“Of course. Of course.”
Sandilands picked up and pocketed his warrant to indicate that the interview was over.
Martin paused at the door as they were leaving and loosed a Parthian arrow. “Doctor. One last thing. Are you by any chance a member of the Eugenic Education Society? Wednesday meetings once a month in Brighton?”
After a short silence the doctor asked, “Why do you ask? Strange question and surely none of your business?”
“We have reason to believe it most definitely is our business, doctor,” Sandilands took over. “I’ll come clean with you. We’re inquiring into the behaviour and movements of certain members of this society in connection with a crime-a series of crimes-against young people. We believe that Rapson is one thread sticking out of the Gordian knot. Help us to give it a tug, will you?”
“Whatever next? And to answer your question, I am most certainly not a member. Many physicians are involved-I am aware of that-and I would probably have made better advancement in my career had I been a member but-no. And no! I am in favour of life and humanity in whatever natural form they present themselves. And, gentlemen, a word of advice from me: Always mistrust a word that begins with eu.”
“Yew, doctor?” Martin asked.
“Ancient Greek: eu. It means good, well, fine. And it most often signals a lie or deception is coming. The word ‘euphemism’ says it all! ‘Speak fair.’ Use a sweet word to express an unpalatable idea. A spoonful of poisoned honey! So-those scourges of Mankind, the Furies, became the ‘Eumenides.’ ‘The Kindly Ones.’ An instrument to rival the bagpipes in unpleasant sound is a ‘euphonium.’ A ‘eulogy’ is a fine-sounding speech, usually about a dead person and usually lies. Eugene-the well-bred boy-is the cousin who poked me in the eye with a stick when we were boys. And ‘eugenics,’ my friends, is the new-fangled science of breeding fine offspring. By calculated selection of the parents.”
“You see something wrong in that aim, doctor?” Sandilands asked.
“For a start it’s not a science as it claims to be, nor ever can be. Eugenics … genetics … all bogus.”
“Bogus?” Sandilands picked him up on this. “Must I tell my niece she’s wasted three years of her life studying genetics as an element of her course at London University?”
The doctor gave him a level glance. “You might well mention it. The proponents of this quasi-science have made use of Bateson’s work, that he has termed ‘genetics’ and that he, in turn, has devised after the pea-planting experiments of a Moravian monk. Interesting stuff-yes, interesting, and it must be pursued-but it won’t bear the weight of a complete social upheaval such as they are planning. Enforced sterilisation of the unfit is on the books.”
“There’s a Sterilisation Bill going through Parliament as we speak, I understand,” the London man remembered.
“The movement’s gathering pace! The United States, Australia, Germany, Scandinavian countries, all have leapt on this infernal bandwagon and are going downhill faster than we are. Are we cart horses to be selected or discarded to produce ever more acceptable generations of children?
“Eugenics! Hah! The name’s a made-up word. It is in itself a euphemism for a very nasty notion. Selective breeding and its obverse-selective culling. Eugenics-sounds innocent enough. Fine breeding. Until you realise that it involves compulsion and the denial of human rights culminating in the knife and the lethal chamber. It’s the children of the future who are everything to the eugenists. Children who do not exist, who may never exist, are shaping our laws in Parliament as you observe, Commissioner. Surgeons are sharpening their scalpels. In some of the American states they’re using them! Vasectomy and salpingectomy are being practised, in themselves dangerous procedures. Many thousands have already suffered. The presently living are being sacrificed for an army of phantom children of the future.”
Carter paused for breath, aware that the vehemence of his outburst had startled the two officers.
Martin spoke gravely, shaking his head portentously: “That can’t be right! ‘What’s posterity ever done for me?’ I’ve often heard it asked.”
The doctor and the assistant commissioner burst into laughter, a release from the tension of the last five minutes.
“And there you have your best riposte to the eugenists!” Sandilands said. “Laughter! A good British guffaw.”
“That short interview raised more questions than it answered,” Joe commented as they hurried back up the hill to the school.
“Oh, I’m not sure I’d say that,” Martin said comfortably. “It solved a murder case. I know who, why and how as a result of the doctor’s information and insights. Just a question of gathering in the evidence from the laboratory, pulling all the threads together, and then I’ll be in a position to make an arrest. Can’t say I’m looking forwards to that very much. As far as I’m concerned, Rapson got what was coming to him. But I’m wondering, why at that particular moment?”
He thought for a moment, then spoke aloud for the first time the name at the forefront of their minds. “Clara. She’d had five years to think about it and had done nothing, not even complained to the headmaster, that his new form master had raped her daughter and got her into trouble.”
“Do you think Farman has any idea?”
“No. I don’t. And if Clara’s capable of snatching up a knife and stabbing a man-three times, they’re saying-on a snowy night in her own backyard, there’s more to it than just a sudden urge to avenge her daughter for a six-year-old offence. Clara’s a planner, I’d have judged.”
“I took a peek at the knives when I barged into the kitchen. Two, as old Rory said. But not a pair. Only one was worn thin. The second wasn’t new, but it wasn’t well worn either. A replacement?”
“I think so. The other thin one ended up in Rapson. I’ve not had the lab report back yet. Some prints may have survived two nights under snow.”
“But you’re right, Martin. Something triggered it. Clara’s snatching up the nearest kitchen knife, I mean. I bet we can trace it back with a bit of imagination and fevered speculation. Calm me down if you think I go too far. I think Rapson was being blackmailed by Clara. ‘I’ll go to the head and tell him if you don’t cough up.’ Blackmail’s too strong a word, perhaps, but you know what I mean.”
“Dues being exacted,” Martin corrected.
“Better. His cheque book shows he was paying out a sum of money-in cash-every month. What’s the betting that’s been going into caring for Harry? Possibly putting away a little something towards his future? Clara strikes me as being a calculating and careful type of woman. That household is frugal but well-ordered. But just before he was stabbed, Rapson withdrew vastly more than the usual amount. Why? Was it intended for the Bellefoys? Blood money?”
“Close the women’s mouths with a wad of bank notes and have the lad taken away? But where to? That car the boy heard, it was coming for him! A Talbot, you tell me. Does that signify?”
“I’m waiting to hear back from London. They can trace the registration numbers of all the cars in the country. My super is on to it. But it’s a Saturday.…”
“There’s more to this than just the Rapson murder, isn’t there? You hinted as much from the beginning. It’s linked in with your enquiry.”
“Yes. Rapson isn’t exactly the key to a very nasty business, but he’s the signpost. Think of it this way, Martin: If you came across something in the course of your researches into the history of the school, a pattern of disappearances, unaccounted for, suspicious in different ways.…”
“And you had all the time in the world to ferret about and all the documents you needed to hand, a telephone … the authority of the school behind you.…”
“You might find out what was going on and who was directing operations-much more easily than coppers like us ringing up on the off chance. Boys for different reasons are being spirited away from the school and into the blue yonder. Never seen again.”