Authors: Barbara Cleverly
He screwed his eyes shut in an attempt to fight back tears. In his imagination his father’s big hand tightened around his, rough and reassuring.
Two plums remaining …
sailor
…
rich man
.… Settle for “rich man”? Money was a good way of getting out of trouble. He would make a lot of it, buy up the whole school and close it down. That wouldn’t be bad. Perhaps he should force down the last two plums? Betty looked anxiously at the big school clock and back at Jackie, her eyes wide with appeal. She sighed.
Good manners overcame even the paralysis of terror, and Jackie roused himself. Never keep a lady waiting. He handed his plate up for the maid, and she dashed off into the kitchens in a gust of relief, muttering a word of thanks.
Time to move on and take his medicine.
He got up and put his chair away. What had Lloyd 2 said? “Don’t worry too much. It’s only a tickle. It’ll be over in five minutes. Brace up, Drummond! You’re a toff! Everyone’s saying so!”
A toff. At least “the bubble reputation” seemed to be coming his way. All he could do was shape up and try to deserve it.
On wobbly legs Jackie crossed the darkened hall, turned into the deserted corridor and began to climb the stairs to Rappo’s room. Into the cannon’s mouth.
J
oe Sandilands stood looking down on the restless, steel-grey surface of the river reflected in the lights of a tugboat and listened while the bell of Chelsea Old Church struck the hour. His sister Lydia joined him, handing him a glass of whisky.
“The snow’s really coming down now,” she said. “Glad I rang Marcus to say I’d better stay over. Let’s hope it’s no more than a flurry and I can get a train in the morning. I don’t want to be snowed up in Chelsea staring at the Thames for a week.”
“No fun being marooned in London when you’ve already emptied Selfridges of its goodies,” Joe agreed. “I can see that. It’s the only time you’ll deign to visit me—when you need to go shopping.”
“There are compensations.” Lydia grinned. “It’s quiet here. No girls shrieking about the place. No husband asking how much I’ve spent. Grown-up conversation. And I thought, since we seem to be staying in tonight, we could listen to that play on the wireless. We’ll make a start on the box of chocolates we didn’t open at the theatre.”
Joe swished the curtains together, turned on another lamp, and emptied half a scuttle of coal onto the fire. “I loathe February. Nothing much happening.”
“The calm between the New Year madness and the spring
urges,” Lydia said, nodding. She looked at the clock. “Come and settle down. Curtain up in two minutes. I say—you won’t be interrupted, will you?”
“That’s the big advantage of my new job. Any bodies found floating in the Thames get the attention of one of my superintendents.” Joe sank into an armchair. “And no one knows I’m here. Well, go on, then. Switch it on.” He eyed the radio console with misgiving. “Warm up its valves, tickle its tubes or whatever you do.”
Lydia approached the gleaming black bakelite altar and knelt before it. She began her ministrations, twiddling knobs and whispering encouragement until, after a series of nerve-rending shrieks and bleeps, a station tuned in. Dance music gushed into the room. A reedy tenor was warbling, “A room with a view and you … ou … ou.…”
Joe laughed. “There! Noel Coward agrees with me.
Some
girls would appreciate a river view in Chelsea! No—hold that one—the play’s on straight after the Greenwich time signal.”
Jack Hylton’s band signed off in a smooth crescendo, and they’d counted the first five of nine pips when the telephone rang.
“Ah! Somebody knows where you are,” said Lydia.
Warily, Joe went to pick up the receiver. “Flaxman 8891, Joe Sandilands here.”
There was a pause and then a hurried and breathless small voice spoke. A boy’s voice. “Hullo? Hullo? Is that my Uncle Joe?”
Joe paused, unsure how to reply. He flashed a puzzled glance at Lydia. His sister had two offspring, both at home with their father in Surrey. And both girls.
“Yes, this is Joe,” he said carefully, “but who are you?”
“It’s Jackie, sir. Jack Drummond. I think I’m in a terrible crisis. This is an emergency.”
“Drummond?” Joe tried to make sense of what he was hearing. And, suddenly connecting, whispered, “Drummond.”
A recurrent nightmare gripped him, tightening its fingers around his throat. Struggling to find his voice and keep his tone level and reassuring, to sound like the staid old uncle the boy obviously took him for, “Jackie?” he said. “Well, well! Jackie! We’ve never met! You must be … let me think … ten years old by now?”
