Barbara Cleverly - Not My Blood

“Well, as a policeman I could demand to view the premises,” said Joe. “We’ll wait. But we’ll need more evidence of wrongdoing.” Joe was thinking aloud, still stunned by Crabbe’s revelation. His mind was running on the likelihood that all physical traces of those passing through would have been destroyed with oiled efficiency. The room would have been cleaned and belongings incinerated.

“Proof? I’ve got proof!” Francis was suddenly gleeful. He looked at the clock again. “Not much time. He’ll be back early today-he’s gone in the fast car.”

“Remind me, Francis, what kind of car does your boss drive?”

“He’s taken the Talbot today, sir. It’s a big grey one.”

“Do you know its number?”

“It’s a Sussex registration: BP4200,” he said impatiently.

Gosling shot a look at Joe, eyebrows raised in alarm. “Well run, little Harry,” he murmured.

“Look, you gentlemen stay here just in case. I’ll take the lady to the library. It’s just a few yards down the corridor.”

With a quick nod of reassurance for Joe, Dorcas got up, patted her satchel, and set off with her guide.

“Here you are, miss.”

Francis ushered her into an empty room. It was evidently well used. Tables and chairs were available for the browsers, even a couple of armchairs. The walls were lined with full bookshelves, and there were further piles on a table under the window. Dorcas reminded herself that this establishment was the size of a large village and she might expect to find a facility of commensurate size. One wall that caught her attention was devoted to books suitable for children to read, many of them ABCs and nursery rhymes.

“No, miss. It’s over here.” Francis made off to the far wall and began to search in the adult section under the letter S. “If you want to hide something, hide it in plain sight. That’s not bad advice. And there’s nowhere much you can hide something in a place like this.”

He ran an eye along the row and tugged on the spine of a book until it was protruding an inch beyond the others. He stood back.

Dorcas peered more closely and uttered a soft cry. “I know this book,” she said. “And I know its two previous owners. Take it out, Francis, and open it up at the first page inside.”

Francis took Treasure Island down and did as Dorcas asked.

“There’s two names here. Jack Drummond-crossed out. And under that, Harald Spielman, miss.”

Hardly able to get the words out, Dorcas whispered, “How did you manage to get hold of it?”

“A lad arrived in daylight. Unusual that. Last week. He wasn’t fetched. He was dropped off by a Daimler. The chauffeur left him with me at the front door and buzzed off, cussing about the weather. The boy didn’t know what was going on. Thought he’d been taken to London, I think. Looking about him, impressed by the size of the building. He handed me this book because it was too big for his pocket. And he’d read it before, anyway. ‘You may have it, my good man,’ he told me. I put it away in the pocket of my cloak. I know a fine story when I see one. We can always use spare copies in the library. Then I saw the names. First time I’ve ever got hold of a name, miss.”

Francis was eager to leave. “Can you put it away? In your bag?”

“Of course.” Dorcas swung her satchel in front of her and undid the buckles. She held the flap up, and Francis Crabbe carefully turned the big book on its side to slide it in, spine first. She was alarmed to see his eye light up as he caught sight of the Smith amp; Wesson. The eye, she remembered, of a man sent here for misuse of a firearm. A countryman familiar with rifles and shotguns.

Francis caught her wariness and smiled. “Never realised psychology was such a dangerous pursuit, Miss Dorcas. Come on! Let’s get back.”

They were halfway back to the parlour when Dorcas remembered what Joe had told her. Something so essential she stopped and tugged Francis by his sleeve. “Wait a minute. There’s another boy. I have to find him or find out what became of him.” And by a huge feat of memory she came up with a name: “Walter Weston, he’s called.”

Francis pursed his lips, unwilling, it seemed to reply. Then: “The blacksmith’s son, would that be? Local lad? Fair hair? Big lad for his age?”

“That’s the one. He went missing at the same time as Harald Spielman.”

Francis looked up and down the corridor and listened. “We may have time. Look, follow me and run if you can. What have you got on your feet?”

Dorcas lifted up a leg and showed him her low-heeled serviceable boot.

“They’ll do. It’s still a bit sticky in the graveyard.”

Joe poked the fire. Gosling poured more tea and helped himself to a second slice of jam sponge.

The clock chimed the half hour.

The clock chimed the three quarter hour.

“That’s enough!” Joe snapped. “What kind of trusting idiots are we? To sit here and be made fools of by that maniac? He’s probably taken Dorcas hostage and forced his way out of the house. He’s got her into one of the boss’s stable of motor cars and they’re halfway to Brighton by now.”

“Calm down, sir,” Gosling advised. “You know the girl better than I do, I think, so you ought to know she just wouldn’t allow any such nonsense. All the same.…”

They raced to the door together.

“There’s the old graveyard, miss.”

He pointed to a collection of ancient headstones leaning at drunken angles to each other, confidingly close, passing on gossip. Some stones were flat on the ground, some at the height of a low drawing room table.

“It’s a favourite place for the little girls to come and play. A safe place. They don’t understand the significance. They can get away from the adults here and the rougher lads. They use the tombstones to play house.”

“In this weather?”

“In any weather. They’re well wrapped up. Mrs. Dunne wouldn’t let them out otherwise. They’re enjoying the sunshine. See there!” Francis pointed. “They’re having a pretend tea party. We’ll have to interrupt their game.”

Dorcas noticed he was still looking about him anxiously. His finger directed her towards a tombstone. Sitting on top of it were three little girls in bonnets and scarves, holding rag dolls and chattering happily.

When they came face to face with the little group, one of them took off the bonnet, revealing a shock of short fair hair and a cross face. The child addressed Francis. “Have you brought Dr. Carter, sir? He said he’d come and see me today.”

Astonished, Dorcas sank to her knees in front of the child. “Walter? Are you Walter?”

“Yes, missis. An’ I want to see Dr. Carter and my Mum.”

“He’s coming, lad. He’s coming. The doc always keeps his word.” Francis turned to Dorcas and led her a discreet distance away. “Walter, as you see, is a little boy who doesn’t at all mind playing with girls. They make something of a pet of him. He’s very gentle and,” he whispered, “not quite all there. He’s a regular admission,” Francis explained. “Signed for and supervised. His family doctor is his sponsor. Along with his mother. She signed the papers and forged the father’s signature. That was just a cross anyway. Verified by the doctor probably. Now he’ll be in trouble, I expect. I hope not. He’s a good bloke.”

“Walter’s mother committed him? This little poppet?” Dorcas was aghast.

“There were problems at home. The father is a big-fisted man with a short temper who feels duty-bound to toughen up his soft son. The household is going through straitened times, with the work drying up. Not so many horses about these days, and money’s short. Tensions in the family. Little Walter was bearing the brunt of all this. His mother feared for the boy’s life and took the drastic step of sending him away without his father’s knowledge. Chadwick was unwilling at first to take the boy under such circumstances. He’d done it before and got into trouble for it. I advised him otherwise on account of the good Dr. Carter has done us many a favour. And knows some of our secrets.