Not My Blood

CHAPTER 15

Gosling shut his eyes and groaned. “Oh, God! Sir, you haven’t told Masterson I’m shot to bits already, have you? For heaven’s sake! You’ve only just set foot in the place. What did I do?”

“Calm down, man! I haven’t spoken to your boss yet to tell him that your ‘cover’s blown,’ as your mob would probably put it. I have my ways, and I have my contacts. And now you must consider yourself recruited once more, this time to my interests. When we’ve taken a close look at each other’s cards, these may well turn out to be the same interests. Who knows? This could actually do you some good, Gosling-or do you prefer ‘Drake’ like your family name? Just name the wildfowl du jour and I’ll use it.”

“Gosling will do well, sir.”

“Good. I like clarity. So, now, tell me what your relationship is with the headmaster.”

“An open one, sir. I am-er-in his confidence. I was sent in with his consent to get to the bottom of a problem that has been troubling my department.”

“Yes. MI5. Is that what you’re calling yourselves these days? Entrusted with the safety of the nation. You’re there to protect the rest of us from the machinations of foreign spies on English soil, I had thought. And do we ever need the service! We’re all up to our arses in German agents if we’re to believe all we’re told. Russian Bolsheviks taking a back seat these days and Herr Hitler’s patriots swaggering about in full view playing the Bogeyman. Plenty to occupy Masterson in Piccadilly, but what murky business can have attracted his attention to the Sussex coast? Tell me how you’re proposing to save the nation from this remote fastness at the southern edge of the land.”

Gosling’s expression lightened a little, and Joe guessed his shot had gone way off the mark. “Oh, you can forget all that John Buchan stuff-fisticuffs with the Hun and all that! If you have in your mind a picture of Herr Fahrmann and Fraulein Oberschwester standing on a cliff top on a moonless night, torch in hand, signalling to a fleet of German submarines in the Channel-sorry, nothing so melodramatic.”

“Hideous scene you conjure up! If it were at all plausible, you’d be needing my Special Branch to tap the villains on the shoulder. Don’t forget your little enterprise still ultimately counts on the muscle-power of rough lads in raincoats, all answering to yours truly. MI5 finger them, we arrest them. Frequently we do both. Contrary to the stories you like to put about, we have brains as well as boots. And we use them both.” Joe smiled at the cross young face. There was never any harm in reminding these upstarts to stay on their own side of the fence. “Let me know if we can be of help to you with your problem, Gosling,” he offered with a tight smile. He glanced at the telephone. “Perhaps I should just ring up your boss and tell him where we’ve got to. He’ll be fascinated to get my update.”

“No! No! If you haven’t already alerted him, I’d rather you didn’t.” The boy was once again in evidence as he gulped and blurted out: “He’ll be livid, sir!”

“I’m thinking Rapson’s murder was an inconvenience for you? Sussex Constabulary and then the Met stamping about your little stakeout scene?”

“Masterson doesn’t object to the local man. He knows his place. He knows the boundaries of his investigation. He’s less keen on you queering his pitch.”

“And you were told to contain me?”

“No. Get rid of you.” Gosling risked a grin. “ ‘Make sure he’s gone by the end of the day.’ Those were my orders.” He looked at Joe settled comfortably behind the desk, notes and telephone to hand, and he sighed. “Not doing very well so far, am I? Here you are, ensconced-would that be the word?”

Joe winced. “Only if you insist. Got to park my bum somewhere. This’ll do.”

“Look, sir. I’m not important. I’m a minnow! A raw recruit! I rather think I’ve been shoved off down here as a sort of test. Or out of the way. I don’t think I have the clearance to say anything further, sir. Not even to you. However much you pull rank.” The rugged chin lifted in a show of defiance.

“Won’t do, Gosling.” Joe fished in his pocket and took out the envelope containing the nine photographs. He spread them on the table in what he remembered of Godwit’s order. “Now, would your problem be concerning one of these boys?” The steely gleam in his eye conveyed the certainty that he knew the answer.

