His cup rattled in the saucer as Clara Bellefoy jumped to her feet, her face contorted with anger. “Shut up! Just shut up about my lad, will you! I’m fed up with it! He’s what he is. It’s his mother’s fault, and I’m paying the price. Every day of my life. And I wouldn’t want it otherwise. There’s nothing anyone else can do for him.” She fell silent, biting her lip, and sat down again.
Martin picked up one of her phrases. “You say it’s your fault, Clara? How can that be?”
“None of your business.”
He persisted. “Most would blame God. Or the defaulting father.”
Clara sniffed and reached into the pocket of her pinny for a handkerchief. She blew her nose and then looked with defiance at the policeman. “I’ve more sense. It’s no secret around here, I suppose. Someone will pass the gossip on to you if you keep asking, so I might as well make sure you hear it right. He’s illegitimate. There. I told you that before.”
“So you did. I didn’t throw a fit at the mention of the word then, and I don’t on its second airing. Get on, Clara.”
“What does a woman do when she needs her job and the cottage that’s tied to it, and she finds she’s in a certain condition thanks to a man who’s gone off? The head could have thrown us into the street, you know, and no one would have blamed him. Well, she tries to get rid of the problem. Village ways. Village remedies. There’s always some old crone who thinks she knows what to do. I took advice. Fell out of the apple tree. Several times. And then the kid was born. I think the fall dislodged something. He was born not quite right. Though we didn’t know this until he got to two and wasn’t walking. Four, and he still couldn’t talk. Now six, and we wish he’d never open his mouth. As I said, my fault. My penance. That’s the end of it. Why are you here? Not to talk about my zany son!”
“Just to say thank you for the help your son was yesterday. He made quite an effort to tell us about the car in the lane. I appreciated that. And to let you know how we’re getting on, missis. A murder was committed a few yards away from your back door-I thought you’d be interested. We’ve found the weapon.”
“What was it?”
“Six-inch knife. Any of yours missing from the kitchen?”
“No. I was here all the time with Harry and Betty when she got home at just after six. No one could have got in and taken one. It’s more likely to have been pinched from the school kitchens. They’ve got dozens up there. Have you counted them?”
“It was all happening around here at six that evening, wasn’t it? And I’m still intrigued by that car. It couldn’t have been a fancy man arriving for Betty, could it? It’s about the time you’d arrive to pick up your lady friend for a showing at the Gaumont. They’ve got one of those ‘Gold Diggers’ films on all week.”
“No. Betty got back and set about eating her supper straight away. Rabbit stew it was. I like to have her meal on the table ready for her when she gets back. It’s long hours she works. We didn’t hear the car. We aren’t blessed with Harry’s ears.”
“How surprised would you have been to look outside and see Mr. Rapson moving about on business unknown out there in the courtyard?”
“Very. The week before-not a bit. He’d been a nuisance. Always hanging about trying to talk to Betty. Mucky old tyke!” Clara shuddered. “Bringing her presents and sweet-talking. At his age! Disgusting! I can tell you, Inspector, if I’d attacked him with a knife it wouldn’t have been his heart I was aiming for! Well, I couldn’t be doing with that. Betty was getting very worried. She’s a kind-natured girl and wouldn’t have the guts to kick him in a soft spot or even say, ‘Boo!’ And we need the money she earns at the school to get by. So I decided to do something about it.”
“You went to the head?”
“I did! I have to say, Mr. Martin,” Clara leaned forwards and spoke confidentially, “he didn’t seem very surprised. I think the rumours must be true, don’t you?”
“They haven’t reached me yet, Clara.”
“That he’s been seen with … you know … town girls. The floozies who come down here from Brighton for a weekend … all marcel waves, cocktails at the roadhouse, cigarettes and Soir de Paris! Well, Mr. Farman made no fuss. ‘Leave it to me, Clara,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with it.’ And I thought he had. For days we were clear of Rapson. Then you find him knifed to death where he shouldn’t have been. In my backyard.”
Clara looked searchingly at Martin. “He wouldn’t have disobeyed the head for something unimportant. He was up to something, I’ll bet. And that car arriving-it must have been connected. A big, posh car, Harry says. We don’t know anybody who drives a car like that. Or any car. Nothing to do with us. We didn’t want him there at all, not ever, not alive or dead, Inspector. I wish you’d leave us alone. We’ve got troubles enough.”
“Ah. this doesn’t get any easier,” Gosling remarked lugubriously. “We seem to be faced with a welcoming committee, sir. And the natives don’t look particularly friendly.”
He parked the car a few yards from the front entrance. No one made a move to get out. Gosling cautiously shut his window. A crowd of grey-robed figures had flooded out through the door and surrounded the car, some peering in through the glass, some tapping on the windscreen. Most were silent with huge inquisitive eyes; a few were chattering excitedly.
“Inmates, I’d guess,” said Gosling nervously. “Yes, they’re all dressed the same. Big grey capes. So-inmates.”
“Patients, you mean,” Dorcas said.
She jumped as a hand released the handle of the passenger’s door and jerked it open. “Welcome to the Prince Albert, madam, gentlemen,” said a cultivated voice.
This was instantly submerged by a babble of noise as comments flowed in country accents:
“There be three on ’em today!”
“Two men is that-and a lady? Where’s the fourth? They always come in fours.”
“But they were only here last week, wasn’t it? That’s enough. Send ’em on their way, Francis!”
Joe decided to show himself. He stepped out and walked around the car to confront them. The crowd retreated a pace. There seemed to be about eight of them, all adults, all male.
A voice from the huddle, identifying Joe’s bearing as military, called out in a cheeky parody of a sentry: “Halt! Who goes there?”
Dorcas slipped past Joe as he stood, for once in his life, lost for words. “A friend,” she announced. “Well, three friends! Who else would you be expecting? We’ve come to see your superintendent.”
“Of course you have!” said the first voice. A hand emerged from the grey folds of his cloak, and Dorcas took it without hesitation and shook it firmly, murmuring her name. “Always welcome. Francis Crabbe. Team leader. Sixth Watch.” His eye sought out one man in the crowd and he added: “They’re welcome-however frequently they come, Bert. And these are different people.” He turned again to Dorcas. “You haven’t been here before, madam, have you?”
“Our first visit, Mr. Crabbe, you are quite right.”
“Well at least you don’t arrive at midnight like the last lot! We never like the midnight visitors much. We try to keep them waiting outside as long as we can,” he confided. “But you time your arrival well. The superintendent is just sitting down to tea. Come this way.” Francis Crabbe hesitated, then said hurriedly, “Unless of course you want to go off by yourselves and wander about first. That’s allowed. Everything’s open. Except for the you-know-where,” he said confidingly. “You’ll need a key for that. But-no secrets here! If you ask the superintendent, he’ll be delighted to show you round the cells. But I don’t presume to give you a schedule.”
“I think we’d just like to see the superintendent first, as you suggest, Mr. Crabbe.”