Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Charlie Redfern arrived at the workshop to discover his assistant using a plane on the edge of the door he was making. Hambridge broke off immediately and went quickly across to him.

‘Morning, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Sorry about what happened yesterday.’

‘No need to explain,’ Redfern told him. ‘I’d have done the same in your shoes, Fred. When I mentioned a murder, you thought it might be your friend.’

‘And it was, unfortunately.’

‘I know. I saw it in the paper.’

‘But I shouldn’t have left you in the lurch like that. It was wrong of me. I’ll make up for it by working much longer this evening.’

‘Please yourself.’

‘Fancy a brew?’

Redfern laughed. ‘Ever known me refuse?’

Hambridge filled the kettle. His boss, meanwhile, took off his coat and hat, hung them up, then looked at himself in the cracked mirror on the wall. He smoothed his hair back with a flabby hand and stroked his chin, disappointed that his beard refused to grow beyond a certain point. When he turned back to Hambridge, the latter took an envelope from his pocket and held it out.

‘You’re not handing in your notice, are you?’ joked Redfern.

‘I might be, Charlie.’

‘I thought you liked working here.’

‘I love it.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Read it for yourself and you’ll find out.’

Redfern took the envelope from him and extracted a letter. His brow crinkled as he read it. Hambridge was a good carpenter and a loyal employee. Redfern didn’t want to lose him. He tried to sound cheerful.

‘This may come to nothing, Fred.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘I’ll tell them my business will collapse without you.’

‘That’s what I was going to ask you, Charlie. I need a favour. Will you speak up for me at the tribunal? It might help.’

‘Try stopping me.’

Redfern put the letter into the envelope and gave it back to him. It was a summons to appear before a military tribunal. Like thousands of other men of a certain age, Hambridge would have to seek exemption from conscription. If he failed to do so, he would either be forced to join the army or face imprisonment.

‘I’ve heard about these bloody tribunals,’ said Redfern, airily. ‘They’re made up of ordinary men and women so it should be easy to pull the wool over their eyes. You’re a skilled worker, Fred. You’re needed here.’

‘I’m not going to fight,’ said Hambridge, reaching for an arresting phrase. ‘I refuse to be an instrument of slaughter in khaki uniform. It’s morally repugnant to me and an infringement of my individual liberty.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed his boss. ‘It’s too early in the morning for big words like that. Where the hell did you get them?’

‘To be honest, I borrowed them from Cyril.’

Redfern suppressed a smirk. ‘Well, they’re no use to him now, are they?’

‘He taught me another thing to say as well.’

‘What was that?’

‘I’ve got to remind the tribunal about William Pitt.’

‘Who, in God’s name, is he?’

‘He was the prime minister donkey’s, years ago,’ explained Hambridge. ‘They called him Pitt the Younger because his father had run the country before him. He was known as Pitt the Elder.’

‘You’re confusing me already, Fred.’

‘Even you must have heard of Napoleon.’

‘Oh, yes — what about him?’

‘Well, when we were trying to raise an army to fight against him, Pitt said that Quakers were exempt. He respected our beliefs. Thanks to Cyril, I’m going to make that point at the tribunal.’

‘What if they still say you’ve got to go in the army?’

Hambridge stuck out his jaw. ‘Then they’ll be wasting their breath.’

Harvey Marmion walked into Shoreditch library and doffed his hat. The atmosphere was sombre. All the staff had heard about the murder of their colleague and so had the majority of their readers. They moved about quietly and conversed in subdued voices, and not only because loud noise was forbidden. Marmion had the feeling that one of the assistants had been crying. Her eyes were pools of sorrow and she kept sniffing. Surprised to see him, Eric Fussell hid his displeasure behind a token smile. He invited the inspector into his office and the two of them sat down. Marmion noticed the pile of newspapers in the wastepaper basket and the pair of scissors on the desk but he made no comment.

‘I hope that you’ve brought good news,’ said Fussell, hands clasped.

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘Oh dear — that’s disappointing!’

‘I’m here to clarify a few details,’ said Marmion.

