Instrument of Slaughter (11 page)

‘You’re right, Perce,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’d never admit this to Nancy but I can’t mourn him the way that she can. It’s something to do with his beliefs. Cyril is not the only conchie in the country. There are far too many of the buggers. Women hand out white feathers and you sometimes read stories in the papers about conchies being thrown in a pond or beaten up. It’s happening everywhere.’

Fry was terse. ‘Got no sympathy for them, Jack.’

‘Neither have I – they asked for it.’

‘But I’m very sorry about Cyril. I understand people turning on a conchie but there’s a limit. Murder is going too far.’

‘That’s what I think. It’s a dreadful crime. You wouldn’t want your worst enemy to be battered to death like that.’ Dalley was bewildered. ‘So why don’t I feel like the others? Is there something wrong with me, Perce?’ he asked with concern. ‘Am I being cruel? Why – God forgive me – am I almost relieved that he’s dead?’

Hannah Billington had committed herself fully to the work of the WEC. She was unfailingly generous with her time and money. At the end of a long day, she was always willing to use her own car as a taxi, driving her colleagues home no matter how far it took her out of her way. It was Alice Marmion and Vera Dowling who were given a lift this time. They were quick to accept the offer. Travelling home after dark could sometimes have unexpected hazards. Relaxed in Hannah’s company, Alice was as chatty as ever but her friend was silent for most of the journey. Seated in the back of the vehicle, Vera lacked the confidence to take a full part in the conversation. She was the first to be dropped off. When the car started off again, Hannah turned to her passenger.

‘I must say that you make an odd couple,’ she observed.

‘Really – in what way?’

‘You’re so forthright and Vera is so reserved. The poor girl wouldn’t say boo to a goose, whereas you’d be capable of wringing its neck and roasting it for supper.’

Alice grinned. ‘I’m not sure about that, Hannah.’

‘But you take my point.’

‘I think so.’

‘It must be a case of attraction of opposites.’

‘Vera is not as shy as she looks. If you want the truth, she was the one who first suggested that we should give up our jobs and join the WEC. It’s just that she feels rather cowed by you.’

‘Why?’ asked Hannah with a laugh. ‘Am I that intimidating?’

‘You are to Vera.’

‘And do I unsettle you as well?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Alice. ‘I admire the way you run things. You’ve got so much energy and you know how to organise people.’

‘I do my best.’

‘The WEC is very different from what either of us expected. People
kept telling us that it would be full of suffragettes who’d try to convert us, but it’s not like that at all. All sorts of people have joined.’

‘Yes, that’s right – everyone from domestic servants to members of the peerage. Many of us do believe in equal rights for women but we don’t ram it down people’s throats. Also, of course,’ said Hannah, ‘the militant suffragettes have suspended their campaign until the war is over. They don’t need to break windows in Oxford Street when German bombs will do the job for them.’

‘What will happen when the war is over?’

‘Who can say? One would like to think that the government will show some appreciation for the work that women have done. We’ve proved that we can do even the most onerous and dangerous jobs. The least reward that we deserve,’ insisted Hannah, taking the car around a sharp bend, ‘is a say in the way this country is run.’

‘You ought to be a Member of Parliament.’

‘Oh, I don’t have any ambitions in that direction, Alice.’

‘You’d really stir things up there.’

‘I’d be bored to tears, spending so much time with all those men.’ She peered through the windscreen. ‘I’ve been here before but I can’t quite remember how. Am I going the right way?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘it’s the next left then the second on the right. It’s so kind of you to give us both a lift home.’

‘You worked hard today. You deserve a reward.’

‘Thank you.’

Following the directions, Hannah drove on into the street where Alice lived and brought the vehicle to a grinding halt. She looked up at the house.

‘Do you like it here?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I would have thought that you’d share with Vera.’

Alice was tactful. ‘That would never have worked,’ she said. ‘We’re much better off apart. Vera’s just a friend. We’re not Siamese twins.’

