Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER TEN

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.

They were in a cold, featureless room at Shoreditch police station. Gill sat on the opposite side of the table from Keedy. When he greeted the sergeant at his front door, he was almost pugnacious, but the arrest had sobered him. A plumber by trade, Gill had the shifty look of someone who never expected to be caught. He saw what he was doing as a public duty, exposing a conscientious objector who had the gall to try to justify his position. Every time he heard about Ablatt pontificating at the library, he felt a simmering disgust and felt impelled to strike at him somehow.

‘What were you going to paint?’ asked Keedy.

Gill glared at him. ‘Does it matter now?’

‘I’d like to know.’

‘I was going to add two words — “good riddance”.’

‘Was that a kind thing to do, Mr Gill?’

‘That yellow-bellied conchie deserved it!’

‘Did his father deserve it?’ asked Keedy. ‘He didn’t agree with what his son was doing. Did his aunt deserve it? She’s not a conscientious objector. Mrs Dalley is simply a heartbroken woman who’s lost someone she loved. Then there’s Cyril Ablatt’s uncle. When we picked him up at his forge yesterday, he told us quite openly that his nephew should have gone into the army. All three of them were in that house yesterday, mourning the death of a murder victim. Did you think it would help them in their bereavement if you taunted them with your jibe?’

‘If you’re trying to make me feel sorry,’ said Gill, recovering something of his confidence, ‘then you’re wasting your time. I’d do the same thing again.’

‘You won’t get the chance.’

‘Everyone in the Weavers thinks the same as me — conchies are scum.’

‘But they don’t all sneak out at night and deface someone else’s property, do they? That’s a criminal offence, Mr Gill.’ Keedy sat back and appraised him. ‘Do you know what I think?’

‘What?’

‘I think that I’ll send a policeman to your house to check your alibi. We’ll find out if you really were there, as you claim, at the time in question. We’ll also discover if your wife approves of what you do with a tin of paint in the middle of the night.’ He saw the sweat break out on the other man’s brow. ‘I can’t believe that Mrs Gill would be proud of a husband who did what you did.’

‘Keep my wife out of this!’

‘It was you who wanted to call her as a witness.’

‘I acted on my own. Mabel wasn’t involved in any way.’

‘Indirectly, she was,’ noted Keedy. ‘It was her visits to the library that drew your attention to Cyril Ablatt. My guess is that you probably asked her to find out as much about him as she could.’ Gill’s forehead was now glistening. ‘To some extent, Mrs Gill aided and abetted you.’

The plumber winced. He had set out during the night to assuage his hatred of a conscientious objector by leaving a taunt in large letters on the side of his house. Gill had not only been violently attacked, he was now under arrest and being accused of murder. The thought that his wife would be questioned by the police when he was not there to control her answers made him quiver.

‘Do you know what you should do?’ asked Keedy. ‘If you have a shred of decency, you should apologise to Mr Ablatt then paint over those words on the wall of his house. But you’re not going to do that, are you?’

Gill folded his arms in token defiance. ‘No, I’m not.’

‘Mr Ablatt will be told about your arrest and he’ll see the report about you in the newspaper. If he needs a plumber, I don’t think he’ll be turning to you somehow.’

Gerald Ablatt had slept only fitfully during the night and was up before dawn. After a breakfast of toast and tea, he went into his son’s bedroom and gazed at all the books. They symbolised the education that a caring father had provided by working overtime at his shop. Ablatt had grave misgivings about that education now. Had his son become a blacksmith or even taken up his father’s trade, he might well be alive now. He slammed the door shut and went downstairs. Joe Keedy had paid a surprise visit to the house but Ablatt was too preoccupied to take in everything he said. He thanked the detective without quite knowing what he’d achieved. Ablatt brooded on the news after Keedy left. It was still relatively early when Jack Dalley brought his wife. Nancy felt that she had to be with her brother so that they could share their sorrow. As soon as they met, they embraced warmly and she began to weep.

‘I’ll stay for a while,’ offered Dalley, ‘but I have to get over to the forge at some point. Perce can’t do everything on his own.’

‘Go when you need to, Jack,’ said Ablatt. ‘I’ll look after Nancy.’

‘The neighbours have been kind,’ she said through tears. ‘As soon as they found out, they came to see if they could do anything for me. And Jack told me that Percy Fry’s wife will come at any time if I need company. In time, I might do. At the moment, I need to be with family.’ She hugged her brother again. ‘The only place I want to be is here.’

‘Nance didn’t get a wink of sleep last night,’ said Dalley. ‘Neither did I.’

Ablatt padded out to the kitchen and they followed him. After filling the kettle, he set it on the stove and lit the gas. He seemed to come out of a daze.

‘If you’d got here earlier, you’d have met Sergeant Keedy.’

‘What was he doing here?’ asked Dalley with interest. ‘Have they caught the killer?’

‘No, Jack, but they’ve arrested the man who painted those things on the wall. He tried to have another go last night but Cyril’s friend, Mansel, was lying in wait for him. So was the sergeant,’ explained Ablatt. ‘He was hiding in a house around the corner. The man got away in a scuffle but he was arrested later.’

‘Who was he?’

‘His name is Robbie Gill and he’s a plumber.’

Dalley was roused. ‘I know him,’ he said, angrily. ‘He did some work for us once. In fact, he botched it so I refused to pay him and had to get in someone else.’

‘I remember him,’ said Nancy.

‘Yes, he was a surly beggar.’

‘I know his wife,’ said Ablatt, dully. ‘Mrs Gill brings shoes to be soled and heeled. I doubt if she’ll be doing that again in a hurry.’

‘I bet you want to give him a good hiding,’ said Dalley.

