Dance of Death (3 page)

Marmion turned the photograph over and read out the inscription.

‘The new Vernon Castle.’

‘That means nothing to me.’

‘Then you obviously have no interest in ballroom dancing, sir,’ said
Marmion. ‘Vernon and Irene Castle are American dancers – the best in the world, in fact, or so it is claimed. They’ve created all kinds of new dances, including the Castle Walk. Their book on modern dance is a bible for anyone interested in the subject.’

Chatfield sniffed. ‘That excludes me, I can assure you. Mrs Chatfield and I have no predilection for dancing of any kind. I’m surprised to find that you do.’

‘My wife and I are very fond of dancing,’ said Marmion, wistfully. ‘The problem is that I chose a job that leaves us very little time to enjoy it. There’s an irony in that, isn’t there?’ He studied the photograph then turned it over again. ‘But you’re right about the extent of his social circle. This was taken at the Wilder Dance Studio. If he’s good enough to be compared to Vernon Castle, he’s going to have a vast number of pupils. But that shouldn’t deter us, Superintendent.’

‘Why not?’

‘The overwhelming majority of them will be female.’ He gave the photograph back to Chatfield. ‘And we’re looking for a man.’

Ellen Marmion never knew what time her son would get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes he didn’t come downstairs until well into the afternoon, yet, on other occasions, she’d heard him get up in the middle of the night and raid the kitchen in search of food. Paul’s unpredictability was only one of the problems she faced. Chief among the many others was his sudden change of moods. He would shuttle freely between hope and despair, making ambitious plans for his future before deciding that he might not actually have one. It was dispiriting. Glad to have him home again, with no serious wounds to his body, Ellen struggled to cope with his capriciousness. When he’d joined the army with the rest of his football team, Paul had been a bright, lively, determined, extrovert character with unassailable buoyancy. That was the young man his mother had sent off to France. What she got back from the battle of the Somme was a blinded soldier obsessed with war and tortured by guilt that he’d survived when so many of his friends had perished. His liveliness had given way to inertia and his optimism had, more often than not, been replaced by a sense of desolation.

As he chewed his way through breakfast that morning, he was in a
world of his own. Ellen knew better than to interrupt him. She waited until he was ready to initiate conversation.

‘Oh, hello,’ he said, looking up as if aware of her for the first time. ‘I heard the phone go off in the night.’

‘It was for your father.’

‘That means only one thing.’

‘Yes,’ said Ellen resignedly, ‘there’s been another murder.’

Paul was bitter. ‘One person gets killed over here,’ he argued, ‘and the whole of the Metropolitan Police are after the person responsible. Thousands of British soldiers are murdered every day in France yet all we can do is to send thousands more to their deaths. It’s not fair.’

‘No, Paul, it isn’t.’

‘Somebody ought to do something about it.’

Ellen nodded in agreement because it was the safest thing to do. On the previous day, convinced that he would regain his sight completely, Paul had talked about going back to the front to join his regiment. He was pursuing a different theme now. As he ranted on about the folly of war, his mother gave him free rein, trying to humour him, afraid to contradict. It was only when he finally came to the end of his tirade that she dared to speak again.

‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked.

‘I feel fine in myself, Mummy.’

‘What about your eyes?’

‘If anything,’ he replied, producing a semblance of a smile, ‘there’s been a slight improvement. I can shave without cutting myself now. The doctors did say that I might recover full sight one day. I’m sure they’re right. I’m counting on it. I’ll be able to go back, after all.’

‘No, Paul,’ she said in alarm, ‘you mustn’t do that.’

‘It’s my duty.’

‘You’ve already done that by volunteering.’

‘I can’t let my friends down, Mummy. They’d expect it of me.’

‘Remember what they told you at the hospital. Shell shock can stay almost indefinitely. You’re in no state even to think about going back to France.’

‘I’m not a coward,’ he declared, stiffening.

‘Nobody says that you are, Paul. You’re a wounded hero and you must accept that. You’ve done more than your bit. You’re entitled to stay out of the war.’

‘I could never do that. I think of nothing else.’

‘You mustn’t let it prey on your mind.’

‘I can’t just forget it,’ he said with mounting anger. ‘You saw what the Germans did to me. I was lucky to survive. I feel that I was kept alive for a purpose and I know what that purpose is. When I can see perfectly well, I’m going back to get my revenge on those bastards.’

Ellen flinched. ‘Mind your language, please!’

‘Well, that’s what they are.’