Hannah laughed and turned to her. Alice had the impression that she wanted to be asked in but it was late and, in any case, her landlady discouraged even female visitors after a certain time. She was about to get out of the vehicle when Hannah put a hand on her arm.

‘Have you heard from your brother recently?’ she asked.

‘No – we haven’t had a letter from Paul for weeks.’

‘My husband is stationed near the Somme. I get nothing but complaints in his letters. I daren’t tell him about his clubhouse.’ She released Alice’s arm. ‘Don’t marry a soldier, Alice.’

Alice was amused. ‘I’m not thinking of marrying anyone at the moment.’

‘With a face like yours, you’ll never be short of offers.’

‘While the war’s on, the WEC comes first.’

‘That makes two of us,’ said Hannah. ‘You go off and get a good night’s sleep while I see if I can find my way home. Goodbye, Alice.’

‘Goodbye – and thanks again!’

Getting out of the car, Alice waved her off and waited until the car was chugging down the street. Then she ran up the path and used her latchkey to let herself into the house. Any letters that came for the tenants were left on the gatelegged table in the hall. Alice crossed over to it but there was nothing waiting for her.

‘Damn!’ she exclaimed under her breath.

Ellen Marmion was never sure if she should wait up for her husband or go to bed when she felt tired. In an effort to stay up as long as possible that night, she did some knitting then read a book by the light from the standard lamp. The story failed to hold her attention and she eventually drifted off. When her husband came into the house, he found her slumbering beside a fire that had dwindled to a faint glow. Removing the
book from her lap, he set it aside then kissed her gently on the forehead.

‘Is that you, Harvey?’ she asked, coming slowly awake.

He chuckled. ‘Who else were you expecting?’

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s time for bed, Ellen. Come on – I’ll help you up.’

She took his hands and let him pull her to her feet. He’d taken off his overcoat and hat and hung them up. She was in her dressing gown and slippers. Before she could stop it, a yawn suddenly escaped.

‘Why are you so late?’

‘Time stands still when I have another murder case.’

‘Where have you been all day?’

‘Trudging around Shoreditch and slipping back to Scotland Yard for the dubious pleasure of reporting to the superintendent.’

‘
You
should have got that job,’ she said with feeling. ‘You’d have done it much better than Claude Chatfield.’

‘Give the devil his due,’ said Marmion. ‘He was at his desk an hour before I got there and he was still working when I left. His wife must think she’s a nun. We know that’s not true,’ he added with a laugh. ‘She’s had five children.’

‘How many of them live at home?’

‘I’m not sure, Ellen – two at least.’

‘Then she won’t get lonely. When you go off, I’m entirely on my own. I can’t blame Paul for not being here but I do miss Alice. It wouldn’t be so bad if she spent the odd night or two here.’

‘She values her freedom, love.’

‘Well, it’s not doing her health any good.’

Marmion was worried. ‘How do you know? Have you seen her?’

‘Alice called in early this morning,’ said Ellen, ‘and we had a cup of tea together. She looked so thin and drawn. She claims that she’s put on weight but I couldn’t see it. There was a sense of fatigue about her.’

‘Like father, like daughter!’

‘It’s not a joke, Harvey.’

‘It wasn’t meant as one,’ he said. ‘I was being serious. Alice is like me. When she takes something on, she gives it every last ounce of her energy.’ He used a hand to suppress a yawn. ‘Up we go. I’m dropping.’

After switching off the light, he put the fireguard in the grate then followed her upstairs. When he’d been to the bathroom and changed into his pyjamas, he clambered into bed beside her.

‘What sort of a case is it?’ she asked.

‘It’s a very baffling one at the moment.’

‘Do you have any suspects?’

‘We might have. It’s too early to tell.’

‘And is this the sort of time you’ll be coming home from now on?’

‘Think yourself lucky, Ellen,’ he said, snuggling under the bed sheets. ‘Your loving husband will actually get some sleep tonight. That wouldn’t be the case if you were married to Joe Keedy. He’s got to stay awake until dawn.’