Taken aback, Gosling spent a moment studying the lineup. Finally he pointed. “That one. Third from the right. Peterkin. John Peterkin. Ran away in his first term at the school. September 1921. But these others? There were stories that boys had gone over the wall … disappeared … never been seen again after their time here. We had a couple of names. Are these the ones? Do you know who they are?”

“I’ve identified seven out of the nine. I don’t even know for certain that they disappeared. Or what their current state is.”

“Well, yes. They could be alive and well and running India by now.”

“Or doing a seven-year stretch in the Scrubs for fraud.”

“There’s always that,” Gosling agreed.

“They could have just gone off to play with Peter Pan and his Lost Boys?”

“Ah! Spirited away by the power of ‘wonderful thoughts and fairy dust,’ sir?” Gosling shook his head. “Lord! If I’ve seen that play once, it must be a dozen times! I’ve got herds of nephews, and what do they all want to see as their Christmas treat? Peter Bloody Pan! Oh, sorry, sir!”

“Quite all right, Gosling. The dear little chap triggers the same reaction in me. When he squeaked the line, To die will be an awfully big adventure, he very nearly found his assertion tested out on the spot! I restrained myself from leaping onto the stage and obliging him.”

The smile faded from the young man’s face as he looked again with concern at the photographs. “I have a bad feeling about all this. A feeling best expressed in gloomy German, I think. Totenkindergeschichte.”

“Tales of dead children. I hope you’re wrong. Let’s find out, shall we? If anyone’s been setting himself up as some sort of a psychopompos, a guide of souls to the Land of the Dead-a Hermes, or even a playful Peter Pan-we’ll have him.”

“That would please me a lot, sir.” Then, hesitantly: “I say, shall I tell you how I got here?”

“I’d be delighted!”

“It was Alicia Greatorix who made the fuss originally and now, after twelve years, she’s making it again. Alicia Peterkin, as she was in her first marriage. She tied the knot with a naval officer at a bad time-early in 1914. She lost her husband at sea that very year. He never set eyes on his son who was born towards the end of it. Little John Peterkin.”

Gosling touched the photograph briefly. “His mother was a rich woman, and she brought the child up in a London household by herself. I say by herself, but she had countless maids, nannies and later, tutors, of course. But she was always there, in his presence, devoted to him and ensuring he had the best of everything. A good mother.”

“Sounds like an idyllic existence,” Joe commented. And, noting the softening of expression on the hard features of his companion, he added, “She would seem to be an impressive lady.”

“The existence ended in 1921 when he was old enough to be sent off to school. This school. Mrs. Peterkin had by that time remarried. It’s said that her new husband, Greatorix.…”

“Hang on a minute. Is this the playboy character I’m thinking of?”

“That very one. A charmer. But a wrong ’un. Everybody could see it but the woman herself. He married her for the money she was expecting to inherit from her very generous father, who was well known to be breaking up fast on the rocks-heart problems. He had made no secret of the fact that his wealth was to go half to his son, Jonas, and half to his daughter, Alicia. He opposed her second marriage, but she went ahead anyway. She presented Greatorix with two sons and her time was so occupied until the moment came when her father truly was at death’s door. The old man, just before he breathed his last, changed his will and left the daughter’s half of the goodies directly to his grandson, little John Peterkin. To be held in trust for him by his Uncle Jonas until his twenty-first birthday in the usual way.”

“Ouch! Greatorix wasn’t best pleased to be passed over?”

“No. Turned somersaults to get the will changed and all that. Nothing would work for him. But what with his ravings and the unkind things he had to say about the old man and his stepson who would be rich if these plans came to fruition, while his own two boys had nothing, you can imagine-the penny began to drop with Alicia. He was so angry with his poor little stepson, he sent him off to school out of his sight the moment he was of age.”

“A school from which the child promptly went missing.”

“Yes. I’ve been granted sight of the contemporary correspondence relating to the disappearance. The school revealed that the older boys had been bullying John. He was a clever lad, well taught. He turned up here knowing his Latin and Greek already but not prepared to put much effort into sports. You know how well that goes down with some boys! He just disappeared one night, having told the others he’d had enough and had arranged with his mama to be taken away. I’ve seen the boys’ statements gathered by the Sussex men. They’re clear and convincing. He went missing in the middle of an autumn night just before half term. Never seen again.”

