Not My Blood Page 3

  “Not only possible,” said Joe slowly, “but I’d have to say probable.”

  “But who? How? Did you know he was coming?”

  “Know he was coming? I didn’t even know he existed! His mother gave him this address but more than that I really don’t know.”

  “His mother! Who is his mother? And where is his mother? She’s not on the next train, is she?” Lydia looked about her in mock alarm. “This place is hardly big enough to accommodate a growing family. Any more to declare?”

  “No, Lyd. I’m reasonably certain of that. And the lady’s name is Nancy Drummond. She’s in India.”

  “Oh! India!” Her relief was clear. “Yes, come to think of it, that fits. Ten years ago you were in Bengal.” She smiled. “I always thought there must have been more to your Indian interlude than multiple murders and man-eating tigers. Rather glad to hear there were lighter moments.”

  “Yes. Well, his mother is still apparently in Bengal. So is his father … well, you know what I mean. Andrew Drummond, her husband. The man the world—and the boy—thinks is his father. The Collector of Panikhat.”

  “Oh. A husband? Tell me, Joe, was he—Andrew, the Collector—aware that …?”

  Joe nodded silently, thoughts and memories suppressed for years flashing painfully to mind. “Oh, he was aware, all right,” he murmured.

  “Did it come to fisticuffs, pistols at dawn, perhaps?” Lydia asked hesitantly, her intense curiosity pushing her to ask questions she sensed would be unwelcome.

  “No!” Joe’s sudden grin punctured the tension between them. “I knew Andrew for just a short time, but I count him one of my dearest friends. And I know he liked me. Well, you’d have to have some pretty positive feelings for the chap you’ve chosen to father your wife’s child, wouldn’t you?”

  “Chosen?” said Lydia faintly and she sank down onto the sofa. “Are you going to explain all this? And can you really be so certain that the boy’s yours? I mean.…” Her eyes strayed to the bathroom door, and they listened for a moment to sounds of contented splashing and the ‘whoop, whoop, whoop’ of a Dreadnought siren. “… I have to say this and perhaps you’ve already noticed—that child doesn’t look in the slightest bit like you.”

  “That’s the irony!” Joe gave a bitter laugh. “I was selected to be the father of Nancy Drummond’s child quite deliberately, I believe, because physically Andrew and I are very similar. Tall, dark thick hair, a bit bony.…”

  “Emphatic features?”

  “Those too. The first thing that boy said to me was ‘You look like my father.’ He saw it straight away! The vital difference between us is that Andrew was badly injured in the war. The medical report—oh, yes, I did a bit of snooping, once I’d caught on to what was going on—mentioned, as well as a badly shot-up leg, something the military doctors delicately termed ‘intestinal chaos.’ Careful chaps, those medics—they went in for euphemism of the most ingenious kind to avoid blotting a chap’s record forever more. You can read what you like into ‘intestinal chaos,’ but I think, as well as a probably quite appalling stomach wound, it means Andrew had some essential equipment damaged and was rendered unable to have children. Her uncle hinted as much to me, but I wasn’t quick enough to catch his meaning. Nancy desperately wanted a child. And what Nancy wanted, Andrew was going to ensure that she had, whatever the practical difficulties. Or the heartache.”

  “Not the easiest thing to supply to order, I’d guess—in India. A child. You don’t find offspring in the Gamages catalogue, colonial edition. Wide choice of colour and size,” Lydia said thoughtfully.

  “No indeed! And you know what India’s like! Worse than Wimbledon! Tight community, and the memsahibs have eagle eyes, suspicious minds and tongues like razors. Now, if a dark-haired policeman passing through the province on duty were to get close to the Collector’s wife—and they were discreet about their closeness—it might just go unremarked if, nine months later, she has a dark-haired child—because her husband also has those same dark looks. Careful girl, Nancy. I have to say. She made apparently innocent but—I realised later—precisely targeted enquiries into my pedigree. A Lowland Scots gentleman with a law degree from Edinburgh and a chestful of medals seemed to be entirely satisfactory for her purposes. But I’ll tell you, Lyd, if I’d spent my war years behind a desk or—even worse—had curly red hair, I wouldn’t have stood a chance with Nancy Drummond!”

