Not My Blood (18 page)

Joe looked up and fixed Gosling with a frank stare. “Look, young man, you must let me mention your name to a man who would value your attributes. German and ju-jitsu?—he’d know how to use them. He’s a man who would spirit you away out of this backwater and back to the metropolis. Name of Masterson.” Joe gave him a bland smile. “Colonel Masterson has his offices not that far from my own. In the Cromwell Road.”

G
osling shut his eyes and groaned. “Oh, God! Sir, you haven’t told Masterson I’m shot to bits already, have you? For heaven’s sake! You’ve only just set foot in the place. What did I do?”

“Calm down, man! I haven’t spoken to your boss yet to tell him that your ‘cover’s blown,’ as your mob would probably put it. I have my ways, and I have my contacts. And now you must consider yourself recruited once more, this time to
my
interests. When we’ve taken a close look at each other’s cards, these may well turn out to be the same interests. Who knows? This could actually do you some good, Gosling—or do you prefer ‘Drake’ like your family name? Just name the wildfowl
du jour
and I’ll use it.”

“Gosling will do well, sir.”

“Good. I like clarity. So, now, tell me what your relationship is with the headmaster.”

“An open one, sir. I am—er—in his confidence. I was sent in with his consent to get to the bottom of a problem that has been troubling my department.”

“Yes. MI5. Is that what you’re calling yourselves these days? Entrusted with the safety of the nation. You’re there to protect the rest of us from the machinations of foreign spies on English soil, I had thought. And do we ever need the service! We’re all up
to our arses in German agents if we’re to believe all we’re told. Russian Bolsheviks taking a back seat these days and Herr Hitler’s patriots swaggering about in full view playing the Bogeyman. Plenty to occupy Masterson in Piccadilly, but what murky business can have attracted his attention to the Sussex coast? Tell me how you’re proposing to save the nation from this remote fastness at the southern edge of the land.”

Gosling’s expression lightened a little, and Joe guessed his shot had gone way off the mark. “Oh, you can forget all that John Buchan stuff—fisticuffs with the Hun and all that! If you have in your mind a picture of Herr Fahrmann and Fraulein Oberschwester standing on a cliff top on a moonless night, torch in hand, signalling to a fleet of German submarines in the Channel—sorry, nothing so melodramatic.”

“Hideous scene you conjure up! If it were at all plausible, you’d be needing my Special Branch to tap the villains on the shoulder. Don’t forget your little enterprise still ultimately counts on the muscle-power of rough lads in raincoats, all answering to yours truly. MI5 finger them, we arrest them. Frequently we do both. Contrary to the stories you like to put about, we have brains as well as boots. And we use them both.” Joe smiled at the cross young face. There was never any harm in reminding these upstarts to stay on their own side of the fence. “Let me know if we can be of help to you with your problem, Gosling,” he offered with a tight smile. He glanced at the telephone. “Perhaps I should just ring up your boss and tell him where we’ve got to. He’ll be fascinated to get my update.”

“No! No! If you haven’t already alerted him, I’d rather you didn’t.” The boy was once again in evidence as he gulped and blurted out: “He’ll be livid, sir!”

“I’m thinking Rapson’s murder was an inconvenience for you? Sussex Constabulary and then the Met stamping about your little stakeout scene?”

“Masterson doesn’t object to the local man. He knows his place. He knows the boundaries of his investigation. He’s less keen on
you
queering his pitch.”

“And you were told to contain me?”

“No. Get rid of you.” Gosling risked a grin. “ ‘Make sure he’s gone by the end of the day.’ Those were my orders.” He looked at Joe settled comfortably behind the desk, notes and telephone to hand, and he sighed. “Not doing very well so far, am I? Here you are, ensconced—would that be the word?”

Joe winced. “Only if you insist. Got to park my bum somewhere. This’ll do.”

“Look, sir. I’m not important. I’m a minnow! A raw recruit! I rather think I’ve been shoved off down here as a sort of test. Or out of the way. I don’t think I have the clearance to say anything further, sir. Not even to you. However much you pull rank.” The rugged chin lifted in a show of defiance.

“Won’t do, Gosling.” Joe fished in his pocket and took out the envelope containing the nine photographs. He spread them on the table in what he remembered of Godwit’s order. “Now, would your problem be concerning one of these boys?” The steely gleam in his eye conveyed the certainty that he knew the answer.

