Inspector Martin, the local man, was a good chap-he’d understand if the circumstances and the benefits were explained to him. Might even be persuaded to look the other way. Perhaps he should have taken the officer into his confidence earlier? Involved him? But then, individual placeholders came and went, the office remained and was never more congenial than the man occupying it. That had been his reasoning. And now he had this Sandilands buzzing round. The man who’d just been on the phone was an unknown quantity. Metropolitan CID officer. He’d throw the book at him without a qualm. Or make Martin do it. By the time the coppers had trawled through the records they’d have enough to get him struck off the medical register at the very least.
Sighing, he went to his filing cabinet, extracted one file, checked the name on the spine, and grimaced. Who’d have thought this innocent would have brought about his downfall? He placed it on his desk. It would be a mistake to make them search for it. Everything aboveboard-that was the tone to take.
Donald Carter poured himself a much-needed tumbler of whisky and waited.
“You don’t object if I bring my colleague Inspector Martin, do you, doctor? I believe you two know each other?”
“We do! Always a pleasure, Martin. Assistant Commissioner, how do you do?” Dr. Carter shook the firm hand offered him and pulled up another chair. “Sit down, both of you, and tell me how I can help you.”
“By revealing the contents of one-or two, possibly three-of your files. Patients’ records. Inspector Martin has obtained the requisite authorisation from the local magistrate. A search warrant, Carter.” Sandilands slid a folded document on to the desk. The doctor’s eyes, reading upside down, took in the chiseled script of the headed sheet: His Majesty’s Metropolitan Police. He gulped. “We could, using this, look into anything in here that takes our fancy.” The icy grey eyes surveyed the room, calculating and commanding and taking it all, lock stock and filing cabinet, under his authority.
Sandilands waited for the doctor’s nod and his murmured: “I understand that,” then he turned a less stern gaze on Carter. “But I’d much rather do this neatly and quickly by dipping into your mental filing cabinet. You agree?” he suggested.
The doctor nodded again and put a hand on the file sitting at the ready on the desk before him. “I may need to check dates and so on, but I’m ready to speak to you.”
“The Bellefoy family up at the school-”
“The Bellefoys?”
“Yes, all three of them. Tell us a little about young Harry and his problems.”
“Oh, very well. He’s five years old. I don’t need to check his birthdate because I was present at the event, and it was Christmas Day 1927. I registered his mother as Clara Bellefoy and his father: unknown.
“The child was born slightly prematurely, and possibly this affected his development, both physical and mental. He’s quite a strong boy but somehow badly wired up. Clumsy. Uncoordinated. He was late to crawl and late to walk. But his mother and sister take such good care of him his condition improves by leaps and bounds. They spoil him of course. I’ve had to speak to them. Not that they take any notice. Harry’s mentally defective, you’ll have realised if you’ve seen him. You have? Poor speech and reasoning. I’ve had him tested, and he’s two years behind on the scale we use. But again-those women are working wonders.”
The policemen had listened quietly, giving nothing away.
“And Betty Bellefoy? If I were to look, what, I wonder, would your file reveal about any broken limbs in December 1927?” This question came from Inspector Martin. The CID man blinked, pursed his lips, and kept silent.
Ah. Well, it had been worth a try. Seeing no way out of this, the doctor got up and went to his cabinet. “Here you are. Bellefoy, Elizabeth. Born 1913.”
“In your own words, doctor,” Martin encouraged. “It’s all right, man. It’s only us. The boy’s in no trouble. We’ve got a puzzle that needs clearing up, that’s all.”
“You’ll find Betty suffered a broken ankle falling out of an apple tree-the Bath Beauty at the bottom of their garden, on … December 24th, 1927. Multiple fracture-it was the devil to set. That what you want?”
“So-not Clara at all? It wasn’t Clara who threw herself out of the tree to dislodge an unwanted child from the womb?”
“No, it was little Betty. And not the first time she’d tried. I suppose it was the extra weight this time that did it.”
The doctor’s head went up, he sniffed, tooted into a large handkerchief, and glared back at them.
“I was called in. They’d hidden the pregnancy under layers of pinnies, as women do, and the girl had gone on skivvying at the school, condition unnoticed. They were planning to deliver the child in secrecy if it couldn’t be got rid of, but what with the ankle and all and Betty in double agony, Clara gave in and summoned me. The poor child, in her pregnant state, must have been exposed every day of her hard life to the sight of the man who’d brought it about. The man who, the previous March, had raped her. She was only just fourteen, gentlemen.”
“And Betty’s baby became officially Clara’s,” Martin said heavily. “Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened. If a mother’s young enough not to stretch belief beyond bounds, she’ll sometimes take the blame. ‘Afterthoughts’ they’re sometimes called, these children. It happens that an auntie takes a child in with nothing said. It’s better than the alternative: the orphanage. Or the loony bin. But it’s the criminal father I’d like to get my hands on, doctor. Did the Bellefoy women ever tell you his name?”
“No. They never did. Just ‘a man at the school.’ It could have been anyone from the headmaster-well, perhaps not him-down to one of the school stewards. Randy lot, some of those boys. Get up to all sorts of mischief in the summertime with the girls from the village. Those old cart sheds are nothing but an invitation to cider-fueled bucolic debauchery.”
“And young Betty had got involved with some lad who’d not known when to stop?”
“That sort of scene. Not in the least unusual-it’s the way most marriages start, officer, and no one bats an eyelid. I think Clara had some scheme of her own that she didn’t want me to be a party to. ‘Just leave it to me, doctor,’ she’d say. ‘I know what I’m doing, and you can be sure it’ll be the best for Harry.’ She’s a determined woman. Resourceful. And she loves that child dearly.”
Dr. Carter fell into deep thought and was left untroubled by the pair of police officers while he pondered.
“I say-could these questions have anything to do with the murder that’s taken place up at the school just the other day?”
Martin replied. “We believe they are connected, doctor.”
“If they are, then you must have guessed the identity of the father and possibly the reason for his killing? Oh, no! How sickening! I don’t want to contemplate such a horror! Him? That man? Rapson? Surely not! There are rumours that he.… Oh, that can’t be! But if it is-”
The officers looked steadily at Carter, allowing him time to absorb the unpleasant idea. When he could stop spluttering, he said urgently, “Look, you’re powerful men! Can’t you do something to avert another tragedy? Because that’s what you’ll bring about. You’ll wreck three lives.”
The doctor took off his spectacles and gave them the full force of his earnest blue eyes. The midday sun, stealing at an angle through the window behind him, lit up his bald head and gave him the authority of an avenging angel.
“If we could, we would, doctor.”
Carter believed Sandilands. The Met man’s expression was no longer flinty but conveyed a great sadness.
“But meting out justice is not our role, you know. We seek out the truth. Others judge their fellow men. May I ask if you could stand by in support if the worst occurs?”