“Now, the Romans were adept at this type of exit, and perhaps they were his inspiration-historian and classical scholar that he was. But it is in fact remarkably difficult to summon up the strength to do it. His attempt is not immediately fatal. In great pain and instantly regretting his action-as many suicide victims do-he tears the knife from the wound and, rapidly shedding blood, starts off back to the school to find medical help. Are we surprised that only one set of prints was found on the knife-Rapson’s own?”
“The rabbit blood, sir?” Gosling was eager to hammer down every nail in this creaking construction. And at once he answered his own question. “Old Rory! He’d just handled all the knives, and he’d been killing and gutting rabbits. Cross-contamination!”
Joe nodded. “Well, what do you think of that, inspector?”
Martin cleared his throat. “I think it’s the most brazen, duplicitous pack of lies I’ve ever heard spoken. Shame on you, commissioner! Do you know, I think if we were just to lose Old Rory’s statement and advise the women to keep their traps shut, we could get away with it. He’s never going to turn up in a court of law as witness anyroad.”
Joe smiled. “Well, think about it. No rush. What other revelations do you have in that pile of documents?”
“This came for you. Special motorbike messenger from Whitehall.”
Another brown envelope crossed the table. “You’ll see it’s been opened. I notice you had it addressed to Assistant Commissioner Sandilands and Inspector Martin. Very thoughtful. So I had a peek. Oh, my! Lists of members of the Eugenic Society. Two. Countrywide and a selection for the southeast.”
Joe fell on it and skimmed his way down the alphabetical list, grunting with surprise and exclaiming as one famous name after another caught his eye. “Confirmation. Farman’s here. Also Bentink. There’s our link.”
“Anyone else we know?”
“I’m afraid so. There’s Dr. Chadwick, father and son, many notables listed as ‘Mayor’ of this, ‘Alderman’ of that, physicians aplenty-but I’m wasting time. Gosling, give me the names of the missing boys in alphabetical order if you can remember them.”
Gosling snapped to and recited the names:
“Jefferson.”
“Here.”
“Hewitt-Jones.”
“Listed.”
“Houghton-Cole.”
“Present.”
“Murgatroyd.”
“Three of those-we’ll have to check initials.”
“Pettigrew.”
“Here.”
“Renfrew.”
“Here.”
“And your last, Gosling?”
“For Peterkin, look under Greatorix, sir. The stepfather.”
“Yes, he’s here.”
Joe broke the deep silence. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve got the buggers. Time to roll them all up.”
“Did you make an arrest at the clinic, sir?” Martin enquired.
“No. Hard nut to crack, St. Raphael’s Clinic. Shall I tell him?” Joe asked the others unnecessarily.
Martin listened without interrupting the tale. And finally: “But you’ve got it with you? The evidence? These films?” he asked eagerly.
“Yes. We’ll have to take a peek at them in London. I’ll get them back to the Yard and give them a good going over.”
“It can’t wait. Spielman’s still out there. It’s a Saturday.” Gosling looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock. School hall! Quick! It’s Langhorne’s weekly treat-Laurel and Hardy will be just finishing. The film show for the boys. If you can get up there before he starts pulling the plugs we could have an after-hours command performance. I know how to work one of those projectors. I’ve filled in for Langhorne once or twice.”
Joe was already tearing out of the door.
CHAPTER 27
The school hall still smelled, not unpleasantly, of small boys who’d recently been laughing their socks off and sucking on aniseed balls and peppermints. When the last child had gone with much giggling and pretend fighting from the room to the upper floors to prepare for bed, a puzzled Langhorne had been politely dismissed also and his expensive equipment requisitioned. When asked why he should leave his pride and joy in the hands of a doubtful quartet who arrived after hours carrying their own film reel, not even Joe could think of a convincing explanation. Langhorne had, in the end, withdrawn with a theatrical show of raised eyebrows and mutterings about “a very ancient and fishlike smell” that he declared himself able to detect.
The moment he’d gone, Dorcas busied about checking that the blackout curtains were doing their work at the windows and that no one could peer in from the outside.
She settled down at the end of the row next to Gosling, who’d stationed himself beside the projector. No one suggested she might like to leave. Gosling’s nimble hands threaded the film, adjusted buttons and screws, repositioned the screen, and refocussed. Then, at last, he pronounced himself ready to start on the film. He’d loaded up the one Dorcas had advised-the most recent, according to its number.
Martin turned off the house lights, and the metal wheels creaked into life.
Flashes of white light and unintelligible symbols followed on the screen, and suddenly the film had started. Eerily silent. Harsh black and white with little grey. Breath was drawn in audibly as a scene they recognised appeared on the screen.
The white room at St. Raphael clinic came up. Overlying it along the bottom, a strip of numbers gave the date and time. A fortnight previously, Joe calculated. The clock in the background behind the operating couch was given close focus. Twelve noon confirmed the time given. It seemed important to the filmmaker. Without a break, a physician entered.
Joe peered eagerly at the gowned figure, seeking an identity, trying to turn it into Bentink, but the cap and mask hid the features. Physicians still lagged behind police forensic staff when it came to the wearing of protective gloves, Joe had noticed. The hands on view and the eyes were those of a middle-aged man, but that was as much as he could make out. The white clothing against the white walls gave him an insubstantial, ghostlike appearance.
The doctor was escorting a child. A boy. He was wearing a white hospital smock and looking anxious. Dark hair, dark eyes, unknown to the audience. A second surgeon, similarly attired, appeared and, one on either side of the table, they caught and fixed the boy’s arms to the sides. Wires were produced, and these were applied to the child’s temples.
To Joe’s horror, the boy began to twitch and writhe and try to free himself. It was a moment before he realised that the boy had entered into an epileptic fit. The fit started at five minutes after 12:00, and the film was interrupted at 12:10.
A blip in the film indicated that a splicing had occurred. A second scene with the strap ‘London’ and the same date and time appeared. The same layout but a different room. A clock gave the same time. A second boy, so like the first they must have been identical twins, came in, and the procedure was repeated. But on this second boy, no wires were applied. He lay looking uncomfortable and scared as the minutes crawled by. At 12:07, the twitching began. Though not as intense as the first boy’s, it seemed to be a mirror image.
It was Joe who leapt to his feet and snapped out a command to a very willing Gosling to switch the bloody thing off.
Dorcas ran to put on the lights, and they sat, in a huddled group, shaking with anger and distress.