When he left the Weavers Arms, Keedy had first walked to the lane where the body had been discovered. The police had gone now, so it was possible to go to the spot where Cyril Ablatt had lain. By the light of his torch, he saw that the blood had been washed away to deter sightseers from finding the exact place. He imagined the shock that the courting couple must have felt when they stumbled on the corpse. It might have had an adverse effect on their romance. Before he returned to his vantage point, he walked around the vicinity to familiarise himself with it. These were the streets that Ablatt and his friends knew by heart. Hiding in one of them, he believed, was the killer. Their job was to root him out.

The Haveron sisters were delighted to see him again and pressed food and drink on to him. They were like a pair of eccentric aunts who’d just
encountered a nephew they never knew they had and wanted to make up for lost time.

‘Do you do this kind of thing often?’ asked Rose.

‘As it happens,’ said Keedy, ‘I don’t. This is an exception.’

‘Well, it’s certainly an exception for us,’ Martha chimed in, ‘isn’t it, Rose? Who’d ever have thought that we’d play host to a detective?’

‘It’s rather exciting,’ said Rose.

‘I do hope it’s not a waste of time.’

‘So do I,’ said Keedy, touched by their sweetness. ‘But at least I’ll be comfortable in your front room. The last time I did this all night, I had to hide in the back of a cattle truck and look through the slats. You can imagine the stench.’

‘Oh dear!’ said Martha.

‘You won’t have that problem here,’ Rose assured him.

Fortunately, the sisters went to bed early every night and even the presence of a detective did not alter their routine. They wished him well, then withdrew upstairs. When he adjourned to the front room, Keedy could hear one of them walking about in the bedroom above his head. He’d politely declined their offer to light a fire for him. It was evident that Rose and Martha Haveron were ladies of limited means. He didn’t wish to make inroads into their coal supply nor did he want to make the room too snug. A warm fire might send him off to sleep. Cold air would keep him awake. Even with the blankets around him, he could feel a bracing chill.

The Ablatt house was diagonally opposite. When he sat beside the window on an upright chair, he could look through a chink in the curtains. It would be impossible to miss anyone who came to add something to the already well-decorated wall. Keedy settled down for what might be a long and fruitless wait. He staved off boredom by going through all the evidence so far gathered. He thought of the conversations he’d had with Hambridge and Price, young men of fundamentally different character who’d been
united by a single purpose. He’d liked the carpenter and distrusted the cook on sight. When they came before a tribunal, he suspected, the quiet certainty of the Quaker would be more effective than the Welshman’s truculence. The person who really interested him was Horrie Waldron. How on earth had such a reprobate aroused affection in Maud Crowther? Given the size and muscularity of Stan Crowther, both of them were tempting fate. The discovery that Waldron was making secret visits to his mother would enrage the landlord. If he dared to put his head into the pub after that, the gravedigger would need his spade to defend himself.

Hours drifted by and tiredness slackened his muscles. Every so often, his eyes would close for a couple of minutes and he’d have to shake himself awake. Having lost all track of time, Keedy stood up, walked around the room and took off the blankets so that he could feel the piercing cold. It served to galvanise him just in time. From outside the house, there was a loud yell then he heard something thud onto the pavement. Charging across to the window, he pulled back the curtain. A ladder was standing against the wall of the Ablatt house. Beside it was an upturned tin of paint. In the middle of the road, two figures were grappling wildly. Keedy jumped into action. He ran to the front door, let himself out and raced across to the two men. In the course of a fierce struggle, one of them threw the other to the ground and dived on top of him. Keedy grabbed him from behind and pulled him off.

‘That’s enough!’ he shouted.

The man on the ground leapt to his feet, punched Keedy in the face and pushed him against the other man. He then fled off down the street and vanished around the corner. Before the second man could run after him, he was overpowered by Keedy and held in a vice-like grip.

‘You silly bastard!’ howled Mansel Price. ‘You let him get away.’

Knowing that he wanted to make an early start, Ellen Marmion was up before her husband in order to make sure that he went off to work with a cooked breakfast inside him. When he came down from the bathroom, it was waiting for him on the kitchen table. He gave her a smile of gratitude and sat down.

