They stared at the darkening façade of the vast building. “A thousand patients, at least, they probably house in there,” Dorcas said. “So there’s a good chance that a hundred of them are epileptics.”
“And now it could be a hundred and one,” Gosling’s voice was grim. “A coincidence, are we wondering? Look, I have to say Spielman was showing none of the warning signs when he stepped into that Daimler with his book tucked under his arm. He’d had an attack just last week. I’m no expert but, as his games master, I had noticed they occurred at a few weeks’ distance from each other.”
“Prearranged? Taken away and locked up in a lunatic asylum without his mother’s knowledge?” Joe said. “I think we should find out.”
Was it the sun sinking lower behind the hills, the raucous calls of rooks returning to their nests in the elms that stood sentinel in the parkland, or a sudden dip in energy that made Joe’s heart drop to his boots? The crenellations he had been admiring were no longer stylish but forbidding. “Halt! Who goes there?” they said. Joe searched in vain for a password.
“What are we waiting for?” Gosling said urgently. “Let’s see if we’ve beaten Herr Spielman to it.”
MARTIN SANK TO his knees in the slush and stared at the weapon. He took the paper evidence bag the constable was holding out to him, wrote on the outside in indelible pencil, added his signature, and then picked up the knife delicately at the join between blade and shaft with his handkerchief around his fingers.
“On your bike, constable,” he said, handing over the bag. “Put this in the messenger bag and take it to the nick. I’ve told them to expect it by teatime. They’ll get it to Brighton tonight, and we might know by tomorrow whose prints are on there. If we’re lucky. Oh, and tell the sergeant I’m popping down to Ma Bellefoy’s for a cup of tea and a chat, will you?”
His welcome was what he had come to expect over the last few days: warm, even slightly flirtatious, but with an underlying reserve.
The inspector blew into his cup to cool his tea. “The best tea, Clara,” he remarked, “and served in the best china.” He sipped carefully. “Funny taste. Nice, though. Very pleasant in fact. What is it?”
Clara Bellefoy looked at him in satisfaction over the rim of her matching cup. “These were the last two of a set that got smashed, up at the school. Specials for governors and such-like. They were going to chuck them out, so I asked for them.” She allowed herself a tight smile and added: “Not that many perks in being a school-skivvy. Farman gave me a note to prove they weren’t nicked. Want to see it?”
Martin waved away the unpleasant suggestion.
“The tea—now that’s something you won’t get at the Co-op, Inspector. It’s called ‘Earl Grey,’ and the pleasant taste is bergamot. Or so it says on the tin. I only use it for special visitors. And no, I didn’t buy it, Mr. Sharp-Eyes! It got given to me—well, to Betty—by the school steward. Unwanted present to the staff from a parent. They didn’t like it and told him to pass it on to someone deserving.”
“And, naturally your Betty came to mind?”
“Course she did! I’m not stupid! She’s on most of those men’s minds! The only pretty girl for ten miles around—you’d expect it.”
“Still single at—what is she—nineteen? Twenty? What’s she waiting for?”
“She’s seen the mistakes her mother made, and she’s not going to repeat them. The right bloke will come along one day. I’m not losing sleep over it.”
“Well, I have to congratulate you, Clara,” Martin said with sincerity, glancing meaningfully around the pin-neat parlour. “She’s a credit to you. And the little lad—you’ve done a fine job by him. Where is Harry?”
“Upstairs in his room. He ran off when he heard you coming. Nothing wrong with his hearing. He doesn’t like strangers. Usually he goes all shy and can’t find the words to speak. Sometimes he gets quarrelsome and finds exactly the wrong ones. When he flies into a temper it can be very embarrassing to hear him. He tries his best to swear, Mr. Martin. I don’t know why. I try to teach him right and wrong and good manners but sometimes … sometimes … you’d say he’d got the devil in him. I think he learns those words from the lads who work in the stables. It must be that, because he doesn’t go to school, and he hears nothing of the kind at home.”
“Is he warm enough up there on his own?”
“Course he is! I always keep a fire going for him in the grate, and he’s got a new set of tin cars to play with. It’s his retreat. When he’s gone off up there I don’t bother him. He’s all right.”
Martin cocked his head to a photograph of Clara’s son and daughter, a studio print in a wooden frame sitting on the upright piano. “A fine-looking pair, missis. He’s a good-looking little lad. Takes after his ma. Same curly dark hair.” He leaned forwards and asked quietly: “What went wrong for him? If you could tell me, there might be something I could suggest … some help I could recommend.…”
His cup rattled in the saucer as Clara Bellefoy jumped to her feet, her face contorted with anger. “Shut up! Just shut up about my lad, will you! I’m fed up with it! He’s what he is. It’s his mother’s fault, and I’m paying the price. Every day of my life. And I wouldn’t want it otherwise. There’s nothing anyone else can do for him.” She fell silent, biting her lip, and sat down again.
Martin picked up one of her phrases. “You say it’s your fault, Clara? How can that be?”
“None of your business.”
He persisted. “Most would blame God. Or the defaulting father.”
Clara sniffed and reached into the pocket of her pinny for a handkerchief. She blew her nose and then looked with defiance at the policeman. “I’ve more sense. It’s no secret around here, I suppose. Someone will pass the gossip on to you if you keep asking, so I might as well make sure you hear it right. He’s illegitimate. There. I told you that before.”
“So you did. I didn’t throw a fit at the mention of the word then, and I don’t on its second airing. Get on, Clara.”
“What does a woman do when she needs her job and the cottage that’s tied to it, and she finds she’s in a certain condition thanks to a man who’s gone off? The head could have thrown us into the street, you know, and no one would have blamed him. Well, she tries to get rid of the problem. Village ways. Village remedies. There’s always some old crone who thinks she knows what to do. I took advice. Fell out of the apple tree. Several times. And then the kid was born. I think the fall dislodged something. He was born not quite right. Though we didn’t know this until he got to two and wasn’t walking. Four, and he still couldn’t talk. Now six, and we wish he’d never open his mouth. As I said, my fault. My penance. That’s the end of it. Why are you here? Not to talk about my zany son!”
“Just to say thank you for the help your son was yesterday. He made quite an effort to tell us about the car in the lane. I appreciated that. And to let you know how we’re getting on, missis. A murder was committed a few yards away from your back door—I thought you’d be interested. We’ve found the weapon.”
“What was it?”
“Six-inch knife. Any of yours missing from the kitchen?”
“No. I was here all the time with Harry and Betty when she got home at just after six. No one could have got in and taken one. It’s more likely to have been pinched from the school kitchens. They’ve got dozens up there. Have you counted them?”
“It was all happening around here at six that evening, wasn’t it? And I’m still intrigued by that car. It couldn’t have been a fancy man arriving for Betty, could it? It’s about the time you’d arrive to pick up your lady friend for a showing at the Gaumont. They’ve got one of those ‘Gold Diggers’ films on all week.”
“No. Betty got back and set about eating her supper straight away. Rabbit stew it was. I like to have her meal on the table ready for her when she gets back. It’s long hours she works. We didn’t hear the car. We aren’t blessed with Harry’s ears.”