“And had his mother intervened?”

“No. She knew the child was unhappy but presumed he’d soon settle in. The school had an excellent reputation, and the headmaster of the day was much respected. Family man. Ex-clergyman. Her last letter to John-she wrote frequently-was full of love and encouragement and a promise to come down and see him at half-term.

“She pointed out that he wouldn’t have run off two days before he was expecting to see her. Reasonably enough. All the searches were made. Not a trace of the boy was ever found. Here or in London.

“Things cooled between the married pair. To such an extent that she began at last to listen to the stories her friends were all too ready to tell her concerning her husband’s peccadilloes. The upshot was that she arranged for the fiend to be caught in a hotel room by a squad of private detectives and a photographer and, using the evidence of infidelity, she divorced him. That’s when the trouble really started! She was then free legally to accuse the ex-husband openly of organising the lad’s disappearance. Even said he’d killed him and buried the body. She bombarded the school and the authorities with letters and demands to reopen the case.”

“Successfully?”

“People went through the motions, but nothing new was ever turned up.”

“But she didn’t give in?”

“No. Twelve years on, and she’s still at it. A determined and loyal woman, sir. I have the greatest regard for her. Last year, a cousin of her first husband, Peterkin, was appointed to a senior rank in MI5. She approached him. Not our thing at all-lost children-but this was his cousin’s boy. Masterson felt obliged. Well, more than that. He’s actually jolly concerned on Alicia’s behalf and wants to do what he can. But I’m the best he could spare, sir. I don’t, um.…” Gosling’s head drooped. “I don’t think his expectations are high.”

“Then he’s wrong.” Joe spoke quietly but firmly. “This boy would be nineteen by now. A whisker younger than you are. He should be up at Oxford, fresh and keen and translating Homer for the umpteenth time. We’ll find him, Gosling. We’ll find out what happened to John Peterkin, and I’ll listen in when you pick up the phone and tell your boss you’ve saved his bacon.

“Now let me tell you how I came by this selection of nine boys.”

“May I see it, sir? The black book?”

Joe noted the young officer’s eagerness and decided to follow his instinct. He passed the moleskine book across the desk and went to squeeze a last cup of coffee out of the vacuum jug, leaving Gosling to leaf through and come to his own conclusions.

“It’s going to take time, isn’t it?” Joe said finally. He wasn’t sure Gosling had heard him, so deep had he sunk into the contents. “Rapson was making notes-reminders-for himself.”

“Yes. What you’ve got here seems to be a list of dates and initials. The dates are written in Latin. Showing off his prowess with the calends, nones and ides?”

“Or assuming everyone else hasn’t a clue and won’t understand?

“Tell you something, though. Wonder if you’d noticed, sir-the photographs and the dates don’t fit. I mean, they may correspond to some of the Latin squiggles, but there’s far more dates than there are faces. Nine faces, more than twenty dates. Are we looking at the tip of an iceberg?”

“Frightening thought, Gosling! I can’t comment. I haven’t had a moment to study the coded bits yet.”

“If each of these dates represents, let’s say, an outgoing boy … a boy leaving before the appointed time-”

“That’s a lot of outgoings over the years,” Joe murmured, looking over his shoulder. “But then, you said it yourself when we met on the doorstep, Gosling: ‘Lots of comings and goings in a place like this.’ ”

“Exactly. Comings are easily tracked and documented. Goings, well, not so much. Transferred to another school? Which one? Does anyone check that they’ve arrived? Gone abroad? Any proof? Who would dream of asking for it? Where are the parents in all this? Can Alicia Peterkin-Greatorix be the only one who’s noticed her son has gone missing?”

“Of course not. I shall have a few phone calls to make after lunch. Using contact details we now have thanks to Rapson’s research.”

Deep in thought for a moment, Joe eyed Gosling with speculation and decided to give out some information to gain some in return. “Look-masks off. I’m going to explore with you the likely motive for Rapson’s interest in small boys. I was going to ask the headmaster outright, but I think I’ll get nearer the truth with a worldly young fellow like yourself. I can’t be certain-though I’ve met the man for all of five minutes, so perhaps I’m no judge-that Farman would understand what I’m getting at.”

