Not My Blood (3 page)

“Evening, Captain! Hungry is it? Well, what about shepherd’s pie with onion gravy?”

“Oh, I’d like that,” Jackie said eagerly.

“And to follow? We’ve got spotted dick with a dollop of custard?”

Jackie’s eyes lit on a basin of steaming pudding studded with dark currants, and he nodded.

“I think that would be entirely appropriate,” said Joe. “Make that two of everything, Frank, if you please. We’ll sit ourselves down.”

The boy settled and looked around him with suspicion. “ ‘Captain?’ he asked. “Why did that man call you ‘captain,’ sir?”

Joe could not hide a smile. Whatever else, this was a true colonial he was entertaining to supper. Death, flight and arrest the child was apparently taking in his stride, but the niceties of
rank—that was worthy of question by a child reared in the Indian Civil Service.

“I was a very young captain in the Fusiliers when Frank first knew me.… Early days of the war … Mons. I was winged manning the barricades—uselessly—against the first German onslaught on France. My rank did improve,” he reassured the lad, “but it’s the dashing captain image that’s stuck with me. I don’t mind at all. We all need a reminder of where we’ve come from. It’s a compliment.”

There were two other dark figures in the shelter, busy with substantial servings of pease pudding. They greeted Joe. “Evenin’, Guv.” One looked at Jackie and rolled his eyes in a pantomime of alarm. “Cor! That’s a right nasty piece of work you’ve got under restraint, Guv! If ’e makes a break for it, count on us for back-up!”

To Joe’s dismay, the boy began to tremble and look towards the door. Joe leaned forwards and whispered: “Just joking, Jackie. You’re safe here. Food’ll be up in a minute. No rush, but perhaps you could tell me a little bit about what happened this evening?”

At once the boy’s eyes glazed with remembered fear. His hand went to his eyebrow, and he began to rub at it with the knuckle of his forefinger. Accustomed as he was to interrogating suspects to cracking point, Joe recognised the gesture as a sign of acute distress and cursed himself for an insensitive fool. He reached over, seized the little hand, and gave it a squeeze. “There’s no hurry,” he said once more. “Just take your time.”

The boy took a while to pull his thoughts together and then burst out: “Well, it’s Mr. Rapson! I hate him,” he added almost apologetically. “Everybody knows I hate him, and when they find he’s dead they’ll know it’s me that did it.”

“I’m not sure of that,” said Joe, “but go on.”

“Well, they will know because I’ve attacked him before.”

“Great heavens!” Joe said lightly. “Are you telling me you’ve
got previous? I mean … that you’re a seasoned beater-up of form masters?”

Jackie gave him a pained smile. “Just once, sir.” And then he burst out: “I hit him! I went for him! Perhaps I shouldn’t have done. But I don’t think I was wrong. There’s a boy in my class called Spielman, and he’s not … not really all there, you know. He makes silly faces. He can’t help it.”

“Silly faces?”

“Yes. Like this.” He gave a demonstration. “And he looks—well—loopy. He’s got big ears—great big ears and sticking-out teeth and everybody teases him. And Rappo’s the worst of all. He’s always going for him, making him stand out in front of the class, and this afternoon he pulled Spielman up by his ears. By his ears! Spielman started crying. It must have really hurt him. He’s only just got over a mastoid. I lost my rag, and I went and hit Rappo.”

“Hit him?”

“Hit him in the stomach. With my fist. As hard as I could manage. That hard, sir.” He held out for inspection a small hand whose knuckles were skinned and swollen. “I got him in his watch chain. And then he went into the usual Rappo Rant. ‘See you in my study after supper, Drummond!’ and all that.” Jackie shuddered and fell silent. “Pretty scary!”

With a flick of a teacloth, plates of shepherd’s pie appeared on the table.

“Mustard, sonny? Ketchup? Cupper tea?”

“No, no cupper tea, thank you, but everything else, please.”

Between mouthfuls, Jackie resumed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have hit him, but I didn’t think Dad would have minded. Once, he saw a soldier, a private in the East Yorks, hitting a little Indian man, and Dad really let him have it! Felled him to the ground,” he added with relish. “And my father’s a … well, you know my father. He said you always ought to stand up to bullies, and this seemed to be the same. Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” said Joe, “I do think. And I know Andrew would have done just the same. He’s not a man to stand by and see injustice done.”

“That’s right, sir!” Jackie nodded with pride. “He’s not strong, my dad, but he never lets a game leg hold him back.”

