“How surprised would you have been to look outside and see Mr. Rapson moving about on business unknown out there in the courtyard?”
“Very. The week before—not a bit. He’d been a nuisance. Always hanging about trying to talk to Betty. Mucky old tyke!” Clara shuddered. “Bringing her presents and sweet-talking. At his age! Disgusting! I can tell you, Inspector, if I’d attacked him with a knife it wouldn’t have been his heart I was aiming for! Well, I couldn’t be doing with that. Betty was getting very worried. She’s a kind-natured girl and wouldn’t have the guts to kick him in a soft spot or even say, ‘Boo!’ And we need the money she earns at the school to get by. So I decided to do something about it.”
“You went to the head?”
“I did! I have to say, Mr. Martin,” Clara leaned forwards and spoke confidentially, “he didn’t seem very surprised. I think the rumours must be true, don’t you?”
“They haven’t reached me yet, Clara.”
“That he’s been seen with … you know … town girls. The floozies who come down here from Brighton for a weekend … all marcel waves, cocktails at the roadhouse, cigarettes and Soir de Paris! Well, Mr. Farman made no fuss. ‘Leave it to me, Clara,’ he said. ‘I’ll deal with it.’ And I thought he had. For days we were clear of Rapson. Then you find him knifed to death where he shouldn’t have been. In my backyard.”
Clara looked searchingly at Martin. “He wouldn’t have disobeyed the head for something unimportant. He was up to something, I’ll bet. And that car arriving—it must have been connected. A big, posh car, Harry says. We don’t know anybody who drives a car like that. Or any car. Nothing to do with us. We didn’t want him there at all, not ever, not alive or dead, Inspector. I wish you’d leave us alone. We’ve got troubles enough.”
“AH. THIS DOESN’T get any easier,” Gosling remarked lugubriously. “We seem to be faced with a welcoming committee, sir. And the natives don’t look particularly friendly.”
He parked the car a few yards from the front entrance. No one made a move to get out. Gosling cautiously shut his window. A crowd of grey-robed figures had flooded out through the door and surrounded the car, some peering in through the glass, some tapping on the windscreen. Most were silent with huge inquisitive eyes; a few were chattering excitedly.
“Inmates, I’d guess,” said Gosling nervously. “Yes, they’re all dressed the same. Big grey capes. So—inmates.”
“Patients, you mean,” Dorcas said.
She jumped as a hand released the handle of the passenger’s door and jerked it open. “Welcome to the Prince Albert, madam, gentlemen,” said a cultivated voice.
This was instantly submerged by a babble of noise as comments flowed in country accents:
“There be three on ’em today!”
“Two men is that—and a lady? Where’s the fourth? They always come in fours.”
“But they were only here last week, wasn’t it? That’s enough. Send ’em on their way, Francis!”
Joe decided to show himself. He stepped out and walked around the car to confront them. The crowd retreated a pace. There seemed to be about eight of them, all adults, all male.
A voice from the huddle, identifying Joe’s bearing as military, called out in a cheeky parody of a sentry: “Halt! Who goes there?”
Dorcas slipped past Joe as he stood, for once in his life, lost for words. “A friend,” she announced. “Well, three friends! Who else would you be expecting? We’ve come to see your superintendent.”
“Of course you have!” said the first voice. A hand emerged from the grey folds of his cloak, and Dorcas took it without hesitation and shook it firmly, murmuring her name. “Always welcome. Francis Crabbe. Team leader. Sixth Watch.” His eye sought out one man in the crowd and he added: “They’re welcome—however frequently they come, Bert. And these are different people.” He turned again to Dorcas. “You haven’t been here before, madam, have you?”
“Our first visit, Mr. Crabbe, you are quite right.”
