“Off you go, Harry,” Betty said. “The inspector told us you might like to see them and talk about them. Harry’s got them all lined up ready in his bedroom if you’d like to go along with him, miss.”
“Where’s your mother this morning, Betty?” Joe asked when they had clumped upstairs.
“It’s a Saturday. When I get back down from the school she always goes off into town and does the shopping. Sometimes she goes to the pictures-there’s usually a matinee on. It’s bad enough working up at that place, sir, but it’s worse being cooped up here with Harry, day in, day out. I try to relieve her when I can. Cup of tea? We’ve got Earl Grey if you can stomach it.”
Betty got up and made her way across the sparsely furnished room towards the small outshot housing the kitchen. Joe watched her. Small, neat-waisted with an abundance of dark, curly hair and a shy under-the-lashes way of looking up at a man. Yet she remained unmarried, and Joe wondered what was wrong with the men of Seaford that they hadn’t snapped up this pearl. Could it be her slight limp? Hardly likely, but Joe could see no other flaw.
“I love Earl Grey,” he called after her. “Let me help you.”
“Gerraway with you! A gentleman in the kitchen! I wouldn’t know where to put myself!”
“I fend for myself in London, Betty. I’m an ace with a teapot. And I won’t get under your feet.”
Five minutes later Joe emerged from the kitchen carrying the tea tray and having inspected the range of kitchen knives to his satisfaction.
They drank their tea, smiling to hear the sounds of toy motor cars revving up and brakes squealing, grunting and laughter from upstairs. Joe plunged into a conversation about the relative merits of James Cagney and Paul Muni. Neither appealed much to Betty, who disliked gangster movies. Clark Gable-now that was more like it. But she especially liked perky blondes like Jean Harlow and Carole Lombard, who talked back and got their own way. They shared a view of Greta Garbo: two yards of pump water, according to Betty; overrated and moody, according to Joe.
Dorcas came back down to the parlour at last, full of praise for Harry’s motoring knowledge.
“Oh, he sits by the roadside up on the turnpike for hours, miss. He clocks every car going up to London or coming down to The Bells. A lot of the drivers know him and give him a wave. He knows all the makes. He can do a good impression of the noises their engines make, did Mum tell you?”
“He identified it for me just now,” Dorcas said, ignoring a warning frown from Joe. “He picked it out of his lineup of models and showed me. Making the matching big-car noise. It was a Talbot. He’s seen it before on the road. He said I could bring it down to show you, Joe. And here it is.”
She held out a tin replica of an elegant car with grey and black paintwork.
“What model is it?” Joe asked. “It usually tells you underneath.”
Dorcas read out: “1926 Talbot 18/55. It’s one of those with the spare wheel over the driver’s side running board. Big cars-you can get seven passengers in there, and they have a reputation for being fast. Plush inside, too. I rode in one once. It has grey velvet upholstery, I remember, and little silver holders to put your nosegays in.”
“May I see it?” Joe took it from her hand and peered at it, then he placed it carefully on the table. “Do you recognise the type, Betty?”
Betty gave him a shy smile. “Oh, sir, I don’t know one car from another-except for a Model T Ford, perhaps. A lad I know in town-his dad’s got one of those. Lends it to Tom at the weekends sometimes.” She blushed and bit her lip. “But that one-no. Looks expensive to me. I wouldn’t be giving a car like that a second look. Harry may have seen one on the main road.”
“I expect so. Well, thank you so much for your hospitality and your information, Betty. Must be getting back. Many phone calls to make before lunch.”
“Did you notice the marks, Joe?”
“I did. The child had done them himself, I think.”
“Yes, in indelible pencil. He’d scratched off whatever it said originally on the number plate and put his own letters on. Two of them: ‘O’ and another ‘O.’ Not much is it?”
“Considering he can only do two letters anyway, it’s next to nothing!”
“But-number plates-I wonder. Boys set much store by them, you know, Joe. I noticed other cars had had their plates painted over by an adult hand. They were the familiar cars he knows in the village. He showed me. There was a Morris, a Ford and a Riley. All with authentic Sussex numbers filled in. That Talbot means something to him. He kept pointing to it and making a noise. He was so earnest I took out a pencil and drew the letters in my notebook to show I’d got it. That calmed him down. They may be part of the registration of a car he’s seen on the road.”
“I’ll grasp at anything. I’ll pass this over to Cottingham when I get back to the telephone. He can get on to records. He’ll thank me for that on a Saturday!”
They walked back along the path bordering the muddy courtyard that linked the Bellefoys’ cottage with the school buildings and stopped for a moment to look at the police flag marking the spot in the centre of the sodden grass where the knife had been found.
“Now, what would Rapson have been doing crossing an open area already under snow?” Joe wondered. “Wherever he was heading, he’d have stuck to the path.”
“Someone could have thrown it. Pulled it out and chucked it as far away as possible into the snow. From here.” Dorcas demonstrated. “Now, why do that?”
“I think you know. Leave a knife in the wound, and provenance can easily be established. If you have to get rid of it in a hurry, throw it into a snowdrift. Seems to have worked. It took Martin’s men two-or is it three? — days to find it.”
“Tell you something else, Joe. Bit odd. Betty is the only wage earner in that household, isn’t she?”
“The only one, yes. The cottage is a tied one, of course, so they pay no rent. All the same it must be hard to manage. They seem to do all right.”
“Careful management and no frills, that’s evident. The women don’t indulge themselves but-you must have noticed-they do indulge that boy. His set of cars, Joe, was rather special. The box it came in was still there being used as a garage. By mail order from the Gamages catalogue. I remember Orlando making a fuss about the cost when my brother asked for a tin car. Just one. Harry has thirty. They’re really collectors’ models and must have cost a month of Betty’s wages.
“But there’s more. His room was kitted out in-oh, not extravagant-but good-quality furnishings. His bed is a sort of heavy-duty large-sized cot with sides you can put up. Perhaps he falls out of bed still? Specially made to order, I’d say, supplied by Heals on the Tottenham Court Road. And, tucked up in this splendid little bed, there’s a teddy bear. Not just any bear, one of those new continental ones by Steiff. Soft carpet. Thick curtains, good fire going and a full coal scuttle. The rest of the house-well, you saw for yourself-is on the edge of poverty.”
“With all that cosseting and attention, I’m thinking young Harry is one lucky little monkey!”
“Yes, I’d say they spend every penny they have on that boy.”
“Penny? Would you say-penny?” Joe asked thoughtfully.
CHAPTER 22
“Immediately after surgery? Will that do? I finish at twelve noon. Do you know where to find me? High Street, the double-fronted Georgian next to the iron-monger’s. I look forwards to meeting you, Assistant Commissioner Sandilands.”
Dr. Carter put down the receiver and muttered, “Curse you!” In truth, he’d just said goodbye to the last of his patients for the day, but he needed some time to think about things. So. It had come to this. Was there any point in arguing, remonstrating, self-justification? Yes, there bloody well was! He felt no guilt. Whatever he’d done, he’d done it out of principle. For easement in a harsh world. To improve the lot of the unfortunates who were powerless to do it for themselves. But how had the buggers arrived at his name? Who had mentioned it in connection with the removals?