‘I’ve already told you anything that’s relevant. There’s nothing else that I can add, Inspector.’

‘I believe that there is, Mr Fussell.’

‘What does it concern?’

‘It concerns an application made by Cyril Ablatt. Information has come into my hands suggesting that, when Mr Ablatt considered a job elsewhere, you refused to give him a reference.’

The librarian was indignant. ‘That’s not true at all.’

‘In view of the fulsome way you described him to me, I did find it rather odd. The only reason I could think of you blocking his chance of promotion was that he was too valuable a member of your staff to lose. Is that the case, sir?’

‘No, it isn’t.’

‘So why didn’t you support his application?’

‘There was no need for a written reference, Inspector,’ argued Fussell. ‘The job was in Lambeth and I happen to be friends with the librarian there. I made a point of telling him what an excellent choice Cyril would be. I praised him to the skies.’

‘Yet somehow he didn’t get the post.’

‘There was a very strong field, Inspector.’

‘Really? That rather contradicts my information.’

Fussell was annoyed. ‘May I ask from whom it was obtained?’

‘I wish I knew, sir. I received an anonymous letter.’

‘Then I should ignore every word in it, Inspector,’ said the other, scornfully. ‘If someone doesn’t even have the courage to sign his name, then he or she can’t be taken seriously. It’s obviously the work of someone trying to get me into hot water.’

‘And why should anyone do that, Mr Fussell?’

‘We all make enemies unwittingly — even you, I daresay.’

Marmion laughed. ‘I don’t have to make enemies unwittingly, sir. I already have them in their thousands. The moment you join the police force, you’re hated by every criminal in London. It’s an occupational hazard.’

‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’

‘We’re targets for mindless hatred.’

‘That must be a constant problem.’

‘You learn to ignore it.’

‘I’m not sure that I could, Inspector. As for that post in Lambeth,’ Fussell continued, ‘I fear that Cyril’s chances were imperilled by his circumstances. Now that conscription has been brought in, he’s more than liable to be called up. That must have been taken into account at the interview. Nobody wants to appoint someone then lose them to the army.’

‘But there was no such thing as conscription when he went after that job last year,’ Marmion reminded him. ‘It was all of eight months ago. Politicians were still fighting over whether or not to bring in compulsory service. This country has never needed it before. It was a huge break with tradition.’

‘Regrettably, it was a necessary one.’

‘That’s immaterial. The point is that it was not a factor in the interview at Lambeth. It shouldn’t have tipped the scales against him — whereas the lack of a glowing testimonial from you certainly would.’

‘I told you — I gave him strong verbal support.’

‘So you preferred to use your influence behind the scenes.’

‘Nobody could have done more.’

Marmion had grave doubts about that claim. He made a mental note to seek confirmation from the librarian in Lambeth. He could see why Ablatt had wanted to move from Shoreditch library. According to the anonymous letter, there was a lot of unresolved friction between him and Fussell. At his first encounter with the librarian, Marmion had sensed that that was the case. The primary reason for going to Lambeth, however, had been the fact that Caroline Skene lived there. Ablatt was ready to endure longer journeys to and from work in order to be closer to the woman he loved.

‘What did you think of the press coverage of the murder?’ asked Marmion.

‘I haven’t had time to look at it properly.’

‘Your staff clearly read some of it. There’s a sense of gloom out there.’

‘It doesn’t stop us from getting on with our jobs, Inspector.’

‘That’s very commendable.’

‘The real headache will come when it’s time for the funeral,’ said Fussell, composing his features into something faintly resembling grief. ‘We all feel duty-bound to go, of course, but someone has to run the library. There’s going to be a clash of loyalties.’

‘In which way will you be pulled, sir?’

‘Oh, I’m the captain of the ship. I have to remain on the bridge.’

The man’s pomposity grated on Marmion. Having said on two separate occasions that he revered Ablatt, the librarian couldn’t even make the effort to attend his funeral. It was difficult to know if — in staying away — he would be acting out of guilt or indifference.