“Well at least you don’t arrive at midnight like the last lot! We never like the midnight visitors much. We try to keep them waiting outside as long as we can,” he confided. “But you time your arrival well. The superintendent is just sitting down to tea. Come this way.” Francis Crabbe hesitated, then said hurriedly, “Unless of course you want to go off by yourselves and wander about first. That’s allowed. Everything’s open. Except for the you-know-where,” he said confidingly. “You’ll need a key for that. But—no secrets here! If you ask the superintendent, he’ll be delighted to show you round the cells. But I don’t presume to give you a schedule.”
“I think we’d just like to see the superintendent first, as you suggest, Mr. Crabbe.”
Crabbe walked ahead, chattering with Dorcas along a wide corridor whose tiled floor shone impeccably. Joe noted electric lighting, paintings crowding the walls, tables lining the way, each with a white lace cloth and vase of winter greenery. From behind closed doors as they passed along, Joe picked up a strange melange of sounds: a buzz of conversation, shouts of laughter, the tinkle of a piano very badly played and a crooning voice from a gramophone. The pervading odour was a blend of Wimsol bleach and toast.
Francis Crabbe knocked at a big oak door and put his head round it. Joe heard him say: “There’s a party here again, sir. Two gents and a lady. Will you see them now?” and the jovial response: “Why not! Wheel ’em in, Francis! It is the Association Hour, after all.”
Francis crooked a finger at them, smiled, and retreated back down the corridor with his chattering flock, leaving them to face the superintendent.
A grey-haired, bespectacled man looked up at them with curiosity from the tea table that had been laid in front of a roaring fire. He put down the copy of the Times he’d been busy with and came forwards to greet them. In his late fifties and of massive build, he was wearing a thick Orkney fisherman’s sweater and a pair of old trousers with leather patches on the knees. He made no apology for his informal getup. “Gerald Chadwick at your service. Dr. Chadwick. New bugs, eh? I’ll ask you to sign the book in a moment,” he said agreeably. “What about a cup of tea first and a hot mince pie? We’re finishing off the last of the Christmas batch. Our own production, of course. Our bakery is second to none. Mrs. Chivers has won the Victoria Sponge prize in the county competition for three years running. And you are …?”
Dorcas again spoke for the three of them while he bustled about fetching three more cups from a dresser. “Dr. Chadwick, in a second I shall fall upon a mince pie and a cup of tea. There’s nothing I should like more. But I will not accept your hospitality under false pretences. We are not the hospital visitors you take us for.”
“Oh, really? Not from the Lunacy Commission, then? You look like the usual mixed bag of earnest sobersides come to catch us on the hop. Well, I’ll settle for crossword addicts. I’m stuck on six across, if you’d care to take a look. Whoever you are, sit down. You must be frozen through.” And, as they settled awkwardly in a row on the edge of the sofa opposite: “Why don’t you pour, my dear? I expect you’re familiar with the gentlemen’s requirements. My hands are a bit unsteady these days.”
A minute later, apparently unimpressed by the selection of warrant and identity cards he’d been offered and which he’d inspected carefully, he spoke again, his tone light and amused: “Well I never! A detective, a spy and a pretty girl walk into a loony bin.… Haven’t I seen you before, in a Punch cartoon?”
Joe could not summon up a reciprocal smile. “Sir. We are in a hurry. A life—a young life—may be at stake,” he said sternly. “I speak to you in my police capacity in requesting—no, let’s make that commanding—your cooperation in the matter.”
Chadwick’s bonhomie faded, and pale blue eyes glinted over the half-moon spectacles as he said crisply, “Commissioner, I don’t much care to be commanded or even requested by a complete stranger to do anything in my own drawing room. This is the first and only hour of the day when I have been at what passes for rest around here. Don’t suppose, will you, that I spend my days with my feet up munching on muffins! At five precisely I shall be at it again, making the first of my evening rounds. Whether you are here or not. If you wish to accompany me, you’ll be very welcome to tag along. I don’t much mind which one of you is speaking to me and in what capacity—though I’d prefer to deal with the young lady rather than her pet bull terriers. You’ll get the same straight answers. So get on with it.”