“I’ll grasp at anything. I’ll pass this over to Cottingham when I get back to the telephone. He can get on to records. He’ll thank me for that on a Saturday!”

They walked back along the path bordering the muddy courtyard that linked the Bellefoys’ cottage with the school buildings and stopped for a moment to look at the police flag marking the spot in the centre of the sodden grass where the knife had been found.

“Now, what would Rapson have been doing crossing an open area already under snow?” Joe wondered. “Wherever he was heading, he’d have stuck to the path.”

“Someone could have thrown it. Pulled it out and chucked it as far away as possible into the snow. From here.” Dorcas demonstrated. “Now, why do that?”

“I think you know. Leave a knife in the wound, and provenance can easily be established. If you have to get rid of it in a hurry, throw it into a snowdrift. Seems to have worked. It took Martin’s men two—or is it three?—days to find it.”

“Tell you something else, Joe. Bit odd. Betty is the only wage earner in that household, isn’t she?”

“The only one, yes. The cottage is a tied one, of course, so they pay no rent. All the same it must be hard to manage. They seem to do all right.”

“Careful management and no frills, that’s evident. The women don’t indulge themselves but—you must have noticed—they do indulge that boy. His set of cars, Joe, was rather special. The box it came in was still there being used as a garage. By mail order from the Gamages catalogue. I remember Orlando making a fuss about the cost when my brother asked for a tin car. Just one. Harry has thirty. They’re really collectors’ models and must have cost a month of Betty’s wages.

“But there’s more. His room was kitted out in—oh, not extravagant—but good-quality furnishings. His bed is a sort of heavy-duty large-sized cot with sides you can put up. Perhaps he falls out of bed still? Specially made to order, I’d say, supplied by Heals on the Tottenham Court Road. And, tucked up in this splendid little bed, there’s a teddy bear. Not just any bear, one of those new continental ones by Steiff. Soft carpet. Thick curtains, good fire going and a full coal scuttle. The rest of the house—well, you saw for yourself—is on the edge of poverty.”

“With all that cosseting and attention, I’m thinking young Harry is one lucky little monkey!”

“Yes, I’d say they spend every penny they have on that boy.”

“Penny? Would you say—penny?” Joe asked thoughtfully.

CHAPTER 22

“Immediately after surgery? Will that do? I finish at twelve noon. Do you know where to find me? High Street, the double-fronted Georgian next to the iron-monger’s. I look forwards to meeting you, Assistant Commissioner Sandilands.”

Dr. Carter put down the receiver and muttered, “Curse you!” In truth, he’d just said goodbye to the last of his patients for the day, but he needed some time to think about things. So. It had come to this. Was there any point in arguing, remonstrating, self-justification? Yes, there bloody well was! He felt no guilt. Whatever he’d done, he’d done it out of principle. For easement in a harsh world. To improve the lot of the unfortunates who were powerless to do it for themselves. But how had the buggers arrived at his name? Who had mentioned it in connection with the removals?

Inspector Martin, the local man, was a good chap—he’d understand if the circumstances and the benefits were explained to him. Might even be persuaded to look the other way. Perhaps he should have taken the officer into his confidence earlier? Involved him? But then, individual placeholders came and went, the office remained and was never more congenial than the man occupying it. That had been his reasoning. And now he had this Sandilands buzzing round. The man who’d just been on the phone was an unknown quantity. Metropolitan CID officer. He’d throw the book at him without a qualm. Or make Martin do it. By the time the coppers had trawled through the records they’d have enough to get him struck off the medical register at the very least.

Sighing, he went to his filing cabinet, extracted one file, checked the name on the spine, and grimaced. Who’d have thought this innocent would have brought about his downfall? He placed it on his desk. It would be a mistake to make them search for it. Everything aboveboard—that was the tone to take.

Donald Carter poured himself a much-needed tumbler of whisky and waited.

“YOU DON’T OBJECT if I bring my colleague Inspector Martin, do you, doctor? I believe you two know each other?”

“We do! Always a pleasure, Martin. Assistant Commissioner, how do you do?” Dr. Carter shook the firm hand offered him and pulled up another chair. “Sit down, both of you, and tell me how I can help you.”

“By revealing the contents of one—or two, possibly three—of your files. Patients’ records. Inspector Martin has obtained the requisite authorisation from the local magistrate. A search warrant, Carter.” Sandilands slid a folded document on to the desk. The doctor’s eyes, reading upside down, took in the chiseled script of the headed sheet: His Majesty’s Metropolitan Police. He gulped. “We could, using this, look into anything in here that takes our fancy.” The icy grey eyes surveyed the room, calculating and commanding and taking it all, lock stock and filing cabinet, under his authority.

Sandilands waited for the doctor’s nod and his murmured: “I understand that,” then he turned a less stern gaze on Carter. “But I’d much rather do this neatly and quickly by dipping into your mental filing cabinet. You agree?” he suggested.

The doctor nodded again and put a hand on the file sitting at the ready on the desk before him. “I may need to check dates and so on, but I’m ready to speak to you.”

“The Bellefoy family up at the school—”

“The Bellefoys?”

“Yes, all three of them. Tell us a little about young Harry and his problems.”

“Oh, very well. He’s five years old. I don’t need to check his birthdate because I was present at the event, and it was Christmas Day 1927. I registered his mother as Clara Bellefoy and his father: unknown.

“The child was born slightly prematurely, and possibly this affected his development, both physical and mental. He’s quite a strong boy but somehow badly wired up. Clumsy. Uncoordinated. He was late to crawl and late to walk. But his mother and sister take such good care of him his condition improves by leaps and bounds. They spoil him of course. I’ve had to speak to them. Not that they take any notice. Harry’s mentally defective, you’ll have realised if you’ve seen him. You have? Poor speech and reasoning. I’ve had him tested, and he’s two years behind on the scale we use. But again—those women are working wonders.”

The policemen had listened quietly, giving nothing away.

“And Betty Bellefoy? If I were to look, what, I wonder, would your file reveal about any broken limbs in December 1927?” This question came from Inspector Martin. The CID man blinked, pursed his lips, and kept silent.

Ah. Well, it had been worth a try. Seeing no way out of this, the doctor got up and went to his cabinet. “Here you are. Bellefoy, Elizabeth. Born 1913.”

“In your own words, doctor,” Martin encouraged. “It’s all right, man. It’s only us. The boy’s in no trouble. We’ve got a puzzle that needs clearing up, that’s all.”

“You’ll find Betty suffered a broken ankle falling out of an apple tree—the Bath Beauty at the bottom of their garden, on … December 24th, 1927. Multiple fracture—it was the devil to set. That what you want?”

“So—not Clara at all? It wasn’t Clara who threw herself out of the tree to dislodge an unwanted child from the womb?”

“No, it was little Betty. And not the first time she’d tried. I suppose it was the extra weight this time that did it.”