“God! Can’t you imagine it?” Gosling exclaimed. “The conversation between leather armchairs at the club … whisky in hand … ‘I say, that’s quite a problem you have there, old man.’ ” He was suddenly speaking with the bluff tones of a man twice his age. “ ‘Quite understand. You’re not the first it’s happened to, you know. Oh, no. Other names would surprise you, but—lips are sealed, of course. There are remedies, however, for those brave enough to avail themselves of them. Steps to be taken—that ought to be taken for the sake of Family, Society and Empire. Indeed, it would be unforgivable to neglect to take the steps. Merely doing one’s duty.’ ”
“They might add at a practical level—and never forget, Gosling, that these are intensely practical people we are dealing with—that the matter can safely be taken out of the family’s hands if the problem is committed to the care of such and such a school. There would be peripheral expenses to meet, of course. Nothing out of the ordinary. This is an ethical and prophylactic service after all, not remotely venal.”
Martin absorbed all this and expressed a shared despair: “But there’s nothing there that we can go with. No foothold! It’s good work Gosling’s done, but what have we got? Documented deaths. Tied up, signed for, obols in mouth, and gone across the river.”
Gosling was silent for a moment. Then: “Oh, come on, sir! Let’s unleash Hercules! One last sprint for the finish, eh? I reckon we can get to this clinic in less than two hours. An hour if I put my foot down. We can’t leave this last stone unturned. And worth upending, I’d say. One medico fingering another—that’s always worth a look. For Alicia Peterkin?”
“For Alicia,” Joe agreed. “Come on then, and as we go I’ll fill in more details of Rapson’s dirty past. See you later, Martin. Have the kettle on for five o’clock.”
He threw the keys to Gosling.
WHEN THEY ARRIVED at the car they were greeted by a cry of relief. “Where’ve you been? I thought I was going to have to do this by myself.”
“Out, Dorcas! Go back. You’re not wanted on voyage.”
“James would want me to be here. I know the place. It knows me.”
“You think that’s an advantage? I’ve balanced your familiarity against the fact that—if my fanciful deductions prove halfway accurate—we’re in for trouble. And I don’t mean a bout of fisticuffs between gents. I mean violence, possibly guns. We may be challenging men who have careers, reputations—lives—at stake. They are ruthless and won’t think twice about engineering the swift disappearance of anyone who threatens them. That includes you. Whatever would I say to Sir James?” Joe had aimed for light, but he heard waspish. “Off you go. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”
“Just as well I packed my Smith & Wesson with the ham sandwiches, then. I’ve got a flask of coffee and some of cook’s flapjack too. I’ve been raiding the kitchens. They’ll let you have anything if you say it’s for that lovely Mr. Gosling: ‘Sweet boy, far too good for them.’ I’ll feed you as we go because I know you haven’t had any lunch.”
Gosling licked his lips. “Flapjack, sir!”
“A sop for Cerberus? A low trick, Dorcas! As I seem to be lumbered with the pair of you, I’d better tell you what transpired at the doctor’s earlier. Missing boys seem to be turning into something of epidemic proportions in the county.”
JOE LET OUT a low whistle of appreciation as they rounded a bend and were offered a glimpse of the clinic they were seeking through a copse of tall elms.
“Saint Raphael Clinic,” a brass plate announced on one of the gateposts at the bottom of the drive.
“Raphael is the patron saint of healing,” Dorcas supplied. “And, of course, an archangel.”
“I’m more interested in the architect,” Joe said. “This is very good. Walter Gropius, are we thinking, rather than Edwin Lutyens? But—clinic—isn’t that a bit modest? This is a vast building. How old, Dorcas. Any idea?”
“Five years at the most. It’s way ahead of its time, don’t you think?”
Joe exchanged looks with Gosling. “Five years? That all? Ah! We had hoped for something a little older. Thirty years perhaps. At least.”
“Well, if it’s old you want, try the village. Edenhurst. It’s full of ancient and lovely things. There’s a row of almshouses. St. Raphael Sanctuaries for the deserving and aged poor or something like that. They keep a dozen old ladies there, rent free. Under the terms of the original foundation.”
“Original foundation? What was that?”
“No trace left. They bulldozed what was here to make room for what you see now. There was a hospital of sorts—all red brick and gloom, you can imagine. That had, in turn, replaced an earlier medieval building.”
“Burial ground? Any vestiges?”
“Yes, if you look over there to the east. It’s hidden by the line of the private wing. It was flattened and grassed over when the work was going on—too bothersome to excavate, I’d say. And, farther off yet, there’s—cleverly camouflaged by a change of brick colour against the hillside behind—the essential part of a hospital that everyone wants to ignore: the incinerator.”
“For disposing of unwanted material,” Gosling said tersely. “Amputated limbs … laboratory animals … small boys.”
“The whole complex belonged to the Anglo-Saxon church that originally occupied the site,” Dorcas went on with deliberate calm. “There was once a church on this site. A large and very famous one. Famous especially for its sanctuary. Close enough to London, where all the villains were, then as now, it was the place criminals fled to, to hang on the sanctuary knocker. The sheriff’s men couldn’t touch them. It’s said hundreds of villains found safety inside the walls. But of course they were trapped. The moment they put a nose outside, they were bagged.”
“Let’s hope the villains aren’t still hanging about,” Joe said.
“The knocker is. The lion’s head sanctuary knocker. It’s huge. It’s been passed down from building to building I expect. They’ve mounted it on the present front door. Not at all in keeping with the modern lines, and I’ll bet the architect had something to say! But the gesture’s in keeping with tradition, and that’s what people really want to see.”
Gosling, with ten minutes to go before their appointment, was driving slowly, allowing time to look at the buildings. Gleaming rosily in the westering sun, the white brick managed to look at once welcoming, pure, and spare. Large plate glass windows caught and reflected back a golden light, wide and innocent as smiling eyes. The low-lying building sat easily against the undulating landscape of the North Downs, its straight lines contrasting with but not challenging the natural beauty that sheltered it. Two wings came forwards, ushering the visitor to a well-defined front entrance. A service road continued on around the back, Joe guessed, to the usual offices and hard-standing for ambulances and other vehicles, out of sight and not spoiling the uncluttered impact of the main building.
As they watched, a group of nurses came out and began to walk down the drive. Rosy cheeked and neat in their navy uniforms and capes, they chattered and laughed and waved amiably at the passengers in the Morris. Gosling pulled over to one side to allow a delivery van to pass them. As it swished by they read in a florid cartouche painted on the side: Ernest Honeydew. Grocer. Purveyor of the cream of Sussex provender to the Gentry since 1813.
Joe laughed. “Is that what they fed you on, Dorcas? Cream of provender?”
“Yes! It was very good. The students ate the same food as the private patients. I’ve never had lamb chops and lobster like it.”
“Well, the Prince Albert it’s not!” Gosling said. “All grow your own on the home farm. And, as Langhorne isn’t here to oblige, I’ll have to say it myself:
There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple.
If the ill spirit have so fair a house