Not My Blood

CHAPTER 19

The waiter at The Bells handed around menus and Joe and Dorcas looked at them, unseeing, preoccupied.

“All the same, Joe, finishing off a man’s crossword like that-it’s just not done!”

“Oh? I rather think he invited us to help.”

“He was just making polite noises. Burbling a bit.”

“Dorcas, I don’t think Dr. Chadwick ever burbled anything inconsequential in his life. Every word was weighed. Intriguing man. I do wonder why he spends his afternoons dressed like a rat-catcher, though. Quite put me off my stride.”

“Perhaps he’d been catching rats,” Dorcas said huffily. “Something you don’t seem too keen on yourself. Why didn’t you go on, Joe, to the next hospital? Goodness knows where that child may be by now.”

“State of the road, darkness, late hour-”

“Oh, you can stop. You won’t say it, so I’ll do it for you-the child’s dead already and was before we started out on our wild goose chase.”

“Either that or he’s recovered and back with his family. We’ll know in the morning, but there’s nothing else we can do tonight. Except try to enjoy our supper. Now can we concentrate on the menu?”

“What are you going to have? Not a wide choice at The Bells, I see, in spite of its efforts to turn itself into some sort of a fashionable roadhouse to attract the fast motoring set.”

“Yes, it’s not exactly the cobwebbed old barn I’d expected-full of yokels in smocks lifting tankards of foaming ale. Much more entertaining! Glad you packed your blue silk.”

She looked about her with curiosity and Joe smiled to see the old Dorcas appear briefly. “I’ve never stayed in a roadhouse before,” she confided.

“Glad to hear it! Dens of iniquity. I should be shot for bringing you here.”

He noted with approval the dinner dress she’d changed into. It was well cut and discreet. Not one of those backless creations all the women seemed to wear these days. A chap never quite knew where to put his hands anymore when he encountered nothing but flesh down to a partner’s waist, and he said as much to his companion.

Dorcas looked around the gathering of dinner dancers. “The lady crossing the floor,” she murmured. “Do look, Joe! She’s found an entirely new part of her anatomy to put on show.”

“Good Lord! It’s to be hoped her partner’s wearing gloves. Otherwise I may have to step in and arrest them for public indecency.”

He looked quickly back at Dorcas and found himself admiring the single strand of pearls, the mascaraed lashes that didn’t need the attention, the mouth rouged in red lipstick. Freshly bathed, she smelled of a blend of Pears soap and perfume. He felt suddenly unworthy of the effort the girl had made.

“How’s your room?” he enquired politely.

“It’ll do.” Dorcas leaned to him and confided, “It’s got a name on the door. Do they all have one? Mine’s the ‘Diane de Poitiers.’ Mistress to Henry the Second of France. And right next door there’s ‘Nell Gwyn.’ Mistress to Charles the Second of England.”

“Heavens! I wonder if they exchange notes over the garden fence.” Joe looked anxiously around at the other diners. “Be sure to keep your door locked.”

“I will, Grandma.”

“Some pretty raffish types in tonight, I’d say. Someone might choose to interpret that nonsense as an invitation to come aboard. And I think I can see what’s attracting them to this watering hole. Did you see they’re having a dance tomorrow night in the new wing-dance floor sprung, polished, and ready for takeoff to the strains of Santini and his Syncopating Swingers?”

“I’d noticed. How’s your dancing, Joe?”

“Energetic. I especially enjoy the South American style. Mothers warn their daughters as they screw in the second earring: ‘… and remember, dear, never tango with Sandilands! You’ll stagger off the dance floor with something broken.’ ”

Dorcas almost raised a smile. “Oh, Lord! Big toe? Bra strap? Back?”

“Not the toes. Never the toes. But there’s a judge’s daughter in Devon who remains as bent as a hairpin to this day.”

The Dorcas of old would have picked this up and run with it, but the mature young woman was, he sensed, too deeply troubled to leap into frivolity with him.

“Well it’s either a tango with me tomorrow night with all its terrors or a quiet evening in with Langhorne. He runs the school’s Saturday night entertainment for the lads. They have a film show in the school hall. They’ve got a Laurel and Hardy feature on.” Still no smile. He decided to change tack. She’d always enjoyed her food. “You’ll have the soup to start, I’d guess.”

Dorcas nodded.

