Not My Blood Page 7

  “James Truelove?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “But what could he possibly have to say to you, Joe? Do you need reforming? Why is he meddling in police business?”

  “Well, of course, he oughtn’t to be. And, as far as I can see to it, he won’t. The police force isn’t at the beck and call of the government. We need to remind them occasionally that it’s the country we serve, not ministers. This new office of state someone’s thought fit to endow him with worries me. It’s a bit nebulous, a bit embryonic. I mean—name anything that couldn’t do with a bit of reforming! Where do you start?”

  “You could start with the Met, if you think about it.”

  Joe snorted with laughter. “We may well be on his list! But after a punishing war and a financial collapse, the whole country’s in desperate need of rebuilding … a change of direction, heaven knows! But, all the same, I’m wary of such unspecific, all-encompassing titles. He seems to have been given a roving brief to stick his aristocratic nose into anything that he considers smells less than rosy. And with a background of scientific knowledge—his degree’s in Natural Sciences I think—and all that philanthropic family tradition behind him.… Well, it’s very compelling.”

  “Know what you mean,” Lydia said thoughtfully. “We do like our heroes! The Darwins, the Huxleys, the Galtons and the Trueloves—they’re all bound up with our national identity. And they have the advantage of having no whiff of militarism about them.”

  “People hear the name, listen, believe and obey.”

  “Ah—is that what you’re seeing? The messianic type? That wouldn’t appeal to you! Not sure it appeals to Marcus either. I’ve never met him so I can’t really give an opinion but … but … the man is not unknown in our house.” Lydia seemed about to add more and Joe waited to hear it. Finally: “I think Marcus knew his late father, Sir Sidney, rather better. He talks of James as a man who’s being groomed for performance at the highest level in government.”

  “Sounds likely. He’s learning his political trade, Lydia. In a position powerful enough to bring him into contact with the nation’s most influential men.”

  “So what’s he doing spending the morning with you?”

  “It’s that school, Lyd, that’s sparked his interest. He said he was acting in response to the concerns of parents but … oh, I don’t know … he appears to have turned his reforming zeal on a very large target. Nothing less than the education system itself. Unchanged from Victorian days, he maintains. The public schools are backwards, reclusive, badly managed. And who will disagree with him on that point? He’s proposing a scheme to introduce compulsory inspection and reform. And the state-run establishments don’t escape his attention either. Academic achievement must rise, bodily fitness must be improved. Every school to have its football pitch, gymnasium and swimming pool. Lyd, he’d got with him a secretary holding a sheaf of statistics that (amongst other things) show just how miserable and unfit for anything the average recruit was at the time of the war. And he says, more than a decade on, things haven’t improved—they’re getting worse. Oh, yes, he’s putting the boot in with the Department of Health too. Mens sana in corpore sano would seem to be his motto.”

  “In patria sana, could you add?” Lydia gave a comic shudder. “The man’s not newly returned from Germany with a few ideas, is he? You know what they’re like over there for building bodies and improving minds.”

  Joe was silent for a moment. “I’ll check,” he said. “I’ll put Special Branch up that drainpipe. I wouldn’t think ‘National Socialism’ would be Truelove’s cup of tea but they’ll know. He is very patriotic. Not a sin, so am I. So are you. But he dares to voice harsh criticism bluntly. The country’s suffering, he declares, from the existence of what he calls a ‘social problem group,’ a section of society which is threatening to drag us all into the mire.”

  “All very laudable. I had wondered myself. But I still don’t see what Truelove’s search for Utopia has to do with you.”

  “This so-called group … no, legion of sickly degenerates he’s got in his sights is responsible for much turpitude, including the increase in the crime figures, according to Sir James. We’re all about to sink under a tide of lawlessness and public disorder, did you know?”

  Lydia gave a gurgle of laughter. “So—he’s taking a poke at Health, Education and The Law all at once? I’d like to meet this modern-day Don Quixote! He sounds just my type. I can’t imagine he went down well with old Trenchard though.”

