Not My Blood (28 page)

“But not your
county
, Martin.
You
are the man with the handcuffs. The comfortless answer to your question is:
We
find
our
evidence in a hospital graveyard under unmarked stones, as like as not,” said Joe dully.

“Better book the dogs, then,” said Martin.

J
oe had asked to see Jackie Drummond in the morning break. Rather than meet him in Rapson’s study, with its bad memories, he elected to walk with him along the corridor to Matron’s office, where he’d arranged for Dorcas to be waiting. Matron was on duty in the tuck shop and not likely to return for half an hour.

The boy seemed perfectly calm and pleased to see them again but, by his slight reticence, Joe recognised that the school was drawing him back again into its routine and ethos.

“Uncle Joe! Dorcas!” he said cheerfully. “I hope you had a good night at The Bells? Mummy and Daddy didn’t care for it much.”

“
Now
you tell us! Not wonderful, I agree. Though Dorcas had gold taps in her bathroom. And I did enjoy an early-morning swim in their pool.”

Greetings over, Joe told him that the local inspector was certainly not looking for Jackie in connection with the killing.

“No, it didn’t seem like he was when he interviewed me yesterday, sir.”

“Martin interviewed you? Without me being present? Or Dorcas?”

“It was more like a chaps’ chat, sir. I told him everything, just as you said I ought, and he said thank you very much, my uncle
must be proud of me, and I was at liberty to go. I’m at liberty, Uncle Joe!” He savoured the words. “Glad that’s all over!”

“Yes, so am I, Jackie.” He managed to avoid catching Dorcas’s eye. “And I
am
proud of you, my boy! I wish we’d known each other earlier. So much to talk about. But the first thing is—what are we going to do with you now? Your mother will be here in three weeks’ time, and of course she will decide what’s best for you. I have some ideas myself, and I shall put them before her. But
you
, Jackie, tell me what you’re minded to do with yourself.”

Jackie looked down at his feet. “Honestly, sir, it’s not as bad as I thought it might be. The other boys haven’t ragged me. Not one bit. The dorm prefect, that’s Lloyd 2, moved me up next to him and told the others I was a toff who’d stood up to Rapson, and he’d got no more than he deserved. Not really sure what a ‘toff’ is, but I think it’s not a bad thing to be. Funny though. Didn’t think I would, but I rather miss Spielman. I’d have liked to tell him what I’d been up to. He’d have made a story of it. I suppose that must have made him my friend, do you think? Can you have a friend and not know it?’ ”

To Joe’s alarm, Jackie’s voice quavered and his lips began to tremble. With a small cry of compassion, Dorcas dashed forwards, put her arms about him and hugged him close. Jackie didn’t seem to object. Without releasing him, she whispered in his ear, “Of course you can! A story takes two—one to tell it and one to listen. A pair. He was thrilled when you gave him
Treasure Island
, and he’ll always keep it—with your name and now his on the inside page. That’s a good link. When people ask, he’ll say, ‘Drummond? Oh, Drummond! My first friend. Remember him well! Tell you a story about
him
!’ Spielman thought of you as his friend. It’s just taken you a bit longer to catch on, clot! Remember him, Jackie, and what it felt like to know someone you’d smack a bully in the watch chain to protect, and go out and make another one. You can start with Lloyd 2—he sounds a discerning lad.”

After what Joe judged to be a ridiculously long hug, Jackie finally broke away, grinned, and announced, “In that case I think I should like to stay on here at St. Magnus. Just as long as Rappo’s not coming back to get me. It’s a lot better with Mr. Gosling in charge of us. He never whacks!”

Arrangements in place, Jackie dashed off to play indoor hockey, leaving Joe and Dorcas staring at each other.

“Now what was all that about? Was it wise, all that spoiling? Not a good idea for a boy to get dependent on female attention in a place like this.”

“What do
you
know? Jackie’s from a loving family who show their affection readily. He’s used to being grabbed and hugged. And it’s more than a good idea, it’s essential! It’s a crime against nature to send little squirts like that away from their mothers!”

“He’s nearly ten, Dorcas. A lad that age revels in the company of his fellows. The pack instinct, don’t you know. If he’d been born a Spartan, he’d have killed his first man by now.”

