Not My Blood (12 page)

“If I’d thought about it I might well have guessed as much, Dorcas. That’s the usual practice in English schools,” Joe said. “Jackie hadn’t brought it up as a reason for flight. He was rather more concerned with the bleeding corpse that he found he had on his hands.”

“Well, he wouldn’t complain—not for himself. He may look as soft as a marshmallow, but I suspect young Jackie is made of
stern stuff. He’s more worried about the lads less able than he is to withstand the rigours. They seem to go down like ninepins with flu, measles, ear infections and even pneumonia. And he assumes, like all the other poor mites—because that’s what his elders and betters have always told him—that this bad treatment will toughen him up … make a man of him, don’t you know.” Dorcas shuddered. “The last goal any reasonable human being would be working towards!”

“Dorcas, we’ve all survived such schooldays,” Marcus began to say gently. “Joe and I have, each in our own time, been the new bug under the window.”

“Marcus, if you say ‘It didn’t do
me
any harm,’ I shall be obliged to reveal exactly what harm it
did
do!” Lydia threatened.

“I agree with Dorcas for once,” Joe broke in to avert the revelations and to keep his promise to strive for a peaceful household. “The British public school can be a bit Spartan. But most survive. Those who don’t go about shoving stolen foxes up their jumpers, that is.”

“Well, I mention it because Jackie tells me you’re going down to St. Magnus with him and you’re staying on to sort things out. While you’re down there, you might be able to work your way through to acquiring a position of leverage with the Headmaster and you might be able to use your weight to do some good.”

“Oh, a little moral and physical coercion you mean? ‘Look here Farman, old chum,’ I snarl in a sinister way as I twist his arm a further inch up his back. ‘Which is it to be? Either I reveal you’ve been caught with your left hand in the till and your right up Matron’s skirt or you turn on the heating in the junior dorm’?”

“I think that’s blackmail but it will do very well.” Dorcas beamed over the table at Lydia. “So good to hear the old bruiser’s not lost his edge. I wouldn’t want to be letting myself in for a week of boredom down in Sussex.”

L
YDIA’S SUDDEN NEED
to bustle off and attend to the drinks tray alerted Joe to the conspiracy that had gone on behind his back, though a glance at Marcus’s astonished face exonerated him at least.

“Hang on, Dorcas!” Joe managed to say lightly. “You’ve turned over two pages at once. In fact I think you’re reading from a different script altogether. The wrong script, if I understand what you’re saying.”

“No she’s not, Joe.” Lydia, returning, had refreshed her gin and tonic and recovered her aplomb. “A sensible arrangement for all concerned. I’m frightfully busy at the moment. I can hardly spare the time to trim my nails, let alone go swanning off down into Sussex to sit by you while you interview schoolmasters.” She blushed as she told the lie, knowing she was deceiving no one. “Dorcas is free for the coming week, and she’ll agree to accompany you if you ask her nicely. It’s just her sort of thing.”

“That at least I will accept. Though these days what I used to call ‘meddling’ is dignified with the word ‘research.’ No! I’m sorry you’re suddenly not available, Lydia, but.…” He looked at the clock. “Not too late. I’ll ring Cottingham at the Yard and tell him to send down a lady policeman which is what I ought to have done in the first place.” Joe searched his memory. “Constable Huntingdon! Efficient officer and known to Jackie. I’ll request her.”

“A uniformed presence? An overtly
Metropolitan
presence? Is that a good idea?” Dorcas asked. “I can’t imagine the local Plod will be pleased. Out of uniform, you can pass very well as a concerned uncle, Joe, but a lady in blue serge with a bowler hat and boots trotting two paces behind you with a notebook might just give the game away.”

“She would arrive with some authority at least. And she’d take her orders without quibble. A young, female, bolshy non-relative, on the other hand, would be harder to account for.”

“We’ve thought about that.” Dorcas and Lydia exchanged looks. “Dorcas doesn’t want the indignity of pretending to be someone she’s not.”

A thing Dorcas had been doing for the whole of her life. The child had been a consummate actress. Joe hoped his features hadn’t expressed the sour thought.

“We had the notion that she could be parachuted in from on high—isn’t that the phrase? Sent in to the school on the highest authority for the most respectable of motives. It occurred to us that she could be welcomed with open arms by the headmaster if.…”

As Lydia ran into the buffer of Joe’s stony glower, Dorcas took over. “I could ask Sir James to telephone the head and tell him he’s to accommodate me as his representative. A psychologist interested in child welfare. An emissary from his government department if you like.”

“The Ministry for Mischief?” Joe’s exasperation was evident. “The man’s found a girl after his own heart, I think.”

Dorcas grinned.

“And how were you proposing to set this up? Busy man, as you point out. He’s promised me full cooperation in this affair, but I’m not sure I could find the words to plead for the inessential presence of an unconnected busy-body.”

She shrugged at the slight and sighed. “I wouldn’t expect you to try. Look, it’s not late. I’ll ring him up and speak to him myself. I think
I
can find the words.”

Joe groaned. He took out his notecase and selected a card. “Eight o’clock. He’ll be just going in to dinner. If they pick up at all, you’ll get a cross butler. Tell him to ask Sir James to ring you back in the morning. His home telephone number is the one written in pencil on the back.”

Dorcas held up a hand, smiling gently, and waved the card away. “That’s quite all right, Joe. I’ve got his number.”

