Not My Blood

by Barbara Cleverly

  He smirked at Joe and Gosling and smacked the weapon suggestively into the palm of his other hand in a gesture he’d surely seen in a gangster movie. “Well, well! Two smart-arses caught abusing the boss’s hospitality! These men are intruders, Jonas. Did anyone warn you they were expected? Naw! Me neither! Show ’em how we welcome intruders, shall we?”

  The man talked too much. Bored, belligerent show-offs whose moment had come at last, they were going to savour it. But it was their eyes, supercilious and mocking, that chilled Joe. These men were confident in their place and their position. Like bull mastiffs, they obeyed one master. And that master was not on hand to call them off. The pack instinct would take over. He’d encountered London thugs before; once they’d downed their prey they kicked their heads in. They owed no allegiance to law and order; they would be deaf to an upper-class voice. Useless to try to talk his way out of this encounter. Bluster or reason, either one would go unheard. He wondered if Gosling had come to the same conclusion. Better be certain.

  “Give it ten, Hercules,” he muttered sideways.

  He was spurred on by the click of a safety catch behind him.

  Presenting a broad smile to the two slowly advancing thugs, Joe held up his left hand, waggling his Scotland Yard warrant card showily in front of their eyes.

  “Ever seen one of these, eh?”

  His right hand chopped sideways into the nearest man’s neck before he’d finished speaking. His left, dropping the warrant, slammed upwards into the wrist that was already raising the cosh, and the metal bar continued on its trajectory, shooting upwards out of the man’s grasp and clanging to the floor behind him. Joe followed with a fist to the undefended jaw to slake his own anger and then threw his weight onto the slumping body with the determination of a hound bringing down the heavier boar. He forced the man to the ground and applied more judicious pressure until the grunting stopped.

  Gosling’s left hook on the other man’s jaw was a satisfying cruncher but not a disabling blow against a taller and heavier opponent. He needed to duck and dodge two swipes from an over-confident meaty fist before a second blow from his left put the man down to join his pal on the floor. He stepped back, looking slightly surprised.

  “Do we need to do anything further with these louts, sir? Um.…” He glanced around him at the stark surroundings. “In the matter of restraining, I mean? A bit of rope, perhaps?”

  Adam managed a grin. “With all these cages about? Naw!” He waved the key. “Shove the buggers in there,” he said. “In the ops room. It’s soundproofed. I’ll lock ’em in. There’s no way out. They’ll be there until the prof gets back from London. Could be midnight. Could be tomorrow morning.”

  Joe had already grasped the ankles of the thug he’d knocked out and started to pull.

  Before they left by a back service entrance, Dorcas dropped a kiss on Adam’s forehead. “Bless you, Adam. Come with us, we’ll take you to your mother’s—and don’t worry! Joe will see nothing bad happens to you. He’s not a ferret at all. More of a warhorse. He’ll pound Bentink under his hooves.”

  Joe groaned. Living up to Dorcas’s expectations had always taken the stuffing out of him. “I’ve done quite enough pounding for one day,” he said. “Gosling? Are you fit to drive? Hands survived, have they? Thank God for that! Dorcas, I think this would be a good moment to break out the flapjack.”

  CHAPTER 26

  They made for the ground floor headquarters on return to St. Magnus.

  Martin was still at work by the light of several electric lamps he’d requisitioned and set about the room. The radiators seemed to have been invigorated, and a warm tobacco-scented fug greeted them. The inspector had taken further steps to give a more professional air to the dingy place: A map of the county had gone up, stuck onto a blackboard on wheels: a rank of correspondence trays occupied the surface of a large table jammed in between a decaying vaulting horse and a rack of rotting tennis raquets. A second table in the centre of the room bore, surprisingly, a white cloth, four place settings, a flagon of cider, and a large cottage loaf with a pat of farm butter alongside on a breadboard.

  Inspector Martin looked at his watch. With a gesture, he invited them to take a seat at the table.

  “Right on cue. You made good time. Lots of information to exchange. Thought we’d do it over supper or after supper. Not sure how you lot are fixed, it being a Saturday. I thought perhaps the commissioner and Miss Joliffe might have stopped off at The Bells for an American cocktail or two. But just in case, I took the liberty of—Ah! There we are! Right on time.”