‘How much did you eat yesterday?’ she asked.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Not enough, if I know you.’

‘I grabbed something on the hoof,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork and attacking a sausage. ‘Regular meals are a luxury in my job.’

‘You must have food, Harvey.’

‘I survive somehow.’

Ellen sat opposite him and clicked her tongue when he began to wolf it down. She poured two cups of tea and added milk and sugar to both before stirring them. Marmion laughed.

‘I
can
spare the time to stir my own tea, love.’

‘I was only trying to be helpful.’

‘Then you can eat my breakfast for me as well.’

‘Harvey!’

‘There’s no need for you to be up this early,’ he said. ‘It’s not six yet.’

‘I can’t lie in bed when you have to be fed. It’s my contribution to this case. I know that it’s on your mind. You were talking about it in your sleep.’

He was jolted. ‘Was I? What did I say?’

‘I couldn’t really tell. You just came out with odd words like “gravedigger” and “librarian” and there were some initials – NFC, I think.’

‘It must have been the NCF – that’s the No-Conscription Fellowship. It’s an organisation for people who – for one reason or another – find themselves unable to take part in the war. They come in all shapes and sizes.’

‘Are they too afraid?’

‘Some of them are, Ellen, but the majority do have a genuine conscientious objection. Look at the murder victim, for instance. Cyril Ablatt was a deeply religious young man with an aversion to taking a human life.’

‘I must say that the idea of it worries me as well,’ she said. ‘I know that Paul had to join the army but it troubles me that our son will have to shoot someone.’

‘It’s only in self-defence, love. It’s a case of kill or be killed.’

She grimaced. ‘What a horrible expression!’

‘It’s an accurate one,’ he said, reasonably, ‘and you just have to accept it. War turns every soldier into a licensed killer.’

‘What happens to them afterwards?’

‘When the war is over, you mean?’

‘Yes,’ she said, frowning. ‘What will it have done to them? Will Paul
still be the same person when he comes home or will the war leave its mark on him?’

‘The experience is bound to have changed him, love.’

‘That’s my fear.’

‘I’ll just be glad if he comes back in one piece.’

‘Mrs Hooper’s son didn’t. He lost a leg at Ypres. According to her, he keeps boasting about a German he shot dead. He goes on and on about it. Mrs Hooper is worried stiff about him.’ She bit her lip. ‘I do hope that Paul doesn’t do anything like that.’

‘He’ll have seen terrible sights,’ said Marmion, reaching for his tea. ‘It won’t be easy to get them out of his mind.’

There was an uncomfortable silence as they ate their breakfast. When she eventually broke it, Ellen found another source of anxiety.

‘I’m praying that Alice doesn’t go over there as well,’ she said.

‘There’s no danger of that, surely.’

‘There might be, Harvey. She mentioned it yesterday. A couple of her friends in the WEC went off to France as dispatch riders. That could be dangerous.’

‘They’ll be kept well behind the lines, love.’

‘I don’t want our daughter following Paul over there. Talk to her.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing!’

‘Alice won’t listen to me.’

‘Did you listen to
your
mother at that age?’

She smiled. ‘If I had, then I probably wouldn’t have married you.’

Marmion grinned then forked the last piece of fried egg into his mouth. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, he suddenly accelerated, swallowing his food, draining his cup in a series of gulps and getting to his feet. He went out into the hall and reached for his hat and coat off the peg. As he put them on, he gave a sigh.

‘The war has been a disaster for us,’ he said. ‘We’ve lost a sizeable
number of men to the army and all of our best horses are serving in cavalry regiments. This murder would have been so much easier to solve if I could call on more detectives.’

‘They didn’t
all
volunteer. Some of them like Joe Keedy have stayed.’

‘Oh, I think he was tempted to enlist, Ellen, but he felt that there was important work to do on the home front. Also, of course, endless months in the trenches would play havoc with his social life. Joe is a ladies’ man and there aren’t many available young ladies in the war zone.’

‘You know quite well that that wasn’t the main reason he didn’t join up.’

