Not My Blood

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  The Last Kashmiri Rose

  Ragtime in Simla

  The Damascened Blade

  The Palace Tiger

  The Bee’s Kiss

  Tug of War

  Folly du Jour

  Strange Images of Death

  The Blood Royal

  Copyright © 2012 by Barbara Cleverly

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Cleverly, Barbara.

  Not my blood / Barbara Cleverly.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-1-61695-155-9

  1. Sandilands, Joe (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Boarding schools—England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6103.L48N68 2012

  813′.6—dc23

  2012012702

  v3.1

  This book is for

  Daniel Joe,

  my friend, advisor and grandson.

  And for

  Polly

  whose flash of brilliance lit the way.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  CHAPTER 1

  SUSSEX, FEBRUARY 1933

  Carrying more than a hint of snow, a southwesterly wind gusted up from the Channel, spattering the school’s plate glass windows with sleety drops.

  Mr. Rapson began to shout. Not a natural disciplinarian, he found he kept better control this way and was gratified by the knowledge that most of the boys at St. Magnus School, Seaford, were frightened of him. He affected a military style that most were familiar with from their own fathers. Peremptory and predictable. “Come along! No footer today, so we’re going for a healthy walk. In pairs! Morrison! I said pairs! How many boys go to a pair? Two? That’s right. Not three! Drummond? No one to walk with? Walk with Spielman. Come on, Spielman! Get a move on!”

  Jackie Drummond didn’t want to walk with Spielman. He didn’t like Spielman. He had sticking-out teeth, and he never stopped talking, mostly giving rambling accounts of books he’d just read. At least he didn’t expect a reply. This left Jackie free to work on his new plan: to run away as soon as possible.

  Running away. The biggest sin you could commit, they said. But Jackie had heard of boys escaping from school—the older boys still talked about Peterkin, who’d run away ten years ago and never been brought back. Then there was Renfrew, who’d been in the year above Jackie. They’d said he’d been sacked for bad behaviour and sent to another school, but his best friend had other ideas. “Done a bunk,” was his judgement. “Skipped off in the dead of night. Never even told me he was going.” The best friend’s knowing smirk gave out quite a different message. He’d collaborated. There were things he could tell. And probably had told—to the staff. Jackie learned from this. Even if he’d had a friend, he wouldn’t breathe a word of his plans to him. If you’re going, just go. Confide in no one.

  For the hundredth time he reviewed the possibilities and consulted the list his mother had given him. He’d copied it into an exercise book to be on the safe side, but he carried with him the original in his mother’s familiar handwriting. A charm. A talisman to be consulted when life got tough. There were Aunt Florence and Aunt Dorrie in Brighton, only five miles away. This option had the advantage that he could walk there, but the disadvantage that he could swiftly be brought back again. It was the first place they’d look. There were Mr. and Mrs. Masters in Camberley, but he wasn’t sure where Camberley was, and he didn’t like them very much anyway. His preference was for Uncle Dougal and Auntie Jeannie, his father’s Scottish cousins in Perthshire. But Perthshire was a very long way away. And traveling on the railways over here was expensive. The fare alone was over two pounds and, even with the best expectations of cash from his birthday, it would be weeks before he had the necessary funds.

  Not for the first time he doubted his capacity, but a second look at Mr. Rapson, standing four-square in his college scarf and porkpie hat, ginger-coloured Harris tweed plus-four suit so nearly matching his foam-flecked and bristling moustache, convinced him that he had no tolerable alternative. And Rappo was shouting again.

  “Before we set off we’re going for a little run. All of you—down to the corner and back again when I say go. Go!”

  There was a wailing cry: “I’m cold, sir!”

  This was Foster. Foster was recovering from a mastoid, and the biting wind gave him earache.

  “Cold?” shouted Mr. Rapson. “Cold? Then run! That’s the way to keep warm!”

