In the background Joe heard Farman’s voice: “Go on, Martin, tell him to mind his own bloody business! Tell him to get off the line and bring the boy back here. Or can we send a car for him?”
Then Martin’s voice: “Just a minute, Mr. Farman. Now, say again—this has come to the attention of the Metropolitan Police? What, may I ask, is precisely your involvement, Assistant Commissioner?”
Joe smiled as he heard the emphasis, emphasis no doubt for Farman’s benefit.
“The boy was committed to my care by his parents. I expect you’re making notes? You may pencil in: ‘uncle’ and add: ‘Indian connections … diplomatic interest.…’ ”
“I don’t care if he’s the Mahatma’s grandson, we want him here as soon as possible.” Martin was clearly irritated by the suggestion of influence. Irritated to the point of rudeness. “He may be a witness in a murder enquiry. Do you know anything about this? Are you acting in an official capacity?”
“I know only what the boy’s told me. But may I make one thing quite clear? That boy is going nowhere tonight. If you want to interview him you can speak to him here in my presence or, if you can persuade me that it’s absolutely necessary, I will bring him down to you. Starting out tomorrow. It’s snowing heavily here in London and I expect it’s even worse down there in Sussex. It may not even be possible to undertake the journey. The best I can offer is to start out in the morning and spend the night at the boy’s aunt’s house in Surrey, thus breaking halfway what looks like being a difficult bit of motoring. In the meantime, believe me, I have no desire whatever to interfere, though I own to an interest.”
“Yes.…” said Martin more calmly. “It’s an interesting situation to say the least. Look here, sir—confidentially, the boy is a murder suspect and I’d sooner he was in police custody.”
“That,” said Joe, “is precisely what I am anxious to avoid. Would I be forcing a confidence if I were to ask what is the present situation of Mr. Rapson, master at St. Magnus School?”
There was a long pause at the other end. “I have no reason to doubt what you say but please recall that I have no proof of your identity. I release information in respect of Mr. Rapson only because it will very shortly become public knowledge. His present situation is not a happy one. He is, in fact, dead. He is the victim of multiple stab wounds. As far as we can see, the last person to see him alive was Jack Drummond. So we have this situation—at the very least, Jack Drummond is a material witness in a murder enquiry, or—and I’m sure I don’t have to spell this out—is a suspect. You will understand why I want to interview him, why I want him here, in Sussex, where the crime occurred and where it must be resolved.”
“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.”