“And-don’t tell me-the Dover sole to follow?”

She nodded again and made an effort to respond to his warmth. “It’s quite like old times staying in an inn together, Joe, working on a case. But people aren’t giving us funny looks any more.”

Joe stopped a waiter in his tracks and gave their order. He glanced around the dining room. “This lot is too busy staring at each other. Quite a crowd in tonight. Friday? The start of a long weekend. Had you noticed? They’re all couples on pleasure bent. And not many are married to each other.”

“You’d expect it. Fast train down from London … or fast roadster. It’s cheaper and more discreet than a hotel in Brighton and in reach of anyone with a Morris. Including us, come to think of it. Do you see the ill-matched pair at the next table?”

“The dry sherry and the gin and tonic?”

“Yes. He’s fat and fifty. She’s slim and twenty. They’ve never met before. And they’ve got their own private detective and photographer in tow. These two professional gentlemen have been parked at the next table where they’re moodily comparing the performances of their Wolseley saloon cars over their double whiskies.”

This was better! Dorcas had always taken an interest verging on the fantastical in the strangers she came across on her travels.

“Oh lord! How unpleasant! I see what they’re at! We’re in for a burst of illegal activity after lights out. Let’s hope they’re discreet.”

“Cries of ‘Gotcha!’ and clicking of shutters! I expect they’ll wait until breakfast to stage their little pantomime. That’s the tradition with divorce-seekers, you know. The witness and camera man-that’s the double Wolseleys-enter along with the scrambled eggs and toast to surprise the guilty party who is discovered, sheets to the chin, in bed with his accommodating lady.”

“The chin in question being freshly shaved, anointed with a touch of Penhaligan’s best, and the lady fully clothed,” Joe commented.

“Ah, you’ve done this before.”

“No. Never tied the knot. But I read the scandal sheets.”

“What do you bet, Joe, that our rascally landlord keeps a special suite always at the ready? Top rate, of course. And heavy tips for the staff.”

“All varieties of human life are here at the roadhouse, I’m afraid, as well as motoring enthusiasts. Sorry about this, Dorcas. I was looking forwards to a quiet talk in congenial surrounding. Getting acquainted again. Finding my young friend.”

“Don’t apologise. My fault. It’s the best we could do if I chose to tag along. Not the first time I’ve fouled up your social and professional life. If I weren’t here at all, needing your chaperonage, you could be at this moment a guest of the school, in the spare room at the lodge with the masters. Looking forwards to a ham sandwich and cup of cocoa. And fending off the advances of Mr. Langhorne.”

Joe hurriedly turned his gaze from the shining eyes to focus on the rows of bottles at the bar behind her head. Where did she pick up these things? The wretched girl was still not ready to be let out into polite society. He wasn’t going to let her get away with an ill-considered comment like that. He cleared his throat. “Langhorne? The chap who was dancing attendance on you at lunch time? Flirting with you over the table? The ally who helped you demolish the headmaster with a few well-chosen quotations?”

“Yes. Good-looking chap.”

“That all?”

“Probably. I’m not sure I can admire or trust a man who fights his battles by firing off other men’s lines. I’d rather hear his own thoughts.”

“Ooh! Hoity toity! It’s only a game, Dorcas-played by men, I have to admit, to entertain and confound each other.”

“No. I think with Mr. Langhorne it’s more than a pretence. It’s a glittering outer cover-a defence mechanism.”

“Eh?”

“The man’s a chocolate box. One of those expensive ones with a pretty picture on the cover, all tied up with silk ribbons, and when you take the lid off you discover it’s been empty since last Christmas and there’s just one unwanted butterscotch oozing away in a corner.”

“Ah! Now I’ve got it! You describe me exactly.” Joe rolled his eyes and clutched his heart.

“Don’t take it personally. I’m describing most men.”

“All the same, Langhorne was paying you flattering attention. Takes some courage to make up to a woman with his colleagues looking on, ready to scoff, you know. I was impressed.”

And, pityingly: “It’s exactly the reaction he was after, Joe. Consciously or unconsciously. ‘There goes Langhorne, chasing the skirts again. Not to be trusted within a mile of a silk stocking.’ Don’t you see it? He’s covering up the fact that he isn’t the least bit interested in women. He deceives his fellows; he deceives you. He deceives himself perhaps.”

