“Jackie,” said Joe, “it’s all right. I’m here. You’re safe. Of course you gave him a push. It sounds as if it was very frightening. So what happened?”
“He fell! He fell backwards down the stairs all the way to the bottom and he sort of crumpled and rolled over. He landed on his front. He looked broken up. Like Humpty Dumpty. All his arms and legs were sticking out. I knew I ought to go to him and I made myself climb down the stairs after him. I tried to turn him over to see if he was still breathing. But he was too heavy. I couldn’t move him. I couldn’t hear anything so I put my ear to his chest to see if his heart was still beating but … Uncle Joe, he was dead! When I touched his jacket my hands got all sticky!”
Jackie held his hands out, his eyes wide with horror at the memory. “His front was sopping wet. I thought he’d been out in the snow and got wet through but it was blood! He was dead and all bloody! I’d killed him! I’d pushed him down the stairs and killed him! Broken his neck? I don’t know. People do break their necks when they fall downstairs, don’t they?”
“Well, yes, they do,” said Joe, “but I don’t think that can be what happened to Rappo.”
Lydia edged back into the room with a tray. “Here we are!” she said in the cheery tone of one bearing cocoa and ginger biscuits. “I floated some cream on top as they do in Vienna. Thought we all deserved a treat. Do go on. I heard what you were saying, Jackie. Poor old thing! What a dreadful experience!”
“Thank you, Auntie Lydia.” He sipped and gave a shaky smile. “Well you see, then I thought: Now I really am in trouble! They’ll all know I’ve killed Rappo! I must run way. Bring my plans forwards, you could say. So I ran to the cloakroom and washed my hands, then I got my cycling cape and put my bag round my shoulder. It was about a quarter to seven and I thought if I hurried I could catch the seven o’clock train—the train to London—and come to you.”
“Jackie, I’m very glad you’re here, but why me?”
“Well,” said Jackie, “There was Uncle Dougal in Scotland but I hadn’t enough money for the fare, and the aunts in Brighton but they’d soon catch up with me in Brighton. And there are people in Camberley but I don’t really know them and then at the end of the letter Mum gave me—I’ve got it here.…” he said and went to feel in the pocket of his cycling cape. “Here you are, you see, here are the telephone numbers and addresses and at the end—look.…”
He handed the much crumpled paper list to Joe, who read it and passed it on to Lydia. The list of names concluded: In emergency only, Joe Sandilands, 2, Reach House, Chelsea, London. Flaxman 8891. Uncle Joe is a policeman. He will take care of you.
“That’s not Mummy’s writing,” said Joe, puzzled.
“No,” said Jackie, “it’s Dad’s. He added you just when I was saying goodbye to him. I’m glad he did!”
“Yes, by God!” said Joe. “I’m glad he did too! I don’t like to think of you loose in London without a bean.”
Jackie sat between them on the sofa, empty mug in his hand, blinking owlishly from one to the other.
“I think that’s enough,” said Lydia. “Come and see the bed I’ve made up for you. Quite cozy, you’ll find. I’ll tuck you in.”
“Will I be by myself, Auntie?”
“Yes. In splendour and state. Well, not much splendour—it’s only a box room. But there won’t be twenty other boys fussing about to keep you awake.”
“Lydia,” Joe called after her, and then, hesitantly: “I think you’ve misunderstood. He mightn’t want to be alone … nightmares and all that. If you look in the bottom drawer of the pine chest, you’ll find something you’ll recognise. You can offer it to Jackie. It may help.”
“Go and climb into bed, Jackie. I’ll be with you in a minute.… What are you on about, Joe?”
“Hector. You can give him Hector.” He frowned to hear her peal of laughter.
“Your disgusting old horse? He was declared unhygienic and mother threw him out years ago. Anyway,” she whispered, “the boy’s nearly ten. I don’t want to insult him.”
“Do it anyway, Lydia.”
Joe sat and listened for a while to the soft voices coming through from the box room, first Lydia then Jackie in reply. There was a shared laugh. Probably greeting Hector’s appearance. These were the most natural of sounds, friendly and domestic. Impossible to believe that there was a bloody background to these moments of peace, hard to believe that they sat in the outfall of manslaughter at the very least.
“Well, Joe,” said Lydia when she returned, “what now? Worked out your next move, have you?”
“Yes, my immediate next move, said Joe, “but beyond that I can’t see. My next move has to be to ring up this wretched school. I should have done it hours ago but this has been rather a precious moment for me and I didn’t want policemen clumping all over the place. Or headmasters. I didn’t want Jackie to be in any kind of trouble whatever and we can keep him safe and warm and fed here. I even had a sort of mad idea that he might go back home with you for a bit at least. Was that so daft?”
“Well I have to say I think it was a bit daft. Of course he’d be totally welcome and for as long as you can manage—you know that. But there are others involved, aren’t there?”
“Quite a few,” said Joe. “Quite a few.”
He picked up the phone and dialled directory enquiries. Lydia heard him say in a very police voice, “St. Magnus School, Sussex please.” And after the delay, “St. Magnus School? Please put me through to someone in authority.” And then, “My name is Sandilands. I’d like to know to whom I am speaking.… This is important and confidential. I would prefer to speak to the headmaster. You may tell him it concerns a boy of his. Jack Drummond.”
Almost at once a worried and angry voice: “Hullo? Hullo? You have something to tell me about Drummond? Do you know where he is? I say, do you know where he is? And, incidentally, who are you? Are you saying you’ve got Jack Drummond there? How did this happen?” The voice was anxious, hostile. “The police are looking for him you know.”
“I didn’t know but I thought it was possible. But I need to know who I’m speaking to—is that the headmaster?”
“Yes. Farman here. Where are you speaking from?”
Carefully and succinctly Joe gave his name, address and telephone number.
“London! How the hell did he get there?” said Farman, clearly not in any way reassured. “Who’s holding him?”
“No one’s holding him,” said Joe. “He’s in my care.”
“What’s it got to do with you? How did you get in on this?”
Patiently Joe explained. “Mr. and Mrs. Drummond gave Jackie my name and address as a contact if he was in any sort of trouble. I met him at Victoria Station and brought him back to my flat here. I’ve fed him and he’s now in bed. I do not want him disturbed or worried in any way tonight. He’s obviously been through an alarming experience. Now—you said the police were looking for him. Can you explain to me why?”
“There’s been a bit of … an accident here. It is apparent that Drummond was in some way involved. The police need to interview him. Perhaps you’d better speak to them. Come back to me when you’ve finished—we must arrange for Drummond’s return as soon as possible. I consider that of paramount importance. I am, after all, in loco parentis.”
“And, by the same token,” said Joe, “I find myself in loco patris.” He delivered the invention with all the gravitas of a lawyer. “Which is to say, the boy has been transferred to my care, in writing, by Andrew Drummond. I have the document to hand. I have assumed paternal responsibility for him.”