Joe went out into the corridor and cleared his throat. Gosling was instantly at his side.
“I was just passing on my way to the gym. All games indoors still today. I say, are you looking for someone, sir? I can find you a messenger.”
“I coughed, and you answered. Perfect arrangement. Come inside, Mr. Gosling. Take a seat, will you?”
As the young man settled gingerly on the edge of the chair opposite him, Joe caught a glimpse in the anxious brown eyes of the boy he had not so long ago been-uncertain and vulnerable. He decided to take advantage of his uncertainty.
“How long have you been at the school, Gosling?” he asked in a headmasterly voice.
“Not long at all, sir. I came towards the end of the Michaelmas term. I’m a temporary replacement. On supply, as we say, in the trade.”
“Ah, yes. The trade. Teaching. Would that be the one you’re referring to?”
Gosling nodded and swallowed.
Joe affected to consult his notes. “Oxford degree (a good one) in English Lit … something of a linguist … oarsman … boxing blue … Army Cadet Force member with a commendation for unarmed combat. The list goes on. What’s a star like you doing supplying rugger lessons to ten-year-olds? I’m wondering. One might have expected you to be snatched off the graduation podium, scroll still in hand, mortarboard at a roguish angle, by a talent scout for some grand office of state: the civil service, the military … something of that calibre. But you choose instead to hide yourself down here on a remote cliff top.”
Joe looked up and fixed Gosling with a frank stare. “Look, young man, you must let me mention your name to a man who would value your attributes. German and ju-jitsu? — he’d know how to use them. He’s a man who would spirit you away out of this backwater and back to the metropolis. Name of Masterson.” Joe gave him a bland smile. “Colonel Masterson has his offices not that far from my own. In the Cromwell Road.”
CHAPTER 15
Gosling shut his eyes and groaned. “Oh, God! Sir, you haven’t told Masterson I’m shot to bits already, have you? For heaven’s sake! You’ve only just set foot in the place. What did I do?”
“Calm down, man! I haven’t spoken to your boss yet to tell him that your ‘cover’s blown,’ as your mob would probably put it. I have my ways, and I have my contacts. And now you must consider yourself recruited once more, this time to my interests. When we’ve taken a close look at each other’s cards, these may well turn out to be the same interests. Who knows? This could actually do you some good, Gosling-or do you prefer ‘Drake’ like your family name? Just name the wildfowl du jour and I’ll use it.”
“Gosling will do well, sir.”
“Good. I like clarity. So, now, tell me what your relationship is with the headmaster.”
“An open one, sir. I am-er-in his confidence. I was sent in with his consent to get to the bottom of a problem that has been troubling my department.”
“Yes. MI5. Is that what you’re calling yourselves these days? Entrusted with the safety of the nation. You’re there to protect the rest of us from the machinations of foreign spies on English soil, I had thought. And do we ever need the service! We’re all up to our arses in German agents if we’re to believe all we’re told. Russian Bolsheviks taking a back seat these days and Herr Hitler’s patriots swaggering about in full view playing the Bogeyman. Plenty to occupy Masterson in Piccadilly, but what murky business can have attracted his attention to the Sussex coast? Tell me how you’re proposing to save the nation from this remote fastness at the southern edge of the land.”
Gosling’s expression lightened a little, and Joe guessed his shot had gone way off the mark. “Oh, you can forget all that John Buchan stuff-fisticuffs with the Hun and all that! If you have in your mind a picture of Herr Fahrmann and Fraulein Oberschwester standing on a cliff top on a moonless night, torch in hand, signalling to a fleet of German submarines in the Channel-sorry, nothing so melodramatic.”
“Hideous scene you conjure up! If it were at all plausible, you’d be needing my Special Branch to tap the villains on the shoulder. Don’t forget your little enterprise still ultimately counts on the muscle-power of rough lads in raincoats, all answering to yours truly. MI5 finger them, we arrest them. Frequently we do both. Contrary to the stories you like to put about, we have brains as well as boots. And we use them both.” Joe smiled at the cross young face. There was never any harm in reminding these upstarts to stay on their own side of the fence. “Let me know if we can be of help to you with your problem, Gosling,” he offered with a tight smile. He glanced at the telephone. “Perhaps I should just ring up your boss and tell him where we’ve got to. He’ll be fascinated to get my update.”
“No! No! If you haven’t already alerted him, I’d rather you didn’t.” The boy was once again in evidence as he gulped and blurted out: “He’ll be livid, sir!”
“I’m thinking Rapson’s murder was an inconvenience for you? Sussex Constabulary and then the Met stamping about your little stakeout scene?”
“Masterson doesn’t object to the local man. He knows his place. He knows the boundaries of his investigation. He’s less keen on you queering his pitch.”
“And you were told to contain me?”
“No. Get rid of you.” Gosling risked a grin. “ ‘Make sure he’s gone by the end of the day.’ Those were my orders.” He looked at Joe settled comfortably behind the desk, notes and telephone to hand, and he sighed. “Not doing very well so far, am I? Here you are, ensconced-would that be the word?”
Joe winced. “Only if you insist. Got to park my bum somewhere. This’ll do.”
“Look, sir. I’m not important. I’m a minnow! A raw recruit! I rather think I’ve been shoved off down here as a sort of test. Or out of the way. I don’t think I have the clearance to say anything further, sir. Not even to you. However much you pull rank.” The rugged chin lifted in a show of defiance.
“Won’t do, Gosling.” Joe fished in his pocket and took out the envelope containing the nine photographs. He spread them on the table in what he remembered of Godwit’s order. “Now, would your problem be concerning one of these boys?” The steely gleam in his eye conveyed the certainty that he knew the answer.
Taken aback, Gosling spent a moment studying the lineup. Finally he pointed. “That one. Third from the right. Peterkin. John Peterkin. Ran away in his first term at the school. September 1921. But these others? There were stories that boys had gone over the wall … disappeared … never been seen again after their time here. We had a couple of names. Are these the ones? Do you know who they are?”
“I’ve identified seven out of the nine. I don’t even know for certain that they disappeared. Or what their current state is.”
“Well, yes. They could be alive and well and running India by now.”
“Or doing a seven-year stretch in the Scrubs for fraud.”
“There’s always that,” Gosling agreed.
“They could have just gone off to play with Peter Pan and his Lost Boys?”
“Ah! Spirited away by the power of ‘wonderful thoughts and fairy dust,’ sir?” Gosling shook his head. “Lord! If I’ve seen that play once, it must be a dozen times! I’ve got herds of nephews, and what do they all want to see as their Christmas treat? Peter Bloody Pan! Oh, sorry, sir!”