“But he doesn’t fool you? A girl with three years of psychology under her belt.”

“I think I know real interest when I meet it.” This was accompanied by a smile full of regret and mystery.

Joe sighed and decided to ignore this baited hook. “Oh, look behind you! They’ve got a cocktail bar with leatherette-covered high stools. Care to perch on one and sip a ‘Manhattan’ while we’re waiting for the first course? No? Well, I notice our landlord stocks a wide range of champagnes,” he pressed on with a brittle cheeriness. “Fancy a glass of Bollinger, Dorcas?”

“No thanks. Not in the mood.”

“Shame! I was hoping to raise a few eyebrows. ‘That handsome devil at the corner table,’ they’d murmur, ‘the one with the tiger-clawed forehead and the wolfish grin … plying that poor girl with bubbly … it’s Rudolph Roller, and he’s something big in the City. They say he drives a red Royce.’ Pause while the table shudders with distaste and then: ‘D’you see the unfortunate creature with him? It’s Rita Renault, just fished out of the typing pool!’ ”

“It’s no good, Joe; I can’t feel celebratory. I can only think there’s a small boy out there who may have come to harm. I can’t understand why you left quietly like that. Not like you. I’d have expected you to arrest Chadwick, twist his arm, turn the place upside down … question the staff … at least annoy him by demanding to examine the daybook. Instead of which you complete his crossword with a flourish and stalk off.”

“That annoyed him more than anything, if I read him right! But all those options you mention are impossible, or they’re dead ends, Dorcas. You heard the man: If he wanted to hide someone in a place like that, you wouldn’t find him if you had a battalion and a pack of trained hounds at your back. I believed him. I’ve learned when to retreat. I’m not Don Quixote to go dashing in like a fool. There are other ways.”

“Like handing the investigation to Gosling? You don’t like him. You don’t trust him.”

“I’ve charged him with parking my car at the school and then doing a bit of telephoning. He’s to contact the Spielmans for an update on the situation regarding young Harald, then work his way through Rapson’s gallery, checking present whereabouts and, if necessary, availability of death certificates. Routine stuff but, lacking my own men about me, Gosling will have to do. I say this fully realising that he may well be duplicitous. He’s also, before he turns in for the night, to set up an interview with the hospital the doctor mentioned.”

Joe paused for a moment in thought. “You know what the medical profession is like when it comes to solidarity, Dorcas?”

“They don’t shop each other when something’s gone wrong.”

“I need to check on this pediatrics place. Chadwick had only good things to say about it, but there was just something about his delivery, an oddness. It was presented as an afterthought. But I thought it was rather too casually handed to me.”

“I could comment more intelligently if you told me where this hospital is. I probably know of it. The department has contacts with many hospitals. My friends were scattered all around the Home Counties. We compared notes. Let me help you.”

Joe handed the card Chadwick had given him to Dorcas and watched her brows lift in surprise.

“You do know it?”

“Yes, I do. But it’s miles from here. Not on the Seaford-London road at all. To get there, you’d have to travel a further twenty miles north and then branch off to the east and pick up the Tunbridge Wells road. It’s a couple of miles south of Edenhurst village.”

Joe looked at her steadily. “How do you know this? Have you visited?”

“Yes. Joe, this is the hospital where I did my research last term.”

“Ah. The post Truelove wangled for you?”

“I was glad and lucky to have it. It was the plum posting. You must have heard of it? It’s always in the papers.”

Joe nodded. “The sort of showcase establishment eminent foreign visitors are shown around, I understand. Starry German clinicians especially welcome. Pathé News on hand to record the admiration. Dorcas, how long has it been open, this place?”

“Oh, it’s shining new. White brick, plate glass, chrome fittings, the occasional restrained decorative touch. Ah, of course. I see where you’re going with this. Five years? At the most. So, of little interest to your enquiry.”

Joe smiled with relief. “Nevertheless, I don’t neglect a pointer when it’s pushed at me by a bloke as clever as I judge Chadwick to be. Just give me an outline if you can, without being too starry eyed.”