Encouraged by a derisive snort from Gosling, Joe pressed on. “My first suspicion is that Rapson, solo or with others, has been taking an unhealthy interest-of a sexual nature, I mean-in boys in his care. What are your thoughts?”

Gosling shook his head and laughed. “You couldn’t be more wrong! Shall I reveal the contents of an official letter of warning the head sent to Rapson only last week? I checked the wording for him so I know what he said. I expect Rapson destroyed it. Not the sort of thing you’d want to keep in your notecase or tucked into your little black book. But you can check his reply if you like; it’s in Farman’s file. It says, and I paraphrase: ‘Mind your own business, you interfering old twerp.’ ”

“In response to?”

“A warning to Rapson to keep away from the staff quarters at the rear of the school. And, specifically, to keep his hands off Betty Bellefoy. She’s a maid at the school. Very pretty and young, which is unusual. Anyway, her mother had lodged a complaint. Demanded that the headmaster restrict Rapson to barracks or Ma Bellefoy would ‘take steps’ is how she put it. Farman professed himself puzzled as to what these steps might be, but the family has served the school faithfully for generations and is well known in the neighbourhood. He decided wisely that it would be easier in times like these to replace a single history master rather than a family of retainers. And Rapson is popular with no one, the Bellefoys are liked by all, so he sent a sharp letter of rebuke and defined his restricted area.”

“Which he broke out of on the night of his death. I think I must go and meet this formidable lady.”

“But it does illustrate the fact that Rapson’s urges were not of a kind that would incline him to the maltreatment of young lads. Apart from the occasional whacking.”

“I think I must turn around my thoughts to date concerning Rapson,” Joe said carefully. “Just chew this over, will you, Gosling? Instead of being a sexual raptor or purveyor of boys to someone at present unknown to us, he could possibly have been one who had noticed and begun to collate-perhaps even inquire into the disappearances. He was writing the history of the school, I understand?”

“God, that’s right! He used to bore us stupid with his little anecdotes from the files. Ancient cricket scores … casts of school drama performances.… No one else found it remotely interesting.”

“How on earth did he come to embark on such a task? A personal enthusiasm for the dusty annals of a preparatory school?”

“Not your bag, I’d guess, sir, and decidedly not mine, but he did it with-er-relish. In fact, I think he exceeded his brief, if the truth be told. Got carried away. He was initially asked by the head, in response to a parental suggestion-a suggestion backed up by a generous donation to funds-to compile a list of school heroes.”

“A list of heroes?”

“It’s something schools do these days, sir. In the aftermath. Memories to be kept bright and all that. Example to the new intake. He was tracking down old boys of the school who’ve won medals for gallantry: the Victoria Cross, Military Cross and all the rest of them. An astonishingly large number of these turned up. Hardly a day passed when he didn’t come smugly into the common room announcing: ‘Hogweed Minor. Mentioned in dispatches at Omdurman,’ or some such. He had all the military service records and was matching them up with the school lists. They’re over there in that cupboard.”

“Right. We can follow in Rapson’s footsteps, then.” Joe waved an arm at the filing room. “I’ve had a preliminary snoop around. I’d say it will take several people weeks to get through it.”

“There may be shortcuts we can take, sir. Using the book for a start. If you’ll just give me a minute to concentrate. I’m trying to match up Peterkin with his disappearance date. And I think I’ve got it. Here! Look! At least we can see from this that he hasn’t obscured the boys’ initials. We’ve got a J.D.P., plain as day, and a date in … hang on a minute … MCMXXI-that’s 1921. Then we’ve got pr. Id. Oct. How’s your Latin, sir? When were the Ides in October? Thirteenth?”

“In October? No. Try the fifteenth.”

“Pridie. That’s the day before the Ides which gives us the 14th of October. Spot on! Got him! So we can probably assume the initials are a good guide.”

