Authors: Barbara Cleverly
“Gosling? You? Do you have anything to declare? I like to know where the shots may be coming from, particularly when the troops firing them are standing behind me.”
“They don’t trust me with firearms yet. I only have my fists, sir.”
“Then keep them in your pocket. There, that’s safe,” Joe said, handing the satchel back with reluctance. “You may hang on to it—provided you promise me it stays in the bag, and the bag stays on your shoulder! I’d keep it myself if I had somewhere to stow it. I don’t want to go in bulging in unnatural places like a federal agent.”
“Very well. You know where it is. Just ask if you need to borrow it.”
“And, Gosling, leave that black briefcase of yours behind. We need our hands free. We don’t want to be taken for tax inspectors.”
Dorcas gave Joe a tender look. “Fusspots! Behaving like a pair of great crested grebes!
Übersprungshandlung
. That’s what you’re both demonstrating. Birds who can’t decide whether to attack or flee sometimes just go away and peck grass. You don’t want to get on and do the next thing so you find other trivial things to distract you. Gentlemen, if you’re ready?”
G
osling darted out ahead. “Let me do the knocker, sir!” Joe hung back and watched him reach out a hand to pat the shining brass head of the lion that managed to return his wide grin despite the heavy ring in its mouth. “Well done, old son! Glad you were there over the years. And glad you’ve survived,” Gosling muttered with gruff affection, then he seized the ring and banged.
“You know—I think I’ve been wrong about that boy,” Joe admitted.
“You may excuse yourself for that. I’d guess Gosling has been wrong about himself,” Dorcas said mysteriously. “For many a year.” She stuck a head through the window and called out a bit of advice: “George, we usually use the electric bell.”
“No,” said Joe, “Let him ask for sanctuary in the time-honoured manner. I’m all in favour of taking out a bit of insurance—you never know.”
They were expected, at least. A stately dame in crisp uniform and a very fancy white starched and pleated head dress was waiting behind the door. She flung it wide and stood back to admit them.
“Melinda Mallinson. Matron. Do come in! I rather expected you’d be bang on time. A.C. Sandilands and Mr. Gosling. And—of
course—our Miss Joliffe! How lovely to see you again, Dorcas. Not much time! Follow me, please.”
She turned and gave them a bracing smile. “Try to keep up now! Nuns and nurses—always on the trot!”
Joe hoped he’d be able to find his way back out of this maze of corridors unaided if it came to it, but he couldn’t be certain. As they scurried along he registered left and right turns, noted markers on walls and doors, using locating techniques taught him by an old jungle hand. This place with its myriad rooms, all with activities going on behind closed doors, made the hairs stand on the back of his neck as the trees of the Indian forests had done. Unknown territory. Hostile. Be wary!
A door was flung open as they passed, and a mother holding two children by the hand emerged, smiling and calling good-byes to the young doctor who held the door open for her. “Yes, Robin. Didn’t I say we could go home on the bus if you were good boys? Come along, Benjamin. It’s this way.”
Joe calmed himself.
“Here we are. You’re very punctual. Shall I send along a cup of tea? Would this be too early?”
“Thank you, no, Matron. We’re not expecting to linger.”
Matron leaned to them confidingly. “Thank you for saying that. Most understanding! I ought to tell you that the professor has an evening engagement up in London. He’s addressing the Royal Scientific Society, and he really must catch the four thirty train from Tunbridge.”
Professor Byam Alexander Bentink was as welcoming as his staff.
He came forwards to shake their hands as Matron performed the introductions. “Sandilands … Gosling … and—oh, no! Keep her off!” His hands went up in mock protest as he made a heavily playful show of catching sight of Dorcas, who had been hanging back.
“Miss Joliffe I know already—to my cost. Back to haunt us, Joliffe? I thought they’d given you the sack!”
Joe could not take offence at the rudeness on her behalf since the stranger making the comments appeared disarmingly amused by them. His appearance was reassuringly familiar. Joe had been taking orders from men who looked like this all his fighting life: men in their element astride cavalry chargers, atop war elephants, teeth to the wind on the bridge of a battle cruiser. Here was a tall, spare man of middle years with wide shoulders from which hung a starched white laboratory coat. Carelessness or a statement? Joe would have taken it off before greeting guests. The broad features looked like nothing so much as a relief map of the Trossachs, Joe thought, admiring. Nothing understated here. Ridges and valleys wound their way through a weather-beaten landscape occasionally enlivened by an outcrop of bristling mustache and matching eyebrow. The eyes were as deep and as grey as Loch Katrine. A thick hedge of dark hair streaked with grey framed the whole impressive countenance. Forceful and confident.