  He hurried to the door to open it for a school steward who came in, red in the face and panting, laden with paper parcels.

  “Well done, lad! No, keep the change. I hope these are still hot?”

  “Piping, sir! I went on my bike. And I made sure old Arnie gave me this lot fresh out of the fryer. I said yes to salt and vinegar—hope that was all right.”

  “Haddock and chips from the local chippie,” Martin announced, depositing a package on each plate.

  “Glad I signed out of school supper. It’s bread and cheese on a Saturday. Staff all out cutting a rug somewhere.” Gosling’s eyes gleamed. “I say, I do hope you can eat haddock and chips, Dorcas?”

  His nice manners obliged him to ask, and if the girl said no, Joe knew that poor hungry Gosling would forgo his steaming plate of fried fish to go in search of something she would like to eat. But Joe knew the boy’s supper was safe. The old Dorcas would have rejected the suggestion of a delicate palate and regaled him with stomach-turning tales of hedgehogs baked in clay and offal sausages. Joe, with silent approval, heard her say simply, “Certainly can! I’m a student—fish and chips is a treat. Gosh, these look good! Cider, everyone?”

  By unspoken agreement, no one mentioned the case until the last chip had been eaten, the last crisp morsel of batter crunched. Dorcas and Gosling swiftly cleared away the debris of the meal, refilling the glasses with cider. Then three pairs of eyes turned on Martin.

  “I hope your day was as fruitful as mine,” he said, producing envelopes and documents from his briefcase and piling them on the table in front of him. “Rapson, first. Murder of. We have our killer. Or two killers. Or none. You can take your pick.

  “There was enough light left and enough snow gone to get out onto the grass in the courtyard after you left. The killing patch. I could read it like a book! Pool of blood still there marking the spot where the knife had gone in—and been pulled out—but footprints as well. The ground was soggy enough before the snow fell to take an imprint, and once the covering was gone, all was revealed. Here, take a look at this.”

  Martin slid a sheet of graph paper across the table. A meticulously recorded scene-of-crime plan in various coloured inks plotted the movements of three people.

  “Key: Red’s for Rapson. Blue’s for the child. Black for the killer,” Martin explained. “We’ll start with the boy. Harry. Coming dark. He’d been out on the turnpike clocking the cars as usual when it came on to snow. Or something spooked him.”

  “Like a gent in a big Talbot saying, ‘Get into my car, little boy, and we’ll go for a ride’?”

  Martin nodded. “We see running footsteps straight across the yard, you see. It could be that he knew he was late and he’d get into trouble with Clara.” Martin shrugged. “At all events, running. And here,” he pointed to a red mark, “is where we could say ‘Enter villain.’ Rapson. What’s he doing down here? Gone to liaise with the driver of the car he’d ordered up? Harry makes a run for it, and Rapson pursues. Look, his steps overlap. And the spacing indicates a man in a hurry, allowing for short legs and corpulence. Just after six, are we thinking? The car had come for Harry and was waiting in the lane. But Rapson never caught the lad to put him in it. See here? These black prints? Woman’s size four shoes. Never overlap the child’s. They ran straight past each other. Black squares up to Red, toe to toe, and Red gets a knife stuck into him. Someone pulls it out, releasing a gush of blo
od. Rapson’s steps then go staggering off back into the school building and the woman’s return to the cottage.”

  “Blood traces on Clara’s clothes? Shoes?”

  “None. The women had cleaned up. Probably ended up in the school incinerator next morning. They had plenty of time.”

  “Shoe size confirms Clara’s presence?” Joe asked.

  “Both women size four. But this is the real clincher.” Martin passed a Sussex Constabulary laboratory report over. “Blood test on the knife. Rapson’s type A, plus—and the boys were quick to spot this—a different blood completely.”

  “Two victims?” Gosling asked in astonishment.

  “Yes. But the second sample wasn’t human. Animal. To be precise, a rabbit. That’s the nearest they can come to it. Rabbit blood.”