‘It wasn’t,’ said Marmion, winking at her. ‘He couldn’t resist the privilege of working with me. That’s why he stayed. Mind you,’ he went on, chortling, ‘after being forced to spend the whole of last night keeping a brick wall under surveillance, he might be wishing that he was in the army, after all.’

Keedy was annoyed with himself. He’d not only been distracted when the midnight artist had first appeared, he’d accidentally contrived to rescue the man from a beating and to assist his escape. Once he realised what had happened, he and Mansel Price had scoured the streets but there was no sign of the fugitive. It was wrong to blame the Welshman. He deserved credit. While Keedy had had shelter and a degree of comfort in someone’s front room, Price had spent hours crouched in a doorway. It enabled him to attack the man before he had time to paint anything else on the wall. The situation was not irretrievable. Keedy had the abandoned ladder and the tin of white paint. On the lid of the tin was a sticker with the name of the shop where it was bought. By first light, he’d sought help from the nearby police station. Two uniformed constables were put at his disposal and a third was waiting to take the paint back to the shop to see if anyone could remember to whom it was sold.

The long trudge began. It reminded Keedy of his days in uniform when he sometimes spent an entire day knocking on doors. Having seen the direction in which the man had run off, he had a measure of guidance. While Keedy carried the ladder, the policemen went down either side of the street at the same time in search of its owner. In the first twenty minutes, they got a negative response on every doorstep. Then they saw a postman coming towards them. Keedy caught his attention and beckoned him over. When he identified himself as a detective, he got instant cooperation.

‘Is it to do with this murder?’ asked the postman, breathlessly.

‘It could be.’

‘Then I’ll help all I can.’

‘We’re trying to find the owner of this ladder,’ said Keedy.

‘It probably belongs to Bill Prosser. He’s a window cleaner. You’ve already come past his house. Did you try there?’

‘We’ve knocked on every door in the street. The window cleaner had an alibi for last night. He’s not our man.’

‘Then it must belong to someone else,’ said the postman, thinking. ‘There aren’t many people with a ladder that size. In fact, the only other one I can think of round here is Robbie Gill.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘It’s the next street on the left, Sergeant – number thirteen.’

Keedy’s hopes rose. ‘That could be unlucky for Mr Gill.’

Thanking the postman, he and the two policemen walked to the address given. Since there was no knocker, Keedy used his knuckles to rap on the door. After a delay of a few seconds, he heard someone coming. When the door was unlocked and opened, a stringy man in his forties came into view. There was bruising around his eye and his unshaven cheek was grazed.

‘Mr Gill?’

‘That’s me,’ said the man, gruffly.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy and I’ve come to return your ladder.’

Gill resorted to bluff. ‘Oh, you found it, did you? Thank you very much, Sergeant. It was stolen yesterday. I’m so glad to get it back.’

‘Why is that, sir? Did you intend to paint slogans on other walls?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do,’ said Keedy. ‘Apart from anything else, you assaulted a police officer last night and I take exception to that. You’re under arrest, Mr Gill.’ He parked the ladder up against the front wall of the house. ‘I’ll leave this here. You won’t need it where you’re going.’

Well fed and eager to take up the reins of the investigation once more, Marmion arrived at Scotland Yard and went straight the superintendent’s office. Chatfield was poring over the map of Shoreditch.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘Ah, you’re here at last, are you?’ observed the other, making it sound as if the inspector was late rather than an hour earlier than his designated starting time. ‘It’s going to be another long day. We should have the post-mortem results soon and, with luck, we might get a response to our appeal for witnesses.’

‘It hasn’t happened so far.’

‘That was because the details in the
Evening News
were very sketchy. It’s different with this morning’s editions. The papers will carry a photograph of the victim and description of the route he would have taken home from that meeting. It will also tell them much more about Cyril Ablatt. And another thing,’ he said, folding the map up. ‘The killer will read the reports. He’ll start to panic.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that, Superintendent. I think he’s a cold-hearted swine who might enjoy the publicity he’s aroused.’

‘That’s arrant nonsense.’

