Ribblestrop

  He was through the door. He didn’t notice two sets of filthy footprints over his rug. Nor had he noticed the grime and oil on the children’s faces and clothes, or their zombielike expressions. He needed his lists.

  How many hours had been spent working out quantities of ironmongery, timber, and tools? So many lists, so many orders, all cross-referenced and ready to be checked, item by item. The headmaster was trembling with excitement: the roofing was about to begin.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Lady Vyner looked down at the scene with disgust.

  There was a crane, two flatbeds, and too many support vehicles to count. It was a military assault, and the world was rolling in diesel smoke. They’d laid heavy ramps, and one truck was reversing round the fountain; a high-pitched alarm was wailing over the park. There were two articulated lorries carrying giant triangles, and orphans capered about, their cries floating upward as they leaped on and off the trucks.

  “Pray for an accident,” she muttered. “Fall under a wheel, someone.”

  Every ornament on Lady Vyner’s sideboard was dancing as the crane moved through. When the old woman went to the other side of the room and peered down, there it was in the center of the courtyard. Seconds later its long arm was extending higher and higher, the greased steel flashing in the floodlights.

  “Who is that?” she shouted. “There’s a child on the crane!”

  Caspar looked up in time to see a boy level with the window, waving.

  “Anjoli,” said Caspar. “He’s a show-off, Gran.”

  The boy wore a bright yellow hard hat, and his gray shirt flapped in the breeze. He seemed to skip up the metalwork and then he jumped down to a giant hook that was now swinging over the walls. It lifted him higher.

  Lord Caspar had no interest in the construction project. The only reason he wasn’t in bed was that a very special parcel had arrived the previous day and he’d been working on his own obsession all through the night. He’d ordered a length of high-tension cord from an archery specialist in London and it had finally arrived. There it was, on the table in front of him, long and rubbery. Next to it were the components of an ancient crossbow. He’d been restoring it for eleven weeks, ever since he’d lost his flintlock pistol to Millie. Bolts, pins, washers, timber sections, and metal rings: he’d cleaned and greased them all. He’d assembled and disassembled them; he’d rebored holes and regrooved channels. He’d fashioned a new trigger from an old coffeepot, and he’d sharpened three beautiful arrows that he’d found his gran using as backscratchers. He trimmed the cord with a razor and now he stretched it across the arms of the bow. He didn’t notice the walls and floor shaking around him, not even when glasses smashed in the kitchen.

  Caspar was ready for Millie; round two was approaching.

  *

  It took fifteen minutes to get the trusses in, then an hour to move the pallets of slate. With sixteen willing helpers, every piece of kit was in position by breakfast time. The drivers got their papers signed and piled into their trucks. They’d never seen a team like it; the children had terrified them and they were pleased to speed off out of the park. As day broke, the line of children worked, singing. Arc lights went up. A storage hut was hauled onto an earth platform and hooked up to power. Henry dragged in a cart laden with scaffolding boards, and soon the flat earth was duckboarded and a couple of narrow towers were tied into the walls. Everyone was hard-hatted and overalled, and all wore boots.

  “Clarissa, are you down there?”

  The children looked up and saw the headmaster at his study window. “We need to get the first truss up right away, so we need everyone on scaffolding. Routon suggests bracing it from about where you’re standing. I’ve got to have a little chat with Miss Hazlitt about this briefcase business, so I wonder if you could supervise the block-and-tackle. Millie? Can you and Sanjay sink a tent peg, just where you’re standing? Then we’ll throw a line down to you and use that as a cantilever. The first truss is the hardest!”

  The tent peg he had in mind turned out to be a five-foot iron stanchion. It was so heavy the two children could hardly lift it. If it really was a tent peg it would have also anchored a boat. Several orphans assisted and Israel got to work with the sledgehammer. He sat up on Sanjay’s shoulders as he swung it, smashing the top of the peg with such force sparks were struck from the metal. When it was in, Henry attached a rope and the end was flung up to little Anjoli who was still on the crane hook. He wore a headset and gave instructions to Professor Worthington, who was back at the controls.