S
HE’D BEEN GONE
for twenty minutes behind the closed door of the front study where Marcus kept his telephone. Joe began to pace about the drawing room straightening the pictures.

“It looks as though she’s got through,” Marcus commented. “She usually does.”

They heard Dorcas’s swift footsteps scurrying down the corridor from Marcus’s study and she came through the door looking pink and pleased. “Hurry, Joe! He wants to have a word with you. I left it off the hook.”

With sinking heart, Joe picked up the earpiece Dorcas had left on the desk and spoke crisply. “Sandilands here.”

“Sandilands! Well, this is a surprise! I wasn’t aware! No, honestly! Miss Joliffe never mentioned the relationship.”

“No reason why she should, sir. We haven’t met since she was a child, and the relationship you speak of is a rather obscure one. My sister is the one who has the connection, and it’s one of friendship, not a blood tie,” Joe heard himself saying repressively.

“I’d say any connection with Miss Joliffe is one to be valued, Sandilands,” came the mild reproof. “Lucky chap! She tells me you were instrumental in clearing up the unfortunate demise of her aunt, her German aunt, Dame Beatrice Joliffe, some years ago?”

“Sir. Dame Beatrice was half German—on her mother’s side—and her demise, as I’m sure you know, was rather fortunate for some. Not least the prime minister of the day.”

“Ah, yes!” The voice was amused, leisurely, conspiratorial. “Know what you mean! The old girl made off with the family emeralds and then bashed her own skull in with a poker, all in the comfort of a suite at the Ritz, of course. Thereby saving some blushes in Intelligence circles. Am I getting this right?” He broke off. “What’s that, Charles?” he called impatiently. “No—tell Lord Meldreth I’ll be there directly. Something urgent’s come up.

“Now, Sandilands, Miss Joliffe seems to endorse the high opinion I hear from everyone else and expresses great faith in your investigative abilities. So go to it, man! Take her along with you by all means. I’ll smooth your path with the school authorities. Leave that to me. You’ll find your companion very … insightful. But—a word of advice—don’t try to run her in blinkers and don’t patronise her if you want to get the best from Dorcas … Miss Joliffe.”

The suave voice took on a rough edge as he added uncertainly: “Don’t let her run into danger, Sandilands. I won’t have it! She’s a spirited girl and she speaks her mind without fear or favour. You may be unaware.… I ought to say.… She is very highly valued in some circles.… Look here, I hold you responsible for her welfare.”

Joe gave him a curt goodbye and slammed down the receiver. “Bloody cheek!” he muttered. And, suddenly perceptive of a presence close by—was it a suppressed snort of laughter or a waft of
Arpège
through the open door?—he grimaced, picked up the receiver again and slammed it down more emphatically, exclaiming loudly: “What an arsehole!”

H
E RESISTED THE
impulse to drag her in and box her ears. He didn’t go to join the others.

Joe closed the door firmly and went to collapse into an armchair, holding his head between his hands as though to catch and calm the whirling thoughts and confused emotions.

He—Joe—was responsible for her welfare. And none other. That much was blindingly clear to him. Not even her feckless father, certainly not this smooth politician with his over-warm interest. And Joe had always known it. He’d struggled with the notion, denied it, ridiculed it, rationalised it and finally accepted that, like a good Christmas pudding made with the very best raisins and French brandy, it simply had to be put away in the darkest recesses of a cool pantry and left to mature.

Had she seen that? Of course she had! More clearly than he had himself. The distancing had been all her idea. She’d enclosed herself in an impenetrable cocoon of learning. With many years of educational neglect to make up for, she’d kept at it through term time and vacations alike and used her studies as an excuse to avoid his company. And, despite his protests of ignorance to Lydia, he thought he understood why. She’d felt she needed the time to grow into someone he might look at eye to eye.

Silly girl! Quite unnecessary self-inflicted discomfort. They had always reverberated on the same note. She could have trusted him. The retreat had been well understood by him but none the less hurtful. And now, suddenly, it seemed she no longer needed to maintain her distance. With foreboding, he wondered why.

This interest from Truelove? What had the man been trying to say to Joe? Or trying to avoid saying?

He remembered with a flash of insight a comment Dorcas had made—lightly—when they’d been caught up in an unpleasant and murderous situation in a château in Champagne. She’d enslaved the family’s fierce old boar-hound by dropping a few honeyed if outlandish words into his ear, one of the many skills she’d acquired at gypsy fire-sides where her father liked to spend his unbuttoned moments. Noting that the young son of the house was becoming as smitten with Dorcas as his dog, Joe had jokingly asked: “That trick of whispering magic into dogs’ ears, miss—does it work on boys?”

She’d given him a strange look and replied: “Oh yes, it does. Trouble is—you can only use it once on a human. I’m saving it up.”

Oh God! If the girl had been whispering in Truelove’s ears, Joe knew with certainty that he would tear them off and feed them to Marcus’s hounds. Seven years? What entanglements might she have got into during that time without his knowledge and direction?

His dejection was not lightened by the memory of the wailing and yelling from the pantry one disastrous Christmas Eve when his mother, retrieving the pudding in preparation for dinner on the morrow, had discovered that the mice had got in and feasted before them.

N
ine o’clock chimed on the mantel clock and, seemingly at the signal, the dying fire below slumped and darkened in the grate, giving up the struggle. Molly Weston shuddered with foreboding and turned up the wick of the oil lamp to cheer up the mean little room.

If they’re not back with him by nine, it’s all over
.