Francis hesitated, then took courage and spoke firmly: “The maddest man in this whole institution is Chadwick. The superintendent. The only difference between him and the inmates is that he has the key. I know it’s an old joke. This is the one time it’s true.”
Joe broke in. “Francis, listen. We’re not government inspectors. We’re not qualified to even hold up our end in a conversation about psychology or psychiatry or mental illness, let alone give an opinion on a specific case.”
Francis said urgently, “But the lady is!” He turned appealing eyes on Dorcas, and his words came in short bursts. “You told me … when you came … that you studied … psychology. I thought you’d at least listen. None of the other toffee-nosed old hens who visit could give a monkey’s, but you-”
Dorcas took the slopping tea cup from his hand and placed it carefully in the saucer. She kept hold of the hand. “I am listening, Francis. If our conversation is over their heads, these two noodles can just go back to the hall and join in the singsong.”
“No! No! He’s a policeman, isn’t he-the big one? I need him to listen. It’s not about me, miss! I don’t count for anything. I’m not trying to talk myself out of here. It’s the children! No one will ever hear me out when I try to tell them about the children. ‘He’s raving,’ they say and report me to Chadwick. Then I get a beating and lose privileges for a month.”
Joe put down his cup and said carefully: “Go on, Francis. We’re all listening to you.”
“It’s always after dark. They arrive. The Specials. Not like the ordinary admissions. They’re taken up to the you-know-where, and they don’t come out alive. Whatever they do-him and his gorillas-it’s quick at least. I think it’s electricity, but they have bottles of stuff up there as well.”
Joe could hardly breathe. He caught Gosling’s shocked face. He was aware of an urgency in Francis Crabbe, whose eyes went constantly to the mantel clock, and he forced himself to question swiftly, “How frequent, Francis-these arrivals?”
“Irregular. Once or twice a year. One year it was three times. I’ve written them all down in a book. He’s no idea I have it.”
“Good Lord!” Joe said faintly. “Can we get into this room?”
“No. He’s got the key.”
“But Francis, you mentioned it when we came last time, said it was open to view and did we want to take a look,” Dorcas said.
“I wanted you to ask to see it! Make trouble for him. I always have a try when there’s a woman in the inspection group.”
“Why does he keep you on, Francis, thorn under his saddle that you are?” Gosling asked gently.
“He needs me to run the place. I keep the lid on and the wheels oiled. I try to see justice is done in a place that is outside the realms of justice. I protect the inmates from him and I protect him from the inmates. Rome survived its mad emperors, but it wouldn’t have got far without its tribunes of the people. I’ve made myself indispensable.”
“Well, as a policeman I could demand to view the premises,” said Joe. “We’ll wait. But we’ll need more evidence of wrongdoing.” Joe was thinking aloud, still stunned by Crabbe’s revelation. His mind was running on the likelihood that all physical traces of those passing through would have been destroyed with oiled efficiency. The room would have been cleaned and belongings incinerated.
“Proof? I’ve got proof!” Francis was suddenly gleeful. He looked at the clock again. “Not much time. He’ll be back early today-he’s gone in the fast car.”
“Remind me, Francis, what kind of car does your boss drive?”
“He’s taken the Talbot today, sir. It’s a big grey one.”
“Do you know its number?”
“It’s a Sussex registration: BP4200,” he said impatiently.
Gosling shot a look at Joe, eyebrows raised in alarm. “Well run, little Harry,” he murmured.
“Look, you gentlemen stay here just in case. I’ll take the lady to the library. It’s just a few yards down the corridor.”
With a quick nod of reassurance for Joe, Dorcas got up, patted her satchel, and set off with her guide.
“Here you are, miss.”
Francis ushered her into an empty room. It was evidently well used. Tables and chairs were available for the browsers, even a couple of armchairs. The walls were lined with full bookshelves, and there were further piles on a table under the window. Dorcas reminded herself that this establishment was the size of a large village and she might expect to find a facility of commensurate size. One wall that caught her attention was devoted to books suitable for children to read, many of them ABCs and nursery rhymes.
“No, miss. It’s over here.” Francis made off to the far wall and began to search in the adult section under the letter S. “If you want to hide something, hide it in plain sight. That’s not bad advice. And there’s nowhere much you can hide something in a place like this.”
He ran an eye along the row and tugged on the spine of a book until it was protruding an inch beyond the others. He stood back.
Dorcas peered more closely and uttered a soft cry. “I know this book,” she said. “And I know its two previous owners. Take it out, Francis, and open it up at the first page inside.”
Francis took Treasure Island down and did as Dorcas asked.
“There’s two names here. Jack Drummond-crossed out. And under that, Harald Spielman, miss.”
Hardly able to get the words out, Dorcas whispered, “How did you manage to get hold of it?”
“A lad arrived in daylight. Unusual that. Last week. He wasn’t fetched. He was dropped off by a Daimler. The chauffeur left him with me at the front door and buzzed off, cussing about the weather. The boy didn’t know what was going on. Thought he’d been taken to London, I think. Looking about him, impressed by the size of the building. He handed me this book because it was too big for his pocket. And he’d read it before, anyway. ‘You may have it, my good man,’ he told me. I put it away in the pocket of my cloak. I know a fine story when I see one. We can always use spare copies in the library. Then I saw the names. First time I’ve ever got hold of a name, miss.”
Francis was eager to leave. “Can you put it away? In your bag?”
“Of course.” Dorcas swung her satchel in front of her and undid the buckles. She held the flap up, and Francis Crabbe carefully turned the big book on its side to slide it in, spine first. She was alarmed to see his eye light up as he caught sight of the Smith amp; Wesson. The eye, she remembered, of a man sent here for misuse of a firearm. A countryman familiar with rifles and shotguns.
Francis caught her wariness and smiled. “Never realised psychology was such a dangerous pursuit, Miss Dorcas. Come on! Let’s get back.”
They were halfway back to the parlour when Dorcas remembered what Joe had told her. Something so essential she stopped and tugged Francis by his sleeve. “Wait a minute. There’s another boy. I have to find him or find out what became of him.” And by a huge feat of memory she came up with a name: “Walter Weston, he’s called.”
Francis pursed his lips, unwilling, it seemed to reply. Then: “The blacksmith’s son, would that be? Local lad? Fair hair? Big lad for his age?”
“That’s the one. He went missing at the same time as Harald Spielman.”
Francis looked up and down the corridor and listened. “We may have time. Look, follow me and run if you can. What have you got on your feet?”
Dorcas lifted up a leg and showed him her low-heeled serviceable boot.
“They’ll do. It’s still a bit sticky in the graveyard.”
CHAPTER 30