  Around her, the scaffolding was going up. This was bamboo, and the orphans had had enormous fun practicing their pole-vaulting skills. Several bundles had been lying ready for days, and the long poles were so bendy they could send a child up as high as the headmaster’s study window. Under Asilah’s supervision, the poles were now lashed together into quadrilaterals. Captain Routon took a ten-minute geometry class, making various observations about angles, and there was a short delay because one of the smallest orphans had trouble understanding the concept of congruence. After that, the scaffolding rose quickly.

  “Sanchez, we need to talk,” said Millie.

  “I know,” said Sanchez. “But I don’t know what to say. I’m thinking and thinking, and the plain fact is I don’t know what to do. We didn’t get any evidence.”

  “I know.”

  “We need to go down again, don’t we? We need to photograph the place, or film them in action.”

  “We need to look for Tomaz!”

  “I know, and we need a meeting. We need to tell everyone what we’ve seen. If we get everyone together, tonight—”

  There was an enormous cheer as she spoke and a howl of engine noise. Both children swung round and saw the crane juddering into life, its wheels spinning. The air seemed to go hot in waves, and then the gearbox burst in a series of gunshots. Professor Worthington was at the controls, reversing into position.

  “Sanchez, I’ve just had an idea!” shouted Millie. The great hook swayed over them all and Israel directed it down. “Why don’t we find out who rents that place? Surely we can find out who’s in charge.”

  “How?” yelled Sanchez.

  “Lady Vyner!” cried Millie. She put her mouth close to Sanchez’s ear. “I should have thought of it before. She must know her own tenants, so she must know who Jarman is! We’ll find out the background!”

  “Okay,” shouted Sanchez. It was his turn to yell into Millie’s ear. “But she’s not going to tell us anything. She might be in on the whole thing.”

  “Send Sam,” cried Millie.

  “What?”

  “Send. Sam. I’m serious! It’s a brilliant idea. He looks harmless. Send him in with a bottle of booze. Get her drunk. Get him to ask a load of questions. We’ll talk later, my voice is hurting!”

  They stepped back out of the fumes in time to see Anjoli lean down from the crane’s hook. Smaller boys were passing him a canvas sling on bamboos, which he attached and pushed on to Henry, who supported the first roof truss. Knots were tied and Anjoli put his thumbs up. Asilah radioed Professor Worthington and suddenly the gigantic triangle was floating upward, rising to the mansion walls.

  To see the great beam bridging what had been, for so long, an open, burnt-out space was an emotional moment for all. The timber peak soared upward like a spire and traced the line the roof would take. The headmaster found his eyes were blurred with tears. He saw Anjoli run up to the top, like a barechested angel. He received the bracing rod, tied it off quickly with a black-and-gold tie, and saluted again. Israel lit good-luck crackers and there was a volley of triumphant explosions.

  So the trusses rose; timbers braced and connected them and before lunchtime all eighteen were in position. The carpentry team started work on windows. The masonry squad, under the personal supervision of Captain Routon, were sealing the beams in place. Four hip rafters were slotted in, fitting perfectly, and there was the rib cage of the roof ready for batons and slates. The cathedr
al was rising.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  What was Miss Hazlitt doing?

  She was sitting at her desk staring at her hands. Her briefcase had not reappeared and that was making her sweat. The incessant hammering was making her head ache and she was starting to twitch. She had closed the window on the headmaster and now she looked hard at the telephone, getting her thoughts and her plans in careful order. She hadn’t slept for three nights. It was Ruskin and Sanchez who’d been out in the grounds—she’d watched the surveillance footage. There had been a third figure too, moving in the darkness, and that had to be Millie. She’d called Selfridges and described the fur coat. They had positively identified it, priced it, and the price coincided with one of her credit card bills. It was evidence and it proved what she’d known all along. Now, when she thought about what was at stake, the pressure felt physical. The eradication of Millie was urgent.

