“Go on.”
“When I was packing Jackie’s bag for him—that red and blue patterned Afghan thing he calls his ‘escape bag,’ I shoveled in his Treasure Island, his map, his humbugs and all the rest of it. Amongst his stuff was something that clearly didn’t belong to him. Something that wouldn’t belong to any small boy. A black leather-backed moleskine book—you know—the deluxe sort gentlemen travelers spend an awful lot of money on when they’ve decided to go to Greece and they feel the urge to note down and keep for posterity their timeless impressions of foreign parts.”
“Filled several of those myself,” Joe admitted. “But I agree—unless you’re Edward Lear, the receptacle always outshines the contents. Get on, Lyd.”
“Not the sort of thing that would appeal to a boy, I thought. Too grand. Too sober. You couldn’t possibly do noughts and crosses or a game of battleships on those pages. And then I remembered Jackie saying last night that he’d spilled the contents of his bag all over Rappo’s desk, scooped them back in a hurry and made off.”
“Yes, he did say that. So the book came from Rappo’s desk. What was in it?”
“You assume I’d look inside, Joe? Me? I couldn’t make much of it. Letters and numbers is all I could see. In rows. Possibly code. I wouldn’t know. Then I noticed there were some photos stuffed into that useful pocket arrangement those books have inside the back cover.”
“Photos? Of whom?”
“Look, I only had a few seconds to rootle about in there before I heard the commotion down below. I think that chap in the lift had come to retrieve the book. I think he’d been sent to snatch Jackie’s bag, not necessarily Jackie.” She snorted. “Huh! If you and Alfred hadn’t decided to behave like Bulldog Drummond and Algy, pulling fuses and poking sticks through bars, I could have just handed the bag over and let the villain trot off with it. Or turned a blind eye while he pinched it. That way he’d never have known we’d guessed what he was up to. And he’d have been very disappointed! Nothing more sensational in there than a limp copy of last month’s Boy’s Own Paper. I’d already put the Rapson book away in my handbag. I’ve got it right here on my knee.”
Joe controlled the skid the sharp movement his foot had produced. “Well what are you waiting for? Rootle some more! Find out what is of such urgency it can bring out a hit squad in hours on a snowy winter’s day.”
Lydia produced the black book and began to turn the pages in total absorption.
“We’re in no position to start wrestling with code, driving a few feet behind a gritting lorry,” Joe said. “Just go to the back and take another look at those loose sheets.”
He waited as she leafed silently through snippets of paper and photographs.
“Well, come on! What have we got? Coordinates for the last resting place of the Grail? Photos of The Fatman in flagrante?”
“Why do you assume it’s something reprehensible? Even toads like Rapson have a private life. Aren’t we more likely to find a photo of his spaniel or his mother or a love letter from Matron?” Lydia sighed and silently shuffled through the contents of Rapson’s back flap.
“No, Joe,” she said eventually, “I concede that your suspicions were well founded.” Her voice lost its touch of gaiety and took on icy deliberation as she added: “Look, you must tell me if I’m making too much of this.… All those hours I’ve spent succouring the disadvantaged, listening to rather hellish stories, may well have made me a party to information on the world other women just do not have. Once you know what men are capable of, you see evidence of their depravities everywhere.”
“You’re a saint—as all agree, Lyd—but a knowing one. Which in my book makes your opinions twice as valuable as those of any other charitable lady. Get on, will you. But just wait until I’ve got past this lorry.”
Her silence was more unsettling than the voluble comments he’d been expecting. Finally, she gathered all the loose bits together, tucked them back into the pocket of the book and closed it firmly.
“It may be worse than we thought, Joe. And, if I’m right, I shudder to think that little Jackie was anywhere near this man. Or under the influence of an establishment that must be either criminally careless or carelessly criminal. Joe! You have to get hold of this Farman and fillet him! When you’ve had a chance to kick a confession out of him, of course.”
Joe’s voice was bleak. “Confession to what exactly, Lyd?”
CHAPTER 8
“Almost there! Look, I think we won’t refer to this business in front of the family. Anyone who wants to know can hear that Jackie’s been spending some time up in London with me and I’m delivering him back—a bit late—to his school. Better tell me who you’ve got in the house at the moment.”
“Oh, just the usual hand-out.”
“A long-suffering husband and a gaggle of left-over-from-Christmas orphans?”
“No. We’re remarkably un-busy as a matter of fact. Close family, that’s all. It’s why I was able to get up to London for a couple of days. I left Marcus and the girls in capable hands.” She added carefully: “We’ve got Dorcas staying with us. Perhaps I should have mentioned it earlier.”
“Dorcas? Heavens! I haven’t seen the child for ages.” Joe spoke heartily to cover his surprise. “Now, she won’t be pleased to see me turning up unexpectedly. You can’t have failed to notice, Lyd, that she’s been avoiding me like the plague for years. And she’s never taken the trouble to tell me why. But I do notice that when I spend any part of any holiday with you, she’s not there. And she descends on you the minute I’ve gone back to London.”
Joe left a space in the hope of an explanation. He realised he would even have settled for a polite denial. But Lydia wasn’t hurrying to allay his fears. “It’s mystifying, insulting and—dashed annoying,” he finished in a spurt of disappointment.
“It’s tedious for the hostess. And saddening that two people I love dearly behave like the figures on an Alpine weather clock. You know—those wooden contraptions people will bring back from skiing trips. When the sun shines a lady comes out of her little chalet, smiling. When the rain starts, she goes inside again and a gentleman in lederhosen pops out yodeling. Rather unseemly behaviour, I’ve always thought.”
“One in, one out, never seen together. That’s me and Dorcas, all right.”
“And you used to be as thick as thieves. She trailed after you wherever you went, whenever she could, and you were always patient—no, you were more than that, you were—jolly kind to her. I know you can be as hard as nails. I’ve seen you beat a man half to death.” Lydia grinned and patted her brother’s knee. “I don’t forget that in your blood you’re a moss-trooper, a sheep-stealing, hot-tempered Borderer. And the war turned you into a killer. You still keep the visible evidence of it right there on your face as a warning, I do believe. That scar! ‘Keep your distance!’ it says.”
“There are those who admire a tough exterior.”
“But Dorcas saw what I’ve always seen. The lovely man underneath. We all thought—don’t laugh—that she had a crush on you. You know, like the passion I had for father’s steward when I was that age. I grew out of my obsession but Dorcas seemed to snap out of hers. Whatever did you do, Joe? Or was it something you said?” Lydia hesitated. “I’ve never liked to ask, always expecting it would blow over.… And then, somehow, it was too late to bring it up. Do you think you could tell me?”
Joe allowed his truculent silence to stretch on, testing the boundaries of sisterly patience and, a moment before she boxed his ears, said brusquely: “Watch it, Lydia! You risk adding insult to Dorcas’s injury. Not quite sure what you’re implying. If I were, I’d probably chuck you out into the snow. I’ll just say: No fault of mine. Honestly. It’s worried me, too, and I’ve given it serious thought. I’ve absolved myself of any possible misdemeanour, intended or otherwise. Sorry! How pompous.” He added lightly: “She was never the same after she got that French haircut.”