“Yes. I don’t think this is a code at all-thankfully! They’re just notes to himself. But notes he wanted to keep quiet. No one coming on these unwittingly is going to be seized with an overpowering need to wrestle with them. In his ferreting about, Rapson could have stumbled on some loose threads. And collated them carefully and discreetly here in these pages.”

“He had that kind of brain, sir. Never let anything get by. Questioned everything. Tedious.”

“Did he give any indication to the other staff that he’d come across something stinky in the school cupboard?”

Gosling frowned and considered. “No. He didn’t confide. I was on the lookout for something not quite right with the establishment, following my interest in Peterkin. In fact, I rather directed Rapson towards the Peterkin question. Claimed a family interest. Lord! Perhaps I triggered the whole thing?”

“Isn’t that why you were sent here, Gosling? Just doing your job.”

“The head had begun to trust me, I think. Or at least to depend on me in a nauseating way.” Gosling pulled a face. “Farman may have an imposing physical presence, but underneath the senatorial robes there beats the heart of a pleb and gurgles the stomach of a glutton. The urge to give him a good kicking is overwhelming.”

“I’m wondering if we might be contemplating something that could be termed a conspiracy?”

“More than one person involved? Sounds likely. If the headmaster weren’t such a jelly, he’d be a likely candidate for the frame. Not Rapson-he was a loner. But, sir, the time scale’s all wrong for a conspiracy, isn’t it?”

“Time? How?”

“The disappearances. We’ve got this first photo from Edwardian days. Rapson has a date here of MCMIII. Eleven years before war broke out. And the most recent is a date last year. There have been three headmasters in that period. Farman was appointed six years ago. Before that there was a Dr. Sutton. Before him, an ancient old bean who retired at the age of eighty. Now what was his name? Oh, where’s Rapson when you need him? Streetly-Standish! That’s it!”

“Difficult to assign the notion of criminal conspiracy to three generations of headmaster, going back three decades.” Joe’s voice was full of doubt. “ ‘Welcome to St. Magnus, old boy. Here’s the keys to the cocktail cabinet and, while you’re at it, you’d better have an open-ended list of boys who won’t be coming back. You may wish to add to it.’ I can’t see it. I think we need to get old Godwit in here again.”

Gosling was already on his feet. “He’s snoozing in the arm chair in the staff room, sir. I’ll fetch him.”

Godwit seemed alert enough as he entered and took the seat Gosling held for him. He even seemed pleased to be called on again. “The last three headmasters? I knew them all,” he chirruped. “A breed in decline, sadly. Streetly-Standish? He was fading somewhat by the time I arrived, but I served for three years under him. Excellent scholar. Though he was not a humanist-the natural sciences were his forte. Strict. Fine leader. Dr. Sutton, his successor? No, I’m perfectly sure he was not known and not related to the previous head. This is not an Oxford college. The heads are chosen by a committee and the most suitable one selected. The position is not passed down. Dr. Sutton also was an excellent headmaster. Differing from the others in that he was, in fact, a family man. Charming wife and three daughters all of whom lived on the premises. Mrs. Sutton doubled as Matron. And the present holder of the post?” Godwit fell silent and marshaled his thoughts. When he was quite ready, out they trooped: “These are straitened times. Many talented men, scholars as well as others, were wasted in the war, of course. The school was lucky to have acquired the services of Mr. Farman. He has been kind to me.”

Joe smiled his encouragement and his understanding. “I’m going to repeat a request,” he began.

“Ah! You’re still looking for the common denominator, Sandilands! And I have, once again, to tell you-there isn’t an obvious one. Or even an obscure one. Three different men from three different backgrounds. Different subjects and universities. Different views of life. Different proclivities.”

“Their religious beliefs?” Joe asked.

“I use the word again: different. Streetly-Standish was a declared atheist. A very fashionable thing to be in those days, but he didn’t impose his views on the school. He was thought modern and innovative even though some of his ideas were a bit ahead of the morality of the time. His successor, Sutton, had been a clergyman. Farman? Who can tell? Overtly, he’s Church of England and preaches to us all in the accepted manner. I don’t believe these three men knew each other. All they have in common is a stint at the same school. There is nothing else that linked them.” Godwit thought hard for a moment. “Except perhaps-” He shook his head, an elusive memory fluttering past him and escaping.