‘Is it?’ retorted Marmion. ‘He deliberately left the body where it could be found. Doesn’t that tell you something about him? Many killers go out of their way to conceal their handiwork in order to delay discovery. Why dump the corpse in a lane when he could have hidden it in the woods or buried it somewhere?’ He remembered Horrie Waldron. ‘He might have buried it in a cemetery, perhaps. Who would think of looking for it there?’

‘You’re being fanciful, Inspector.’

‘I don’t think so, sir. When he put the victim there, the killer was making a statement. He wanted us to
know
.’

‘What
I
want to know is how we catch the devil.’

‘We stick to procedure, sir. We gather evidence, sift it, follow every lead and maintain relentless pursuit. If we get help from witnesses, all well and good, but we shouldn’t rely on anyone coming forward. My men went from house to house in the area yesterday and they didn’t pick up a snippet of useful information. Shoreditch was asleep when the corpse was moved. Nobody saw or heard a thing.’

‘I remain more sanguine.’

‘Then I hope your optimism is justified. Coverage will be extensive. We gave them plenty to bite on at the press conference.’

‘Yes,’ said Chatfield, offering a rare compliment. ‘I thought you handled them very well.’ He added a caveat. ‘Though there was no need to be quite so friendly towards them.’

‘We need the press on our side, sir. We should never antagonise them.’

Chatfield bridled. ‘Are you suggesting that that’s what I did?’

‘Of course not – you’ve had far too much experience.’

‘I certainly have.’

He inflated his chest and pulled himself upright. Marmion waited while the superintendent struck a pose, lost in thought about what he
considered to be the triumphs in his career, the latest of which was his promotion to a higher rank. He seemed to have forgotten that anyone else was there. When he finally noticed Marmion, he snapped his fingers.

‘I’ve been remiss,’ he confessed. ‘Do forgive me. Not long before you came, there was a telephone call for you.’

‘Did anyone leave a message?’

‘It was Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Then he probably yawned down the line at you,’ said Marmion.

‘On the contrary, Inspector – he sounded almost chirpy. As a result of an incident during the night, he’s made an arrest. It’s a man who was caught trying to paint something on a wall.’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘Somebody had to, Sergeant.’

‘Did you know Cyril Ablatt?’

‘I knew
of
him – that was enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘My wife uses the library. She saw him there lots of times and heard him arguing with people about why he didn’t join the army.’

‘How did you know where he lived?’

‘I followed him one evening.’

‘And is that all you did, Mr Gill?’

‘You know it isn’t. I let everyone know what sort of person he was.’

‘Forget your antics with the paintbrush,’ said Keedy. ‘I’m wondering if you followed him when he came back from a meeting in Bishopsgate. I’m wondering if you decided that calling him names on a brick wall wasn’t enough so you killed him out of hatred for his beliefs.’

‘No!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘I never touched him. I swear it.’

‘What were you doing on the evening before last?’

‘I was at home with my wife and my son. You can ask them.’

‘I’ll make a point of doing that.’

‘I never went anywhere near Ablatt,’ said Gill, squirming.

‘Did you go out at any stage during the evening?’

‘Only for an hour – I went out for a drink.’

‘Which pub would that be?’

‘The Weavers.’

‘That’s very close to where the body was found.’

‘So?’

‘Are you sure that you didn’t go into the pub to get some Dutch courage to commit murder?’ asked Keedy. ‘You don’t look like the sort of person who’d have the nerve to do it otherwise.’

Gill was desperate. ‘All I did was to have a pint of beer,’ he said, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘Talk to Stan Crowther, the landlord at the Weavers. He’ll tell you how long I was there. I had a drink, played a game of darts with Horrie Waldron, then left. I was back home by nine. My wife will confirm that.’

Keedy could see that he was telling the truth. Robbie Gill was not the killer. Since the body was dumped in the lane much later than nine o’clock, he could not have put it there. On the other hand, the fact that he knew the gravedigger raised the possibility that he might somehow have been party to the murder. Gill could not be removed entirely from the list of suspects.