  The run took its predicted course (Smithson fell and scraped his knee and had to go in to Matron), and the walk followed in the teeth of the rising wind, down to the end of Sutton Avenue. Jackie hoped they’d turn right and then with any luck the walk would lead past the station and give him another chance to check his escape route. He liked the phrase “escape route” and said it over to himself. “My escape route!”

  “Yes,” he decided, “I’ll walk down Sutton Avenue, turn right at the bottom, go through that lane beside the biscuit factory. There’s not many street lamps here.” And if he wore his cycling cape over his uniform no one would know he was from one of the many preparatory schools in the town. As Spielman rambled on, unheeded, Jackie thought to himself, “Three weeks. That should be enough. I’ll go in three weeks!”

  Back in the school changing rooms, Rappo called a halt to the shuddering, sniffling procession. “All right! Dismiss!’ ”

  The boys began to peel off their wet overcoats and hang them on the pegs to drip in dank rows.

  “I said, ‘Dismiss!’ Don’t loiter about! Move!”

  Spielman stood, looking goofy, as the boys would have said. Mr. Rapson’s voice rose and became shrill. His stomach ulcer made him tetchy. He was glad to discharge some of the tension on to a victim: Spielman had sat down—still talking—on a bench. “Blithering idiot! I told you to dismiss. I didn’t tell you to sit! Did I? No!” He leapt forwards and seized Spielman by his prominent ears and lifted him bodily to his feet. Spielman screamed in surprise and pain.

  Jackie, hardly aware of what he was doing, rushed forwards. Indignation screwed his voice to a high-pitched squeal. “Leave him alone!” he shouted. “Pagal!” The Hindi word of abuse came easily to him. “Leave him alone!”

  Mr. Rapson turned towards him in astonishment, and Jackie found his face within a few inches of Mr. Rapson’s waistcoat, girt with his watch chain. Rocking back on his heel and using all his small strength, he plunged his fist into Mr. Rapson’s midriff. He was crying with rage.

  For a moment, time stood still. This was blasphemy of the most extreme kind. Such an outburst was totally without precedent. Masters hit you, you didn’t hit them. Rapson was big and powerful, Jackie was smal
l and insignificant. God only knew what would now ensue. The boys unconsciously began to back away, leaving Rapson and Jackie at the centre of a blighted space.

  Rapson eyed Jackie, grim with menace. He inflated his tweedy ginger chest like an aggressive robin, and the boys shrank back farther. Smythe 3 hid his face behind a damp coat and whimpered. Finally, with chilling control, Rapson spoke: “I’ll see you in my study after tea, Drummond. Six o’clock sharp! The rest of you—how many more times? Dismiss!”

  The bell rang for tea. An audience gathered round Jackie. “You hit him! You actually hit him in the bread-basket! Gosh, you’ll catch it, Drummond!”

  “Did you see Rappo’s face!”

  “Six of the best,” said Spielman, unimpressed by Jackie’s intervention on his behalf, “at least. That’s what you’ll get. Six strokes on the stroke of six!” He began to titter.

  Mr. Langhorne, one of the senior staff, was passing by on his way to supervise tea. He’d heard enough to guess what was going on. He gave Jackie a smile, saying jovially, “Take my advice. Fold a copy of the Daily Sketch in two and stick it down the back of your pants. I always used to. It helps.”

  The boys standing by laughed sycophantically, and Jackie went in to tea in total dismay.

  He’d thought the day couldn’t get worse but—wouldn’t it just be his luck?—they’d been given luncheon meat, potatoes and beetroot, and he’d been put to sit next to Matron. Jackie was a well-brought up boy, and his father had taught him that good manners demanded that you make conversation with your neighbour. He did his best: “Do you know, Matron? Until I came to school, I thought that only servants had beetroot.” He was aware that the remark had not gone down well, though he could not exactly see why. But then so many things had puzzled him since returning to England from his Indian childhood. The inevitable followed.