  It was midmorning when she took the inspector’s call.

  “We’ve got problems,” he said.

  “I know we’ve got problems. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Did you find your briefcase?”

  “No. There were three children out last night. I have been trying to discuss it with our headmaster and I’m getting nowhere. I don’t know where they went, it may have been a drunken—”

  “Wait a moment, listen.”

  “What?”

  The inspector paused. “Are you ready for this? We found a tie. First thing this morning when we were tidying up. A school tie, black and gold.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Traces of blood, chewed at the end. It was holding up the cover to an extractor fan, out in the tunnel. It wasn’t there yesterday.”

  Miss Hazlitt said nothing, but her heartbeat increased. “Have you looked at the tie? You should find that every school tie has a name tag.”

  “Well, I’m ahead of you there, sir. My training as a police officer stood me in good stead, because that was just what I looked for first.”

  “And? Millie Roads?”

  “Our investigator-cum-thief. She took the rabbit, and I think she took your briefcase. Sanchez and Ruskin were probably the watchmen. We looked at the venting system and there’re nuts and bolts strewn all over the place. It’s a confident entry: second visit, no doubt about it. What do you want to do?”

  Miss Hazlitt thought hard. “Right now,” she said, “I’m not sure I want to do anything. She’s outside, working, and she’s not going anywhere. She’s not trying to make telephone calls and I doubt if she knows what to do herself.”

  “She must have told someone by now. We can’t turn a blind eye to two mistakes, can we? We’re going to have to do something, specially if the boy’s ready. What was in the briefcase, dare I ask?”

  “I’ll deal with her. I’ll sort it out.”

  “How? What was in the briefcase, was it important?”

  Miss Hazlitt dropped her voice to a whisper. “The boy’s medical records—all his scans and an outline of phase two. If she’s the intelligence to understand it, and if she’s had time to read it, then—”

  “She’s a bright girl. She’ll get there.”

  “Who’s going to believe her, Cuthbertson? She’s known to be a liar and an attention seeker, what on earth is she likely to say? If she phones the police, she’ll end up talking to you.”

  “If she’s got the medical records, she’s got evidence.”

  “I realize that—”

  “If we postpone again, they’ll drop you. You could see how twitchy some of them were—where the hell did you leave the damn thing?”

  “I was getting changed—”

  “We promised Sir Peter total—total—security, that was what we guaranteed. I am so on the line on this one.”

  “Shut up, Cuthbertson! You’re very rich on this one, as well, and likely to get richer. We won’t need to postpone and we are secure. I’ll sort the girl and I’ll find the wretched briefcase. You’ve got the boy to think about.”

  “Listen,” said the inspector. He spoke in an even lower voice. “If the kids are building a roof, why don’t you organize a little accident? If she had a fall—”

  “I’ve thought of that! I am not a fool, and the last thing I need—”

  “If she had a fall, we could bring another prosecution. For negligence, and . . . listen—that would tie in with everything you’ve been documenting. The man’s on borrowed time already; a fatal accident would destroy him, and Routon would be out on his ear as well.”

  Miss Hazlitt thought hard, gritting her teeth. The line remained silent as the two adults breathed at each other. Then Miss Hazlitt said: “I’ve got a better idea. She’s a smoker and she sleeps in a shed. I think we wait until lights-out. I think she might have a little fire.”

  “I warned her about fires . . .”

  “She does like lighting them. How awful if the door to the shed was jammed shut. If she just couldn’t get out in time.”

  “We can still bring the prosecution. It’s still criminal negligence, so he’s out; you’re in. You’ll also call the police, which gives me a very nice excuse to be on the premises just when I need to be. What time for the boy, is that double-checked?”

  “Half past eight, Routon doesn’t change his schedules.”

  “Kitchens, yes? He’ll be alone?”

  “I just told you. I’ve put his name in the rota—they don’t miss their turns, it’s a point of honor for them.”

