Martin was put through to Mabel and spent an inordinately long time in badinage, Joe thought, squirming in his seat. But it seemed to pave the way for action. “Good girl!” said Martin when he’d finally conveyed his request. “Two pages of foolscap, eh? Well, go ahead. I’ll weed ’em out. I’m taking notes, and I’ll be repeating them for the benefit of my team who is here with me and hanging on your words. Now, just avoid any children’s hamster breeding clubs and ladies’ knitting circles and the like. I’m interested in hobbies, occupations, interests for middle-aged men, and it has to be on a Wednesday.”

“After teatime,” Joe supplied.

Martin got busy with his pencil, repeating out loud anything that might be pertinent to Joe’s enquiry, however odd.

“Ballroom dancing lessons available every day of the week, eh? On the Wednesday: tango chez Alphonse, Viennese at the Pavilion, Scottish in the Palm Court.

“That’s more like it—cercle français at the high school, every Wednesday.

“German language lessons, every week day with Miss Gunter at her own residence. No, don’t bother just now. We can always come back.

“Begonia propagation?” He glanced at Joe, who shook his head. “No, Mabel. Flower and dog breeding not a priority.

“Poetry lovers, Tuesdays? Nice to know they’re still alive, but they don’t concern us.

“Ah! Cinema, of course. Two picture palaces, three showings every day. Look again, Mabel. Anything special about a Wednesday? Ooh, er! That’s news to me! Not listed, eh? I’m not surprised. Hang on, I’m making a note of that and, no, I won’t ask how you came by the knowledge. I don’t want to spoil our relationship.” He turned, grinning, to Joe. “I think we’ve got something! Saucy French films on at ten in the evening. On Wednesdays. Coincides with the midweek soccer fixtures so fellers can lie to their wives about getting home at midnight in a state of excitement!

“Liberal club … no, that’s a Thursday. Try the Conservative club, Mabel. Fridays. Young Cons, Sundays.” He sighed and waited while Mabel ran through her list.

“What, Mabel? Say that again, love. I don’t think you’re pronouncing that quite right. Ah, got you! That’s ‘g’ as in ‘ginger,’ not as in ‘gaga.’ ” He scratched on his pad, suddenly pensive. “Wednesdays? Six o’clock. Monthly. Well-advertised. Well, it would be. No expense spared. Mabel, give me the address, my angel.… Well, where else, eh? Nothing but the poshest accommodation for those gents. But sadly, another dead end. No, I think we can file them with the poodle fanciers and the Salvation Army! Not much interest to us.… We’re looking out for do-badders, not do-gooders. Ah, well.… Thanks, love. Look, keep that list to hand, will you? And especially that gen on the continental art movies. Most interesting, that. Look, keep all this to yourself, will you? There’s a good girl! And stand by. I may need to consult you again.”

He took his leave and replaced the receiver, puzzled and grave. “Stout lass, Mabel, but a bit of a chatterbox. Seemed best to rake over the trail, sir. Send her down the wrong rabbit hole. That last bit of info may give you something to chew over.” He held out his pad and showed the last entry to Joe.

Joe read, swallowed, and looked back at Martin. “Oh, my God!” he whispered. “I think the Yard’s found the bloody light switch!”

“And I don’t much like what it’s illuminating, Commissioner.” Martin got to his feet in alarm. “I’ll tell you straight where I stand! Me, I’d have shut the buggers down years ago!” He held up a hand to deflect argument or criticism. “There’s not many would agree with me, I know. An unfashionable point of view … not modern … not smart … and perhaps I’m talking to someone who knows better?”

He waited for, but did not seem to be surprised to receive, a denying shake of the head from Joe.

“This lot.…” the inspector hesitated to use the name he’d written in his book.

“Let’s call them the ‘ginger-with-a-g’ group, shall we?”

“… go all the way to the top. Untouchable. Society’s darlings. If you go poking a stick into this select anthill, you know who’ll come buzzing out? Churchill, H. G. Wells, George Bernard Shaw, Marie Stopes, a Huxley, a bishop or two, a royal or three, practically all the scientific establishment, the Times leader writer, and a dozen peers of the realm. Up? Down? North? South? Where the hell do you go with this?”

The inspector gave a cheerless laugh. “Sandilands DSO v. Britannia Inc. If I were you, I’d put on a false moustache and a tin hat and beat it to the Riviera before they can train their big guns on you.”

“Too late for that,” Joe said. “I’ve heard the creak of the ranging handle. But don’t be concerned, Martin. A bit of fancy footwork will keep me out of their crosshairs.”

Martin looked at him pityingly. “Those were probably old Rapson’s last words.”

“Rapson didn’t have a clear conscience plus a small army of policemen working to save his skin. I can start by getting a full list of members. Then we know who we’re dealing with. Special Branch will have one. How many of them do you suppose there are, Martin? Not just the Southeastern Chapter—over the country as a whole?”

“Fewer than a thousand, probably. Two hundred of those south of the Thames? It’s hardly the Women’s Institute. They’re choosy about who they take on the books, but they don’t hide from public view.”

“No. They rather flaunt themselves—call themselves an ‘Education Society,’ if you please! Still, if they’re in the open, it’ll make our enquiry a bit easier.”

Martin grimaced. “It’s their best defence—their public image, their well-known names. Look, tell me, sir, if you had any sort of a case against a … what shall I call it? A conspiracy? A cabal? A ring of murdering excuses for humanity? Where would you ever find evidence for it? I say ‘you’ not ‘we’ because this is way out of my league.”

“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.

CHAPTER 21

Joe 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.”