  Joe gave an exaggerated shudder at the memory. “He didn’t! Truelove delivered his awful warning—nothing less than a finger-wagging rebuke—to the Commissioner’s face! What a nerve! I mean, you don’t talk to the ex-Marshal of the Royal Air Force and a war hero like that. It all seemed a bit ill-judged even for someone bent on establishing a reputation for innovation.”

  “Ouch! Did Trenchard defend himself?”

  Joe grinned. “Didn’t need to! Howgrave-Graham and I, with one mind, decided to preserve our boss’s dignity. We came galloping up, sabres drawn and attacked from two sides. First, we unseated his Sancho Panza and then disarmed the minister. We made a good double act. You’d have thought we’d rehearsed it! We took it in turns to bludgeon them with statistics. ‘Only twenty-nine murders in the Metropolis last year, burglary down eleven percent, grievous bodily harm down thirteen.…’ I pelted them with figures. ‘Recruitment to the Force up thirty percent.… Levels of fitness for entry raised,’ Howgrave-Graham assured them. Neither of us needed to refer to notes. I invented some of the figures, and we both managed to keep a straight face. Sir James had the grace to back down and come off it, and then he started to tell us what I’d really come to hear.”

  Lydia put a warning finger over her lips. She reached over into the back seat, pulling a rug up to the boy’s chin and gently stroking his hair.

  “It’s all right. He’s gone out like a light.”

  “That school. He wasn’t forthcoming about his information sources but he seems to have concluded that there’s something not quite right with it. Fact is, Lydia—boys have been disappearing from it over the years. Complaints have been made ‘to the highest authorities,’ he told us mysteriously. No action by the local Sussex police and, of course, under the present system, no one’s responsible for checking it over. Truelove wants to make his mark with a root and branch reform of the English public school, I’m told.”

  “And how is he going to use you in his schemes? I expect that this is what it’s coming to.”

  “Operation Trojan Horse. I’m being sent in to sleuth about, looking every inch the concerned uncle, and deliver whatever mud I can stir up into his hands.”

  “I suppose there’s something wrong with all this because you sound so cross, but can that be bad, Joe?—finding out what’s really been going on? Who are these parents who’ve raised storm warnings? And if Jackie’s in a dangerous place, we want to know about it, don’t we? Is the child in danger?”

  “I think he is. I think he’s being pursued. The man Alfred trapped in the lift had come to do him harm in some way, though I don’t know why. We must think there’s a connection with the school and the murder of Mr. Rapson. Now, this Rapson may well have been all kinds of a villain—though we only have Jackie’s evidence for this—but the sudden appearance in our midst of what could be a hit-man tells us he wasn’t a single villain. He wasn’t working alone. And a network—that’s always more disturbing. But you’d already got that far, I shouldn’t wonder?”

  “Oh, further. I haven’t had chance to tell you in all the stirabout.…”

  “Tell me now.”

  “I think that man could have come to do Jackie harm … kidnap, kill him.… Certainly capable of roguery of that nature, don’t you think? Did you notice his eyes?” Lydia shuddered. “More menacing than a cobra’s. But, no, I think he was after something else.”

  “Go on.”

  “When I was packing Jackie’s bag for him—that red and blue patt
erned Afghan thing he calls his ‘escape bag,’ I shoveled in his Treasure Island, his map, his humbugs and all the rest of it. Amongst his stuff was something that clearly didn’t belong to him. Something that wouldn’t belong to any small boy. A black leather-backed moleskine book—you know—the deluxe sort gentlemen travelers spend an awful lot of money on when they’ve decided to go to Greece and they feel the urge to note down and keep for posterity their timeless impressions of foreign parts.”

  “Filled several of those myself,” Joe admitted. “But I agree—unless you’re Edward Lear, the receptacle always outshines the contents. Get on, Lyd.”

  “Not the sort of thing that would appeal to a boy, I thought. Too grand. Too sober. You couldn’t possibly do noughts and crosses or a game of battleships on those pages. And then I remembered Jackie saying last night that he’d spilled the contents of his bag all over Rappo’s desk, scooped them back in a hurry and made off.”