“Nine actually, sir. I’m going to be ten next month.”
“And where are your parents?”
“They’re in India. They brought me over to school in the summer, stayed for a while, and went back home. I spent Christmas with my aunts in Brighton.”
“I see. And this emergency—you’re going to tell me you’ve run out of pocket money, is that it?”
“No sir. This is real trouble I’m in. I was given your telephone number, but they said I wasn’t to use it unless I was in a crisis.”
“Where are you, Jackie?”
“I’m at Victoria Station. I’m in the stationmaster’s office. The lady policeman brought me here. I hadn’t got a ticket, you see. She’s waiting outside. They’re going to arrest me for traveling without a ticket. I’m scared.…” The voice, which had been resolute, now had a break in it. “What shall I do, Uncle?”
“Well, what you do,” said Joe as calmly as he could, “is three things. First, stop worrying. Second, see if you can get yourself a cup of tea. Third, don’t hang up but put the phone down. Go and get the policewoman to come and speak to me. Oh, and fourth, Jackie, I’ll be there with you in twenty minutes. Look, it’s not the end of the world to be caught traveling without a ticket. I’ll bring some cash and bail you out.”
The reply was hushed, a voice trying to force down hysteria. “It’s not that, it’s not that at all, Uncle. You see, I’ve … I’m afraid I’ve killed my form master.”
T
HE POLICEWOMAN’S VOICE
was young, concerned and educated. “Good evening, sir. I take it I’m speaking to
Assistant Commissioner Sandilands? Your nephew had your name and number clutched in his hand when I spotted him trying to creep through the barrier. I ought to have taken him straight to a place of safety, I know, but.…”
“You did exactly the right thing, Officer.…”
“Huntingdon, sir. Emily Huntingdon, W.P. 955.”
“Good, well, listen, Huntingdon, I’m on my way. We have a delicate situation on our hands. I have reason to believe the boy may be a witness to a crime. Keep him safe where he is, will you? And I want you to make sure no one else approaches him, not even the local beat bobby.”
There was the slightest pause before Officer Huntingdon replied. “Understood, sir.”
“Now who on earth was that?” said his sister. “Who’s Jackie?”
Joe was already struggling into a pea-jacket. He picked up a flat cap with a leather peak he’d borrowed from a Thames bargeman and said, “I’m not absolutely certain, Lydia, but there’s trouble with a runaway boy. At Victoria Station. They’re holding him until I can get there.”
Lydia glared in exasperation. “A runaway? But why would you be involved, Joe? They don’t call out a grandee like you on a snowy evening to deal with a runaway!” Her expression softened. “Still—on a night like this … poor little chap! But I thought you had women police patrols to round up the waifs and strays of London?”
“This is a rather special runaway, Lydia. Pass me those gumboots, will you? Oh, and it’s quite likely I shall be bringing him home with me.”
W
INDING A MUFFLER
round his neck, Joe clumped down three flights of stairs to the dimly lit hallway. Inevitably, a door opened, and the hearty voice of his landlord, ex-Inspector Jenkins of the Metropolitan Police greeted him. “Late call, sir?”
“Yeah, late call, Alfred.”
“Wrap up warm, then! It’s coming cold. Oh—sir! You can use the lift again on the way back. They’ve been in and fixed it.”
“My sister will be glad of that, Alfred. I’ll tell her.”
Joe stepped out into the street and to his relief there was a light in the cabbies’ shelter on the embankment. To his further relief there were two taxis in the rank and he ran across the road to claim one of them.
“Victoria Station,” he said. “And get me as near to the stationmaster’s office as you can.”
“No difficulty, sir,” said the cabby, ringing down his flag.
The snow was thickening as they drove the last few yards up Buckingham Palace Road and Joe looked anxiously at his watch. Twenty minutes, he’d said, and twenty minutes it was. He shouldered his way along the platform to the stationmaster’s office and saw, standing feet apart, hands behind her back, the reassuring figure of a policewoman.
“Huntingdon?” he asked.
She saluted neatly. Not many of the female officers could do this naturally. She looked bright, efficient, friendly. She did not, beyond a point, look deferential. No one could add grace to the hideous high-crowned, wide-brimmed hat, nobody could look feminine or even female in the uncompromising blue serge skirt and the clumping shoes, but she managed, Joe noticed.
“Where’s the miscreant?” he asked, showing his warrant card.
