“Well, all right, then.” Jem cast his master-of-the-house look around the room. “I see you haven’t laid for breakfast yet? Get it on early. We’re off again come first light.”
CHAPTER 11
Joe eased his salt-spattered Morris off the main road and up the drive of St. Magnus school. What was the quality of school driveways that gave them the power to rouse such dread in anyone approaching? The gloom of laurels lining the route set the mood, he decided, as they ushered the visitor onwards. Unnaturally glossy at this dead time of the year, they stood in ranks, deferential but foreboding, like undertakers’ well-drilled assistants. Joe shuddered. He’d spoken once to an old schoolmaster he much admired, a sanguine and rational man who confided that this terror of approaching a school had never left him in half a century. What must young Jackie be feeling?
Joe glanced in the mirror at the anxious little face on the back seat and, for a reckless moment, he contemplated turning round and making off for the chalk uplands. Striding out in an open and treeless space for a good long tramp and a talk.
At least the sun had made an appearance to cheer up what promised to be a difficult day. A change in the wind overnight had bundled the snow clouds off to trouble the west and left the south country lightly dusted with the glamour of a Christmas card. Another of old Mother Nature’s jokes. “Oops! I’m a bit late with the snow … so sorry I missed December!” Like an adored actress who always arrived late for a party, said the wrong thing and got drunk, she was always forgiven, always a lively topic of conversation. Well, Joe was glad enough for the sunshine, glad to be seeing the school, for the moment at any rate, in the best possible light.
The carriage-drive had been neatly cleared of snow, he noticed. Murder and mayhem might reign indoors, but the maintenance work on the exterior was faultless. One or two cedar trees stood about in ducal dignity; already stately, they were further ennobled by the ruffles of snow they shouldered. They signalled, by their maturity, that a building of some distinction might be anticipated around the next bend.
Joe tried to estimate what would be the feelings of a parent on delivering his son and heir into the care of this establishment, and he decided that he was, so far, very favourably impressed. The spacious grounds the brochure had promised were certainly there, resisting the encroachment of the sprawling modern town. But even the proximity of the unattractive development on its doorstep was presented as an advantage: Railway station delivering speedy service to the capital a few minutes’ walk away.… Local amenities: theatre, golf course, tea-rooms, cinema, swimming pool, hostelry, cliff-top walks.… Joe doubted that the boys would be allowed to enjoy many of these. Apart of course from the visits to the Lavender Lady for a cream bun followed by a three-reeler at the Odeon on a wet weekend when the parents put in an appearance.
The escorting laurel bushes gave out dramatically, in good time to grant an unencumbered view of the school. It was grand but not grandiose, solid but not forbidding. An elegant example of late Georgian architecture, though it could just be early Victorian. If he ever had the opportunity, he’d check. Joe slowed to scan other details more revealing than the well-kept drive and the stout front door. His eye ranged upwards over the chimney pots, the roof tiles and the window frames on the topmost floor. He was looking for signs of decay, and this is where it would show itself first, up here above eye level. Years of war and financial collapse had worn down many a thriving concern and reduced it to rubble within a decade. But here was a different story: Like the grounds, the fabric of the house seemed to be in prime condition. Even the weathercock atop the pinnacle of what must be the chapel appeared freshly gilded and jauntily catching the sun.
“Andrew’s old school, eh?” Joe addressed the remark to his two passengers sharing the back seat. “I think he must have been well pleased with it.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jackie dimly. “Daddy liked it here. Before he went up to Haileybury. He has lots of stories.”
Dorcas leaned forwards and put a paper into Joe’s hand. “You’ll be needing this. Andrew’s telegram.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He put the insignificant folded sheet of brown paper carefully into his inside pocket. “I’ll give it back to you, Jackie, when it’s worked its magic. For your scrapbook.”
The telegram had been delivered while they were still at the breakfast table. With all eyes on him, Joe had opened it, read, and summarized the contents for his audience. “It’s from India. From Andrew Drummond. He’s conferring temporary parental powers to me (to be confirmed by his London lawyer who is receiving instructions) until such time as Jackie’s mother can arrive in England to assume control. He’s sent a similar statement to the head at St. Magnus. Nancy is on her way and is expected to arrive early next month. In three weeks’ time.… Three weeks. Good Lord! Oh, and at the end he says they both send their love to you, Jackie. Well, that’s all right then! This gives us the edge we need!” Deep in thought, he began to fold the sheet.
Dorcas had deftly plucked it from his hand and passed it to Jackie, who was sitting next to her. The boy clutched it and read with trembling lips, running a finger under the printed words. An arm around his shoulders, Dorcas bent to whisper the meanings of the long words and the Latin legal phrases as he struggled through. Joe reached for the marmalade and held it up to the light, making distracting remarks about the sun shining through the Cooper’s Oxford, pretending he hadn’t seen Dorcas hurriedly dabbing up with her napkin the teardrops that splashed onto the flimsy sheet as Jackie neared the end. At a look from Dorcas, Joe had made no attempt to take it back.
He parked neatly by the front door of the school and turned to speak. “Ten o’clock. We made good time, and we got here an hour before our advertised arrival. We may catch them on the hop. What’s likely to be happening in there at the moment, Jackie?”
“They’ll be nearly at the end of the first lesson. Ten minutes to go.”
“Good. A moment of calm, then. Look, stay here with Dorcas for a minute, will you, while I go and alert the head master.”
As he got out of the car a young man flung the door wide and came forwards with an air of enquiry. He stopped in his tracks, stared at the car, then started forwards again, holding out a hand. “Sandilands? You must be Assistant Commissioner Sandilands? Sir, you are expected … but you arrive a little earlier than we looked for you. No matter-Mr. Farman is in his study and will see you straight away.” The man’s attention was immediately switched to Jackie, and he bustled over to the car door to help him out. “Hullo there, Drummond! Good to see you. Look, before we go any further, you ought to hear that I’m your new form master.”
Jackie greeted this news with a squeak of pleasure, and Joe looked with increased interest at the man the school had chosen to go out in front bearing the standard. A good choice, he decided. Impeccably suited and confident, yet having an edge of modern informality. And, a feature of instant appeal to small boys-and to Joe himself, he admitted with amusement-the man had the intriguingly battered features of a boxer.
“Mr. Gosling! Oh, good! Uncle Joe, this is Mr. Gosling who teaches games. Mr. Gosling, this is my cousin Dorcas who’s been looking after me.”
“Ah, yes. Miss Joliffe, would that be?” The master shook her hand. “Delighted! We were told you were coming. If you’ll give me your keys, sir, I’ll see to your motor. No, no! Let me take Drummond’s things. Now, what’s he got? Ah. I see he’s acquired a suitcase in the interval? And the old Afghan bag, I think I recognise.”
Gosling heaved the luggage out of the car and placed it without further comment a careful distance away from a second, much larger, collection. A trunk with two further suitcases and a pile of books tied together with string sat waiting by the side of the carriage sweep.