Not My Blood (31 page)

“Awaiting delivery from wherever he’s spent the last two days, are we thinking? But in what condition? Did you get any hints from the other parents of the disappeared, Gosling? Any luck?”

“Not much.” He held out a notebook. “I didn’t ring Alicia, of course. I know her responses, and I don’t want to raise her hopes. She starts every conversation with the same words: ‘Have you found him yet?’ ”

“She must know her son is dead, surely?” Joe asked gently. He had noted Gosling’s tendresse for the mother of the missing Peterkin. Another little monkey hanging onto a furry substitute?

“Oh, yes. She’s nobody’s fool. She wants simply to know the truth and, at best, to bury her son.”

The three men settled into Martin’s ground-floor headquarters to continue their meeting. Joe rapidly filled Martin in on the background to the nine missing boys, and Martin took some pleasure in telling Gosling of the information they had dug out on the Eugenist Society.

Gosling looked anxiously at his watch and then at Joe. “Remember our appointment at the clinic, sir. I’ll make this brief and give you my notes to look at while I drive.”

Gosling launched into his resumé.

“Nil returns first. Eliminate the dead wood.

“Number one—still not a clue as to ID.

“Number two. Jefferson 1910. No good. Last male member died in the war. I got hold of a granny. Sharp memory though. Young Douglas died of the influenza. His death certificate is in the family archives. And will the school kindly stop pestering them now, she added.”

“Ah! A footprint! Rapson was here before us.”

“Number three. Murgatroyd. Major. Again—dead of the flu. Streetly-Standish had done his best, but to no avail. I asked about the minor Murgatroyds. Thriving, both of them, thank you. The mother—that’s the second Mrs. M.—answered. Blessing in disguise.
Their father died six years ago and the second son, hale and hearty and the apple of his mother’s eye, has inherited the title. Poor dear Lascelles! He would never have been able to carry the burden of the estate. Not quite all there, you know.”

“You manage to get
some
information over and above what’s strictly necessary to answer your questions, Gosling?” Joe said, amused.

“It’s the way I ask them, sir. Mothers—most of them—like to talk about their sons, dead or alive.

“Number four. Hewitt-Jones. The tick, sir. I got his father. None of our bloody business. What the hell was I expecting? What sort of a ghoul pokes about into children’s deaths? Did I seriously expect to be granted a view of the death certificate? Pish! Tush! The rest was unrepeatable, sir.

“Number five. I managed to put a name to this one. Harrison. Tuberculosis. Father confirms he was shipped off to Switzerland but died there. Again, certificate available for inspection if I can be bothered.

“Number six. Pettigrew. The London grocer’s son. Father hardly remembered the lad’s name. Oh, yes, Clarence. Unmanageable boy. Could never have run the firm. It was decided to transfer him to another school, but before this could be effected, he died.”

“Don’t tell me? Of the flu?”

“No. His body was fished out of the river, ten miles from St. Magnus. Assumed to have run off in a temper. He was very headstrong. Death certificate available for inspection, the father told me. It’s a chorus line, sir! Death by drowning, two doctors’ signatures on the document. And, suspiciously—Was I the interfering rogue who’d pestered his wife a month ago?

“Number seven. Peterkin, sir.

“Number eight. Houghton-Cole. The arsonist. Parents not at home. I got the butler. Expelled from the school and died of the
measles shortly after. The body had been cremated, he added—with a touch of satisfaction, I thought.

“Number nine. Renfrew. Transferred to Templemeadows. I rang them first. Not on the roll, never has been. Parents have gone abroad. Still trying on that one, sir.”

Joe clutched the sides of his head in a rare moment of despair. “There’s a grim, unthinkable pattern coming out of all this, don’t you think, Gosling? Do you see it? And a refrain. Do you hear it?”

“More clearly than you perhaps, sir. ‘Blessing in disguise.’ All for the best.’ I’ve heard their lying voices on the telephone. Go ahead—say it, sir.”

“Enough of these boys to arouse my suspicion had a background of inadequacy of some kind. Physically, mentally below parental expectations or—as with Peterkin—simply in the way of financial gain. You repeat for me the phrases of excuse. Justification: ‘He could never have run the family business … his brighter, younger brother has succeeded (thank God!)’ My worst fear—and I long for you to tell me I’m being ridiculous, Gosling—is that some—not all—of these parents are guilty of procuring the deaths of their own offspring for what they would probably call eugenic reasons. Bad apples … defective genetic systems … should be eliminated.”