Taken aback, Gosling spent a moment studying the lineup. Finally he pointed. “That one. Third from the right. Peterkin. John Peterkin. Ran away in his first term at the school. September 1921. But these others? There were stories that boys had gone over the wall … disappeared … never been seen again after their time here. We had a couple of names. Are these the ones? Do you know who they are?”

“I’ve identified seven out of the nine. I don’t even know for certain that they disappeared. Or what their current state is.”

“Well, yes. They could be alive and well and running India by now.”

“Or doing a seven-year stretch in the Scrubs for fraud.”

“There’s always that,” Gosling agreed.

“They could have just gone off to play with Peter Pan and his Lost Boys?”

“Ah! Spirited away by the power of ‘wonderful thoughts and fairy dust,’ sir?” Gosling shook his head. “Lord! If I’ve seen that play once, it must be a dozen times! I’ve got herds of nephews, and what do they all want to see as their Christmas treat? Peter Bloody Pan! Oh, sorry, sir!”

“Quite all right, Gosling. The dear little chap triggers the same reaction in me. When he squeaked the line,
To die will be an awfully big adventure
, he very nearly found his assertion tested out on the spot! I restrained myself from leaping onto the stage and obliging him.”

The smile faded from the young man’s face as he looked again with concern at the photographs. “I have a bad feeling about all this. A feeling best expressed in gloomy German, I think.
Totenkindergeschichte.
”

“Tales of dead children. I hope you’re wrong. Let’s find out, shall we? If anyone’s been setting himself up as some sort of a psychopompos, a guide of souls to the Land of the Dead—a Hermes, or even a playful Peter Pan—we’ll have him.”

“That would please me a lot, sir.” Then, hesitantly: “I say, shall I tell you how I got here?”

“I’d be delighted!”

“It was Alicia Greatorix who made the fuss originally and now, after twelve years, she’s making it again. Alicia Peterkin, as she was in her first marriage. She tied the knot with a naval officer at a bad time—early in 1914. She lost her husband at sea that very year. He never set eyes on his son who was born towards the end of it. Little John Peterkin.”

Gosling touched the photograph briefly. “His mother was a rich woman, and she brought the child up in a London household by herself. I say by herself, but she had countless maids, nannies
and later, tutors, of course. But she was always there, in his presence, devoted to him and ensuring he had the best of everything. A good mother.”

“Sounds like an idyllic existence,” Joe commented. And, noting the softening of expression on the hard features of his companion, he added, “She would seem to be an impressive lady.”

“The existence ended in 1921 when he was old enough to be sent off to school. This school. Mrs. Peterkin had by that time remarried. It’s said that her new husband, Greatorix.…”

“Hang on a minute. Is this the playboy character I’m thinking of?”

“That very one. A charmer. But a wrong ’un. Everybody could see it but the woman herself. He married her for the money she was expecting to inherit from her very generous father, who was well known to be breaking up fast on the rocks—heart problems. He had made no secret of the fact that his wealth was to go half to his son, Jonas, and half to his daughter, Alicia. He opposed her second marriage, but she went ahead anyway. She presented Greatorix with two sons and her time was so occupied until the moment came when her father truly was at death’s door. The old man, just before he breathed his last, changed his will and left the daughter’s half of the goodies directly to his grandson, little John Peterkin. To be held in trust for him by his Uncle Jonas until his twenty-first birthday in the usual way.”

“Ouch! Greatorix wasn’t best pleased to be passed over?”

“No. Turned somersaults to get the will changed and all that. Nothing would work for him. But what with his ravings and the unkind things he had to say about the old man and his stepson who would be rich if these plans came to fruition, while his own two boys had nothing, you can imagine—the penny began to drop with Alicia. He was so angry with his poor little stepson, he sent him off to school out of his sight the moment he was of age.”

“A school from which the child promptly went missing.”

“Yes. I’ve been granted sight of the contemporary correspondence relating to the disappearance. The school revealed that the older boys had been bullying John. He was a clever lad, well taught. He turned up here knowing his Latin and Greek already but not prepared to put much effort into sports. You know how well that goes down with some boys! He just disappeared one night, having told the others he’d had enough and had arranged with his mama to be taken away. I’ve seen the boys’ statements gathered by the Sussex men. They’re clear and convincing. He went missing in the middle of an autumn night just before half term. Never seen again.”