‘I’m sure it’s what you call them when you’re with your friends,’ she said, raising her voice, ‘but you’re not in the trenches now, so we don’t want words like that in the house, thank you very much.’

Paul looked bemused. ‘What did I say?’

‘You know full well what you said. Your father is dealing with criminals all the time so he probably hears foul language every day but he never brings that language home. If you must swear, do it somewhere else.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

‘We’ve had to make a lot of allowances since you came back but there are some things we just won’t put up with. Do you understand?’

While Paul was surprised at the admonition in her voice, Ellen was
even more so. She hadn’t realised how much anger had been bottled up inside her. Before she could stop herself, it had come gushing out. She was a motherly woman of middle years with a spreading midriff and greying hair. Ellen was not sure if she should apologise for her outburst or wait to see its effect on her son. As it was, Paul seemed too stunned to speak. His mother had been so amazingly tolerant since his return that he’d been taken unawares by her sharpness.

Each of them was still wondering what to do or say when they heard the letter box click open and shut. Ellen was glad of the excuse to leave the kitchen.

‘There’s the post,’ she said.

She rushed to the front door, picked up the mail and brought it back into the room. There were only two letters. One was addressed to her husband and the other one was for Paul.

‘It’s for you,’ she said, holding it out.

He snatched it from her. ‘It must be from my regiment.’

‘I don’t think so, Paul. That looks like a woman’s handwriting.’

He tore the letter open and peered at it through narrowed lids. After struggling to make out the words, he eventually gave up and slapped it down on the table. Ellen was sympathetic. She sat down beside him and picked up the letter.

‘Shall I read it to you?’

Paul was frustrated. ‘My eyesight should be better by now!’

‘It will be – in due course.’

‘I ought to be able to read properly.’ He took a deep breath to compose himself, then gave a nod. ‘Yes, please – if you would.’

‘It’s from someone called Mavis Tandy.’

‘Why is she writing to me?’

‘I daresay that she’ll tell you in the letter.’

‘How did Mavis know that I’d be here?’

‘Perhaps she’ll explain. You know who she is, then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I heard about Mavis.’

‘You’ve never mentioned her before, Paul.’

‘Why should I? I haven’t even met her. Mavis was
his
friend.’

It was Marmion’s turn to take the lead. Whenever they viewed a body at the morgue, he drew strength from the sergeant’s experience of dealing with death. The breaking of bad news was a different matter. The inspector was infinitely better at dealing with bereaved families, more sensitive, more soothing and less likely to say anything out of place. As they stood outside the house in Chingford, Keedy was glad to hand over the task of passing on the sad tidings to the victim’s wife. After ringing the bell, they were kept waiting for a full minute and wondered if nobody was at home. The door was then opened by a short, skinny woman in her fifties with spectacles perched on her nose. After the detectives had introduced themselves, she explained that she was Grace Chambers, next-door neighbour of the Wilders.

‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’ she whispered.

Marmion’s expression was blank. ‘Is Mrs Wilder at home?’

‘Yes, I’ve been sitting with her since she got back from the police station.’ She stood aside to admit them. ‘You’d better come in.’

They entered the house and were conducted to the living room, a large, well-furnished and well-proportioned space. They had no chance to notice the plethora of framed photographs and the collection of silver cups in the glass-fronted cabinet because Catherine Wilder leapt up from the sofa in alarm. After performing introductions, Marmion spoke softly.

‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down again, Mrs Wilder.’

‘Yes,’ said Grace, taking her cue and easing the other woman back down on the sofa. ‘I’ll sit with you, Catherine.’

Holding their hats in their hands, the detectives sat in the armchairs opposite. Marmion made a swift assessment of the victim’s widow. She had the frightened eyes of someone expecting to hear something terrible. For his part, Keedy was looking at Grace Chambers, clearly nervous but exuding sympathy. He was grateful that the neighbour was there.

‘When you reported that your husband was missing,’ said Marmion, ‘the information was passed on to Scotland Yard. As it happens, we had an unidentified body …’ He paused as Catherine tensed and Grace put a consoling arm around her. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that the photograph you sent has convinced us that the deceased is almost certainly Mr Wilder.’

‘Simon is
dead
?’ gasped Catherine.

‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Wilder.’

‘But how did he die – and where did it happen? Was he knocked over by a car or a bus? It couldn’t have been a heart attack or anything like that. Simon was in the best of health. How was he killed?’

Marmion traded a glance with Keedy then lowered his voice even more.