‘You’ve got plenty of time to arrange cover,’ said Marmion. ‘The funeral won’t be for some time. As yet, we haven’t even had the inquest. I would have thought that you had an obligation to be there.’

‘I also have obligations to Shoreditch library,’ Fussell retaliated.

‘It’s your decision, naturally.’

‘Indeed, it is.’

The emphasis he put on his reply showed that he had no intention whatsoever of paying his respects to a junior colleague he professed to like and admire. It was further indication that the information in the anonymous letter was accurate. Marmion looked down at the wastepaper basket. It had been empty the previous day. It was now filled with newspapers. Yet the librarian had asserted that he’d had no time to study the press coverage of the crime. Marmion was riled by Fussell’s amalgam of complacency and spite. He probed more deeply.

‘You never really liked Cyril Ablatt, did you?’

‘I held him in the highest regard.’

‘Then why did you scupper his chances in Lambeth?’

‘Pay no attention to that letter. People will say anything to discredit me.’

‘I’m giving you the right to defend yourself, sir.’

‘I don’t need to do that,’ said Fussell, disdainfully. ‘My record speaks for itself. I’ve made this place the success that it is.’

‘That wasn’t what Ablatt thought, was it?’

‘He never fully understood library administration.’

‘Yet he had a diploma in the subject,’ said Marmion, ‘and he’s learnt a great deal under your tutelage. That being the case,’ he went on, measuring his words, ‘the critical report he compiled about this library deserves to be taken seriously. My first impression was that you ran this place extremely well. Ablatt didn’t think so, did he? You must have been hopping mad when you read it.’

Marmion had touched a raw nerve. Facial muscles tightening, Fussell was visibly wounded. Whoever had sent the letter to Scotland Yard had been well informed about what went on inside Shoreditch library.

Joe Keedy was still not showing any fatigue after his long night awake. With a new alibi to check, he called at the Weavers Arms when it was still closed and had to be let into the pub by the side door. Stan Crowther wagged a teasing finger.

‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘we’re not open. I can’t even serve a copper.’

‘I’m not here for the beer, Mr Crowther.’

‘I daresay that my mother could rustle up a cup of tea.’

They went into the bar where Maud Crowther was seated at a table with a ledger opened out in front of her. When she saw Keedy enter she was alarmed, but his face was impassive. He gave no hint of the fact that he’d already met her and offered his hand when her son introduced them.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Crowther,’ he said.

She shook his hand. ‘Hello, Sergeant Keedy.’

‘My mother likes to check the books now and then,’ said the landlord with a grin. ‘She doesn’t trust me to get my sums right.’

‘Someone has to keep an eye on you, Stanley,’ she declared.

‘When you ran the pub, I didn’t interfere.’

‘No, you were too busy losing your good looks in the boxing ring.’ She glanced up at Keedy. ‘You may not believe this, Sergeant, but Stanley was quite handsome when he was younger. Look at him now.’

Crowther guffawed. ‘I don’t think he can bear to. I’ve got the kind of ugly mug that frightens kids and old ladies. Anyway,’ he said, leaning against the counter, ‘what are you after this time, Sergeant?’

‘I want to ask about a customer of yours,’ said Keedy.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Robbie Gill — he’s a plumber.’

‘He tries to be, you mean. Robbie doesn’t know one end of a pipe from the other. I don’t understand how he stays in business.’

‘Was he in here on the night that Cyril Ablatt was killed?’

‘You don’t think that Robbie is a suspect?’ asked Maud in amazement. ‘Because you’re on the wrong track if you do.’

Keedy’s gaze flicked to her. ‘Why do you say that, Mrs Crowther?’

‘I know him, that’s why. He hasn’t got the courage to kill a mouse.’

‘It’s true,’ agreed Crowther. ‘If Mother wasn’t here, I’d tell you that Robbie Gill was as soft as sh-’

‘That’s enough of your bad language, Stanley,’ she scolded.

‘Have you ever met him, Sergeant?’

‘Yes,’ replied Keedy. ‘I arrested him earlier this morning.’