  Lydia risked a smile. “Good old Fate! I’d guess then that the child looks like his mother. And she went to all that trouble for nothing!”

  “Not for nothing. And whatever it was, it was no trouble,” Joe said with a fleeting grin. “At the time. Though after I found out what they’d been scheming towards I was a bit miffed. I loved her, Lydia.”

  “A bit miffed!” Lydia was reddening with anger, a sisterly outrage gathering to pick up and counteract his understatement. “This pair used you for breeding purposes—that’s what it amounts to—like a Black Angus bull! Except that, unlike a good Scottish stockman, Drummond didn’t pay a stud fee before he let you loose in his paddock, I’ll bet!”

  “Lydia!”

  “Sorry. But, Joe, are you quite sure you had no idea … they didn’t ask your permission or drop a hint they were about to steal.…” In her emotion, Lydia groped for an acceptable word. “… your essence?”

  Joe fought down an untimely rush of hilarity. He shrugged and answered seriously. “No, not a clue. I put it all down to my manly allure. By the time I caught on it was—evidently—too late, and no amount of indignant spluttering was going to affect the issue.”

  “Ah, yes. The issue.” Lydia’s voice softened as she nodded towards the bathroom door. “Wherever he came from and whoever’s issue he is—I’ll tell you something, Joe: that’s a fine boy. Plucky. Resourceful. Handsome. A worthwhile addition to the human race, you’d say. And one can hardly unwish him. But I can imagine your feelings. Poor Joe! I knew you’d changed when you got back but then, I told myself, India does change people. I never guessed about the broken heart. Wouldn’t it have helped to talk about it?”

  “Lord no! Hard to talk about the event without sounding self-pitying—or, worse, comical. Why burden others with my tales of woe? My mates would have grinned, dug an elbow in my ribs and said, ‘Lucky old bugger, eh, what!’ No. Some things are better kept out of view. I thought I’d buried it all until I saw the little chap sitting there looking so like his mother. Same coppery hair and light frame.…” He broke off, hearing the bath plug pulled. “Look, Lydia, what’s happened to him—Jackie, that is—I have no idea. But obviously, whatever it is, I must look after him.”

  “We must look after him. If you think about it, Joe, and your calculation is correct, well, then, he has an aunt now. A real one! That’s a role I can take on and play openly. Besides, I’ve had plenty of experience—there’s always some waif or stray of yours hogging my spare room. But what are we going to do with him?”

  “I can’t tell. But I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do and that’s send him back to that school. Whatever happened this evening, it was something damned dangerous. That was blood all over the front of his uniform. A large quantity of blood, I’d say.”

  So they talked on in hushed and urgent voices until Jackie, scrubbed and cleaned in pyjamas and an old shirt of Joe’s, came back through the door.

  “There are things,” said Joe, “that I need to know, Jackie. Lyd, see if you can find a cup of cocoa. One for me too while you’re at it. Suit you?”

  “Yes please, sir. Two sugars, if I may.”

  Joe took Jackie’s hand and sat him down on the sofa. He plumped up a cushion and poked up the fire. “You told me you were on your way to see this Rappo. Is that right? Tell me some more. Pick it up from there. What happened when you got to him?”

  “Well, I went up to his room and banged on the door. No answer. I banged again. Still no answer. I opened the door and looked in. As far as I could see, Rappo wasn’t there so I went in and looked round th
e room. I was right—he wasn’t there, and I began to think ‘Oh, crikey, he’s forgotten!’ I didn’t quite know what to do. I just walked round the room a bit and then I saw my running away bag. It was up on a high shelf. He’d taken my running away bag from my locker in the dorm! He shouldn’t have done that, should he? It wasn’t anything to do with him and I couldn’t think why he’d taken it. The strap was hanging down and I could reach that so I gave it a pull. Then something awful happened! My bag tipped over and fell and everything spilled out onto Rappo’s desk. I was afraid Rappo would come back before I’d put everything together, but he didn’t. I stuffed everything in. Not neatly as I’d done it before, but at least I got it all back in. I mean there was clothes, spare shirts, spare pants, spare socks, Treasure Island to read, my map of London. But Rappo still didn’t come back. So I wrote him a note.”

  “What did you say, Jackie?”