  “I don’t know their names, what if there’s two?”

  “Relax, man, there won’t be! He’s got long hair and he’ll be on his own. It takes about thirty minutes and his name’s Anjoli—he’ll be just where I showed you. One sniff, all right?”

  “All right!”

  “That’s all he’ll need, he’s tiny. I need him conscious, you understand that?”

  Miss Hazlitt put down the receiver, breathing hard. She stood and walked to the window. There was Millie, tieless in her overalls. She was talking earnestly with the little bald boy, Sam—innocent after all. She could see the precious Anjoli too, up on a roof truss, wearing only his shorts. His tool belt looked heavier than he did and his hair was fluttering like a flag. The headmaster had a hammer and was bashing away at something; Routon and Worthington were stretching a chalk line between them, inching up the trusses. Everyone distracted, everyone at work . . . how easy it would be, if the team kept its nerve.

  Timing was important—she ought to double-check that. They’d eat at about eight, and she knew it was a pizza night. Anjoli would be clearing up from, what? Eight forty . . . nine o’clock at the latest? So having worked for eighteen hours they’d be asleep by ten. She had a spare can of gas in her Land Cruiser, and nobody would be surprised if there turned out to be a bottle in the girl’s shed. Once the fire was going, it would spill—the place would go like a bomb. The crucial thing was to wedge the door shut and get good burnable rubbish, with an airflow, underneath—she could do that now. Then if she raised the alarm, it would make the headmaster seem even more incompetent. There’d be fire crews, ambulances, the rush to casualty . . . Little Anjoli might not even be missed. Allowing for new scans, and recalculations, she would need six hours in the chair. The injections took twenty minutes each, but you had to leave time for the skull to cool. She could have him back in his bed by seven in the morning, if there were no complications.

  The first boy, reconfigured. A loathsome child, reborn.

  There he was, saluting again! Millie’s little helper. She was longing to see that smile removed from his face.

  How steady were her hands? She stretched out her fingers and noted they were absolutely still.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Sam had not welcomed his mission. He had wanted to join the carpentry team that, after lunch, had fanned out over the roof like an army. The hammering was like machine-gun fire. Sam longed to be involved, but with a bandaged leg, concussion, and double vision, his balance was less than perfec
t. He had been forced to agree with Millie that so far, he had done very little to make a name for himself at Ribblestrop Towers. Two goals in the soccer game, but his team had lost. He’d lent his toothbrush, but he couldn’t claim any glory for that as he hadn’t known it was being borrowed. Ruskin had acted as watchman while Sam slept, and seemed to be staying mute under interrogation. Sam’s life at the school so far had really been one long list of injuries sustained. Surely, said Millie, it was time he took the initiative and did something brave.

  “I’ll try,” he said. “But I bet I don’t get through the door—she won’t even talk to me!”

  “You take her some rum. You smile.”

  “I haven’t got a bottle of rum!”

  “Oh, Sam, don’t be wet! You know where we get them.”

  “I know where we get them, but it’s stealing, Millie. I want to do my bit, but I’ve been in enough trouble over that toothbrush, which you said you’d give back . . .”

  “You are borrowing a bottle, not stealing. It’s for a very important reason. Now straighten your tie . . .”

  “I need a cap.”

  “You don’t need a cap. You look geeky enough if you tuck your shirt in; come here . . .”

  Millie spat on a piece of rag and wiped Sam’s face. A tuft of hair was growing back, so she flattened it over his scalp. She buttoned up his blazer and Sam stood up straight, hands behind his back.

  “Are you scared?” said Millie.

  “Yes.”

  “You can do it, Sam. Think of this as a mission. We want to know everything you can find out about the basement.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  *

  Captain Routon’s rum store was under the flight of stairs that led to the headmaster’s office. Sam pushed a bottle into his pocket and moved quickly down the corridor to the south tower. One hundred and fifty-two steps later, he was putting on his nicest smile and knocking.