Matron’s slate-green eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Ah, yes! Sir James. The name that opens a thousand doors. Are you by any chance a member of that family, Miss?”
“Not his family-his faculty.” The girl grinned. “I say his, but he doesn’t own the university quite yet. Though he does stump up most of the money that keeps our department afloat. There’s not much cash washing about in higher education these days, and a Cinderella subject like psychology needs all the support it can raise.”
Harriet Hughes had no time for Cinderellas. “Psychology? How to make a science out of common sense? Say it in Greek!” Her tone was scathing. “Knowledge of the soul. Sounds a teeny bit like hubris to me. Or gobbledegook. I’ve had too much experience of blood and guts to believe in the soul. I’ve seen exposed every organ you can imagine-and a dozen more-and never a glimpse of a soul.”
“I think you know as well as I do that it’s not to be found on a marble slab, Matron. But we may find it in a laboratory one day,” the girl said with a smile the Sphinx of Egypt would have envied.
CHAPTER 14
Martin unlocked the door of a room on the first floor of the main building.
“Rapson’s study. I thought we’d start here and work our way backwards. Nice little diggings he’s got here. Central. Handy. Most of the other masters are out in the Lodge buildings round the back-there’s a rear entrance that used to be more important when the place was a gent’s res. On the south side-that’ll be the way you came in-it’s all for show. The ‘domestic offices’ as the head calls them plus the staff and academic staff quarters are shoved away on the town side. Security nightmare. No thought to protect anyone inside the complex from anyone outside.”
“Or vice-versa,” Joe said thoughtfully.
“I expect it’s never been necessary. No reports of misdemeanours of any kind. I checked the records. One case of arson which was dealt with internally with utmost discretion.”
Joe nodded. “I see. Police excluded?”
“That’s right. The kid probably got six of the best and his Woodbines confiscated. A village lad would have been sent to the Scrubs and birched or put on the next boat to Australia. Nobody seems to lock anything in this place. Except me, of course. I’ve made the half square mile we’ll optimistically refer to as ‘the scene of crime’ as secure as I can in the circumstances.”
Joe peered into the room with appreciation. “Well if ever I tried schoolmastering, I’d hope for a retreat like this,” he commented. It was spacious and well lit by two bay windows. It was supplied with a substantial desk and sets of drawers and a filing cabinet. Joe sank into the black leather chair behind the desk and looked about him. “What’s behind that door?” he asked, pointing.
“Now wouldn’t we all like one of these?” Martin said opening it. “A walk-in filing room. All the storage space you could ever want.”
“This chap was-remind me-classics and form master? All this is rather grand isn’t it? Why, I wonder, does Rapson come in for such lavish accommodation?”
“I asked. There is a reason. The cupboard you see over there, more of a room really, is where the school records are kept. Rapson found himself chosen-or did he volunteer? — to compile a history of the school last year. He was given this pitch to facilitate his enquiries.” He nodded to the telephone on the desk. “Even has his own communications with the real world.”
“The desk’s a bit untidy,” Joe said tentatively.
“Yes. We’ve logged everything, finger-printed and photoed it. You can touch what you want, sir. The disorder is down to young Drummond. He left a note under a paperweight.” He indicated that this was still in position, and Joe leaned over to read it. “Apologises for bunking off and messing up the desk. Bit of a puzzle. Why would he do that? Throwing a tantrum because Rapson failed to arrive to deliver the promised whacking? One reason for calling him back. I look forwards to having a chat with the lad.”
“You’ll find him a good witness, Martin.” Joe decided to confide in the inspector. “Sit down, man. Join me at the desk. Something to tell you. I can explain one little mystery. And hand you another one.”
He took Rapson’s black notebook from his pocket. “So.… This was removed unwittingly from the room. Jackie still doesn’t know he had it in his bag.”
Martin fell on the series of photographs, and Joe watched him clear a space and repeat the process of ordering that Marcus had used. The inspector’s face grew grim. “I don’t like what I’m seeing,” he said gruffly. “I can think of no acceptable reason for a master having these in his possession. Can you?” Joe shook his head. “I’m not thinking these are prize-winners-faces from a victor ludorum gallery, are you? Look more like last in the sack race, wouldn’t you say? Why am I thinking-poor little blighters? We must suppose for a start that they’ve been got at. By sexual perverts? Is that what we’re dealing with? Are these some sort of ghastly trophies? More your sort of Metropolitan scene, sir,” Martin said, mustache bristling with distaste. “Not much call for perversion of this nature in Sussex. Brighton, perhaps, but that’s London-on-Sea as far as policing’s concerned.”
Sensing that the Inspector was beginning to flounder, Joe took over. “I agree, it’s a possibility which we must consider. And I concede that, sadly, it is a perversion that plagues the capital. Children are harvested, Martin-scooped up off the streets and railway platforms. Bought and sold like apples. Sometimes by their own families. Our Vice Squad closes down one of their ghastly scenes of operation one day, to find it’s sprung up the next in a neighbouring street. But I expect you see as clearly as I do the essential difference between these operations and the potential horrors we could have to deal with here?”
“Oh, yes. Class. Wealth. These aren’t kids off the street. Someone was paying a vast amount per annum to have them moulded, body and mind, into gentlemen. These polished little pippins don’t get shipped off and hawked about on a London costermonger’s barrow.”
“I agree. It’s local. We’re looking at something particular to this school. If it’s not just a silly schoolmaster’s odd fantasy-and I wouldn’t rule that out-it starts and finishes here at St. Magnus.”
“And my murder victim seems to have had the key to it,” Martin sighed.
“We won’t get any further until we get these chaps identified. I’d say they were taken over a period of years. Any ideas?”
“We’ll get the oldest member of staff in here to do an identity parade,” Martin said. “The puzzle is, Rapson wasn’t by any means the oldest established beak. He’d been here six years, that’s all. He wouldn’t have known most of these personally.”
Out in the corridor a bell clanged. Martin looked at his watch. “They’re on their break now. The common room’s just outside. I’ll nip out and collar one of the oldest exhibits. There’s a cobwebbed old classics master who looks as though he’s been a fixture in these parts since the Prince Regent was down here paddling in the briny. I’ll go and ruin his coffee break.”
He came back a moment later with a begowned and shriveled figure unwillingly in tow. “Commissioner Sandilands, may I present Mr.-er-Godson?”
“How do you do, Commissioner. Godwit. Classics and Scripture Knowledge.” Godwit extended a cold and bony hand, which seized Joe’s with surprising energy. “I’m told I can help you with a problem.”
“Mr. Godwit, we’d like you to look carefully at the photographs we’ve laid out on the desk and try to identify these faces which we think belong to old boys of the school.”