  “Can’t remember exactly but something like: ‘Came to see you at six and waited for a bit. Sorry about the mess. Signed, J. Drummond.’ Something like that. I left it in the middle of his desk and weighed it down with a paperweight so he’d be sure to see it. Well then I went out onto the landing, and there were people standing about, talking, on the front stairs. I didn’t want anyone to see me in case they thought I was sneaking off … you know … in a funk. Then I remembered the back stairs. They go down to the changing room and the kitchen and the back door and places like that. I don’t know what I was going to do. Perhaps I was going to hide a bit but well anyway I set off down the back way and … oh … Uncle Joe, it was terrible! There was Rappo standing halfway up the stairs. He was standing there just staring at me. He was holding onto the banisters with both hands and he looked all funny. He had poppy eyes and his mouth open … like this.…”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say anything except, ‘Ah, ah, grrr.…’ Like that. Growling and spluttering. I think he hardly saw me. He was panting for breath—I thought he’d been running, though Rapson never runs anywhere. He held out his hand as if he wanted to catch hold of me. I wasn’t going to let him touch me! I tried to duck past him on the stairs but he grabbed me and held on to me, sort of groaning and trying to say something. I was ever so scared! He looked so mad! I gave him a push. Only to get away from him! I didn’t mean to hurt him! I gave him a push and.…” Jackie began to sniffle.

  “Jackie,” said Joe, “it’s all right. I’m here. You’re safe. Of course you gave him a push. It sounds as if it was very frightening. So what happened?”

  “He fell! He fell backwards down the stairs all the way to the bottom and he sort of crumpled and rolled over. He landed on his front. He looked broken up. Like Humpty Dumpty. All his arms and legs were sticking out. I knew I ought to go to him and I made myself climb down the stairs after him. I tried to turn him over to see if he was still breathing. But he was too heavy. I couldn’t move him. I couldn’t hear anything so I put my ear to his chest to see if his heart was still beating but … Uncle Joe, he was dead! When I touched his jacket my hands got all sticky!”

  Jackie held his hands out, his eyes wide with horror at the memory. “His front was sopping wet. I thought he’d been out in the snow and got wet through but it was blood! He was dead and all bloody! I’d killed him! I’d pushed him down the stairs and killed him! Broken his neck? I don’t know. People do break their necks when they fall downstairs, don’t they?”

  “Well, yes, they do,” said Joe, “but I don’t think that can be what happened to Rappo.”

  Lydia edged back into the room with a tray. “Here we are!” she said in the cheery tone of one bearing cocoa and ginger biscuits. “I floated some cream on top as they do in Vienna. Thought we all deserved a treat. Do go on. I heard what you were saying, Jackie. Poor old thing! What a dreadful experience!”

  “Thank you, Auntie Lydia.” He sipped and gave a shaky smile. “Well you see, then I thought: Now I really am in trouble! They’ll all know I’ve killed Rappo! I must run way. Bring my plans forwards, you could say. So I ran to the cloakroom and washed my hands, then I got my cycling cape and put my bag round my shoulder. It was about a quarter to seven and I thought if I hurried I could catch the seven o’clock train—the train to London—and come to you.”

  “Jackie, I’m very glad you’re here, but why me?”

  “Well,” said Jackie, “There was Uncle Dougal in Scotland but I hadn’t enough money for the fare, and the aunts in Brighton but they’d soon catch up with me in Brighton. And there are people in Camberley but I don’t really know them and then at the end of the letter Mum gave me—I’ve got it here.…” he said and went to feel in the pocket of his cycling cape. “Here you are, you see, here are the telephone numbers and addresses and at the end—look.…”

  He handed the much crumpled paper list to Joe, who read it and passed it on to Lydia. The list of names concluded: In emergency only, Joe Sandilands, 2, Reach House, Chelsea, London. Flaxman 8891. Uncle Joe is a policeman. He will take care of you.

  “That’s not Mummy’s writing,” said Joe, puzzled.

  “No,” said Jackie, “it’s Dad’s. He added you just when I was saying goodbye to him. I’m glad he did!”

  “Yes, by God!” said Joe. “I’m glad he did too! I don’t like to think of you loose in London without a bean.”

  Jackie sat between them on the sofa, empty mug in his hand, blinking owlishly from one to the other.

