“A witness, obviously, but are you telling me the injuries you describe could have been inflicted by a small ten-year-old boy?”
“You’re going rather too fast for me, sir. I repeat: I need to interview the boy. I want him down here without delay. Can I rely on your cooperation?”
“Yes, of course,” said Joe impatiently, “and I will make arrangements accordingly. But don’t expect us too early. Quite apart from anything else, the boy has no clothes other than pyjamas.”
“No clothes other than pyjamas?” Martin repeated incredulously. “How did that happen? He left here wearing his uniform.”
“There’s a lot of questions to answer,” said Joe, “and we could waste a great deal of each other’s time trying to deal with them over the telephone. If I say I’ll bring the boy to you as soon as I conveniently can, then let’s leave it there, Inspector-was it Inspector? — Martin.”
“Very well. I suppose I shall have to leave it there.” Frustration pushed him to the edge of insubordination. “And, not for the first time in my police career, I defer, against my better judgement, to superior rank … Sir.”
Joe turned away from the telephone as Lydia came through the door. She put her arm over his shoulder. “You look absolutely done in, old boy,” she said.
“I feel as if I’ve been through the wringer! And a hoity-toity D.I. who is well aware of his rights down in Sussex is the last thing I need. Chap shows some spirit though. He’ll need it. Well-this has been quite an evening one way and another!”
“Can you stop? Can you stop and go to bed?”
“Bless you, Lyd,” said Joe, “but no. Soon perhaps but not now. Things to do. Don’t worry! Go to bed yourself. I have to notify the boy’s parents.”
“The boy’s parents!” said Lydia. “Yes, of course.”
Joe began to draught a long cable to distant Panikhat. Panikhat! For him, of so many memories. Panikhat. He would never have expected it to come into his life again. He thought of Andrew Drummond, who had been his friend, and Nancy Drummond, who had been-so briefly-his lover.
CHAPTER 4
Curtains of snow were falling across the river when Joe awoke in the morning. Woke! He had hardly slept. But there were voices from the kitchen and a reassuring smell of coffee. Lydia and Jackie were sitting side by side.
“I found a ham and some eggs,” said Lydia, “and I’ve fed the hero of last night’s entertainment and here he is!”
“Good morning, Uncle Joe,” said Jackie politely.
“Good morning, Jackie,” said Joe. “Do you never stop eating?”
“I like breakfast,” said Jackie. “I think it’s my favourite meal.”
“Got some for me?” Joe asked, and then, “There are things we’ve got to do. Lyd, can you do something about Jackie’s clothes?”
“That’s not difficult. I’ve had a look at the labels. I’ll ring up Derry and Tom’s, give them his size. They’ll have a commissionaire or a messenger of some sort they can send round, I expect. They should be open by now-I’ll give it a go.”
They heard her speak with crisp authority into the telephone. “… put me through to the school outfitting department please.… Oh, good morning. Mrs. Marcus Dunsford here. May I know to whom I am speaking? Mr. Partridge? Mr. Partridge, I have an urgent commission for you.…”
Joe listened while she steered the conversation through to a successful conclusion. “You can do that? Excellent! You may send it to me here at Reach House, Chelsea.… And when shall we look for you?… Before noon?… So grateful, Mr. Partridge!”
“While we’re waiting for Mr. Partridge to produce the goods,” said Joe, “we have things to do.”
“I’ll make a start. I’ll pack up Jackie’s bag for him. And make a few sandwiches. A flask of something hot for the journey.…” Lydia bustled out, leaving Joe with the boy.
“There’s things we ought to talk about, Jackie. Sorry, but-firstly, I sent a cable off last night to your parents to say what has happened.”
“Will they be cross with me for running away?” said Jackie anxiously.
“Worried, I expect, but not cross,” said Joe. “It was difficult to explain what had happened but I did my best. Now, you and I have to go down to the school and talk to the Sussex police about Rappo.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere near the school,” said Jackie almost in a wail. “I really don’t! Would I have to see The Fatman?”
“The fat man?” said Joe.
“It’s what we call Farman. He put up a notice and somebody changed the ‘r’ to a ‘t’ in his signature and now everybody-even some of the masters-call him The Fatman.”
“Well, the best I can offer is a slight delay.” Joe smiled. “I used the weather as an excuse for putting it off until your dad has had a chance to reply to the telegram I sent last night. We’ll set off from here when you’ve got your uniform and the streets have been cleared. Then we’ll thrash on down to Surrey to your Aunt Lydia’s house where we’ll break the journey. You’ll be comfortable there and you can meet your new cousins. We’ll spend the rest of the day and the night there before doing the final leg down into Sussex. I asked Andrew to send his reply straight to me down at Aunt Lydia’s. St. Magnus can wait another day.”
George Gosling pushed his way through the crowds of boys milling about in the entrance to the hall on his way to the staffroom. An early and unscheduled meeting had been called by the headmaster for the whole of the teaching staff. It would be left to Matron and a couple of helpers to contain more than one hundred excited boys in the hall until normal classes could be resumed. He didn’t envy Matron her task. The boys had got wind of the event of yesterday and their awful unbroken voices screeched and yammered around him as he made his way along the corridor. Some of the little brutes even tried to accost him for information.
“Sir! Sir! Is it true?” This was Spielman, whose mastoid-infected ears had triggered the whole nasty business. “Was it Drummond who killed Rappo? They’re saying he’ll swing for it. Is it true? Will he swing? Sir? Sir?”
Gosling clenched his hands behind his back. The impulse to wipe the ghoulish fervour from the ugly little face was almost overwhelming.
“Oh, I doubt it,” he said dismissively. “Down here in Sussex they tend to go in for penal servitude for life for youngsters these days.” Masterson’s brief came back to him: Ingratiate yourself with both boys and staff. Make sure that they trust you. Gosling leaned over and smiled his crooked, boyish, all-pals-together-in-adversity smile. “But you seem to know more about this than I do, Spielman. Why is it that the sports master’s always the last to find out what’s going on? Hey! Foster! Tonsils giving you any trouble today? No? Good man!”
He was the last to enter the staffroom. He slid in quietly but he’d been noticed. The head looked pointedly at his watch and the other twelve teachers, gowned and huddled in their usual groups, smiled, gratified that they were not the target of all eyes. Unconcerned, Gosling gave a formal nod to the headmaster and said in a cheerful voice, “I’m two minutes late-frightfully sorry, sir. Matron needed a little help marshaling the mob and I happened to be passing.…”
“I’ll hear your apologies later, Gosling. We have more important matters than staff punctuality on our agenda this morning.” The voice, icy and dismissive, was at odds with the Pickwickian corpulence.
George chose a seat, as he always did, near the door and to the side of the gathering. From here he had a clear view of his colleagues and could come and go attracting the least attention. One of the staff, more observant than the rest, had once jokingly remarked on this ability of his to disappear or materialise at their elbows: “Remind me, if you can, Gosling-who was it Macbeth described as ‘moving like a ghost’?” And after a token pause to allow for a response: “Ah, yes, of course, I believe it was the wolf. A creature with which, I suspect, you have much in common.” He’d turned to enjoy the smirking appreciation of his colleagues.