“But how do they come to know a ferry service to oblivion exists? That it has its port of departure here at St. Magnus?”

“The membership list. How many of these parents or guardians are members, I wonder? We shall see.”

“God! Can’t you imagine it?” Gosling exclaimed. “The conversation between leather armchairs at the club … whisky in hand … ‘I say, that’s quite a problem you have there, old man.’ ” He was suddenly speaking with the bluff tones of a man twice his age. “ ‘Quite understand. You’re not the first it’s happened to, you know. Oh, no. Other names would surprise you, but—lips are sealed, of
course. There are remedies, however, for those brave enough to avail themselves of them. Steps to be taken—that
ought
to be taken for the sake of Family, Society and Empire. Indeed, it would be unforgivable to neglect to take the steps. Merely doing one’s duty.’ ”

“They might add at a practical level—and never forget, Gosling, that these are intensely practical people we are dealing with—that the matter can safely be taken out of the family’s hands if the problem is committed to the care of such and such a school. There would be peripheral expenses to meet, of course. Nothing out of the ordinary. This is an ethical and prophylactic service after all, not remotely venal.”

Martin absorbed all this and expressed a shared despair: “But there’s nothing there that we can go with. No foothold! It’s good work Gosling’s done, but what have we got? Documented deaths. Tied up, signed for, obols in mouth, and gone across the river.”

Gosling was silent for a moment. Then: “Oh, come on, sir! Let’s unleash Hercules! One last sprint for the finish, eh? I reckon we can get to this clinic in less than two hours. An hour if I put my foot down. We can’t leave this last stone unturned. And worth upending, I’d say. One medico fingering another—that’s always worth a look. For Alicia Peterkin?”

“For Alicia,” Joe agreed. “Come on then, and as we go I’ll fill in more details of Rapson’s dirty past. See you later, Martin. Have the kettle on for five o’clock.”

He threw the keys to Gosling.

W
HEN THEY ARRIVED
at the car they were greeted by a cry of relief. “Where’ve you been? I thought I was going to have to do this by myself.”

“Out, Dorcas! Go back. You’re not wanted on voyage.”

“James would want me to be here. I know the place. It knows me.”

“You think that’s an advantage? I’ve balanced your familiarity against the fact that—if my fanciful deductions prove halfway accurate—we’re in for trouble. And I don’t mean a bout of fisticuffs between gents. I mean violence, possibly guns. We may be challenging men who have careers, reputations—lives—at stake. They are ruthless and won’t think twice about engineering the swift disappearance of anyone who threatens them. That includes you. Whatever would I say to Sir James?” Joe had aimed for light, but he heard waspish. “Off you go. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

“Just as well I packed my Smith & Wesson with the ham sandwiches, then. I’ve got a flask of coffee and some of cook’s flapjack too. I’ve been raiding the kitchens. They’ll let you have anything if you say it’s for that lovely Mr. Gosling: ‘Sweet boy, far too good for them.’ I’ll feed you as we go because I know you haven’t had any lunch.”

Gosling licked his lips. “Flapjack, sir!”

“A sop for Cerberus? A low trick, Dorcas! As I seem to be lumbered with the pair of you, I’d better tell you what transpired at the doctor’s earlier. Missing boys seem to be turning into something of epidemic proportions in the county.”

J
OE LET OUT
a low whistle of appreciation as they rounded a bend and were offered a glimpse of the clinic they were seeking through a copse of tall elms.

“Saint Raphael Clinic,” a brass plate announced on one of the gateposts at the bottom of the drive.

“Raphael is the patron saint of healing,” Dorcas supplied. “And, of course, an archangel.”

“I’m more interested in the architect,” Joe said. “This is very good. Walter Gropius, are we thinking, rather than Edwin Lutyens? But—clinic—isn’t that a bit modest? This is a vast building. How old, Dorcas. Any idea?”

“Five years at the most. It’s way ahead of its time, don’t you think?”

Joe exchanged looks with Gosling. “Five years? That all? Ah! We had hoped for something a little older. Thirty years perhaps. At least.”