  “I think that’s enough,” said Lydia. “Come and see the bed I’ve made up for you. Quite cozy, you’ll find. I’ll tuck you in.”

  “Will I be by myself, Auntie?”

  “Yes. In splendour and state. Well, not much splendour—it’s only a box room. But there won’t be twenty other boys fussing about to keep you awake.”

  “Lydia,” Joe called after her, and then, hesitantly: “I think you’ve misunderstood. He mightn’t want to be alone … nightmares and all that. If you look in the bottom drawer of the pine chest, you’ll find something you’ll recognise. You can offer it to Jackie. It may help.”

  “Go and climb into bed, Jackie. I’ll be with you in a minute.… What are you on about, Joe?”

  “Hector. You can give him Hector.” He frowned to hear her peal of laughter.

  “Your disgusting old horse? He was declared unhygienic and mother threw him out years ago. Anyway,” she whispered, “the boy’s nearly ten. I don’t want to insult him.”

  “Do it anyway, Lydia.”

  Joe sat and listened for a while to the soft voices coming through from the box room, first Lydia then Jackie in reply. There was a shared laugh. Probably greeting Hector’s appearance. These were the most natural of sounds, friendly and domestic. Impossible to believe that there was a bloody background to these moments of peace, hard to believe that they sat in the outfall of manslaughter at the very least.

  “Well, Joe,” said Lydia when she returned, “what now? Worked out your next move, have you?”

  “Yes, my immediate next move, said Joe, “but beyond that I can’t see. My next move has to be to ring up this wretched school. I should have done it hours ago but this has been rather a precious moment for me and I didn’t want policemen clumping all over the place. Or headmasters. I didn’t want Jackie to be in any kind of trouble whatever and we can keep him safe and warm and fed here. I even had a sort of mad idea that he might go back home with you for a bit at least. Was that so daft?”

  “Well I have to say I think it was a bit daft. Of course he’d be totally welcome and for as long as you can manage—you know that. But there are others involved, aren’t there?”

  “Quite a few,” said Joe. “Quite a few.”

  He picked up the phone and dialled directory enquiries. Lydia heard him say in a very police voice, “St. Magnus School, Sussex please.” And after the delay, “St. Magnus School? Please put me through to someone in authority.” And then, “My name is Sandilands. I’d like to know to whom I am speaking.… This is important and confidential. I would prefer to speak
to the headmaster. You may tell him it concerns a boy of his. Jack Drummond.”

  Almost at once a worried and angry voice: “Hullo? Hullo? You have something to tell me about Drummond? Do you know where he is? I say, do you know where he is? And, incidentally, who are you? Are you saying you’ve got Jack Drummond there? How did this happen?” The voice was anxious, hostile. “The police are looking for him you know.”

  “I didn’t know but I thought it was possible. But I need to know who I’m speaking to—is that the headmaster?”

  “Yes. Farman here. Where are you speaking from?”

  Carefully and succinctly Joe gave his name, address and telephone number.

  “London! How the hell did he get there?” said Farman, clearly not in any way reassured. “Who’s holding him?”

  “No one’s holding him,” said Joe. “He’s in my care.”

  “What’s it got to do with you? How did you get in on this?”

  Patiently Joe explained. “Mr. and Mrs. Drummond gave Jackie my name and address as a contact if he was in any sort of trouble. I met him at Victoria Station and brought him back to my flat here. I’ve fed him and he’s now in bed. I do not want him disturbed or worried in any way tonight. He’s obviously been through an alarming experience. Now—you said the police were looking for him. Can you explain to me why?”

  “There’s been a bit of … an accident here. It is apparent that Drummond was in some way involved. The police need to interview him. Perhaps you’d better speak to them. Come back to me when you’ve finished—we must arrange for Drummond’s return as soon as possible. I consider that of paramount importance. I am, after all, in loco parentis.”

  “And, by the same token,” said Joe, “I find myself in loco patris.” He delivered the invention with all the gravitas of a lawyer. “Which is to say, the boy has been transferred to my care, in writing, by Andrew Drummond. I have the document to hand. I have assumed paternal responsibility for him.”

  “I shall need to see your proof. I have a list here that his parents gave me of relations and friends he might contact and I don’t see your name on it.”