“It’s a research hospital, both surgical and psychiatric. They employ the very best medical staff, and their patients are well-heeled and well-connected. If members of the royal family need a little discreet medical attention, it’s where they come. It’s out of the public eye, and they receive the most modern treatment. James Truelove is a friend of the director. No, it’s a closer relationship than that. Brother-in-law, would he be? I believe he married James’s sister. Byam Alexander Bentink. Professor Bentink. He’s a consultant, a world authority on epilepsy and other brain malfunctions. A brilliant man.”

“So, it’s possible that a chauffeur in distress with a suffering child on his hands might have rung his boss from a telephone box or a post office or a road-house with a request for instructions. Perhaps he’d got further on his journey than we had calculated. A knowledgeable parent would have looked at a map and noted that the best option was to drive him to this centre of clinical excellence. Perhaps the boy was already on their books?”

“Entirely possible.” Dorcas turned a beaming smile at last on Joe. “We’ll find out in the morning. If that’s where Harald Spielman’s been taken he couldn’t be in more professional hands, I know that. Ouf!” She gave an exaggerated gesture of relief. “That’s the first gleam of sunshine we’ve had in this murky case. Do you think I might change my mind and have a glass of champagne now?”

“Of course. But there’ll be a price to pay. I mean over and above the five quid the landlord’s charging.” He summoned a waiter and placed his order. “I want some information. Everywhere I turn I bump into Sir James. He’s here there and everywhere. I’ve only met the bloke once, and he’s taken to haunting me. I’m not happy about it. I’ve made the usual background checks, of course, and I know what he is but I don’t know who he is. I need to understand him. I want to know as much as you can tell me about him.”

Dorcas frowned a frown he had last seen seven years before, and Joe feared she was going to sink into the impenetrable silence that usually followed. Then she came to a decision and spoke dismissively. “You don’t want to hear what I have to tell about him, about his integrity, his intelligence, his oratory, his philanthropy, do you?”

Joe shook his head. “No, I’d rather hear he can’t fasten his shoelaces yet, slurps his soup and beats his granny. You must have noticed something.”

The frown became a scowl. “Very well. I’ll confide that he drinks the best French brandy and the worst English ale. That he uses Eucryl toothpowder, gets his shoes at Lobbs, his haircuts at Trumpers, and always gives his lady friends white roses. You really must stop reading the Daily Mirror, Joe. I think of Sir James as the best ancient Athens had to offer in its golden age. Democratic, thoughtful, but with the bounding energy that gets a state rebuilt.”

“Good Lord! A sort of modern day Pericles, are you claiming?”

“That’s not a bad insight! The citizenry would have gathered round on the Pnyx to listen to James’s speeches, all right!”

“Huh! If our old friend Plutarch isn’t wrong, Pericles’ best speech-the humdinger he delivered from the steps of the Parthenon at the opening ceremony-was written for him by a woman!”

“Only a man would be surprised to hear that.”

Joe hesitated. Should he risk breaking the news? Surely she knew? He would phrase his next sentence carefully and have his handkerchief at the ready … prepare for tears and sobs.

“I was just thinking-if Sir James depends on Lady Truelove to pen his bons mots for him, Parliament’s in for a jolly boring time! His wife, Lavinia, is one of the silliest women in London, I hear.”

“Ah, but Pericles’ muse was not Mrs. Pericles.” She spoke with no surprise. He would have said rather with quiet triumph. “The speech-writer you’re thinking of was his well-educated and utterly lovely Aspasia. A courtesan. The only class of woman worth knowing in ancient Greece, I would have thought.”

“A hetaira? A good-time girl?”

“But well educated and witty, an ideal companion for a politician. I sometimes think we should revive the institution. It would so cheer up the lives of those dull duffers in Parliament.”

“To say nothing of their speeches! But no need to encourage the notion, Dorcas. They’ve been at it on the quiet for years in Westminster.”

Her answering smile was the one he most disliked-the enigmatic one. Hinting at possible revelations.

“Here’s the champagne, Joe. Oh! Goodness! Veuve Cliquot ’26! Have I deserved this?”

He smiled blandly. “No. But it’s what I always give my lady friends.”

I really must rise above this, Joe thought to himself.

Strangely his comment seemed to please her. Or the gesture. Could it be that she suddenly realised the grapes whose essence had become this vintage had been ripening in the vineyards the last time they’d dined together in France?

A delicate compliment. Joe’s own silent toast to the past.