  “Clara had a rabbit from Old Rory,” Joe remembered.

  “And she cut it up that afternoon and stewed it for Betty’s supper. When she saw the danger—perhaps the lad was screaming for help—she picked up the nearest tool and went out to see to it.”

  “Her prints were on the handle?” Joe asked.

  “No. Only Rapson’s. Smudges under his, but nothing identifiable.”

  “You’ve charged Clara?”

  “Not yet. There’s a problem.”

  Joe frowned, seeing the inspector’s unease.

  “She confessed to it. I put the scenario to her with the evidence, and she hung her head and said yes she’d done it. Bloody old Rapson had been bulldozing them into taking steps to send Harry off to some place he could be taken care of and forgotten. What man would ever want to marry Betty if the truth came out? he asked her. He threatened Clara that it certainly would if she didn’t comply. Rotter! I could knife him myself! Anyway, it was a hands up to it from Clara. She’d heard young Harry yelling and run out with the knife exactly as I’ve explained and stuck it in Rapson three times. He stood there, upright and snorting but not dead. At this point, Clara fled in horror. Looking back, she saw him pull out the knife and then throw it to the ground—they will do that!—and stagger off to the back entrance.

  “At that moment Betty gets back a few minutes late from school because she’s been held up waiting on young Drummond. She takes it all in and helps clean up. They decide to leave the knife, thinking the bad weather will destroy the prints, but anyhow, Rapson’s were the last ones on there. She goes back to the school kitchen and nicks one of the meat knives and puts it in its slot in their own kitchen. Harry is sent to bed and told nothing’s happened. He’s to say, if anyone asks, that he’s been up there playing with his cars.”

  “Clear as day. What’s your problem, Martin?”

  “Trouble is, Betty confessed as well. And blow me if she doesn’t make it sound convincing. The women are covering for each other. Deliberately, to spread confusion?”

  “Or because they appear genuinely to believe the other one did it?” Joe offered. “The inference is that it must therefore be the work of a third party. I’ve seen that happen. And, I can tell you, it works. If the accused really aren’t certain, the jury is even less so, and an acquittal usually follows.”

  “According to Betty, as she was getting back from school, she saw Rapson chasing Harry, ducked into the kitchen, and snatched the first knife that came to hand—from the draining board—and stopped him in his tracks. Three stabs, and she pulls it out. Rapson amazes her by not keeling over but standing his ground. She wipes the knife on her skirt and shoves it in his hand. He drops it and stumbles off. But then Betty goes one further. Modern lass. Reads the papers. Listens to gossip. Clued up, you’d say. She accuses Rapson, who’s no longer here to defend himself, of—” Martin glanced at Dorcas and, seeing something in her expression, braced up. “Of paedophilia. Interfering with young boys. Says she’ll stand up in court and speak out. Says she was only defending her little brother from a sex-crazed monster.”

  “Look, one doesn’t want to pose as barrister for the prosecution, but isn’t there a little matter of Rapson’s—er—well-signalled proclivities? A certain tendency to pursue members of the opposite sex, Betty in particular? The headmaster’s intervention and all that?” Joe said tentatively.

  “The lass has got that covered,” Martin announced with ill-disguised pride. “She’s going to say as how that was all a sham, a pretence. Haunting her was an excuse to get close to the lad. You can imagine the effect of that delivered from the witness box. A girl whose honour has been doubly betrayed. Every male breast in the jury will be swelling with indignation.”

  “Tell me, Martin, how do you predict that defence will go down at the Sussex assizes?”

  Martin smiled. “On previous performance, I’d say the judge and jury will decide for self-defence or justified homicide or both. The twelve good men and true will all be local. And young Betty in the box would tug at your heartstrings. You can imagine. They’ll ask for Rapson to be dug up to stand a charge of something—anything.”

  Martin was ill at ease in spite of his positive forecast. Dorcas and Gosling turned glowering looks on Joe.

  The voice Joe heard breaking into the strained silence—wily, manipulative, authoritative—was that of Sir George, his mentor in India. Surely not his own?

