Barbara Cleverly - Not My Blood

Joe frowned and waited for more clarity. It was his experience that if you left a puzzled silence the commissioner often obligingly filled it.

Trenchard went on: “Upshot was-the Met had the file marked. With much grumbling from the Education Department, if I remember correctly, hey, what, Anderson?”

The education man winced and smiled politely. He directed a glance full of meaning at Joe and sighed. Joe did not respond. He might disagree with his boss occasionally, but he would always support him in public. “You resisted an application, minister?” he asked. “I’m wondering why?”

Put on the spot, Anderson shrugged. “Nothing whatsoever in the allegations. St. Magnus is an excellent educational establishment. Its boys go on to the very best public schools and then on to Oxford or Cambridge as like as not. I ought to declare an interest-I was a boy myself there. My own sons have been pupils and speak highly of it. Malicious gossip-no more than that. But-harmful, I agree. And, no doubt, a stop must be put to it.”

Commissioner Trenchard waited for the exchanges to be over, then allowed himself an acid smile and continued as though oblivious of the interruption. “But, ironically, the poor blighter to whom I was about to assign the investigation of this ants’ nest is your good self anyway, Sandilands. And you won’t thank me! So. You might say this business has been short-circuited by your convenient personal interest. I hope I make myself clear?”

Sir James Truelove assumed that this was anything but clear and added helpfully: “It’s all working out rather well, sure you’ll agree? Sensitive issue. Concerned parents who have the ear of the top level of government, and who have my ear, need elucidation and reassurance. Needs careful handling. We’re sending you down there to infiltrate the suspicious area-as our Trojan Horse. A wonderfully crafted and entirely convincing interloper! They’ll drag you in and form a line to tell you all, you’ll find. But first, you’ll have to be briefed … you’ll need to know the truth … the reason why this school has come to our attention. I warn you-you may find what we have to reveal, in view of your close familial association with one of its boys, er.…” He hesitated and, sending a propitiating glance towards Dorothy Peto, the one female presence in the room, finished limply, “somewhat disquieting.”

“Is that what you’d say, Sir James?” Miss Peto fixed him with a quizzical smile. “I’d call it damned alarming!”

As he stood on the pavement squinting through the snow to spot a taxi, a hand grasped his elbow. Joe turned to find the education minister standing beside him. With an effort he remembered the man’s quite ordinary name: Aidan Anderson.

“We’ll share a taxi if we can catch one of the blighters out and about,” the minister said. “Ah! Here we are!” He stepped boldly into the road, umbrella extended, fingers to mouth, uttering a peremptory whistle. The taxi skidded to a halt. “Chelsea, cabby,” Anderson said.

“Are we going in the same direction?” Joe asked.

“No. You’re going west. I’ll drop you off and return to my club in St. Jameses. Well, I thought, as briefings go, Sandilands, that’s exactly what we were handed. Unsatisfactory amounts of information. Unfair that you should be caught up in what is no more than a personal struggle for power and notoriety. I thought I’d tell you.”

Joe looked with greater attention at the austere features as the man settled back in the cab. A cadaverous, academic face echoed the long, spare limbs. Large nose, large feet, large hands, Joe noted. A man a good bit older than himself, he calculated. With-what had he said? — two sons having passed through St. Magnus, he must be approaching fifty and Joe wondered, as he automatically did, what Anderson had done in the war.

“I have the advantage of you, Sandilands,” he confided with a tight smile. “I’ve seen your file. Splendid. Quite splendid! Complete misuse of your time-that’s what we’re looking at. They’re loading up a Holland amp; Holland to shoot a squirrel! But you know nothing of me. Briefly: Oxford man, Cavalry, wartime Military Intelligence turned politician. If you can be bothered to ask about they’ll tell you-a fanatic about education. And I won’t deny it. I can think of no more urgent cause. It is the duty of our country to produce a generation of scientists and thinkers. The only way we shall uphold our position in the world to come.”

Joe thought uneasily that he could only wait for the revelation that was undoubtedly hovering in the air. Into the space he had been left for comment, he muttered disjointed phrases including the words: “Patriot? Of course. Aren’t we all? See what you mean.… Cause for concern.…”

“I thought as much. I thought I recognised a man who would put his country before the personal aspirations of a single renegade.”

Joe guessed he was talking of Truelove and waited for more.

“Truelove! Minister for Reform? Minister for Mischief, more like! The man’s eyes gleam with naked ambition-did you see it? He’s a man who’ll use anything and anybody to further his own career. He doesn’t care much whose reputation he smirches in his climb to the top. He’s using this new free-wheeling post of his to snatch at and absorb areas of interest that should rightly be the preserve of other departments. Education, as you’ve just seen demonstrated, is one. Watch out-he may next have his sights on law and order. Indeed, I know that he has.”

“One small prep school on the southern coast of the country would seem to be a very small target, Anderson. I can’t see how a scandal there might advance his assault on the premiership,” Joe said bluntly.

“Truelove wants to make his mark with a root and branch reform of the English school system, both fee-paying and state establishments, and-am I being fanciful here? — I’m guessing that if he can hold up one rotten apple as an example it will justify his case. He’s obviously not going to take on-say-Rugby or Eton, but a tiddler amongst schools, a small country prep school-that’s a much more likely candidate. This man has a nose for publicity. He frequently stoops to manipulating the press. He has the barons in the palm of his hand already.”

“What headlines are you imagining in the Daily Mirror if his plans come to fruition?”

“Oh, something on the lines of: Murder and corruption rife in English schools. Are our children safe? The article worded so as to make tongues wag and voices call out demanding to know how widespread the problem is. The next thing will be an impassioned speech to Parliament. Truelove is an inspired orator. He’ll make use of any scandal you can uncover to fuel public outrage. To put out a fire in a heroic way, Sandilands, you first have to start your fire. He’s set it, I do believe, and you are being sent in to locate the blue touch paper and put a match to it for him. Mind you don’t get your fingers burnt.”

When Joe returned at noon, he answered a bellow from Alfred’s room.

“We’re all in here!”

“Great Heavens! You’re throwing a party, Alfred?”

The room was humming with heat and noise. Three small boys were scrambling about on their stomachs on the carpet, organising the railway. His sister Lydia, watching their antics, rolled her eyes at Joe from over their heads, conveying acute boredom.

“If you wouldn’t mind stepping into the hall, sir?”

Puzzled, Joe followed him.

“Seemed the safest way-keeping them all together under my eye. Your Jackie.…” He grinned. “… or ‘Andy,’ as we’re calling him for the duration, is getting on well with my two. I popped a pinny on him, seeing as he was a bit lacking in the clothes department like. And they can get a bit mucky rolling about on the rug. Hard to tell one from t’other. Peas in a pod. But you were right to be concerned, sir. Someone did try to get at your sister-or your lad.”