She did remember and reached out to squeeze his hand, murmuring a sentimental reminiscence, when a discreet cough and a whiff of tobacco-infused tweeds at his side distracted Joe’s attention. Inspector Martin was standing, looking thoughtful, a solid and lugubrious presence.

“I do beg your pardon for interrupting, but may I have a quiet word, sir?”

Joe made his excuses and followed him to the bar.

“Sorry about that, sir. I hadn’t realised how things stood between you and the young lady.…”

“Things don’t stand at all, Martin. She’s a colleague, and I’ve known her for years. It’s the surroundings that are disreputable, not us. Can I help you?”

“Yes. Just knocking off. Gosling said I’d find you here. Got your note. But I wondered … you said you might be able to make headway with the knife grinder I’ve still got locked up. I’ve had him in jug for two days now, and he’s due for release unless I come up with something. Do you still want to have a look at him before I cut him loose?”

“Yes. I hadn’t forgotten. In fact, I’m arranging it now. I’ll meet you-where? Town jail? Tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock too soon for you?” He had given an over-brisk reaction, he realised, in his concern to quell any suspicion that the London copper might be sleeping in with a hangover or worse.

Joe returned to the table. “Now I’ll tell you how you can earn your champagne supper. Do you still speak Romany, Dorcas?”

He weathered the outburst of denials: “Years since I spoke it … only ever used it as a child with other children … never very proficient anyway.…” until he received a grudging: “Oh, very well then. Anything to find out who stuck the knife in Rapson.”

They were the first couple to leave the dining room, followed by the glances of the other diners.

“Early start in the morning. I’d better show you to your room, Dorcas,” had been Joe’s awkward announcement as they both refused coffee and brandy.

He followed her up two flights of stairs and down a long corridor until she stood, key in hand, in front of a white-painted door bearing a decorated plaque announcing ‘48 Diane de Poitiers.’ Joe unlocked the door for her and stepped inside, looking about him.

“Frightful hidey-hole they’ve given you, Dorcas. Diane de Poitiers indeed! A French king’s mistress and owner of the loveliest château in France-I don’t think she’d reckon much to this dog kennel. Simply ghastly. Narrow little bed. It won’t do. You should have told me. I’ll speak to the manager.”

“Don’t fuss! The maid says they’re full tonight. It’s really of no concern. I’m used to sleeping on flea-infested blankets under the stars and washing in mountain streams. At least there’s a bathroom across the corridor with hot water and good soap.”

“Look, they’ve most unfairly-I can’t imagine what they were thinking-given me a huge room with not one but two double beds in it, a surprising number of mirrors and an adjoining bathroom with gold taps. Here, take my key. It’s number 31. Er, the ‘Sir Lancelot suite,’ I’m afraid. I can only suppose the architect they employed had a sense of the ridiculous. Use that room, and I’ll camp out in here. You’ll enjoy the adjustable shower spray. No, really! You’re not the only one accustomed to discomfort. I can trump your nights of ‘fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees’ with four years of rat-infested trenches. But, entertaining though it would be to stand here comparing bites-”

Laughing, Dorcas launched herself at him and folded him in a tight hug. She looked up and kissed his cheek. “Joe, only you would say you couldn’t imagine! They weren’t expecting Diane to be welcoming a guest this evening, you twerp! This room is just a face-saving token. A retreat in case the lady gets cold feet. Or the gentleman snores. But it would be mean-spirited to refuse such a chivalrous offer. Thank you!” She kissed his other cheek. “I’ll beetle off now and spend the night in the arms of-Sir Lancelot, was it? Goodnight, Joe. I’ll see you in jail tomorrow.”

After an awkward exchange of luggage, padding to and fro along carpeted corridors, Joe took off his shoes and slumped, head spinning, onto his narrow bed. He glared, confused and resentful, at a painting some clown had fixed on the wall opposite the foot of the bed. It was a gilt-framed portrait of the sixteenth century royal courtesan herself, by someone trying for the style of François Clouet. A well-known tribute to the lady, making play with the name she shared with the goddess of the hunt. The eternally virginal and vengeful Diana. Naked save for a pearl necklace round her throat and the oddly erotically placed leather thong of an archer’s quiver across one white shoulder, the lovely woman, caught like the goddess Diana at her toilet, stared down at him with hauteur. Tempting, knowing and unattainable, the divine huntress made no attempt to join him. Not even in his dreams.