Joe followed and peered into the distance. “He could have been coming from any direction. The rear drive and beyond that, the town-”
“And the two lodges, sir. Where most of the masters have rooms. His fellows,” Martin said with emphasis. “Down here in the country, we find people tend to kill each other within their class or social group.”
“Oh, we’re only human in the capital, Martin-we’ll have a go at anybody, but I see what you mean. That’s the farmyard, the huddle of buildings over there? A good trysting place?”
“Of a summer evening, perhaps. Not that night, sir.”
“Or to the left? What’s the row of brick and flint buildings?”
“Maids’ quarters. Staff houses. Not bad accommodation, considering. I’ve seen worse. There’s a couple of manservants lodged down there, sharing, and the cottage at the end is where Mrs. Bellefoy lives with her two kids. She was a maid here for years, but she’s retired now to look after her son, and her daughter Betty does the maid’s work in the school.”
“How old is Betty?”
“About twenty. Father never came marching back from the war. Posted missing. He was a farm groom here at the school. Betty’s brother’s a lot younger. About five.” Martin’s voice dropped. “And we ought to say-half brother. The kid’s illegitimate. Mrs. Bellefoy came straight out with it when I interviewed them. Bold as brass. A ‘last little fling’ she told me. No shame. Her ‘little slipup’ she called the lad. Though who she slipped up with she wasn’t about to divulge. They don’t have an easy life, but they seem to be managing pretty well. You can go and talk to them if you like. But they say they heard and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the lad-he had something to communicate.”
“What did he give you?”
“Not much. He’s-er-not sure what the word is. He was born not quite right. In head or limbs. And there’s a reason for that. She may tell you. Anyhow, while I was talking to them he was listening. He doesn’t always catch on, but something got to him. He got all excited and started burbling about a motor car. His ma was a bit embarrassed, but she let him rave on and told me what he was trying to say. He’s very keen on cars, apparently. He sits by the road for hours just watching out for them. Gets very excited when he spots a new make. He knows the engine notes and can identify all the village cars and their owners. He was up in his bedroom playing when he heard one in the lane, his ma explained. Opened the window to get a look. He couldn’t see it-too dark-but he listened. It came up slowly, stopped and waited a bit, then set off again. Strange car, not a local one. Big engine.”
“Did he tell you what time this happened?”
“The lad can’t tell the time by the clock, but he remembers the stable bell rang six just after the car left.”
“Interesting?”
“Better be! By God, it took some getting! Though I agree-it doesn’t sound much.”
“A visitor arriving for Rapson?”
“Could be. But then it could just be someone lost in the blizzard and checking the signposts. We’ve found one or two tire marks, but I think they’re all later than the ones we’d be interested in.”
“You’ve got a lot of work done in the short time you’ve had, inspector,” Joe commented.
“And more to do. Mustn’t stand about nattering.” He handed the keys to Joe. “If I can leave you to find your way back, I’ll just nip off to my own HQ and see how my blokes are getting along. There’s a sergeant and a PC. It’s not much, but they’re both good men, you’ll find.”
“So-we’ll go our separate ways for a bit?”
Turning to leave, Martin paused and grinned. “They are separate, aren’t they? You’d say the old house is reasserting itself-imposing its original character. Above stairs, below stairs. And never the twain shall meet.”
“Except surreptitiously halfway up the back stairs from time to time. Are you about to make a snobbish comment, inspector?”
“Just observing, sir. We do seem to have a different angle of elevation when I compare our vision of the case. Me-I’m nose to the ground, following blood stains through the farm yard to discover who hated a man enough to sink a blade between his ribs.”
“While I’m upstairs ordering coffee and swapping stories with Academe, worrying about a set of over-privileged sons of important men. Sons who’ve gone missing, perhaps. Well, so be it. Let’s get on, Inspector. Who knows, in the end we may well meet each other halfway up or down those bloody stairs. But, Martin, something was drawing a mortally wounded man to climb back up them with his last breath, and I want to find out what it was. ”
Joe looked at his watch. “I have an hour before my encounter with the meat pie. If you want me, you’ll find me rummaging in Rapson’s rooms. If I need anything I can always step out and click my fingers. I’m sure a Gosling will come flighting in, saying ‘You clicked, sir?’ ”
He let himself into Rapson’s office and made straight for the telephone. He checked that he had a line to the outside and that it didn’t pass through an internal exchange before asking the operator for a London number.
“Hello. Sandilands here. Get me your Super, would you? Oh, is he indeed? Look, I don’t care if he’s french-kissing Wallis Simpson! Drag him to the phone and tell him I’m waiting.
“Ah! Bacchus! Do you need a moment to straighten your tie? Good. Now listen. I’m down in Sussex. Do something for me, and do it fast. Call me back on the number I’m giving you.” He read it out. “And here’s a name: Gosling. That’s right, young goose. George Gosling. See if you’ve got anything on record? Private investigator perhaps? Could even be a teacher. Oxford, he tells me. Very recently down-he must be about twenty-two. Athletic type. Boxing-that narrows your choices a bit. He’s haunting St. Magnus School, Seaford, at the present moment, and he’s annoying me. The man’s out of place here, and I’d like to know why. I’d be glad of anything you can turn up.”
He turned his attention to the contents of the drawers. No disturbance here. A quick search revealed that the right side and the top two on the left contained notes and correspondence concerned with the school. The bottom two on the left held Rapson’s private papers, Joe judged. He examined these first and found little of interest. A sheaf of old letters to various correspondents: his mother, who was living in a retirement home in Brighton; one or two old school or army friends. Of more interest was a letter from the local bank manager suggesting to Rapson that he was extracting rather more money from his current account than his salary could sustain, and what steps did he propose? The sums were not breathtaking. Many men received similar letters weekly. Still, Joe had known men murdered for twopence-ha’penny.
He dug about and found a cheque book issued by the bank and began to dredge through the counterfoils. The sums expended were neatly recorded. Apart from monthly withdrawals for-Joe assumed from the small amount-spending money, there was a monthly whack for his mother’s accommodation, one or two odd amounts spent at a London tailor’s, and a London hotel bill covering the same period of time. Joe twitched with excitement when he found the stub of the cheque that had triggered the manager’s concern. Made out to himself for cash only a week ago: a withdrawal of fifty pounds. Joe flipped backwards through the book and found a similar self-payment (cash) the previous month for twenty pounds. And, a month before that, a further twenty. And a monthly twenty in cash each first of the month until he got to the end of the book.
Joe had encountered payment details of this kind before. They usually went towards supporting a betting habit or a mistress or blackmail. He noted the sudden jump in the last month to more than twice the previous amount and remembered that it was always the way of blackmail payments to increase. He’d never known any to peter out. It usually took a death to cancel the arrangement.
He jumped when the phone rang and eagerly picked up the receiver.
“Hopkirk? Good man! What do you mean-right family, wrong species? Good Lord! The cheek! Did they tell you all this willingly? Not important enough to get them hot under the collar, eh? What does it take-mass slaughter of the royal family to get them going? And you were able to do a trade. Tell me about that trade. Well, it’s surprising but in its way, reassuring. Have you informed Inspector Jenkins? Leave that to me. I’ll ring him myself. I shall enjoy that! He’ll be intrigued to know what he thwarted! A ragbag of information, but I’m glad to have it anyway. Gives me the illusion of being back in the driving seat! Tell me-what calibre shot does one use to bring down wildfowl?”