“No indeed,” said Joe softly. “I’ve stood shoulder to shoulder with Andrew in—er—difficult circumstances and been glad of his strength.”

The pie disappeared at surprising speed. The pudding followed. Jackie’s face acquired some colour, but his speech began to slur and his eyelids began to droop.

“You don’t have to finish,” said Joe comfortingly.

“I want to finish.”

Tea-towel round his stomach, the proprietor walked over to them. “You all right, son? Had enough have you? There’s more if you want it.” And then to Joe, “Time this one was in bed, I think, Captain?”

Joe had come to the same conclusion. He’d decided that Jackie was the type of witness whom you couldn’t hurry, but who, if left to himself, would produce, by degrees, an accurate statement. “Just one thing,” he said, “and then we’ll go home. After this confrontation with Rappo you decided to run away?”

“Oh, no. I decided to run away a long time ago. I was only waiting until I’d collected enough money to get to Uncle Dougal in Scotland. But I had to, well, bring my plans forwards a bit and go for it tonight. I was ready. I had my running away bag all packed.” He gestured towards his shoulder bag. “I knew I had to get away before anyone found me, and then I thought, I’ll use the number Mum gave me. Killing someone’s an emergency all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Joe, “you did the right thing.”

While they’d been in the shelter the snow had begun to lie and wind-blown snow was sticking to the southerly face of the
power station chimney stacks. Slated roofs were turning from grey-blue to white.

“That’s where we’re going,” said Joe, pointing, “that lighted up window there. That’s my flat. My sister—your Aunt Lydia, I suppose—is at home and still up, you see. People sometimes think it’s a funny place to live, but I like it.”

A reassuring figure in dressing gown and slippers, Lydia was standing in the hall as Joe unlocked the door.

“Hullo!’ she said. “And who’s this?”

“Jackie Drummond, Aunt Lydia. I’m sorry to be arriving so late.”

Though clearly puzzled, Lydia moved smoothly into action. “That’s quite all right, Jackie. I took the opportunity of making up a camp bed in the box room. You must be exhausted! What about a nice hot bath and then bed? Here, let me take your cape.”

Lydia put out a motherly hand to unbutton his cycling cape and the boy abruptly pulled away from her in alarm, clutching it tightly round his shoulders.

“What’s the matter, Jackie?” said Joe.

Jackie looked from one to the other and then, apparently coming to a decision, took off his cape and handed it to Lydia. Lydia gasped. Joe swallowed. The front of the boy’s uniform, white shirt, grey shorts and grey blazer were covered in rusty-red stains.

“It’s not my blood, sir,” whispered Jackie. “It’s Mr. Rapson’s.”

J
OE AND
L
YDIA
stared at each other and then at Jackie in silence for a moment until Joe collected himself.

“Well,” he said, “first things first. And the first thing is to get out of those clothes and into a bath. Have you got pyjamas in your exit bag? Good. Lydia, why don’t you take him? Put his clothes in a bag and keep them together. They just might be evidence. Of something or other.… Go with Aunt Lydia, Jackie.”

Lydia slipped an arm round Jackie. “Come on then,” she said, “let’s posh you up a bit. And we’ll see if we can find a plaster for that hand. You look as though you’ve gone five rounds with Jack Dempsey.” They left the room together.

When Lydia returned Joe was staring out of the window at the dark river and the fluttering snow. He turned, and brother and sister looked at each other in amazement.

“It’s all right,” said Lydia, breaking the awkward silence, “he’s enjoying his hot bath. I gave him your model battleship to play with. Tell me, Joe—what is all this? You look absolutely shattered! You’ve looked as though you’ve seen a ghost ever since you came back with that boy. Just what
is
going on? What
has
happened to him? Who’s Mr. Rapson? And, for heaven’s sake—who is
he
?”

“Lydia,” said Joe, “you’re not going to believe this—I’m not sure I believe it myself but … oh, God, could I be wrong about this? I think … I’m almost certain … that boy is my son!”

“J
oe! For goodness sake! You haven’t got a son!”

Lydia was silent for a moment and then went on more thoughtfully, “Sorry. I suppose I have to say—is it possible? I mean,
could
he be your son?”

“Not only possible,” said Joe slowly, “but I’d have to say probable.”

“But who? How? Did you know he was coming?”

“Know he was coming? I didn’t even know he existed! His mother gave him this address but more than that I really don’t know.”

“His mother! Who
is
his mother? And
where
is his mother? She’s not on the next train, is she?” Lydia looked about her in mock alarm. “This place is hardly big enough to accommodate a growing family. Any more to declare?”