  “Yes, he did say that. So the book came from Rappo’s desk. What was in it?”

  “You assume I’d look inside, Joe? Me? I couldn’t make much of it. Letters and numbers is all I could see. In rows. Possibly code. I wouldn’t know. Then I noticed there were some photos stuffed into that useful pocket arrangement those books have inside the back cover.”

  “Photos? Of whom?”

  “Look, I only had a few seconds to rootle about in there before I heard the commotion down below. I think that chap in the lift had come to retrieve the book. I think he’d been sent to snatch Jackie’s bag, not necessarily Jackie.” She snorted. “Huh! If you and Alfred hadn’t decided to behave like Bulldog Drummond and Algy, pulling fuses and poking sticks through bars, I could have just handed the bag over and let the villain trot off with it. Or turned a blind eye while he pinched it. That way he’d never have known we’d guessed what he was up to. And he’d have been very disappointed! Nothing more sensational in there than a limp copy of last month’s Boy’s Own Paper. I’d already put the Rapson book away in my handbag. I’ve got it right here on my knee.”

  Joe controlled the skid the sharp movement his foot had produced. “Well what are you waiting for? Rootle some more! Find out what is of such urgency it can bring out a hit squad in hours on a snowy winter’s day.”

  Lydia produced the black book and began to turn the pages in total absorption.

  “We’re in no position to start wrestling with code, driving a few feet behind a gritting lorry,” Joe said. “Just go to the back and take another look at those loose sheets.”

  He waited as she leafed silently through snippets of paper and photographs.

  “Well, come on! What have we got? Coordinates for the last resting place of the Grail? Photos of The Fatman in flagrante?”

  “Why do you assume it’s something reprehensible? Even toads like Rapson have a private life. Aren’t we more likely to find a photo of his spaniel or his mother or a love letter from Matron?” Lydia sighed and silently shuffled through the contents of Rapson’s back flap.

  “No, Joe,” she said eventually, “I concede that your suspicions were well founded.” Her voice lost its touch of gaiety and took on icy deliberation as she added: “Look, you must tell me if I’m making too much of this.… All those hours I’ve spent succouring the disadvantaged, listening to rather hellish stories, may well have made me a party to information on the world other women just do not have. Once you know what men are capable of, you see evidence of their depravities everywhere.”

  “You’re a saint—as all agree, Lyd—but a knowing one. Which in my book makes your opinions twice as valuable as those of any other charitable lady. Get on, will you. But just wait until I’ve got past this lorry.”

  Her silence was more unsettling than the voluble comments he’d been expecting. Finally, she gathered all the loose bits together, tucked them back into the pocket of the book and closed it firmly.

  “It may be worse than we thought, Joe. And, if I’m right, I shudder to think that little Jackie was anywhere near this man. Or under the influence of an establishment that must be either criminally careless or carelessly criminal. Joe! You have to get hold of this Farman and fillet him! When you’ve had a chance to kick a confession out of him, of course.”

  Joe’s voice was bleak. “Confession to what exactly, Lyd?”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Almost there! Look, I think we won’t refer to this business in front of the family. Anyone who wants to know can hear that Jackie’s been spending some time up in London with me and I’m delivering him back—a bit late—to his school. Better tell me who you’ve got in the house at the moment.”

  “Oh, just the usual hand-out.”

  “A long-suffering husband and a gaggle of left-over-from-Christmas orphans?”

  “No. We’re remarkably un-busy as a matter of fact. Close family, that’s all. It’s why I was able to get up to London for a couple of days. I left Marcus and the girls in capable hands.” She added carefully: “We’ve got Dorcas staying with us. Perhaps I should have mentioned it earlier.”

  “Dorcas? Heavens! I haven’t seen the child for ages.” Joe spoke heartily to cover his surprise. “Now, she won’t be pleased to see me turning up unexpectedly. You can’t have failed to notice, Lyd, that she’s been avoiding me like the plague for years. And she’s never taken the trouble to tell me why. But I do notice that when I spend any part of any holiday with you, she’s not there. And she descends on you the minute I’ve gone back to London.”