  “Beetroot may be seen as only fit for servants from your elevated colonial viewpoint, Drummond, but some of us actually enjoy it. Be thankful for what you are given. You will stay here until you’ve finished what’s before you!”

  Jackie looked down at the mess on his plate. Beetroot juice seeping into the potato, turning it pink, luncheon meat slices curling at the edge, and a stale glass of water poured out a long time before. Matron went to whisper to Mr. Langhorne, and Mr. Langhorne said, “All dismiss except Drummond.” And Jackie was left alone in the empty room, his plate still full before him.

  But relief was at hand. Betty Bellefoy, who was in the estimation of the school the prettiest of the three parlour maids, took advantage of Matron’s inattention and swept down upon him to whisk his plate away, replacing it with a dish of stewed plums and custard.

  “Thanks, Betty,” Jackie said, grateful.

  “Ah, go on with you,” said Betty comfortably.

  Jackie spent a long time over his stewed plums. The longer he took, the longer he could postpone his encounter with Rapson. Anything might happen. The school might catch fire. Perhaps his parents would appear in the doorway, or perhaps Uncle Dougal or perhaps the Brighton aunts. (Not impossible. They had once made an unscheduled visit.) But relief did not come. There was no way out. He was Sydney Carton on the scaffold; he was Henry V at Harfleur; he was Brigadier Gerard. What had he said?—“Courage, mon vieux! Piré took Leipzig with fifty hussars!” He passionately wished that fifty sabre-waving hussars would come clattering into the dining room and raze the school to the ground.

  One by one the last remaining staff left. Matron went out closely followed by Mr. Langhorne, which was often the case. And Jackie was left alone in the darkening room with Betty. Three plums eaten and the stones carefully arranged on the rim of his dish. Tinker, tailor, soldier.… He counted them again. That was a good place to stop. He’d settle for soldier today. Jackie had been rather taken with the one in the verse Mr. Langhorne had made them learn last week. The swashbuckling chap who was “full of strange oaths … bearded like the pard … sudden and quick in quarrel, seeking the bubble reputation even in the cannon’s mouth.” He wanted desperately to be old enough to swear and have a beard. He’d shown already that he was quick in quarrel. The whole school would be talking about his punch to the Rapson midriff. But, now, in the outfall, he felt much more like the frightened child his father had once hugged and called his “chocolate cream soldier.”

  He screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to fight back tears. In his imagination his father’s big hand tightened around his, rough and reassuring.

  Two plums remaining … sailor … rich man.… Settle for “rich man”? Money was a good way of getting out of trouble. He would make a lot of it, buy up the whole school and close it down. That wouldn’t be bad. Perhaps he should force down the last two plums? Betty looked anxiously at the big school clock and back at Jackie, her eyes wide with appeal. She sighed.

  Good manners overcame even the paralysis of terror, and Jackie roused himself. Never keep a lady waiting. He handed his plate up for the maid, and she dashed off into the kitchens in a gust of relief, muttering a word of thanks.

  Time to move on and take his medicine.

  He got up and put his chair away. What had Lloyd 2 said? “Don’t worry too much. It’s only a tickle. It’ll be over in five minutes. Brace up, Drummond! You’re a toff! Everyone’s saying so!”

  A toff. At least “the bubble reputation” seemed to be coming his way. All he could do was shape up and try to deserve it.

  On wobbly legs Jackie crossed the darkened hall, turned into the deserted corridor and began to climb the stairs to Rappo’s room. Into the cannon’s mouth.

  CHAPTER 2

  CHELSEA, LONDON. 1933.

  Joe Sandilands stood looking down on the restless, steel-grey surface of the river reflected in the lights of a tugboat and listened while the bell of Chelsea Old Church struck the hour. His sister Lydia joined him, handing him a glass of whisky.

  “The snow’s really coming down now,” she said. “Glad I rang Marcus to say I’d better stay over. Let’s hope it’s no more than a flurry and I can get a train in the morning. I don’t want to be snowed up in Chelsea staring at the Thames for a week.”