“Look, Joe, I’ve been involved with … witnessed … some pretty groundbreaking experiments. I shouldn’t be telling you because it’s very hush-hush, and the piracy that goes on in the experimental psychology world you wouldn’t believe!”

Joe was alarmed. This was out of character for Dorcas. She loved to gossip, but she was never indiscreet. She had her own secrets and knew how to keep those of others. But he sensed in her an excitement, the troubled excitement of someone who has something unpleasant to convey. He listened.

“Monkeys are the nearest living relative of Man’s—thanks to Darwin everyone knows that. I looked in on some work being done in the laboratory with baby monkeys, work designed to find out what are the essentials in the normal development of human infants, whom they much resemble. Fascinating stuff! Food and physical closeness quite simply are the two most vital things and the greater of these is physical closeness. Hugs, Joe!
A monkey infant will forego food in favour of a hug. If you deprive it of its mother, it will seek its comfort from an inanimate piece of fur—or even a bit of old cloth—in preference to food when it’s made to choose. They’re very like humans in their responses.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Given a choice between Hector the Horse and a sticky bun,
I’d have
gone for the bun every time.” Joe thought he’d keep it light. He was not comfortable with the direction of this conversation.

Dorcas sighed in exasperation. “Can’t you be serious?”

“Very well. ‘Made to choose,’ you say? I’m not sure I want to contemplate the method by which they made their infernal discoveries. Or why anyone thought it necessary to bother.”

Dorcas looked sad and shifty, he thought, at the same time. “No. I know what you mean. And it was most unpleasant to hear the protests and screaming that went on when the mothers had their babies taken from them. But an essential part of the process of course.”

Gently he said, “A torment for you as well as the monkeys. You didn’t have to put yourself through this sort of experience to understand yourself and your origins, Dorcas. I’m sure it’s a bad idea to have a
personal
motive for scientific enquiry. And I was always there to help you. Standing by—your own piece of substitute fur. I could have talked to you, helped you to digest it all and reconcile yourself to your parentage. And your upbringing. I’m the only one who’s aware of all the ramifications of your family tree. I know more about you than your father does, if you think about it. And I’m a good explainer.”

This was received with a sad smile. She reached up and briefly stroked his cheek. “You’re part of my problem, Joe, but you can’t see it.”

“I’m damned sure I could come up with some better answers than a few screaming monkeys! What knowledge that’s of any
use to man or beast did they expect to give to the world by applying this torment? They’re no better in my book than medieval torturers—worse!
They
applied their foul techniques to extract information and confession. These modern Torquemadas in lab coats do it to insert their own dubious theories and hear them confirmed back to them by the screams of innocent creatures. And the real cruelty is they’ve no sure idea when they start what the information they seek may be or what they can possibly do with it when they have it. They perform their grotesque experiments on the off chance their fancies will prove to have substance. Tell me the creatures didn’t suffer in vain.”

After a moment: “I can’t. They did. The experiment was abandoned.”

“Ah. Someone saw the light of reason.”

“Not even. It was heard that an American laboratory was working on the same ideas. And they were six months ahead.”

“What a waste of time, lives and money!”

“Can you say that? I’d no idea you had a Luddite streak in you, Joe. Others may uncover some truth we ought all to have knowledge of.”

“At best, what earth-shaking results might those sad monkeys have revealed?”

“Deep truths about attachment … nurturing.” Her voice lost some of its certainty. “We were starting to learn that, deprived of their real mothers, the babies were capable of transferring their affections to an inanimate scrap of fabric if that’s all that was on offer. If they were then further deprived of even that comfort, they went quite mad. I hated to see those poor creatures clinging on to scraps of woolly cloth thinking it was their mother. When they pulled them off they cried so, Joe, and twitched and grasped with their little hands. They have hands, you know, not paws.”

Joe took one of Dorcas’s hands and held it steadily until the clenched fingers relaxed. “I can’t say we’ve ever discussed the
creatures before, but I know about monkeys. I admire them. I’ve watched them for hours in India. They’re revered in that country. Any man maltreating one of the tribe of Hanuman the monkey god would be beaten with sticks by an angry crowd—probably led by me if I was on hand. Though everyone knows the roving bands are a darned nuisance—messy, thieving rogues and not always kind to each other, I may say. But I’ll share with you the fruits of my monkey-watching, Dorcas. Monkeys are a tree-dwelling breed. The babies spend their earliest days aloft, swinging about in the branches, hanging on to their mother’s fur. Let go, ungrasp the handful of fur for one second, and they fall and crash to the ground and die. A good grasp is more important to their survival in the short term than mother’s milk. Of course they scream when they’re torn from what they sense to be their hold on life! It must feel like an attack of vertigo, but much, much worse. What chumps your scientists are!”

