In his arrogance he had gone too far.

The sergeant inflated his impressive chest and spoke up. “Sir. They may be gypsies. But they’re our gypsies as long as they’re on our patch. A child is a child. And they’ve been going missing. Six so far. As we know of. We’re going to find out where they are, what’s happened to them, and chuck the book at the unhuman what’s responsible. This is England, sir, and we won’t have it.”

Suddenly Bentink had had enough. He got to his feet. “What have you done with my telephone? I am about to ring the Minister for Reform. Sir James will enlighten you as to the way we handle things in England. Gentlemen—if any here deserve that appellation—prepare to have your arses kicked.”

“When you get him,” Joe said, handing him the instrument, “tell him the police have, on celluloid, yards and yards of filmed evidence of you and your henchmen tormenting, in illegal experiments, kidnapped children. You, sir, though masked throughout the proceedings, are identifiable by a ring of particularly flamboyant style. A ring I observe you are even now wearing. Sergeant, may I ask you to look closely and note this ring? It might be a good idea to bag and label it before it disappears.”

When this awkward procedure was completed Joe asked: “Now, would you like me to put on a showing of the filmic material in question for these other gentlemen of the law? We could go along to your viewing room. Or would you prefer your brother-in-law to be present at the premier performance?”

Joe was struck by a thought that the overpowering presence of Bentink had put from his mind: the man, sinking back into his chair, had no idea that his Lethal Chamber had been invaded. He’d been shocked out of his complacency to hear that Joe knew of the films. “Good Lord! Your men are still locked up where I left them—in your killing room. They’ve been there since yesterday afternoon when we helped ourselves to the evidence. Oh, well, if they haven’t made use of the facilities and done each other in yet, they may be in just the right mood to spill whatever beans they have relating to you and your grisly operations.”

He turned to give an order to the sergeant. “Go with Miss Joliffe, she knows the way. But don’t let her near the thugs—she’d do them irreparable damage. Pick up four lusty blokes to accompany you and two pairs of cuffs. Leave one officer with me, will you?”

Left alone with Sandilands, Gosling and one policeman, Bentink maintained a truculent silence. Not overly concerned. Joe decided to annoy him. “Constable, I think we’ll take the precaution of cuffing this one as well. He won’t outrun us, but the waiting pressmen will expect it. They’ve screwed in their flashbulbs, and they’re ready for a show.”

At this, Bentink raised a terrible face suffused with rage and hatred. Joe prepared to weather a frenzied outburst. But the voice, when it came, was controlled. He spoke with quiet force: “For the last time, I tell you, Sandilands: I have had nothing to do with your missing boys. I beg you to use your skills and resources to establish that. I am not a common criminal. Do you imagine I would involve myself with the offspring of Englishmen of quality? Men of breeding and background? Men of value to society like you, like me? Look elsewhere. And do it quickly before the world discovers what a fool you are.”

Joe reminded himself that the monster Caliban had at times spoken the most persuasive verse, conjuring up sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not.

He stopped his ears and held out the handcuffs.

“RING, SIR?” GOSLING muttered to Joe as they accompanied Bentink out into the sunlight. “What was all that about? He had one on this morning, but I can’t say I noticed one on the film.”

“I could have sworn I saw one,” Joe said vaguely. “Ah, well—he seemed to think we did.”

CHAPTER 29

With two recent burials revealed already in the old cemetery, one or two incriminating pieces of evidence taken away in bags from the incinerator, and the remainder of the film cases in the capable hands of the Sussex force, Joe decided they could beat a retreat. Superintendent Crawshaw was too energetically busy, too preoccupied with his plethora of evidence to argue when they said they were leaving. Joe realised that, despite his London input, this had become a local case. The children were, as the sergeant had heartily said, ‘on our patch.’ They would be avenged.

The others? The lost boys? Joe feared they would never be recovered. Apart of course from poor Spielman, who was still in transit. Joe was looking forwards to discovering what Martin had achieved with his crowbar and his pathologist. The inspector’s swift actions would be noted by the top brass and Joe, for one, would not be surprised to be addressing the Sussex man as Superintendent Martin before the year was out. The bills of lading and the death certificate he probably had right now in his hands would hammer the last nail in Bentink’s coffin.

Unless the shadowy government agencies could come up with some Houdini-like escape trick at the last moment. Joe was a realist and determined always that the last person to be deceived would be himself. His career was hanging by a thread. He knew he’d vastly overinterpreted his instructions. “Creep about,” he’d been told. “Watch and discover. Report back.” No one had authorised him to go about insulting and slapping cuffs on one of the most influential men in the land. “The husband of the sister of the next prime minister but one,” sounded laughable, but Joe understood how that world worked. Ramsay MacDonald, son of a Scottish parlour maid, might well be prime minister, but the reins of real power were in other, more ruthless hands. Hands that would not falter when it came to signing Joe’s dismissal document.

He looked at the cheerful faces of his two young companions. Unaware, self-congratulatory, happy with their achievement. They had no idea.

But they were right in their innocent beliefs. The police force was the servant of the state and its countrymen. The Sussex bobbies had seen that clearly. “They’re our gypsies.” Any soul living within their jurisdiction had an unquestioned right to life and liberty. The Force did not exist to protect the interests of individual members of the government, and he would maintain that to the last.

But, at least, with the source of the euthanasian-eugenic organisation—Joe stopped himself and mentally substituted murdering machine—cut off at its source, he felt Gosling would be able to confirm Alicia Peterkin’s fears at last. She could pray for her boy without the hobble of unfounded hope. And there would be no more disappearances. There just remained Farman to be dealt with. Joe was looking forwards to sinking his boat.

The glorious weather, if not reflecting, at least improved their mood. Sunlight sparkled on the remaining flashes of snow, and the earth, thankful for the soaking, was greening over. Snowdrops gallantly shrugged off the drifts and stood to attention, promising an early spring.

“At the risk of being accused of—what was it? Something in German for pecking grass?—may I point out,” Gosling said as they sped along, “that we’re passing very close to the Prince Albert? As it was that good old bird—Chadwick?—who set us off on this trail and put Bentink in the bag, what about calling in for a cup of tea and saying thank you? We needn’t divulge much. I don’t think it would be necessary. I’d say he was very clued up—in everything but his crossword, of course. And it’s always nice to know you’ve been helpful.”

“It would be the polite thing to do,” Joe agreed.

“I’d like to see Francis Crabbe again,” said Dorcas.

And Francis Crabbe, when they pulled up at the asylum ten minutes later, was pleased to see Dorcas.