man? Rapson? Surely not! There are rumours that he.… Oh, that can’t be! But if it is—”

  The officers looked steadily at Carter, allowing him time to absorb the unpleasant idea. When he could stop spluttering, he said urgently, “Look, you’re powerful men! Can’t you do something to avert another tragedy? Because that’s what you’ll bring about. You’ll wreck three lives.”

  The doctor took off his spectacles and gave them the full force of his earnest blue eyes. The midday sun, stealing at an angle through the window behind him, lit up his bald head and gave him the authority of an avenging angel.

  “If we could, we would, doctor.”

  Carter believed Sandilands. The Met man’s expression was no longer flinty but conveyed a great sadness.

  “But meting out justice is not our role, you know. We seek out the truth. Others judge their fellow men. May I ask if you could stand by in support if the worst occurs?”

  “Of course. Of course.”

  Sandilands picked up and pocketed his warrant to indicate that the interview was over.

  Martin paused at the door as they were leaving and loosed a Parthian arrow. “Doctor. One last thing. Are you by any chance a member of the Eugenic Education Society? Wednesday meetings once a month in Brighton?”

  After a short silence the doctor asked, “Why do you ask? Strange question and surely none of your business?”

  “We have reason to believe it most definitely is our business, doctor,” Sandilands took over. “I’ll come clean with you. We’re inquiring into the behaviour and movements of certain members of this society in connection with a crime—a series of crimes—against young people. We believe that Rapson is one thread sticking out of the Gordian knot. Help us to give it a tug, will you?”

  “Whatever next? And to answer your question, I am most certainly not a member. Many physicians are involved—I am aware of that—and I would probably have made better advancement in my career had I been a member but—no. And no! I am in favour of life and humanity in whatever natural form they present themselves. And, gentlemen, a word of advice from me: Always mistrust a w
ord that begins with eu.”

  “Yew, doctor?” Martin asked.

  “Ancient Greek: eu. It means good, well, fine. And it most often signals a lie or deception is coming. The word ‘euphemism’ says it all! ‘Speak fair.’ Use a sweet word to express an unpalatable idea. A spoonful of poisoned honey! So—those scourges of Mankind, the Furies, became the ‘Eumenides.’ ‘The Kindly Ones.’ An instrument to rival the bagpipes in unpleasant sound is a ‘euphonium.’ A ‘eulogy’ is a fine-sounding speech, usually about a dead person and usually lies. Eugene—the well-bred boy—is the cousin who poked me in the eye with a stick when we were boys. And ‘eugenics,’ my friends, is the new-fangled science of breeding fine offspring. By calculated selection of the parents.”

  “You see something wrong in that aim, doctor?” Sandilands asked.

  “For a start it’s not a science as it claims to be, nor ever can be. Eugenics … genetics … all bogus.”

  “Bogus?” Sandilands picked him up on this. “Must I tell my niece she’s wasted three years of her life studying genetics as an element of her course at London University?”

  The doctor gave him a level glance. “You might well mention it. The proponents of this quasi-science have made use of Bateson’s work, that he has termed ‘genetics’ and that he, in turn, has devised after the pea-planting experiments of a Moravian monk. Interesting stuff—yes, interesting, and it must be pursued—but it won’t bear the weight of a complete social upheaval such as they are planning. Enforced sterilisation of the unfit is on the books.”

  “There’s a Sterilisation Bill going through Parliament as we speak, I understand,” the London man remembered.

  “The movement’s gathering pace! The United States, Australia, Germany, Scandinavian countries, all have leapt on this infernal bandwagon and are going downhill faster than we are. Are we cart horses to be selected or discarded to produce ever more acceptable generations of children?

  “Eugenics! Hah! The name’s a made-up word. It is in itself a euphemism for a very nasty notion. Selective breeding and its obverse—selective culling. Eugenics—sounds innocent enough. Fine breeding. Until you realise that it involves compulsion and the denial of human rights culminating in the knife and the lethal chamber. It’s the children of the future who are everything to the eugenists. Children who do not exist, who may never exist, are shaping our laws in Parliament as you observe, Commissioner. Surgeons are sharpening their scalpels. In some of the American states they’re using them! Vasectomy and salpingectomy are being practised, in themselves dangerous procedures. Many thousands have already suffered. The presently living are being sacrificed for an army of phantom children of the future.”

  Carter paused for breath, aware that the vehemence of his outburst had startled the two officers.

  Martin spoke gravely, shaking his head portentously: “That can’t be right! ‘What’s posterity ever done for me?’ I’ve often heard it asked.”

  The doctor and the assistant commissioner burst into laughter, a release from the tension of the last five minutes.

  “And there you have your best riposte to the eugenists!” Sandilands said. “Laughter! A good British guffaw.”

  “THAT SHORT INTERVIEW raised more questions than it answered,” Joe commented as they hurried back up the hill to the school.

  “Oh, I’m not sure I’d say that,” Martin said comfortably. “It solved a murder case. I know who, why and how as a result of the doctor’s information and insights. Just a question of gathering in the evidence from the laboratory, pulling all the threads together, and then I’ll be in a position to make an arrest. Can’t say I’m looking forwards to that very much. As far as I’m concerned, Rapson got what was coming to him. But I’m wondering, why at that particular moment?”