  “Allow me, Martin, to put an alternative scenario before you. We have here, in Rapson, a man who—and his bank manager will confirm this—had been for some years the subject of blackmail. His bank was becoming alarmed and had resorted to issuing warnings. Can we guess at the subject of the blackmail? An unhealthy interest in small boys? His career would never survive the revelation that was threatened. The blackmailer was most probably a man in his own immediate surroundings. Someone close to him? A professional colleague? A combination of guilt and fear and suspicion screw his emotions to a height and, perhaps with the trigger of the scheduled beating of a small boy in the offing, Rapson cracks under the strain and decides to do the honourable thing and end it all. He snatches up a knife from the school kitchens as he passes through on his way out of the school and goes off to find some space in the courtyard where he won’t make a mess on the carpet. A space where he can be viewed from the cottage making his statement—‘See what you women have driven me to!’ And he stabs himself in the heart.

  “Now, the Romans were adept at this type of exit, and perhaps they were his inspiration—historian and classical scholar that he was. But it is in fact remarkably difficult to summon up the strength to do it. His attempt is not immediately fatal. In great pain and instantly regretting his action—as many suicide victims do—he tears the knife from the wound and, rapidly shedding blood, starts off back to the school to find medical help. Are we surprised that only one set of prints was found on the knife—Rapson’s own?”

  “The rabbit blood, sir?” Gosling was eager to hammer down every nail in this creaking construction. And at once he answered his own question. “Old Rory! He’d just handled all the knives, and he’d been killing and gutting rabbits. Cross-contamination!”

  Joe nodded. “Well, what do you think of that, inspector?”

  Martin cleared his throat. “I think it’s the most brazen, duplicitous pack of lies I’ve ever heard spoken. Shame on you, commissioner! Do you know, I think if we were just to lose Old Rory’s statement and advise the women to keep their traps shut, we could get away with it. He’s never going to turn up in a court of law as witness anyroad.”

  Joe smiled. “Well, think about it. No rush. What other revelations do you have in that pile of documents?”

  “This came for you. Special motorbike messenger from Whitehall.”

  Another brown envelope crossed the table. “You’ll see it’s been opened. I notice you had it addressed to Assistant Commissioner Sandilands and Inspector Martin. Very thoughtful. So I had a peek. Oh, my! Lists of members of the Eugenic Society. Two. Countrywide and a selection for the southeast.”

  Joe fell on it and skimmed his way down the alphabetical list, grunting with surprise and exclaiming as one famous name after another caught
his eye. “Confirmation. Farman’s here. Also Bentink. There’s our link.”

  “Anyone else we know?”

  “I’m afraid so. There’s Dr. Chadwick, father and son, many notables listed as ‘Mayor’ of this, ‘Alderman’ of that, physicians aplenty—but I’m wasting time. Gosling, give me the names of the missing boys in alphabetical order if you can remember them.”

  Gosling snapped to and recited the names:

  “Jefferson.”

  “Here.”

  “Hewitt-Jones.”

  “Listed.”

  “Houghton-Cole.”

  “Present.”

  “Murgatroyd.”

  “Three of those—we’ll have to check initials.”

  “Pettigrew.”

  “Here.”

  “Renfrew.”

  “Here.”

  “And your last, Gosling?”

  “For Peterkin, look under Greatorix, sir. The stepfather.”

  “Yes, he’s here.”

  Joe broke the deep silence. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve got the buggers. Time to roll them all up.”

  “Did you make an arrest at the clinic, sir?” Martin enquired.

  “No. Hard nut to crack, St. Raphael’s Clinic. Shall I tell him?” Joe asked the others unnecessarily.

  Martin listened without interrupting the tale. And finally: “But you’ve got it with you? The evidence? These films?” he asked eagerly.

  “Yes. We’ll have to take a peek at them in London. I’ll get them back to the Yard and give them a good going over.”

  “It can’t wait. Spielman’s still out there. It’s a Saturday.” Gosling looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock. School hall! Quick! It’s Langhorne’s weekly treat—Laurel and Hardy will be just finishing. The film show for the boys. If you can get up there before he starts pulling the plugs we could have an after-hours command performance. I know how to work one of those projectors. I’ve filled in for Langhorne once or twice.”