And so on.
When Leatherdale forced the conversation around to his case, Sir Thomas glowered and shivered, listening as his son confirmed the story. Then the father came in again, explaining why he had sent the telegram to Paris ordering Julian home, stressing his vision and common sense in doing so.
With his companion recalled and the Continent bursting into flames, with the strong possibility that he might be unable to join up with the rest of the party, young Exeter had chosen to return to England also. Any other decision would have demonstrated very bad judgment. Sir Thomas gave no hint, however, that he had offered hospitality to his son's friend, suddenly at a loose end. Had young Julian thought to do so? If not, why not? If he had, why had Exeter chosen the embarrassing alternative of an appeal to the Bodgleys’ charity? While Leatherdale was considering how to ask those questions, he put another:
"What was Exeter's state of mind?"
"State of mind, sir?” The boy blinked like an idiot.
"Was he disappointed?"
"At first, sir. But eager to get his own back, of course—sir."
Leatherdale felt the thrill of a hound scenting its prey. “His own back on who?"
"On the Germans, sir. We're going to enlist together, sir."
Red herring.
Sir Thomas uttered a snort of potent scorn.
"Exeter has broken his leg,” Leatherdale said. “It will be some time..."
The scorn registered. The lack of invitation clicked into place also. He confirmed some times and dates while he shaped his questions, then turned to the father. “You know Exeter, Sir Thomas?"
"Believe Julian introduced him last Speech Day."
There was strong disapproval there. That was the first indication Leatherdale had found that the entire world did not approve wholeheartedly of Edward Exeter. Another quarry had broken cover.
"How would you judge him, sir?"
Smedley Senior drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Suddenly he was being cautious. “Can't say I know the boy well enough to pass an opinion, Inspector."
That might well be true, but it did not mean that Sir Thomas did not have an opinion, and it would be based on something, however inadmissible it might be as evidence.
"His housemaster speaks very highly of him,” Leatherdale said.
Sir Thomas made a Hrumph! noise.
"You thought enough of him to approve him as your son's companion on a trip across Europe."
Hrumph! again. “Well, they were chums.” Father eyed son with a See-How-Wrong-You-Were? expression. “It was only for a few days, till they joined Dr. Gibbs and the others..."
Leatherdale waited.
Again Sir Thomas cleared his throat. “Must admit I have nothing against the boy himself. Deucedly good bowler. He may be straight enough. Guilty until proved innocent, what? I've seen Fallow work wonders. There was a young Jew boy there in my time ... Well, that's another story."
Another silence. Leatherdale knew the road now.
"Do you know his family at all, Sir Thomas?"
"Only by reputation."
"And that is?"
"Well the Nyagatha affair, of course."
"Tragic?"
"Damned scandal! Read the board of inquiry report, Inspector!"
"I intend to. Can you give me the main points, though?"
That was all the encouragement Sir Thomas required. “Shocking! If Exeter had survived, he'd have been drummed out of the Service. Lucky not to be thrown in the clink. A band of malcontents wanders out of the jungle and burns a Government Station? White women raped and murdered! Children! Not a single survivor. Shameful! If Exeter had maintained a proper force of guards as he should, damned business would never have happened. Disgraceful! And there was all sorts of other dirt came out, too."
"Such as?"
"His overall performance. Aims and motivations. The man had absolutely gone native, Inspector! Tribal barbarities that had been stamped out in other districts had been allowed to persist. Witch doctors and such abominations. Roads that should have been built had not been. Missionaries and developers had been discouraged—virtually thrown out, in some cases. The commissioners were extremely critical. Gave his superiors a very stiff wigging for not having kept a better eye on him."
In the shadowed room, Sir Thomas's glare was as ferocious as any of the sinister idols'. His son was staring at the floor, fists clenched, saying nothing. His back was still ramrod-stiff.
So young Exeter had perhaps spent his childhood in unusually primitive surroundings, even by Colonial standards. That was not evidence. But it did help explain a certain curious document that Leatherdale had found in the suspect's luggage.
"Mr. Smedley?” Leatherdale said gently.
Julian looked up nervously. “Sir?"
"Did Edward Exeter ever express any ambition to follow in his father's footsteps? In the Colonial Office, I mean?"
Sir Thomas snorted. “They wouldn't touch another Exeter with a forty-foot pole."
"Hardly fair to the boy, sir?"
The invalid shivered and produced a linen handkerchief to dab his beaded forehead. “There are some names you don't want around on files to remind people, Inspector! Have you any further questions to put to my son?"
"Just one, I think. What do you think of Edward Exeter, Mr. Smedley?"
Julian glanced briefly at his father and seemed to make an effort to sit up even straighter, which was not physically possible.
"He's white!” he said defiantly. “A regular brick!"
25
SLOWER THAN A PLAGUE OF SNAILS CRAWLED THE HOSPItal minutes. Lunch lay in Edward's stomach like a battleship's anchor: pea soup, mutton stew, suet pudding, lumpy custard. He was trying, with very little success, to write a sympathy letter to the Bodgleys.
Amid his foggy memories of his visit to the Grange, he had a clear vision of old Bagpipe cursing the asthma that would keep him out of the war—and now here he was himself, flat on his back with his bloody leg in pieces. Three months! It would be all over by then, and even if it wasn't, then all his chums would be three months ahead of him. What bloody awful luck!
Not quite as bloody as Bagpipe's of course.... His birthday present from Alice had been a handsome leather writing case, which fortunately had not been pilfered in Paris. It bore his initials in gold and had pockets for envelopes and stamps and unanswered correspondence. Abandoning the Bodgley letter, he pulled out two well-thumbed sheets that he had stored away in one of those pockets. He knew the text by heart now, but he read it all over again. Then he set to work copying it out, word for word.
It was dated the day of the Nyagatha massacre, and the writing was his father's.
My dear Jumbo,
It was with both surprise and of course delight that Mrs. Exeter and I welcomed Maclean to our abode last night. Although conditions have improved vastly over the last few years, his journey from the Valley of the Kings was as arduous as might be expected. Had he been delayed only another three days at Mombasa, I fear he would have missed us here altogether. Indeed, delivery of this letter cannot precede by more than a week our personal arrival Home. Needless to say, the tidings he brought concerning your own crossing were equally agreeable to us. Without implying that any incentive beyond that of being reunited with our son and adopted daughter is necessary to motivate us to visit the Old Country, your presence there and the resulting prospects of riotous revelry in your company are a joyous prospect!