“And had his mother intervened?”

“No. She knew the child was unhappy but presumed he’d soon settle in. The school had an excellent reputation, and the headmaster of the day was much respected. Family man. Ex-clergyman. Her last letter to John—she wrote frequently—was full of love and encouragement and a promise to come down and see him at half-term.

“She pointed out that he wouldn’t have run off two days before he was expecting to see her. Reasonably enough. All the searches were made. Not a trace of the boy was ever found. Here or in London.

“Things cooled between the married pair. To such an extent that she began at last to listen to the stories her friends were all too ready to tell her concerning her husband’s peccadilloes. The upshot was that she arranged for the fiend to be caught in a hotel room by a squad of private detectives and a photographer and, using the evidence of infidelity, she divorced him. That’s when the trouble really started! She was then free legally to accuse the ex-husband openly of organising the lad’s disappearance. Even said he’d killed him and buried the body. She bombarded the school and the authorities with letters and demands to reopen the case.”

“Successfully?”

“People went through the motions, but nothing new was ever turned up.”

“But she didn’t give in?”

“No. Twelve years on, and she’s still at it. A determined and loyal woman, sir. I have the greatest regard for her. Last year, a cousin of her first husband, Peterkin, was appointed to a senior rank in MI5. She approached him. Not our thing at all—lost children—but this was his cousin’s boy. Masterson felt obliged. Well, more than that. He’s actually jolly concerned on Alicia’s behalf and wants to do what he can. But I’m the best he could spare, sir. I don’t, um.…” Gosling’s head drooped. “I don’t think his expectations are high.”

“Then he’s wrong.” Joe spoke quietly but firmly. “This boy would be nineteen by now. A whisker younger than you are. He should be up at Oxford, fresh and keen and translating Homer for the umpteenth time. We’ll find him, Gosling. We’ll find out what happened to John Peterkin, and I’ll listen in when you pick up the phone and tell your boss you’ve saved his bacon.

“Now let me tell you how I came by this selection of nine boys.”

“
M
AY I SEE
it, sir? The black book?”

Joe noted the young officer’s eagerness and decided to follow his instinct. He passed the moleskine book across the desk and went to squeeze a last cup of coffee out of the vacuum jug, leaving Gosling to leaf through and come to his own conclusions.

“It’s going to take time, isn’t it?” Joe said finally. He wasn’t sure Gosling had heard him, so deep had he sunk into the contents. “Rapson was making notes—reminders—for himself.”

“Yes. What you’ve got here seems to be a list of dates and initials. The dates are written in Latin. Showing off his prowess with the
calends, nones
and
ides
?”

“Or assuming everyone else hasn’t a clue and won’t understand?

“Tell you something, though. Wonder if you’d noticed, sir—the photographs and the dates don’t fit. I mean, they may correspond to some of the Latin squiggles, but there’s far more
dates
than there are faces. Nine faces, more than twenty dates. Are we looking at the tip of an iceberg?”

“Frightening thought, Gosling! I can’t comment. I haven’t had a moment to study the coded bits yet.”

“If each of these dates represents, let’s say, an outgoing boy … a boy leaving before the appointed time—”

“That’s a lot of outgoings over the years,” Joe murmured, looking over his shoulder. “But then, you said it yourself when we met on the doorstep, Gosling: ‘Lots of comings and goings in a place like this.’ ”

“Exactly. Comings are easily tracked and documented. Goings, well, not so much. Transferred to another school? Which one? Does anyone check that they’ve arrived? Gone abroad? Any proof? Who would dream of asking for it? Where are the
parents
in all this? Can Alicia Peterkin-Greatorix be the only one who’s noticed her son has gone missing?”

“Of course not. I shall have a few phone calls to make after lunch. Using contact details we now have thanks to Rapson’s research.”

Deep in thought for a moment, Joe eyed Gosling with speculation and decided to give out some information to gain some in return. “Look—masks off. I’m going to explore with you the likely motive for Rapson’s interest in small boys. I was going to ask the headmaster outright, but I think I’ll get nearer the truth with a worldly young fellow like yourself. I can’t be certain—though I’ve met the man for all of five minutes, so perhaps I’m no judge—that Farman would understand what I’m getting at.”