‘No, Jack, I don’t.’

‘I would if he’d painted things on the side of my house.’

‘What does it matter now? Cyril is dead. It won’t bring him back.’

‘At the very least, I’d give him a piece of my mind.’

Ablatt was lacklustre. ‘There’s no point.’

They discussed the matter until the kettle began to boil. Ablatt made the tea and they took it into the front room on a tray with milk, sugar and three cups. He let the teapot stand in its cosy for a couple of minutes before pouring. As they sat in silence, gloom descended on them. Even the blacksmith lacked the will to move. Nobody drank the tea. They just held the saucers in their hands and stared into the cups. When there was a knock on the door, they were startled. It was a rude intrusion into their grief. The shock prompted another bout of tears from Nancy and her husband moved across to comfort her. Ablatt, meanwhile, went off to the front door, making an effort to shake off his torpor.

When he felt ready, he opened the door. A smartly dressed woman lunged forward to put her arms around him. The feather on her hat brushed against his cheek.

‘Hello, Gerald,’ she said, sobbing. ‘I read about it in this morning’s paper. I just had to come.’

He stood aside so that Caroline Skene could step into the house.

Marmion was delighted to see Joe Keedy back at Scotland Yard and amazed how bright and breezy he seemed to be. A sleepless night in the front room of the Haveron household didn’t appear to have sapped his strength at all. Energised by the arrest he’d made that morning, Keedy gave a full account of what had happened. They were in Marmion’s office and the desk was littered with newspapers and correspondence. When he’d heard the report without interruption, Marmion sat back thoughtfully.

‘So this Robbie Gill is definitely not the killer.’

‘No,’ said Keedy. ‘He didn’t murder Cyril Ablatt.’

‘If he’s a plumber, he’d obviously have the strength needed. And his tool bag would provide him with a weapon. The post-mortem report came earlier.’

‘What did it say?’

‘It is full of gory detail,’ said Marmion, ‘but, in essence, it said that he was battered to death with a blunt instrument that also had a sharp edge. There were gashes all over the body.’

‘They could have been put there by the edge of a spade.’

‘What about something out of a plumber’s tool bag?’

‘No — Gill’s alibi was sound. Both his wife and his son confirmed that he was at home when the body was — in all probability — moved to that lane.’ Keedy read the inspector’s mind. ‘And before you suggest that he might have murdered Ablatt earlier on and left an accomplice to transfer the corpse to the spot where it was found, let me shoot down that idea. Robbie Gill wouldn’t have the guts to do it. At heart, he’s a miserable coward. He didn’t have the courage to confront Ablatt in person about being a conchie. He could only work in the dark with a paintbrush.’

‘Did his wife know what he was doing?’

‘She knew,’ said Keedy, ‘but she certainly didn’t approve. That’s why he was so jumpy when I said that we’d speak to Mrs Gill. She was ashamed of what he did and horrified that he’d been arrested.’

‘What about the link with Waldron?’

‘It could be something or nothing, Harv.’

‘If they were in cahoots,’ said Marmion, ‘it’s unlikely that he’d produce Waldron’s name so readily.’

‘I think he was anxious to establish his alibi. He gave me Stan Crowther’s name as well in case I wanted to check at the Weavers Arms. By the way,’ said Keedy, ‘I called at the pub yesterday evening. Crowther is not a man to cross. He used to be a heavyweight boxer and looks as if he still packs a punch.’

‘You seem to have had an exciting time, Joe. A boxer, a plumber, a Welsh cook and two nice old ladies who probably fell madly in love with you — that’s not a bad haul for one night.’

‘What’s this about a haul?’ asked Chatfield, coming into the office. ‘Good morning, Sergeant. I gather there’s been a development.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Keedy.

‘What’s this about an arrest?’

‘The sergeant had a busy night,’ said Marmion.

Keedy took his cue. He gave a carefully attenuated version of events to the superintendent who peppered him with questions throughout. Chatfield criticised him for not catching Gill at the first opportunity but he applauded his enterprise in arresting him at the second attempt. In the presence of their superior, Marmion and Keedy lapsed back into formality. Chatfield loathed over-familiarity between his officers. He felt that it was unprofessional. Nobody got close enough to him to treat him as a friend.

‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘So the name of Horrie Waldron crops up again.’

‘Only in relation to a game of darts, sir,’ said Keedy.

‘This fellow Gill may have given himself away.’

‘He’s not the man we’re after, superintendent. I’m certain of that.’

‘I question that certainty, Sergeant. Let’s keep an eye on him. When it comes to eyes,’ he went on with a feeble attempt at humour, ‘I daresay that you’d like to close yours and get some much needed sleep.’

‘Not at all,’ said Keedy. ‘I feel as fresh as a daisy. I’ll carry on.’

‘We don’t want you falling asleep on us.’

‘Sergeant Keedy is unlikely to do that, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘He’s one of the fittest men at Scotland Yard. If he wishes to press on, I think you should allow him.’

Chatfield gave a nod. ‘Very well — you have my blessing, Sergeant.’ He handed an envelope to Marmion. ‘This has just arrived for you, Inspector. I told you that the newspapers would flush out some witnesses.’ He waited until Marmion had opened and read the letter. ‘Am I right?’

‘Not exactly, sir. It’s an anonymous note but it does contain some interesting information.’ He passed it back to Chatfield. ‘It looks as if I should have another chat with a certain librarian.’

Eric Fussell sat in his office with the door firmly closed. Using a pair of scissors, he cut out an article from a newspaper and read it through with a broad smile. He put the cutting aside and reached for another newspaper. There was a pile of them on his desk. He wanted a complete collection of reports about the murder.