“Is that option available to us?” Joe asked. “In the circumstances? Blood spilled and all that?”
This was exactly the cue Farman had been waiting for. He sat back in his leather chair and a smile spread across his chubby features. “Ah, yes. Only good news on that front, Sandilands. We understand now that Drummond was the accidental witness of Rapson’s last seconds of life. Fingerprints establish that they met on the back stairs. The sight of his form master bleeding and expiring right in front of his eyes would have been enough to send any youngster into a tailspin. As a witness, he will, of course, be required to give his evidence to Detective Inspector Martin, who is in charge of the case.” His smile widened. “Evidence of academic interest only now, I may add. Now that Martin has established the boy’s innocence of any direct involvement with the killing. A stabbing occurred, Sandilands, no one’s denying it. But it didn’t occur on school premises.”
“Not on school premises?” Joe repeated in surprise.
“No. At least, not in the school buildings as far as we can ascertain. Martin’s men have tracked him back from the place where he-er-succumbed. Thanks to an overnight three-inch covering of snow, things have rather ground to a halt. But we’ll get there.”
“You’re saying Rapson managed to travel some distance in his wounded condition before he fell dead down the back stairs?”
“Exactly that.”
“With a bit of luck and a long measuring tape, you may manage to track the unpleasantness all the way back to the chip shop in the High Street?”
Farman weathered the sarcasm, smirked, and ran with it. “Ah, yes! An undignified spat with a townie? Some argument over the cod and mushy peas? We should have given it some thought perhaps.” His smile faded as he uncovered his big gun and fired his shot. “But no need for fancies of that nature. Inspector Martin, whom you will shortly meet, has the perpetrator under lock and key in the town jail.”
“Enter the gypsy suspect?” Joe asked mildly.
Farman frowned. “No. An itinerant workman, but not, it appears, a gypsy. ‘The usual gypsy suspect,’ I imagine you were thinking.”
Again Joe had provoked a burst of antagonism. Farman heard it and adjusted his tone. “But this has little to do with me. It’s Martin’s business. Police business. You will be able to chew it over to your heart’s content with your colleague.” He got to his feet. “Two things to do before you set off back to the metropolis. So we’d better get on with it. It gets dark so early these days and the roads are very uncertain, don’t you find? You’ll want to see your nephew happily established in his routine, and you’ll want to confer with Martin. Shall we start with Martin?”
Sensing that the curtain was about to go up on the second act of a well-choreographed performance, Joe tilted his head politely and headed for the door.
CHAPTER 12
“Well, here you are,” Farman announced. “Temporary police HQ. The old sports-kit storage room. Not what you’re used to, I’m sure, but the best we can do. Martin’s already in there at work. Early bird. Good man. I’ll introduce you.”
As he flung the door open and walked in, he said as an afterthought: “By the way, Commissioner, we’ll lay a place for you-and Miss Joliffe of course-at the top table for lunch. Twelve o’clock sharp. Martin shuns our company and chooses to bring his own sandwiches. Now, Sandilands, may I present-”
The two officers fixed each other with a calm police stare. They went through the ritual of introduction, waiting for Farman to leave, each taking the other’s measure. As Joe had feared, the Sussex Detective Inspector looked unfriendly, irritated at being disturbed earlier than anticipated. He was as tall as Joe and handsome in the fair, corpulent way of Sussex men. Large parts of his ruddy cheeks were covered by a luxuriant mustache to rival that of Ramsay MacDonald. Smartly suited, wedding ring. A pipe smoker, judging by the thick atmosphere.
It was Martin who jumped in first to break the silence that followed the welcome closing of the door behind Farman’s billowing black gown. “I don’t know if you’re a man who takes advice when it’s given with good intent, sir, but I have some to offer.”
Portentous. Unsmiling. Joe braced himself for the ritual clearing of the decks, the assigning of roles, the growling warnings about territory.
“Avoid the meat pie. The pastry’s made with lard, and the meat’s made with something I’ll swear never mooed.”
“I always listen to advice,” Joe replied carefully. “Sometimes I take it. I’ll fill up on the rice pudding,” he finished with a grin.
“Sensible course, sir. That’s actually good. They keep a couple of Jersey milk cows somewhere in the vicinity and likewise ponies for drawing the grass-cutter and the snowplough. They’ve got chickens and such-like. A sort of school farm or menagerie. Out the back. I’ll show you when we go on our mystery tour-the Last Reeling Steps of Rapson. Any idea, sir, how far a man who’s just been stabbed in the heart can travel? You’re going to be surprised!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Joe said. “In London our record’s a hundred yards. Knife still in the wound. But then we breed them tough in The Smoke.”
Martin stepped forwards to pull up a chair for Joe on the other side, the visitor’s side of the desk. “Sorry, sir, for the accommodation. What space I could make I’ve already filled, I’m afraid. And there’s as much again down at the station.” He moved a few files and piles of paper around on the dust-covered desktop and settled himself again. “Do sit down, and don’t worry, sir. I’ve chucked out the field mice and the spiders.”
It was more than Joe could bear to sit with his back to a door. It was a phobia, he supposed, one he shared with other fighting men, and, like a fear of snakes, there was no reasoning it away. But he’d learned to live with it. He took the chair that had been set for him and moved it, placing it at one side of the desk, angled towards the doorway. He sat down casually and slipped one leg over the other, relaxed and friendly. “Not taking up residence, Inspector. Quite happy to perch here. And if some fiend bursts through the door wielding a cricket bat, I’ll ’ave ’im!”
Martin smiled, understanding the reason behind the defensive stance. “Ah!” he said and looked more closely at Joe’s face. “The commissioner had a Good War?”
“No such thing as a good war, Martin!”
“You were clearly in the war, and you survived,” Martin commented drily. “As good as it gets, wouldn’t you say?”
Joe nodded. “Yourself?” he ventured. To talk about the war and one’s part in it was bad form, but he sensed that Detective Inspector Martin was set on discovering or revealing information-or perhaps prejudices-that had to be taken out of the way. He would have guessed that the Sussex man was about his own age-late thirties, early forties at a stretch. Certainly a young age to have reached his current position in a county force where promotion tended to go by years of service and not on ability or social contacts. A bright man, Joe guessed, but one with a chip on his shoulder most probably, when faced with a rising star in the Metropolitan force. The barely concealed resentment betrayed by the war comment indicated as much. For years, Joe had dealt with the suspicion and criticism that came his way at each promotion, bad feeling largely spilling over from the continuous appointments of retired military grandees to the all-powerful position of commissioner: Field Marshal Lord This. General Sir That. Marshal Viscount The Other. Aristocratic old warriors, sent in to bat at the end of the day, to play out the over as twilight fell. The Nightwatchmen.