Getting to his feet, he added: “I shall turn this, whatever it is-I’ll call it ‘your quest’-over in my mind. Or what remains of my mind. I shall not forget. If anything stirs in the depth of this turgid pond of memory, I shall hurry to confide in you or young Gosling here. I take it he carries your seal of approval?”

“You may speak freely to Gosling. We’re working together on this. Working to right an ancient wrong.” It sounded overly dramatic but expressed Joe’s increasing determination to restore the lost boys, if only to memory. The words were received with an approving nod.

A hand as brown and fragile as a dead leaf reached out and tenderly touched the plump little face of John Peterkin. Godwit murmured a few words in ancient Greek, made the sign of the cross over the photograph, and left the room.

Joe turned to Gosling. “When it comes to Greek, I can claim, as with Shakespeare, that I have little Latin and even less-”

Gosling cut short his embarrassment. “Euripides, sir. It’s from one of his tragedies. Alcestis. We put it on in my second year at Oxford. Outdoors in a meadow on the banks of the Isis. That wonderful summer!” Seeing Joe’s puzzled look, he went on with the quiet tact of a courtier. “You’ll remember, sir, that, in the play, our hero, Hercules, is trying to snatch back the recently dead Greek princess, Alcestis, from Death?”

Gosling paused to give Joe a chance to say: “Ah, yes, of course. Familiar with the situation, not the injured party. Go on.”

“The deceased is the lovely wife of his friend Admetus. He, Admetus, is a bounder and a cad, as all agree. He’s destined to die according to a whim of the gods unless some other poor so-and-so can be persuaded to die in his place. His selfish old parents, though tottering at death’s door, refuse. The only one to offer is his dutiful wife, Alcestis.”

“Far too good for him,” Joe remarked. “Wives usually are.”

“Her husband-what a shit! — says thank you very much, and the lady prepares herself for death. Tearful farewells to the children and all that going on. In the middle of all this, Hercules, taking a break between two of his labours, turns up for dinner-”

“And senses there’s a bit of an atmosphere?”

“Nobody’s fool, Hercules! Our hero decides, unlike the caddish husband, that he’s not going to let this sacrifice be made, and although by now the lady has actually done the deed and her soul is practically in the clutches of the old boatman, Charon, Hercules piles in with a last-minute, god-defying plan.

“Being a stout-hearted and enterprising lad, he brings it off. After a bit of a dustup.” Gosling grinned. “Something of a brawler, Hercules. A dirty fighter. Used his brain as well as his brawn. He sneaked up on Death himself at the key moment of the burial ceremony and got him in a neck-lock. Went one round with the Infernal Lord and won. He rescued the lady from Charon before he could punt her soul across the river to Hades.”

“Whence there is no return,” Joe muttered.

“That’s right. He brought Alcestis home again to her husband, sound in wind and limb.”

“I don’t like to think how the ensuing conversation went, Gosling! Now, in a good Victorian melodrama of the kind I like, the husband would have killed himself in remorse and Hercules would have gone off with the girl. And she’d have been well pleased with her bargain. Quite a man, Hercules! Your sort of bloke, Gosling?” Joe said, trying to hide his amusement.

“Oh, yes. Half-man, half-god, remember. I’d have liked to have him in my crew! At my back, sir, rowing at bow.”

Joe didn’t need to ask which of the characters the young man had played on stage and hoped that the attractively pugilistic features had not been obscured by the traditional mask. “No last-minute rescue of Peterkin, in this case, I fear. Not even a decent burial as far as anyone’s aware. Did you catch Godwit’s words?”

“Yes. Memory not wonderful, but I’ll give it a go. At one point the Chorus says something like … Oh, that I had the strength to bring you back to light from the dark of death, rowing back across the sacred river.”

The words hung between them, ancient, guttural and full of grief. Joe left a silence before he spoke softly. “I’ll echo that sentiment, Gosling. We’ll find old Charon and give him a bad time, shall we? We may not return with the bodies, but we can snatch back the souls from oblivion, perhaps.”

“We’ll take our seats at the oar, sir, and give it ten!”