“No, Lyd. I’m reasonably certain of that. And the lady’s name is Nancy Drummond. She’s in India.”

“Oh! India!” Her relief was clear. “Yes, come to think of it, that fits. Ten years ago you were in Bengal.” She smiled. “I always thought there must have been more to your Indian interlude than multiple murders and man-eating tigers. Rather glad to hear there were lighter moments.”

“Yes. Well, his mother is still apparently in Bengal. So is his
father … well, you know what I mean. Andrew Drummond, her husband. The man the world—and the boy—thinks is his father. The Collector of Panikhat.”

“Oh. A husband? Tell me, Joe, was he—Andrew, the Collector—aware that …?”

Joe nodded silently, thoughts and memories suppressed for years flashing painfully to mind. “Oh, he was aware, all right,” he murmured.

“Did it come to fisticuffs, pistols at dawn, perhaps?” Lydia asked hesitantly, her intense curiosity pushing her to ask questions she sensed would be unwelcome.

“No!” Joe’s sudden grin punctured the tension between them. “I knew Andrew for just a short time, but I count him one of my dearest friends. And I know he liked me. Well, you’d have to have some pretty positive feelings for the chap you’ve chosen to father your wife’s child, wouldn’t you?”

“Chosen?” said Lydia faintly and she sank down onto the sofa. “Are you going to explain all this? And can you really be so certain that the boy’s yours? I mean.…” Her eyes strayed to the bathroom door, and they listened for a moment to sounds of contented splashing and the ‘whoop, whoop, whoop’ of a Dreadnought siren. “… I have to say this and perhaps you’ve already noticed—that child doesn’t look in the slightest bit like
you
.”

“That’s the irony!” Joe gave a bitter laugh. “I was selected to be the father of Nancy Drummond’s child quite deliberately, I believe, because physically Andrew and I are very similar. Tall, dark thick hair, a bit bony.…”

“Emphatic features?”

“Those too. The first thing that boy said to me was ‘You look like my father.’ He saw it straight away! The vital
difference
between us is that Andrew was badly injured in the war. The medical report—oh, yes, I did a bit of snooping, once I’d caught on to what was going on—mentioned, as well as a badly shot-up
leg, something the military doctors delicately termed ‘intestinal chaos.’ Careful chaps, those medics—they went in for euphemism of the most ingenious kind to avoid blotting a chap’s record forever more. You can read what you like into ‘intestinal chaos,’ but I think, as well as a probably quite appalling stomach wound, it means Andrew had some essential equipment damaged and was rendered unable to have children. Her uncle hinted as much to me, but I wasn’t quick enough to catch his meaning. Nancy desperately wanted a child. And what Nancy wanted, Andrew was going to ensure that she had, whatever the practical difficulties. Or the heartache.”

“Not the easiest thing to supply to order, I’d guess—in India. A child. You don’t find offspring in the Gamages catalogue, colonial edition. Wide choice of colour and size,” Lydia said thoughtfully.

“No indeed! And you know what India’s like! Worse than Wimbledon! Tight community, and the memsahibs have eagle eyes, suspicious minds and tongues like razors. Now, if a dark-haired policeman passing through the province on duty were to get close to the Collector’s wife—and they were discreet about their closeness—it might just go unremarked if, nine months later, she has a dark-haired child—because her husband also has those same dark looks. Careful girl, Nancy. I have to say. She made apparently innocent but—I realised later—precisely targeted enquiries into my pedigree. A Lowland Scots gentleman with a law degree from Edinburgh and a chestful of medals seemed to be entirely satisfactory for her purposes. But I’ll tell you, Lyd, if I’d spent my war years behind a desk or—even worse—had curly red hair, I wouldn’t have stood a chance with Nancy Drummond!”

Lydia risked a smile. “Good old Fate! I’d guess then that the child looks like his mother. And she went to all that trouble for nothing!”

“Not for nothing. And whatever it was, it was no trouble,” Joe
said with a fleeting grin. “At the time. Though after I found out what they’d been scheming towards I was a bit miffed. I loved her, Lydia.”

“A bit miffed!” Lydia was reddening with anger, a sisterly outrage gathering to pick up and counteract his understatement. “This pair used you for breeding purposes—that’s what it amounts to—like a Black Angus bull! Except that, unlike a good Scottish stockman, Drummond didn’t pay a stud fee before he let you loose in his paddock, I’ll bet!”