‘I regret to say that your husband was … murdered.’

‘Murdered!’ exclaimed Catherine, one hand to her throat. ‘There must be some mistake, Inspector. Who could possibly want to murder Simon?’

‘It will be our job to find out, Mrs Wilder.’

‘Are you absolutely
sure
that it was my husband?’

‘All the evidence points that way, I’m afraid.’

‘Did you find the business cards he carried in his wallet or see his
name on the watch I had engraved for him?’ He shook his head. ‘Then it can’t have been him,’ she decided. ‘Simon had documents with him. Each one of them bore his name.’

‘They were deliberately stolen by the killer, Mrs Wilder. There was no form of identification on him. Even his wedding ring had been removed.’

The spark of hope that had momentarily ignited her face was cruelly snuffed out. As she sagged back on the sofa, Catherine didn’t even feel her neighbour’s arm tighten around her. She was still reeling from the impact of the news. The detectives waited in silence. It gave them the opportunity to look around the room and see how many of the photographs featured Simon Wilder and his wife on a dance floor. After a couple of minutes, Catherine gathered up enough strength to speak.

‘I want to see him,’ she said. ‘I want to be certain that it’s Simon.’

‘I wouldn’t advise that, Mrs Wilder,’ said Marmion.

‘Why not? He’s my husband. I have a right.’

‘Indeed, you do, and a positive identification from a family member would be very helpful to us. But there are distressing circumstances here. I would hate you to see your husband in that condition.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He suffered appalling injuries, Mrs Wilder.’

Grace was curious. ‘What sort of injuries, Inspector?’

‘He was not simply stabbed to death …’

There was a long and very awkward pause. Keedy broke the silence.

‘He was not simply stabbed to death,’ he said, quietly. ‘Mr Wilder was badly mutilated.’

Catherine heard no more. Mouth agape, she fainted.

‘Why do they call her Gale Force?’ asked Iris Goodliffe.

‘You’ll soon find that out.’

‘She was very nice to me when I first met her.’

‘Wait until you step out of line,’ warned Alice Marmion. ‘Then you’ll find yourself in the middle of a howling gale. When the inspector loses her temper, we all run for cover.’

‘Oh dear, is she that much of a tyrant?’

‘Not really, Iris. She’s a good-hearted woman who does a difficult job very well but she doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Watch your step. That’s my advice.’

‘Thank you, Alice.’

Out on patrol, they were walking side by side down a long street. It was Alice who collected the few curious glances from passing men. A window cleaner even winked at her and lifted his cap. To her dismay, Iris didn’t attract any attention. She was there to learn from her companion and found her a mine of information. After being plied with dozens of questions, Alice asked one of her own.

‘Why did you choose the police?’ she asked. ‘With your background in pharmacy, the obvious place for you to go was into nursing.’

‘I was tempted.’

‘What changed your mind?’

‘It was what happened to my father,’ explained the other. ‘We lived above the shop, you see. Someone broke in one night and tried to steal drugs of some kind. My father went down to confront him. Instead of just running away, the thief gave my father a terrible beating. He was off work for a month. I had this terrible sense of helplessness, Alice,’ she went on. ‘I should have been able to go to my father’s aid but I was just cowering upstairs. That’s the real reason I joined the police. I want to learn how to cope with situations like that. To put it more bluntly,
I suppose I want to be toughened up.’ She turned to Alice. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

‘It makes a lot of sense – and it reminds me of my own father.’

‘Oh – why is that?’

‘Daddy never intended to become a policeman,’ said Alice. ‘He was happy working in the civil service. He and Mummy had a very different life in those days. But my grandfather was in the Metropolitan Police. Then he was murdered on duty one night and it changed Daddy’s life. He wouldn’t rest until the man was caught. When the police were unable to find the killer, my father pursued him across the Channel and caught up with him in France. He dragged him back here to face justice and he’s been a copper ever since.’

‘You must be very proud of him, Alice.’

‘I am.’

‘What did your mother think when he joined the force?’

‘I think she preferred living with a civil servant.’

‘But that would be so dull and uneventful.’

‘Mummy always says that it would be better than having a husband who’s on call twenty-four hours of the day and who has to court danger every time he goes in pursuit of a killer. Daddy makes light of the dangers. It’s all part of the job to him and he accepts that without complaint.’

‘Are you an only child?’

‘No, I have a brother. Paul is at home at the moment.’

‘Hasn’t he been conscripted?’