ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
The Last Kashmiri Rose
Ragtime in Simla
The Damascened Blade
The Palace Tiger
The Bee’s Kiss
Tug of War
Folly du Jour
Strange Images of Death
The Blood Royal
Copyright © 2012 by Barbara Cleverly
All rights reserved.
Published by Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cleverly, Barbara.
Not my blood / Barbara Cleverly.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-61695-155-9
1. Sandilands, Joe (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Boarding schools—England—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6103.L48N68 2012
813′.6—dc23
2012012702
v3.1
This book is for
Daniel Joe,
my friend, advisor and grandson.
And for
Polly
whose flash of brilliance lit the way.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
CHAPTER 1
SUSSEX, FEBRUARY 1933
Carrying more than a hint of snow, a southwesterly wind gusted up from the Channel, spattering the school’s plate glass windows with sleety drops.
Mr. Rapson began to shout. Not a natural disciplinarian, he found he kept better control this way and was gratified by the knowledge that most of the boys at St. Magnus School, Seaford, were frightened of him. He affected a military style that most were familiar with from their own fathers. Peremptory and predictable. “Come along! No footer today, so we’re going for a healthy walk. In pairs! Morrison! I said pairs! How many boys go to a pair? Two? That’s right. Not three! Drummond? No one to walk with? Walk with Spielman. Come on, Spielman! Get a move on!”
Jackie Drummond didn’t want to walk with Spielman. He didn’t like Spielman. He had sticking-out teeth, and he never stopped talking, mostly giving rambling accounts of books he’d just read. At least he didn’t expect a reply. This left Jackie free to work on his new plan: to run away as soon as possible.
Running away. The biggest sin you could commit, they said. But Jackie had heard of boys escaping from school—the older boys still talked about Peterkin, who’d run away ten years ago and never been brought back. Then there was Renfrew, who’d been in the year above Jackie. They’d said he’d been sacked for bad behaviour and sent to another school, but his best friend had other ideas. “Done a bunk,” was his judgement. “Skipped off in the dead of night. Never even told me he was going.” The best friend’s knowing smirk gave out quite a different message. He’d collaborated. There were things he could tell. And probably had told—to the staff. Jackie learned from this. Even if he’d had a friend, he wouldn’t breathe a word of his plans to him. If you’re going, just go. Confide in no one.
For the hundredth time he reviewed the possibilities and consulted the list his mother had given him. He’d copied it into an exercise book to be on the safe side, but he carried with him the original in his mother’s familiar handwriting. A charm. A talisman to be consulted when life got tough. There were Aunt Florence and Aunt Dorrie in Brighton, only five miles away. This option had the advantage that he could walk there, but the disadvantage that he could swiftly be brought back again. It was the first place they’d look. There were Mr. and Mrs. Masters in Camberley, but he wasn’t sure where Camberley was, and he didn’t like them very much anyway. His preference was for Uncle Dougal and Auntie Jeannie, his father’s Scottish cousins in Perthshire. But Perthshire was a very long way away. And traveling on the railways over here was expensive. The fare alone was over two pounds and, even with the best expectations of cash from his birthday, it would be weeks before he had the necessary funds.
Not for the first time he doubted his capacity, but a second look at Mr. Rapson, standing four-square in his college scarf and porkpie hat, ginger-coloured Harris tweed plus-four suit so nearly matching his foam-flecked and bristling moustache, convinced him that he had no tolerable alternative. And Rappo was shouting again.
“Before we set off we’re going for a little run. All of you—down to the corner and back again when I say go. Go!”
There was a wailing cry: “I’m cold, sir!”
This was Foster. Foster was recovering from a mastoid, and the biting wind gave him earache.
“Cold?” shouted Mr. Rapson. “Cold? Then run! That’s the way to keep warm!”
The run took its predicted course (Smithson fell and scraped his knee and had to go in to Matron), and the walk followed in the teeth of the rising wind, down to the end of Sutton Avenue. Jackie hoped they’d turn right and then with any luck the walk would lead past the station and give him another chance to check his escape route. He liked the phrase “escape route” and said it over to himself. “My escape route!”
“Yes,” he decided, “I’ll walk down Sutton Avenue, turn right at the bottom, go through that lane beside the biscuit factory. There’s not many street lamps here.” And if he wore his cycling cape over his uniform no one would know he was from one of the many preparatory schools in the town. As Spielman rambled on, unheeded, Jackie thought to himself, “Three weeks. That should be enough. I’ll go in three weeks!”
Back in the school changing rooms, Rappo called a halt to the shuddering, sniffling procession. “All right! Dismiss!’ ”
The boys began to peel off their wet overcoats and hang them on the pegs to drip in dank rows.
“I said, ‘Dismiss!’ Don’t loiter about! Move!”
Spielman stood, looking goofy, as the boys would have said. Mr. Rapson’s voice rose and became shrill. His stomach ulcer made him tetchy. He was glad to discharge some of the tension on to a victim: Spielman had sat down—still talking—on a bench. “Blithering idiot! I told you to dismiss. I didn’t tell you to sit! Did I? No!” He leapt forwards and seized Spielman by his prominent ears and lifted him bodily to his feet. Spielman screamed in surprise and pain.