  “No fun being marooned in London when you’ve already emptied Selfridges of its goodies,” Joe agreed. “I can see that. It’s the only time you’ll deign to visit me—when you need to go shopping.”

  “There are compensations.” Lydia grinned. “It’s quiet here. No girls shrieking about the place. No husband asking how much I’ve spent. Grown-up conversation. And I thought, since we seem to be staying in tonight, we could listen to that play on the wireless. We’ll make a start on the box of chocolates we didn’t open at the theatre.”

  Joe swished the curtains together, turned on another lamp, and emptied half a scuttle of coal onto the fire. “I loathe February. Nothing much happening.”

  “The calm between the New Year madness and the spring urges,” Lydia said, nodding. She looked at the clock. “Come and settle down. Curtain up in two minutes. I say—you won’t be interrupted, will you?”

  “That’s the big advantage of my new job. Any bodies found floating in the Thames get the attention of one of my superintendents.” Joe sank into an armchair. “And no one knows I’m here. Well, go on, then. Switch it on.” He eyed the radio console with misgiving. “Warm up its valves, tickle its tubes or whatever you do.”

  Lydia approached the gleaming black bakelite altar and knelt before it. She began her ministrations, twiddling knobs and whispering encouragement until, after a series of nerve-rending shrieks and bleeps, a station tuned in. Dance music gushed into the room. A reedy tenor was warbling, “A room with a view and you … ou … ou.…”

  Joe laughed. “There! Noel Coward agrees with me. Some girls would appreciate a river view in Chelsea! No—hold that one—the play’s on straight after the Greenwich time signal.”

  Jack Hylton’s band signed off in a smooth crescendo, and they’d counted the first five of nine pips when the telephone rang.

  “Ah! Somebody knows where
you are,” said Lydia.

  Warily, Joe went to pick up the receiver. “Flaxman 8891, Joe Sandilands here.”

  There was a pause and then a hurried and breathless small voice spoke. A boy’s voice. “Hullo? Hullo? Is that my Uncle Joe?”

  Joe paused, unsure how to reply. He flashed a puzzled glance at Lydia. His sister had two offspring, both at home with their father in Surrey. And both girls.

  “Yes, this is Joe,” he said carefully, “but who are you?”

  “It’s Jackie, sir. Jack Drummond. I think I’m in a terrible crisis. This is an emergency.”

  “Drummond?” Joe tried to make sense of what he was hearing. And, suddenly connecting, whispered, “Drummond.”

  A recurrent nightmare gripped him, tightening its fingers around his throat. Struggling to find his voice and keep his tone level and reassuring, to sound like the staid old uncle the boy obviously took him for, “Jackie?” he said. “Well, well! Jackie! We’ve never met! You must be … let me think … ten years old by now?”

  “Nine actually, sir. I’m going to be ten next month.”

  “And where are your parents?”

  “They’re in India. They brought me over to school in the summer, stayed for a while, and went back home. I spent Christmas with my aunts in Brighton.”

  “I see. And this emergency—you’re going to tell me you’ve run out of pocket money, is that it?”

  “No sir. This is real trouble I’m in. I was given your telephone number, but they said I wasn’t to use it unless I was in a crisis.”

  “Where are you, Jackie?”

  “I’m at Victoria Station. I’m in the stationmaster’s office. The lady policeman brought me here. I hadn’t got a ticket, you see. She’s waiting outside. They’re going to arrest me for traveling without a ticket. I’m scared.…” The voice, which had been resolute, now had a break in it. “What shall I do, Uncle?”

  “Well, what you do,” said Joe as calmly as he could, “is three things. First, stop worrying. Second, see if you can get yourself a cup of tea. Third, don’t hang up but put the phone down. Go and get the policewoman to come and speak to me. Oh, and fourth, Jackie, I’ll be there with you in twenty minutes. Look, it’s not the end of the world to be caught traveling without a ticket. I’ll bring some cash and bail you out.”