Joe had seen photographs of him in the newspapers but would not have recognised him from their evidence. The black and white prints gave emphasis to the smooth, lofty forehead, the neatly barbered, brilliantined hair, the commanding nose and the cold intellectual stare that brought reassuringly to mind the face of the young Duke of Wellington. The pressmen’s flash bulbs turned him into a sleek assembly of planes in light and shade, from any angle a challenging face, a modern face. A face often photographed above a white tie and stiff collar, leaving the Savoy or the Ritz. But the flesh and blood reality in front of Joe this chilly morning was less the impeccably groomed hero of a Hollywood movie, more the backwoodsman. He was much younger looking than his forty odd years. His hair had received only cursory attention; the rough jacket and trousers were more suited to a grouse moor than the city. A man who’d dodged the attentions of his valet this morning, Joe thought with approval.
The minister smiled at the group and the smile reached his dark eyes, sparking them with complicitous humour. An intelligent man, Joe knew that much. Details from his Special Branch record were coming swiftly to mind. Eton and Cambridge. Rowing blue. Stroke in a winning pre-war Boat Race eight. Scientific and philanthropic family background. Wealthy. And-a progressive.
The best England had to offer had dashed out in tweeds on a chill morning to attend a meeting with him. Why?
Joe swallowed. “I’m honoured to meet you, sir,” he managed and resumed his seat.
“The honour is all ours, Sandilands, if we’re to believe what we hear.” The minister stopped short and looked at him expectantly. All eyes turned on Joe.
So, there it was: The first exploratory ball had been bowled. The crowd was waiting to see how he dispatched it.
“Honoured, sir,” Joe repeated, “but puzzled! My message to Cottingham was simplicity itself, I had thought.”
Ralph Cottingham looked down and examined his cuff-links.
“What’s been going on? Shall I tell you what I think’s been going on?”
The concentrated attention of his audience fed the performer in Joe. He decided to go for a boundary shot. He leaned forwards and caught each questioning face in a conspiratorial glance. “You’ve all been playing the Telephone Game!” His tone was one of playful accusation. “Or ‘Chinese Whispers’ as we used to call it in the trenches. I ring Cottingham at six this morning with a swift plea for access to certain files: Arrange for an expert to be on hand. It passes down the line and comes out at ten as: A range of four experts and a brass band.”
It was Trenchard, notorious for his lack of humour, who gave a snort of laughter. The rest eyed each other uncertainly. Shoulders still shaking with amusement, the Commissioner took up the tale. “Rest assured, Sandilands, there’s nothing wrong with Cottingham’s ears or the brain between them. It was I who intercepted your message and took the matter out of his hands. Your request hoisted a signal, d’you see? Or do I mean, sprang a trap? It was Cottingham who, questing about, unwittingly got his fingers chopped off. Anyhow, the name of this school you’re interested in-St. Magnus-its file is stickered.” He sat back, content with his announcement.
The questioning lift of eyebrows directed at him by Cottingham encouraged Joe to ask: “Stickered, sir?”
“That’s what I said. A purple sticker. Anyone enquiring would be finding himself looked at carefully. It signifies that the contents are currently of interest at the highest level. MI5 would designate such material ‘Top Secret’ in their dramatic way. In fact-there’s not much to catch the attention in there. The interest lies in who precisely wishes to avail himself of it. What a surprise to find we’ve caught two of our own with sticky fingers-the Assistant Commissioner and his assistant!”
“May I ask, sir, at whose request the file was stickered? By the department itself?”
“No. As a matter of fact, by Military Intelligence initially.” Truelove admitted this reluctantly and added swiftly, “Though they had the sense to realise it had little to do with military or state security. Just for once, they agreed to pass it on to the Met.”
Trenchard stepped in to clear up Joe’s evident mystification. “Your predecessor it was, Sandilands, who picked this up and decided there was nothing to it. Rumours passing between armchairs in clubs … yarning over the whisky … hysterical women demanding favours-you know the sort of thing.”
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.”