Not My Blood

He took Rapson’s black notebook from his pocket. “So.… This was removed unwittingly from the room. Jackie still doesn’t know he had it in his bag.”

Martin fell on the series of photographs, and Joe watched him clear a space and repeat the process of ordering that Marcus had used. The inspector’s face grew grim. “I don’t like what I’m seeing,” he said gruffly. “I can think of no acceptable reason for a master having these in his possession. Can you?” Joe shook his head. “I’m not thinking these are prize-wi

Sensing that the Inspector was begi

“Oh, yes. Class. Wealth. These aren’t kids off the street. Someone was paying a vast amount per a

“I agree. It’s local. We’re looking at something particular to this school. If it’s not just a silly schoolmaster’s odd fantasy—and I wouldn’t rule that out—it starts and finishes here at St. Magnus.”

“And my murder victim seems to have had the key to it,” Martin sighed.

“We won’t get any further until we get these chaps identified. I’d say they were taken over a period of years. Any ideas?”

“We’ll get the oldest member of staff in here to do an identity parade,” Martin said. “The puzzle is, Rapson wasn’t by any means the oldest established beak. He’d been here six years, that’s all. He wouldn’t have known most of these personally.”

Out in the corridor a bell clanged. Martin looked at his watch. “They’re on their break now. The common room’s just outside. I’ll nip out and collar one of the oldest exhibits. There’s a cobwebbed old classics master who looks as though he’s been a fixture in these parts since the Prince Regent was down here paddling in the briny. I’ll go and ruin his coffee break.”

He came back a moment later with a begowned and shriveled figure unwillingly in tow. “Commissioner Sandilands, may I present Mr.—er—Godson?”

“How do you do, Commissioner. Godwit. Classics and Scripture Knowledge.” Godwit extended a cold and bony hand, which seized Joe’s with surprising energy. “I’m told I can help you with a problem.”

“Mr. Godwit, we’d like you to look carefully at the photographs we’ve laid out on the desk and try to identify these faces which we think belong to old boys of the school.”

“Good Lord! Faces from the past!” Godwit put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and examined the exhibits with all the care they could have wished. “I can hand you seven out of the nine,” he said after a while. “Who’s taking notes?” He rearranged the order of the photographs to his satisfaction. “Numbering from the left and furthest back in time. I’ll suggest their intake year.

“Number one: Not known to me.

“Number two: Jefferson. Pre-war. 1910ish.

“Number three: Murgatroyd major … 1914. Distinctive, if unfortunate, features. The only son of his mother. His rather … elderly … mother. She died shortly after her son. Both victims of influenza. Murgatroyd remarried, and there have been a further two boys here after this one. Both successfully completed their spell at St. Magnus. Their father was a most generous benefactor in his day.

“Number four: Hewitt-Jones. 1916. Ghastly little tick! Never thought I’d set eyes on him again.

“Number five: Sorry, not a face I remember, but I’m placing him here because the tie’s changed, do you see? So he’s postwar.

“Number six: Pettigrew. That’s Pettigrew the London grocer. Made a fortune in the war. He had four sons, but I’m happy to say he only sent us the first. Clarence, I believe. Horrid boy! Quite horrid! A fighter. Transferred at the head’s request. In other words: expelled. The remaining brothers went elsewhere to trouble others. Let’s say 1920.

“Number seven: Peterkin. 1921 or ’22. Sad little chap, but clever. Yes, clever. Knew his Herodotus on arrival, I remember. Runaway, I’m afraid. Bullied by the other boys, they said.

“Number eight: Houghton-Cole. 1929. Ah! He went out in a blaze of glory. Set the cowsheds on fire.

“Number nine: Renfrew. Transferred to Templemeadows just last year. We weren’t good enough for Papa, apparently. 1932. Will that be all, gentlemen?”

“Just one more thing, sir,” Joe said. “Your first impressions of this group.… Does any common characteristic strike you? What is it that these boys have in common?”

Godwit fell into puzzled silence. “It’s rather hard to tell. It’s more a case of what they don’t have that defines them. None of these has gone down in the a

“Now, if that’s all, gentlemen? It’s our coffee time, you know. Young Gosling is preparing a tray for you. I’ll tell him to bring it in, shall I?”

“That would be kind of you, sir, and thank you for your help,” Martin said politely.

“Gosling, eh?” Martin remarked when the door closed on Godwit. “He seems to have appointed himself some sort of go-between. In the head’s pocket, I’d say. Always there at your elbow making helpful noises when you turn around. Creepy bastard! Have you had him up your jumper?”

“Yes, I have.” Joe smiled. “It could be just good ma

Joe stopped talking, then passed a finger over his mouth in the soldier’s signal for silence. Martin nodded and gri

“Good God, Martin!” Joe’s voice rang out. “What the hell are you telling me? That your men have found the sledgehammer that crushed Rapson’s skull? And the bloodied handle is covered in fingerprints? And those prints belong to … the headmaster?”

“You’ve got it, sir.” Martin’s voice was equally loud. “Open-and-shut case. Will you shake out your manacles or shall I oblige? Now, didn’t someone say there was coffee on its way?”

He strode to the door and flung it open. An i