Dorcas waited for him to simmer down. “Now you see why I’ve never discussed it with you. Has anyone ever told you what an ugly brute you are when you’re angry?”

“Not many live to mention it.”

“Ah. I’m having a lucky escape.”

“Well, it sounds a revolting procedure to me, Dorcas. Knowing your attitude to animals I’m surprised that you didn’t set the whole monkey tribe free in Regent’s Park and burn the laboratory down.”

“I thought about it. But there was no park on hand. This was going on at the research clinic I told you about. St. Raphael. In the end I walked out in a cowardly way. It’s hard for a lowly student to decide she knows better than a doctor of philosophy talking German in a white lab coat. And they’d have known it was me. I think they may even have guessed who put something sticky in his lab boots.”

“All this nonsense about nature and nurture—I’m not sure it’s a good thing for you to be wrapping yourself up in. The last time
we spoke—seven years ago, do you remember?—you said you were going to make a study of it, the better to understand yourself. Has it helped? I thought I heard you giving a smart reply to Langhorne when he was whispering Shakespeare into your left ear over the coffee urn.”

“ ‘
A devil, a born devil, on whose nature nurture can never stick
.’ It’s from
The Tempest
, and the devil being insulted is Caliban. Langhorne was just testing me out. And enjoying the jinglejangle of the words. I don’t think he really understood what he was saying. He’s got a mind like a thesaurus. Mention ‘nurture,’ and it falls open at the letter ‘n.’ When I started to talk to him about inheritance and environment and the interdependence of the two influences, with references to genetic input, quantitative and qualitative relevance of seed and soil to final product, his eyes glazed over.

“Yes, like that, Joe. You can unglaze now if you wish. Time, I think, to go and interview the Bellefoy child. The inspector said if we went after eleven, we’d find Betty there too. She gets off early on a Saturday.”

T
HE CHILD, HARRY
,
was sitting curled up like a baby on Betty’s knee when they arrived. Far too big for such a perch, he spilled over in an ungainly way. When he saw Joe and Dorcas come in he struggled to get up and flee, but Betty held on to him tightly and whispered in his ear. She put down the alphabet book they’d been studying and said in a country voice that managed to be bright and yet soft at the same time, “Harry’s doing well with his letters, sir, miss. I won’t ask him to show you because he’s too shy, but he’s a dab hand at M for motor car and O for orange. He can even draw them with a pencil.”

“May I see?” Dorcas took the book and opened it. “See there, Harry … that’s D for dog, but it’s also D for Dorcas. That’s my name. Can you find me H for Harry?”

Betty quietly turned the pages, and the child pointed excitedly at H for house and mumbled his name.

“Well done! That’s right! Why don’t you show me your motor cars, Harry? I hear you’ve got a terrific collection. May I have a look?”

“Off you go, Harry,” Betty said. “The inspector told us you might like to see them and talk about them. Harry’s got them all lined up ready in his bedroom if you’d like to go along with him, miss.”

“Where’s your mother this morning, Betty?” Joe asked when they had clumped upstairs.

“It’s a Saturday. When I get back down from the school she always goes off into town and does the shopping. Sometimes she goes to the pictures—there’s usually a matinee on. It’s bad enough working up at that place, sir, but it’s worse being cooped up here with Harry, day in, day out. I try to relieve her when I can. Cup of tea? We’ve got Earl Grey if you can stomach it.”

Betty got up and made her way across the sparsely furnished room towards the small outshot housing the kitchen. Joe watched her. Small, neat-waisted with an abundance of dark, curly hair and a shy under-the-lashes way of looking up at a man. Yet she remained unmarried, and Joe wondered what was wrong with the men of Seaford that they hadn’t snapped up this pearl. Could it be her slight limp? Hardly likely, but Joe could see no other flaw.