  He thought for a moment, then spoke aloud for the first time the name at the forefront of their minds. “Clara. She’d had five years to think about it and had done nothing, not even complained to the headmaster, that his new form master had raped her daughter and got her into trouble.”

  “Do you think Farman has any idea?”

  “No. I don’t. And if Clara’s capable of snatching up a knife and stabbing a man—three times, they’re saying—on a snowy night in her own backyard, there’s more to it than just a sudden urge to avenge her daughter for a six-year-old offence. Clara’s a planner, I’d have judged.”

  “I took a peek at the knives when I barged into the kitchen. Two, as old Rory said. But not a pair. Only one was worn thin. The second wasn’t new, but it wasn’t well worn either. A replacement?”

  “I think so. The other thin one ended up in Rapson. I’ve not had the lab report back yet. Some prints may have survived two nights under snow.”

  “But you’re right, Martin. Something triggered it. Clara’s snatching up the nearest kitchen knife, I mean. I bet we can trace it back with a bit of imagination and fevered speculation. Calm me down if you think I go too far. I think Rapson was being blackmailed by Clara. ‘I’ll go to the head and tell him if you don’t cough up.’ Blackmail’s too strong a word, perhaps, but you know what I mean.”

  “Dues being exacted,” Martin corrected.

  “Better. His cheque book shows he was paying out a sum of money—in cash—every month. What’s the betting that’s been going into caring for Harry? Possibly putting away a little something towards his future? Clara strikes me as being a calculating and careful type of woman. That household is frugal but well-ordered. But just before he was stabbed, Rapson withdrew vastly more than the usual amount. Why? Was it intended for the Bellefoys? Blood money?”

  “Close the women’s mouths with a wad of bank notes and have the lad taken away? But where to? That car the boy heard, it was coming for him! A Talbot, you tell me. Does that signify?”

  “I’m waiting to hear back from London. They can trace the registration numbers of all the cars in the country. My super is on to it. But it’s a Saturday.…”

  “There’s more to this than just the Rapson murder, isn’t there? You hinted as much from the beginning. It’s linked in with your enquiry.”

  “Yes. Rapson isn’t exactly the key to a very nasty business, but he’s the signpost. Think of it this way, Martin: If you came across something in the course of your researches into the history of the school, a pattern of disappearances, unaccounted for, suspicious in different ways.…”

  “And you had all the time in the world to ferret about and all the documents you needed to hand, a telephone … the authority of the school behind you.…”

  “You might find out what was going on and who was directing operations—much more easily than coppers like us ringing up on the off chance. Boys for different reasons are being spirited away from the school and into the blue yonder. Never seen again.”

  “This is a notion that has an appeal—we now know—for Rapson! He himself has an unwanted, defective and expensive offspring round his neck. I think the victim of blackmail became himself a blackmailer. Instead of rushing to the police, he confronted the villains he uncovered and made them an offer: ‘Extend your services to me as a personal favour for not blowing the gaff. I have another little job for you.’ ”

  “What a fool!”

  “Not the brightest. He took on a cold and clinical organisation who deal in death.”

  “Death, sir? You’d go that far? I was thinking on the lines of segregation or sterilisation. The loony bin or the snip. Possibly both?”

  “There was one eu word the doctor didn’t utter. The second part of it is another Greek word: thanatos. Death. An easy death. Let’s call them a Euthanasian Society. I think these birds went along with Rapson as far as sending the car after dark to make the pickup. But something went wrong. The child escapes, or is never presented, or was never going to be taken, the car takes off into the night, and Rapson staggers back, dying of knife wounds. Having got his comeuppance?”

  “We need to look again at that courtyard when the snow’s finally disappeared.” Martin�
�s voice suddenly held a ray of hope. “Who knows what tale it may be able to tell us if we look in the right places, sir. This organisation—I like the sound of that. Several people involved, are we thinking?”

  “Almost certainly. Rapson, I’m sure, must have worked out that if there is such an organisation in place, it very likely features the headmaster. Farman. The man who attends the meetings of the Eugenics Education Society. The man who has no time for anyone of less than human perfection.”

  “Unless it’s himself, of course. Farman! You’d be looking at him a long time before you thought of Adonis! I can’t see it, sir. Eugenist by conviction, I’ll grant you that, but cold-blooded murderer? Naw! He’d preach ’em to death, but I doubt he’d lay a finger on one. I can’t see him shoving a child off a cliff one dark night.”

  “Nor can I, Martin. I think he’s just a cog in a much greater machine. He’s an enabler—does the word exist? Oh, Lord! I find myself trying to avoid euphemisms after Carter’s little pep talk! He’s a sort of Charon. Not killing the children himself but ferr—oh, my God!”

  Joe stood, unable to move, mind racing.

  “You all right sir? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I have.” Joe shuddered. “A ghastly, grey-garbed, pitiless figure. Charon. Do you know what the headmaster’s name is in German? A horrible coincidence? I’m not superstitious or particularly credulous, Martin, but this makes my blood run cold. It was Gosling who said it—as a joke. ‘Herr Fahrmann,’ he called him. Fahrmann. In German that’s the Ferryman.”

  “By God! Funny that! Makes you think. I wonder where he’s stashed all those obols he’s collected for punting the kids across to the Underworld?”

  “That’s a very copper-ish thought!” Joe grinned. His smile faded quickly. “But I’ll replace it with something more sober—I fear we have one lost soul still adrift on the river.”