“Well, if it’s old you want, try the village. Edenhurst. It’s full of ancient and lovely things. There’s a row of almshouses. St. Raphael Sanctuaries for the deserving and aged poor or something like that. They keep a dozen old ladies there, rent free. Under the terms of the original foundation.”

“Original foundation? What was that?”

“No trace left. They bulldozed what was here to make room for what you see now. There was a hospital of sorts—all red brick and gloom, you can imagine. That had, in turn, replaced an earlier medieval building.”

“Burial ground? Any vestiges?”

“Yes, if you look over there to the east. It’s hidden by the line of the private wing. It was flattened and grassed over when the work was going on—too bothersome to excavate, I’d say. And, farther off yet, there’s—cleverly camouflaged by a change of brick colour against the hillside behind—the essential part of a hospital that everyone wants to ignore: the incinerator.”

“For disposing of unwanted material,” Gosling said tersely. “Amputated limbs … laboratory animals … small boys.”

“The whole complex belonged to the Anglo-Saxon church that originally occupied the site,” Dorcas went on with deliberate calm. “There was once a church on this site. A large and very famous one. Famous especially for its sanctuary. Close enough to London, where all the villains were, then as now, it was the place criminals fled to, to hang on the sanctuary knocker. The sheriff’s men couldn’t touch them. It’s said hundreds of villains found safety inside the walls. But of course they were trapped. The moment they put a nose outside, they were bagged.”

“Let’s hope the villains aren’t still hanging about,” Joe said.

“The knocker is. The lion’s head sanctuary knocker. It’s huge. It’s been passed down from building to building I expect. They’ve mounted it on the present front door. Not at all in keeping with the modern lines, and I’ll bet the architect had something to say! But the gesture’s in keeping with tradition, and that’s what people really want to see.”

Gosling, with ten minutes to go before their appointment, was driving slowly, allowing time to look at the buildings. Gleaming rosily in the westering sun, the white brick managed to look at once welcoming, pure, and spare. Large plate glass windows caught and reflected back a golden light, wide and innocent as smiling eyes. The low-lying building sat easily against the undulating landscape of the North Downs, its straight lines contrasting with but not challenging the natural beauty that sheltered it. Two wings came forwards, ushering the visitor to a well-defined front entrance. A service road continued on around the back, Joe guessed, to the usual offices and hard-standing for ambulances and other vehicles, out of sight and not spoiling the uncluttered impact of the main building.

As they watched, a group of nurses came out and began to walk down the drive. Rosy cheeked and neat in their navy uniforms and capes, they chattered and laughed and waved amiably at the passengers in the Morris. Gosling pulled over to one side to allow a delivery van to pass them. As it swished by they read in a florid cartouche painted on the side:
Ernest Honeydew. Grocer. Purveyor of the cream of Sussex provender to the Gentry since 1813
.

Joe laughed. “Is that what they fed you on, Dorcas? Cream of provender?”

“Yes! It was very good. The students ate the same food as the private patients. I’ve never had lamb chops and lobster like it.”

“Well, the Prince Albert it’s not!” Gosling said. “All grow your
own on the home farm. And, as Langhorne isn’t here to oblige, I’ll have to say it myself:

The Tempest
, sir. Though I think Miranda was talking of a man she fancied rather than a building.”

“But the one often reflects the other, don’t you find?” Joe said. “There’s a man’s taste behind every brick laid, every window positioned. I wonder who we’re to meet at the centre of this perfection? A Caliban—a born devil, thing of darkness—or an Ariel, who does his spiriting gently?” Joe mused.

“Just park the car with its nose facing outwards, will you, George?” Dorcas said impatiently. “And, Joe, will you check my pistol for me? I think I loaded it right but—better safe, eh?”

She pushed her battered leather student’s satchel over to him.

“My God! There’s a gun loose in here! A heavy one. Dorcas, that’s insane! I don’t even carry one myself these days. And certainly not out of a holster. Where did you get it? Do you even have a license for it?”

“Oh, stop fussing! I was given this by someone who is concerned for my safety. Who rather disapproves of the dubious places I frequent. In a professional capacity, of course. I like having it, and I know how to use it. I’m a good shot. I put the catch on, didn’t I? I just get cold feet at the last moment—you know that uneasy feeling—did I turn the gas tap off? Did I remember to put the bullets in? Give it back!”