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.
Out came the hand from under the grey cloak, and he flung back his hood to reveal a lined and lean but handsome face, marred by a very amateur short haircut. A face Joe remembered seeing a thousand times in the trenches. A face under duress but determinedly happy. A face he’d have chosen himself without a second thought to be his lieutenant.
“You came back!” Francis exclaimed. “Glad you did!” And, surprisingly: “Good timing! Chadwick’s not at home. He’s gone off to visit his old dad in Brighton, this being a Sunday afternoon. It’s what he always does. But I know he’d want to give you a cup of tea. Come in. Come in!”
Francis dismissed his accompanying crew. “No, lads, you can go straight into the hall, now. I’ll stay alert.”
He turned to his guests. “It’s the Sunday knees-up. Can’t work on a Sabbath, so we might as well play, the boss says. Talent show. Music Hall Memories, sing-along, that sort of stuff. Most remember the songs they knew before they came here, and we have a gramophone to learn the words from. It’s the best bit of the week. Crikey, can you hear them!”
They could indeed hear many voices raised in song as they passed the great hall. Gosling and Dorcas came to a standstill, bright eyed, singing along with an old Victorian music-hall song:
Father’s got the sack from the waterworks
For smoking of his old cherry-briar;
Father’s got the sack from the waterworks
They belted out the punch-line along with the full-throated roar from the congregation:
’Cos he might set the waterworks on fire!
Francis turned to Joe, and Joe was touched to see the man had a tear in his eye. “Did Kipling ever write anything so English? Dickens? Naw! It took some unknown Londoner to do it, and he did it in one line.”
“You’re right. It’s perfection. Says it all, really. It says why we pass our laws and why we choose to obey them or laugh them out of court. It’s what we fight for,” Joe said quietly.
“And why we win,” Francis nodded. “Now, that cup of tea?” He led them on, humming to himself.
Settled in the superintendent’s parlour, they chatted politely to Francis, who was warming his backside in a proprietorial way before the fire, until the tea he’d rung for appeared on a tray in the hands of one of the inmates. She served them, bobbed to Francis, and withdrew without raising an eyebrow.
“So Chadwick’s visiting his father, you say. A doctor also, I understand? He must be getting on a bit, the old feller?” Joe asked while the tea was being poured.
“Over eighty. He was superintendent here before the present Chadwick. Ruled with a rod of iron, the old man did. Ran a tight ship.”
“Tell me, Francis: If this enterprise were a ship, what would be your role on it?”
“Chief engineer. I don’t set the course, but I keep it running.”
The easy conversation came to a halt when they’d been allowed their second sip of tea. The bald question came out of the blue.
“Sir, do you think I’m mad?”
Joe answered. “I’d say you are one of the sanest men I’ve ever met. But then I’ve never seen you drunk on a Saturday night. I might change my mind.”
“Mmm.… The boss says any man who says he feels like a tree or looks like a tree is sane and probably just a bad poet. Any man who says he is a tree is mad. So I’m wary about saying outright that … I am sane. It’s all relative anyway to the subject and the man investigating him. There are degrees of insanity as there are degrees of physical illness. I make something of a study of them. Well placed, you might say. I was the village schoolmaster and an anti-war firebrand before I decided to save the world from a blood-crazed establishment.”
Francis hesitated, then took courage and spoke firmly: “The maddest man in this whole institution is Chadwick. The superintendent. The only difference between him and the inmates is that he has the key. I know it’s an old joke. This is the one time it’s true.”
Joe broke in. “Francis, listen. We’re not government inspectors. We’re not qualified to even hold up our end in a conversation about psychology or psychiatry or mental illness, let alone give an opinion on a specific case.”
Francis said urgently, “But the lady is!” He turned appealing eyes on Dorcas, and his words came in short bursts. “You told me … when you came … that you studied … psychology. I thought you’d at least listen. None of the other toffee-nosed old hens who visit could give a monkey’s, but you—”
Dorcas took the slopping tea cup from his hand and placed it carefully in the saucer. She kept hold of the hand. “I am listening, Francis. If our conversation is over their heads, these two noodles can just go back to the hall and join in the singsong.”
“No! No! He’s a policeman, isn’t he—the big one? I need him to listen. It’s not about me, miss! I don’t count for anything. I’m not trying to talk myself out of here. It’s the children! No one will ever hear me out when I try to tell them about the children. ‘He’s raving,’ they say and report me to Chadwick. Then I get a beating and lose privileges for a month.”
Joe put down his cup and said carefully: “Go on, Francis. We’re all listening to you.”
“It’s always after dark. They arrive. The Specials. Not like the ordinary admissions. They’re taken up to the you-know-where, and they don’t come out alive. Whatever they do—him and his gorillas—it’s quick at least. I think it’s electricity, but they have bottles of stuff up there as well.”
Joe could hardly breathe. He caught Gosling’s shocked face. He was aware of an urgency in Francis Crabbe, whose eyes went constantly to the mantel clock, and he forced himself to question swiftly, “How frequent, Francis—these arrivals?”
“Irregular. Once or twice a year. One year it was three times. I’ve written them all down in a book. He’s no idea I have it.”
“Good Lord!” Joe said faintly. “Can we get into this room?”
“No. He’s got the key.”
“But Francis, you mentioned it when we came last time, said it was open to view and did we want to take a look,” Dorcas said.
“I wanted you to ask to see it! Make trouble for him. I always have a try when there’s a woman in the inspection group.”