“No miscreant, sir, you’ll find,” she corrected him with a smile. “No miscreant at all. Just a boy in trouble. Not uncommon around here.”
“Thank you for dealing with this. Enter your report. Say that I assumed custody. I’ll make it right with your governor, and I’ll take the lad in charge for the time being.”
“Your nephew, sir?”
“Not even that,” said Joe. “He’s newly arrived from India, and
you know how it is in India—or perhaps you don’t? Any family friend becomes an honourary uncle. Or aunt.”
“I have one or two of those myself, sir.” Huntingdon’s smile was gracious, her eyes watchful. “Shall I come in with you?” she asked. “I think what our prisoner needs more than anything is something to eat, if I may suggest, sir. He’s had nothing really since breakfast as far as I can work out.”
Gently Joe pushed the door of the stationmaster’s office open and stood in silence looking in. He saw the stolid figure of the assistant stationmaster doing the crossword on the back of the Evening News, a company of teacups at his elbow and an ashtray brimming with cigarette ends in front of him. The general smell of police stations in the middle of the night greeted Joe, familiar and reassuring.
He tightened his jaw, breathed in, and steeled himself to take his first look at Jackie Drummond.
With legs swinging, a small fair-haired boy clutching a cycling cape about his shoulders looked up anxiously. An Afghan bag with a broad strap lay at his feet.
“Now, what on earth do I say?” Joe asked himself as they stared at each other. What he did finally say, with relief and a rush of recognition, was: “Jackie! I’d have known you anywhere—you’re very much like your mother!”
The small face, pinched, pale with bruised circles under the eyes, was suddenly lit by a radiant smile. “And you look quite like my dad!”
Joe held out a hand. “Come on then, Jackie, let’s be going. We can talk as we go. I’ll take your bag. Say goodbye to the stationmaster.”
“Goodbye, sir,” said the boy dutifully, “and thank you for having me.”
And, as they left the office, “Say goodbye to Constable Huntingdon.”
In the most natural way in the world, the boy shook hands and lifted his face for a kiss. “Thank you, Constable,” he said politely, “for looking after me.”
“I enjoyed looking after you. See you again soon, Jackie, I hope,” said Constable Huntingdon. “Oops! Perhaps I oughtn’t to say that!” she added, suddenly self-conscious, and seemed pleased with the swift grin of understanding the boy gave her.
Hand in hand they returned to the waiting taxi and set off once more through the slushy streets, gas lamps flickering in the rising wind and reflecting from the wet pavements.
“Have you been to London before, Jackie?” Joe asked.
“Once. Daddy brought me up for shopping. We went to Hamleys and the Tower and Madame Tussauds.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, very.”
“Well, come on, we’ll find you something. I should think you’ve drunk enough tea tonight to float the Normandie.”
The boy smiled shyly. “Yes,” he said, “they kept giving it to me. I don’t really like tea very much.”
“We’ll find something else. Cocoa perhaps? Now, unless I’m wrong about this, you’ve run away from school?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I expect you had a reason?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You said you’d killed your housemaster?”
“No, sir. Form master.”
“Oh, all right. Form master. Anybody know where you are?”
“No, sir. I don’t even know where I am myself.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to get you something to eat, and then we’re going back to my flat, and then either you’re going to bed or you’re going to tell me what’s been happening. Whatever you’ve done or
think
you’ve done, you’re safe now. Nobody’s following you. Nobody’s going to catch up with you.”
They dismounted at the cabman’s shelter. “What place is this?” said Jackie dubiously, not leaving go of Joe’s hand.
“It’s a cabman’s shelter,” said Joe reassuringly. “They have them all over London though not so many as there used to be. It’s a place where taxi drivers can get something to eat.”
“It looks like a railway carriage.”
Long, low, weather-boarded and painted park-bench green, it had a small black projecting iron stovepipe giving out a smell of coal smoke and food, and a notice saying “Licensed Cabman Shelter no. 402.”
“Yes, it is like a railway carriage and if the cabbies get to know you, they’ll let you eat there. I don’t think they’re supposed to; it’s supposed to be reserved for them. The man who runs this one’s an old friend of mine. I sometimes take people here for a quiet chat. Let’s go on board and see what we can find.”
They stepped from the cold street into a welcoming fug. “Evening, Frank,” said Joe to the whiskered man behind the counter. “Something for this gentleman to eat. He’s hungry.”