and
all
dashed unattractive … Spotty … Skinny … Goofy … Tubby and Big Ears. I know who they are—saw them playing Snow White’s little helpers in the panto at the Lyceum the other day. And will someone tell me why boys of this age always have such big teeth? Looking at this line-up I’m happy I’ve been blessed with girls. Bonny from the day they were born!”
He looked to his wife for approval, but Lydia glared at him and he plunged deeper into the mire: “You have to take your hats off to these schoolmaster chappies—facing up to serried ranks of brats like this just to earn a crust. Imagine being greeted by this lot on the front row on a Monday morning!” Something in his arrangement caught his attention and he picked out one face and thoughtfully placed it on the extreme left of the line.
“Marcus! You’re being facetious! I thought you’d understood! We don’t know who they are or where they are. These poor little sausages could well be victims of some unspeakable crime. These photos were secreted away in the pocket of a notebook of a dubious character violently done to death almost under the eyes of our Jackie!”
“If you say so, my dear,” Marcus batted on. “Though I don’t see what his death has to do with his photo album. Perhaps he owes the racecourse bookies a bundle? The Brighton gangs are notoriously strict about payment of debts. Leg-breaking andworse goes on! I get some of these cases up before me in the Magistrate’s Court after every big race. Or—more likely—he’s got Matron into trouble and she’s wreaked vengeance on him. Grabbed a tongue depressor and inserted it into a soft part? Something on those lines? I can’t see why you and Joe are making such a song and dance over these. Am I the only one to notice the obvious?”
Marcus collected their enquiring glances and shrugged his shoulders. “The tenth photograph!”
They looked again and counted silently.
“Conspicuous by its absence, you’d say. Hey? No sign here of Joe’s nephew, is there? I search for but I don’t find
his
handsome features in the gallery! If there’s anything going on, your Jackie has nothing to do with it. Not on the menu, I’d say.”
Lydia and Joe exchanged looks.
Married couples, Joe had observed, soon fell into a mutually agreed role-playing arrangement. In this marriage, Lydia was always presented as the clever one, the undervalued mainspring of the family and Marcus her largely ineffectual but indulgent and loving husband. Not all true, Joe considered. He turned to the comfortable figure of Marcus, fair hair glittering with silver in the lamp light, florid features beginning to show the effects of a second brandy. Joe resisted any invitation to patronise or underestimate his brother-in-law. The sharp eyes missed little, the good humour in his remarks often masked a fund of cool common sense.
“So how then, Marcus, would you account for this unusual collection in our victim’s private journal?” Joe appealed to him. “Any theories? Help us out!”
Marcus turned over one of the images. “Oh, right-o. If you like. For a start, they’ve been roughly cut with scissors from a larger print, see here.… And we’re all familiar with this size of head shot. Been taken from the annual class photograph. Youknow—line them up on the first day of term … shoot ’em … and there they are preserved in the amber glow of happy schooldays forever more. The girls have both got their own class photos in their rooms. Compare them for size in the morning if you like.”
Joe nodded encouragement.
“And, if you look on the back, as I just did,” Marcus went on, gaining confidence, “you’ll see something remarkable, which is to say, nothing at all! The girls—and all the children I know—write the name of their classmates on the back. But as you see, nothing here to identify these fellows. I dare say this Rapson knew exactly who was in his collection but was too discreet to
all
dashed unattractive … Spotty … Skinny … Goofy … Tubby and Big Ears. I know who they are—saw them playing Snow White’s little helpers in the panto at the Lyceum the other day. And will someone tell me why boys of this age always have such big teeth? Looking at this line-up I’m happy I’ve been blessed with girls. Bonny from the day they were born!”
He looked to his wife for approval, but Lydia glared at him and he plunged deeper into the mire: “You have to take your hats off to these schoolmaster chappies—facing up to serried ranks of brats like this just to earn a crust. Imagine being greeted by this lot on the front row on a Monday morning!” Something in his arrangement caught his attention and he picked out one face and thoughtfully placed it on the extreme left of the line.
“Marcus! You’re being facetious! I thought you’d understood! We don’t know who they are or where they are. These poor little sausages could well be victims of some unspeakable crime. These photos were secreted away in the pocket of a notebook of a dubious character violently done to death almost under the eyes of our Jackie!”
“If you say so, my dear,” Marcus batted on. “Though I don’t see what his death has to do with his photo album. Perhaps he owes the racecourse bookies a bundle? The Brighton gangs are notoriously strict about payment of debts. Leg-breaking andworse goes on! I get some of these cases up before me in the Magistrate’s Court after every big race. Or—more likely—he’s got Matron into trouble and she’s wreaked vengeance on him. Grabbed a tongue depressor and inserted it into a soft part? Something on those lines? I can’t see why you and Joe are making such a song and dance over these. Am I the only one to notice the obvious?”
Marcus collected their enquiring glances and shrugged his shoulders. “The tenth photograph!”
They looked again and counted silently.
“Conspicuous by its absence, you’d say. Hey? No sign here of Joe’s nephew, is there? I search for but I don’t find
his
handsome features in the gallery! If there’s anything going on, your Jackie has nothing to do with it. Not on the menu, I’d say.”
Lydia and Joe exchanged looks.
Married couples, Joe had observed, soon fell into a mutually agreed role-playing arrangement. In this marriage, Lydia was always presented as the clever one, the undervalued mainspring of the family and Marcus her largely ineffectual but indulgent and loving husband. Not all true, Joe considered. He turned to the comfortable figure of Marcus, fair hair glittering with silver in the lamp light, florid features beginning to show the effects of a second brandy. Joe resisted any invitation to patronise or underestimate his brother-in-law. The sharp eyes missed little, the good humour in his remarks often masked a fund of cool common sense.
“So how then, Marcus, would you account for this unusual collection in our victim’s private journal?” Joe appealed to him. “Any theories? Help us out!”
Marcus turned over one of the images. “Oh, right-o. If you like. For a start, they’ve been roughly cut with scissors from a larger print, see here.… And we’re all familiar with this size of head shot. Been taken from the annual class photograph. Youknow—line them up on the first day of term … shoot ’em … and there they are preserved in the amber glow of happy schooldays forever more. The girls have both got their own class photos in their rooms. Compare them for size in the morning if you like.”
Joe nodded encouragement.
“And, if you look on the back, as I just did,” Marcus went on, gaining confidence, “you’ll see something remarkable, which is to say, nothing at all! The girls—and all the children I know—write the name of their classmates on the back. But as you see, nothing here to identify these fellows. I dare say this Rapson knew exactly who was in his collection but was too discreet to
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