“If this man decides to tell me I’m barking mad, I shall have to believe him,” Joe concluded. He would have guessed a Scot like himself but for the very English name and the very St. James’s accent.
“Not at all, professor,” Dorcas said demurely.
Only Joe would have known from her first words that she disliked Professor Bentink.
“A sense of humour prevailed, I’m glad to say, and I was forgiven,” she said lightly. “ ‘Student prankster’ I believe my record shows for the world to see. But not sacked at all.”
“Mmm. Do I detect the influence of my tender-hearted brother-in-law? I think I do! Pulling strings again! James was ever susceptible to a pretty face!”
A second insult. Joe’s fists clenched, and he opened his mouth
to go on the attack but, intercepting a warning shake of the head from Dorcas, closed it again.
Gosling, however, was off the leash and running free. “Well! Lucky old St. Raphael to have enjoyed the services of an attractive researcher, eh?” he said cheerily. “I’ve been trying to recruit Miss Joliffe myself—tempt her into taking on a permanent post with my own firm. Intelligence, diligence and a university education will always get you our attention. Add beauty and spirit to the mix, and she’s a dead cert.”
Bentink turned his gaze on the earnest young face. He couldn’t have been more surprised if the doorknob had spoken. “Your firm? And what
is
this business of yours, young man, may I ask?”
“It’s
The
Firm, professor. And our business is the Defence of the Realm.”
The capital letters were audible.
Joe stifled his astonishment.
Bentink broke into a broad smile. “Indeed? Well, well! I’m delighted to hear that our aims coincide.” He dropped his voice a little. “Though I would advise caution, young man. Reticence. I’m sure we ought neither of us to be talking of the projects nearest to our heart. This little pitcher,” he pointed at Dorcas with joking reproof, “has big ears. And a lively tongue. There’d be a fluttering and a tutting in the bureaux at Oliver House, Cromwell Road, if they could hear you declaring yourself so openly in her presence. Your Director Kell would appreciate it, I’m sure, if I were to send her to wait in the next room.”
“It’s all right, sir. Miss Joliffe has been processed, sworn, and signed and all that,” Gosling lied with confidence. “You could say she’s one of us. Though she’s still in training and has yet to commit herself to a permanent position. It’s rather like becoming a nun, sir. There’s always an escape clause.”
Bentink listened to this nonsense, not in the least taken in by it.
“If you say so. Tell me: Brigadier Glancy—settled in at the Irish desk, has he?”
“No, sir,” Gosling said, patiently playing the game, “I’ve never heard of him. There is a new man in the post you mention, but I’m not at liberty to mention his name.”
“Can we get down to business” Joe said sternly, “after that shower of shibboleths? We all know who we are.”
Bentink appeared to capitulate. He smiled and spread his hands to indicate the chairs set out in front of his desk. “Sit down, all of you, and we’ll continue with the entertainment, though quite what form this should take I’m not certain. Do I get out the cards? Propose you for membership of my club? Suggest a dram or two of my excellent Islay whisky?”
When he had them settled in a row in front of him, too like an audience for Joe’s comfort, he went on more crisply: “I’m assuming from Mr. Gosling’s reticence-shattering admission that we’re all in each other’s confidence and may speak freely. An enterprise like mine is investigative, experimental, controversial, and—quite rightly—comes in for the usual government supervision. And I expect that’s what you are imposing on me now. Checking I’m not swapping secrets of mind-control with the Russkies, eh? Tedious, time-wasting nonsense, but one learns to accommodate it. But, Scotland Yard involvement? This is a new departure. I’d like to know why Sandilands is here.”
“A courtesy call, professor,” said Joe amiably. “You will have observed no squad cars, no secretary.… I don’t even bring a notebook. I feel I ought to apologise for our lack of political clout or motivation. I’ll come straight to our problem. A child went missing in the wilds of Sussex yesterday morning. A sick child. An epileptic child. In transit from his school on the south coast to his home in London, he was conveyed to a hospital whose identity we do not know, and he’s not been seen since. Much turbulence and anxiety at both the school and the family home.