  Joe left a space in the hope of an explanation. He realised he would even have settled for a polite denial. But Lydia wasn’t hurrying to allay his fears. “It’s mystifying, insulting and—dashed annoying,” he finished in a spurt of disappointment.

  “It’s tedious for the hostess. And saddening that two people I love dearly behave like the figures on an Alpine weather clock. You know—those wooden contraptions people will bring back from skiing trips. When the sun shines a lady comes out of her little chalet, smiling. When the rain starts, she goes inside again and a gentleman in lederhosen pops out yodeling. Rather unseemly behaviour, I’ve always thought.”

  “One in, one out, never seen together. That’s me and Dorcas, all right.”

  “And you used to be as thick as thieves. She trailed after you wherever you went, whenever she could, and you were always patient—no, you were more than that, you were—jolly kind to her. I know you can be as hard as nails. I’ve seen you beat a man half to death.” Lydia grinned and patted her brother’s knee. “I don’t forget that in your blood you’re a moss-trooper, a sheep-stealing, hot-tempered Borderer. And the war turned you into a killer. You still keep the visible evidence of it right there on your face as a warning, I do believe. That scar! ‘Keep your distance!’ it says.”

  “There are those who admire a tough exterior.”

  “But Dorcas saw what I’ve always seen. The lovely man underneath. We all thought—don’t laugh—that she had a crush on you. You know, like the passion I had for father’s steward when I was that age. I grew out of my obsession but Dorcas seemed to snap out of hers. Whatever did you do, Joe? Or was it something you said?” Lydia hesitated. “I’ve never liked to ask, always expecting it would blow over.… And then, somehow, it was too late to bring it up. Do you think you could tell me?”

  Joe allowed his truculent silence to stretch on, testing the boundaries of sisterly patience and, a moment before she boxed his ears, said brusquely: “Watch it, Lydia! You risk adding insult to Dorcas’s injury. Not quite sure what you’re implying. If I were, I’d probably chuck you out into the snow. I’ll just say: No fault of mine. Honestly. It’s worried me, too, and I’ve given it serious thought. I’ve absolved myself of any possible misdemeanour, intended or otherwise. Sorry! How pompous.” He added lightly: “She was never the same after she got that French haircut.”

  Lydia smiled. “Well, I did notice she’d changed when her father brought them all back from France. I put it down to Nature. Growing up.”

  Joe snort
ed. “Growing up? The child had found her long-lost mother and the French family she didn’t know she had. She’d fallen in love with an entirely worthy scion of a noble Champagne family. Affection reciprocated to all appearances. And been closely involved with two murder cases. All in the space of a summer. Bound to have an effect.”

  “But no reason there for dropping you like a soiled glove.”

  “She made use of me, Lydia. I’ve realised she always did. The ‘crush’ you mention would have been more acceptable. Flattering even! And I could have handled it.” His swift smile faded. “No, it was the hard man that she saw and was intrigued by. Dorcas had no time for gallantry. She had a heap of troubles on her plate seven years ago. The day I first clapped eyes on her, she watched me deliver a shot amidships to her appalling grandmother who was making her life hell and she decided there and then to recruit me to sort out her remaining problems. That’s her father’s theory, and it’s mine too. She’s quite unscrupulous, you know. She cracked her whip, and I performed my circus tricks. Did what she asked. Took her where she wanted to go. And then, when she was entirely satisfied: ‘Thank you so much, Joe, that’ll be all’ is what I heard. And, having found her wings, away she flew.”

  “Well, she didn’t fly far. She still spends as much time with us as she does with her scoundrelly father. And we’re delighted to have her. The house comes alive when she’s here. And the food improves no end! Did you know the girl can cook, Joe? I mean really cook?”

  “It runs in the family. Her mother’s the best I’ve ever encountered. I expect she’s been learning at her apron strings.”