He had argued his case well, and he should have been both satisfied and calmed by the conclusion he’d reached.
And yet a nagging doubt still persisted.
Perhaps, if he’d confided his suspicions — or whimsy, or fancy — to the fat sergeant, it might have helped Sam Blackstone to find his grandson’s murderer, he thought.
Perhaps, by keeping them to himself, he was sending Blackstone into battle without the covering fire he was entitled to expect.
He looked out of the window, and saw his head gardener walking around in the sort of dazed condition which he now seemed to inhabit almost permanently.
He really should pension the old man off, he thought.
Yet, was he any better himself? he wondered — suddenly remembering that there was a task he’d been meaning to complete all morning, but which had completely slipped his mind until he saw the gardener.
He reached for a piece of paper, picked up his pen and began to write.
Dear Captain Carstairs,
I must thank you for your kind words when informing me of my grandson’s death. You say that he was an outstanding soldier who was an inspiration to his men, and though these are standard phrases which flow from the pen on such occasions, I think I can detect a real sincerity when you apply them to Charlie.
As you no doubt know, Charlie’s body disappeared en route to England. Such things happen in wartime, and I blame no one, especially his company commander who, I am sure, treated the dear boy’s remains with all due respect while they were still in his charge.
Thus, what I am about to ask of you should not be seen in any way as giving you the opportunity to discharge a debt, since there is no such debt to discharge. Rather I would like you to view it as a humble request from an old soldier who has debts of his own to pay.
The General put down his pen.
‘If all you have is suspicion without knowledge, then why the devil are you even writing this letter?’ he asked himself angrily.
The housemaster, Edward Harrington Cardew, was in his fifties, and had the arrogant eyes and haughty expression of a man who firmly believed that the world was divided up into gentlemen and others. He did not inform his visitor that he’d been a pupil at Eton himself, but Patterson — who never started digging a hole before he was sure his spade was in perfect working order — did not need to be informed, because he already knew it as a fact.
The interview took place in Cardew’s study, a room which smelled of ancient leather-bound books and was garlanded throughout with sporting trophies. The housemaster asked the detective to sit down — though in a tone which suggested he was bestowing an honour on Patterson which they both knew he was clearly not worthy of.
‘I would not usually agree to see a member of the constabulary — especially such a low-ranking one,’ he said in a drawling voice, ‘but since the request for an interview came from General Fortesque — who is himself a distinguished old boy of this school — I’m prepared to grant you fifteen minutes of my time.’
Patterson settled back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. ‘Oh, I think it will take considerably longer than that,’ he said, easily.
‘I beg your pardon!’ Cardew exclaimed.
‘There’s no need to,’ Patterson replied. ‘I wanted to ask you about some of your former pupils-’
‘I know,’ Cardew interrupted him. ‘Fortesque, Maude and Soames — all of them outstanding young men.’
‘And Hatfield,’ Patterson said.
‘Ah, yes, and Hatfield,’ Cardew agreed, with considerably less enthusiasm.
‘Isn’t he an “outstanding young man”?’ Patterson wondered.
‘Hatfield started out with certain disadvantages,’ Cardew said.
‘Meaning he’s not quite from the top drawer?’ Patterson suggested.
‘You may phrase it in that manner if you wish. I would prefer to say that he has had to learn, by diligent effort, what came naturally to the other three. But, for all that, he was a reasonably pleasant boy and very earnest in his approach to his work — though he had a certain need for approval which I, personally, found rather irritating.’
‘What about Fortesque?’ Patterson asked.
‘He was the President of Pop,’ Cardew said. A thin, unfriendly smile came to his lips. ‘Need I say more?’
‘No,’ Patterson replied. ‘I don’t think so.’
Cardew looked distinctly disappointed, and Patterson chuckled.
‘What is so amusing?’ Cardew asked.
‘I find it funny that you seem to think you can make me feel inadequate by throwing words at me that I can’t possibly be expected to understand,’ Patterson told him.
‘And I, for my part, find it funny that you so obviously feel the need to pretend that you do understand them, even though you clearly do not,’ the housemaster countered.
Patterson’s grin broadened. ‘Pop is more properly known as the Eton Society,’ he said. ‘Its members are entitled to wear checked spongebag trousers — though why anybody would want to is beyond me — and design their own waistcoats. They’re allowed to administer beatings to younger boys — which we’ll probably come back to later. They’re the only members of the college who can furl their umbrellas within school grounds or sit on the wall in the Long Walk. It’s every boy’s ambition to be a member of Pop, or, to put it another way, they spend their entire school lives striving to earn privileges that no one in their right mind would want in the first place. Have I got that about right?’
‘I can’t say I care for your attitude, but you’ve certainly done your research,’ Cardew admitted. ‘At any rate, now that I’ve made it clear to you what splendid chaps they all are, I think we can draw this interview to a close.’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’m conducting a criminal investigation,’ Patterson said. ‘I don’t need to be told what it is about these particular boys which makes them such “splendid chaps”. I’d rather hear about the sides of their characters that make them complete bloody bounders.’
‘A bounder would not last a week in this college!’ Cardew said, outraged. ‘In fact, in EHC, my house, he would not last a day!’
‘Ah, your house!’ Patterson exclaimed. ‘Am I right in thinking that when parents apply to Eton, they put their son’s name down for a specific house?’
‘You are.’
‘And should I assume that there is some competition to be admitted into your house.’
‘Considerable competition,’ Cardew said, complacently.
‘The better the raw material, the better the end product,’ Patterson mused, ‘You measure your own worth by the quality of the splendid chaps you turn out, don’t you?’
‘To a certain extent,’ Cardew agreed, cautiously. ‘What schoolmaster does not?’
‘And if they do well in life, some of that glory is reflected on you?’
‘Yes, and that is just as it should be. I mould them. Half of what they become is a result of my efforts’
‘But what if they don’t do well? Is some of the opprobrium then reflected on you?’
‘The question simply does not arise.’
Patterson chuckled again. ‘Of course it does. What about Hadley Featherington Gore?’
Cardew paled. ‘Who?’
‘Good try,’ Patterson told him, ‘but not quite good enough. You said I’d done my research well — and so I have. Featherington Gore was in your house from 1903 to 1910. And now, as a result of him trying to pass off one bad cheque too many, he’s in quite another kind of house — one with bars on the windows.’
‘One bad apple,’ Cardew said miserably. ‘One bad apple in a whole life dedicated to excellence.’
‘Is it time for me to make my threat now, do you think?’ Patterson asked casually.