Inevitably, ‘Who do we know at the Yard?’ is the question on everyone’s lips. And the answer, predictably: Commissioner Trenchard. My boss asked me to investigate.”
“Ah. And sleuth that you are, you pounce on the word ‘epilepsy’ and pop round to see me?”
“In a nutshell, sir.”
“True, the condition was, at one time, a special study of mine, though I am involved with larger subjects these days. His name?… Spielman? No. I’m almost certain—not on our books. But wait.”
He opened the door to an adjoining room and called into it: “Miss Stevens! Check a patient name for me, will you? Spielman.” He spelled it out with an eye on Joe, who nodded confirmation.
A moment later his secretary appeared in the doorway holding a file. “Sorry, sir, no one of that name. This is the nearest I could get.”
She held out a file discreetly, the name hidden from view. Bentink, with a gesture that said he had nothing to hide, took it and read out loud: “Speerman. Ah. A miss is as good as a mile. Sorry, gentlemen.”
The secretary reclaimed the file and withdrew.
“I have a photograph,” Joe said. He reached into his breast pocket and took out the ten cut-outs, selecting the picture of Spielman.
Bentink took it from him and looked at it without much interest. “No. I have never encountered this child.” He looked with slightly more curiosity at the remaining photographs in Joe’s hand.
Joe began to lay them out in front of Bentink. He was suddenly stricken with embarrassment to see the crudely cut shapes, which were beginning to curl up on themselves like brandy snaps sitting incongruously on the sleek ebony surface of the desk. An automatic gesture from Bentink revealed that he was having the
same reaction—he put out a pad of three manicured fingers and flattened the one nearest to him. Joe flinched to see the small face obliterated.
Bentink caught Joe’s hesitation. “Odd things the Yard has in its pockets! What are you showing me? A new parlour game? Spot the Criminal of the Future? That’s easy!
He
is. Number six.”
Bentink poked a finger at one of the faces, pushing Pettigrew, the grocer’s son, out of line. “Hard to judge at this age, of course, before the features are sufficiently developed but—speaking purely as a participant in a parlour game—I’d keep an eye on this little thug, Sandilands! A client in the making, if ever I saw one.
“Number three—a tragedy—is a mongoloid type,” he rattled on, enjoying himself. “They don’t have much of a hold on life, you know. A goner by now? This snap wasn’t taken yesterday.
“Number five is ill. Possibly tubercular? I’d have him seen to.
“Number eight—troubled face. Haunted. He’s not seeing what we see. Has he—what’s your phrase?—got form, commissioner?”
“Arsonist,” Joe said, and the response seemed to please the professor.
“Quite a rogues’ gallery. Wouldn’t breed from any of ’em—apart from number seven, who looks perfectly normal.”
“Lucky you’re taking this as a game,” Joe said with asperity, “or I’d have to think that, in your eyes, the last-century views of Cesare Lambroso still held good. The bony forehead, the large jaw, the prominent eye ridges: sure signs of a born-in-the-bone criminality.” He allowed his gaze for the briefest moment to skate across Bentink’s uncompromising features.
The professor almost smiled. “I think Charles Goring refuted all that,” he replied easily. “But you would know more than I on that subject. Never forget, Sandilands, you and I both have this in common with Socrates: We’re neither of us oil paintings. Could both scare the horses if the light was right. But you, I’d judge,
were at least
born
attractive. Fate clearly took a scalpel to those handsome features, but by then you’d learned that appearance is related to self-worth and behaviour. Handsome is as handsome does. I often note that.”
“In fairy tales, perhaps,” Joe mused. “Not necessarily in the street or the laboratory.”
“Certainly not in Parliament. And that’s a pity. We must be forwards-looking, Sandilands, if we’re to maintain our position in the world. To be the best, we must breed the best.”
He cut himself short, sat back, and fixed Joe with a suddenly weary look. He waved a hand over the photographs. “Interesting, but—in answer to your question—I haven’t bumped off any of these boys.”
“I don’t believe I asked that question.”
“Oh, come on! Met Officers don’t carry around photographs of boys who are alive and well and toasting crumpets for tea this Saturday afternoon. They’re missing, presumed dead, and you’re investigating. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”