They were both very surprised at the news. Keedy gave them a highly edited version of events, omitting the fact that he’d failed to catch Gill when first given the chance. Mother and son could rustle up very little sympathy for the plumber. He came to the pub regularly but was not popular there.

‘On the night when the murder took place,’ said Keedy, ‘Mr Gill claimed that he spent an hour or so here. Do you remember seeing him, Mr Crowther?’

‘Yes,’ returned the landlord. ‘He was in at his usual time.’

‘He mentioned playing darts with Horrie Waldron.’

‘That’s possible. I didn’t actually see him because the place was crowded but Horrie was definitely here. They could have played darts.’

‘In other words, Mr Gill has an alibi.’

‘He’s not your killer, Sergeant. Look elsewhere.’

‘I never thought much of the man,’ Maud put in, ‘but I think even less of him now that I know what he did. Painting those things on a wall was so sneaky.’

‘That’s Robbie for you,’ said Crowther, moving away. ‘If you’ve finished with me, Sergeant, I need to fetch up some crates of stout from the cellar.’

‘Go ahead, sir. Thank you for your help.’

‘Mother will make you that cup of tea, if you like.’

‘No need,’ said Keedy, ‘I have to be on my way.’

He waited until Crowther had left the bar and shut the door behind him before turning to Maud. She stood up and kissed him.

‘It was so kind of you not to give me away. I can’t thank you enough.’

‘I told you that you could trust me.’

‘My heart stopped beating when you walked in.’

Keedy smiled. ‘Yes, I had a bit of a shock myself. However, I won’t bother you any longer. I’ll be on my way.’ He paused at the door as he recalled something. ‘Actually, I do have a question for you, Mrs Crowther.’

‘Be quick about it. Stanley will be back soon.’

‘When a certain person came to see you two nights ago …’

‘Name no names, Sergeant.’

‘Was he carrying a spade at the time?’

Maud was flabbergasted. ‘A spade?’

‘He had one with him when he left here, it seems.’

‘Well, he certainly didn’t bring it to my house,’ she said with a rush of anger. ‘If he’d dared to do that, I’d have hit him over the head with it. That certain person came as an admirer — not as a gravedigger.’

Eric Fussell had made the mistake of underestimating his visitor. The librarian thought that he could treat Marmion with the same condescension that he used on his staff. It only served to deepen the inspector’s dislike of the man. Marmion was polite but ruthlessly persistent. He kept pecking away at Fussell until he began to see cracks in his well-defended facade. Cyril Ablatt had decided that the library could be run much more efficiently if a series of changes were made. Without telling Fussell, he discussed his ideas with the other assistants and got almost unanimous backing for them. He then stayed behind one evening to type up a report that contained some scathing comments about the librarian’s methods. When it was given to him, Fussell had been infuriated.

‘He went behind my back,’ he snarled. ‘That’s what I could never forgive.’

‘Your wife works here, doesn’t she?’ remembered Marmion. ‘I take it that he never approached her during his research.’

‘Cyril wouldn’t have dared to do that.’

‘Yet he did talk to librarians — correction, to library assistants — in other parts of the borough. His suggestions seem to have been well received everywhere.’

‘They weren’t suggestions, Inspector. They were insults aimed at me.’

‘I never saw the report,’ conceded Marmion, ‘so I can’t judge, but it’s hard to believe that someone as dedicated to his job as Cyril Ablatt didn’t come up with some good ideas for improvement.’

‘They were stale ideas,’ said Fussell, irritably. ‘I’d already considered them and rejected them as inappropriate.’

‘Yet I’m told that some of them were adopted at Finsbury library and have worked well. The librarian there clearly had more faith in your assistant.’

‘He didn’t have to work beside him.’

Marmion nodded. ‘So there was antagonism between you, after all.’

‘It was largely on his side, Inspector. For some unknown reason, Cyril could never accept my authority as readily as he ought to. That’s why he drafted that absurd report of his. It was an attempt to undermine me.’

‘Then why didn’t you sack him?’

‘I did,’ said Fussell, ‘but I was overruled by local government officials.’

‘That must have led to a lot of tension between the two of you.’

‘I tried to rise above it.’

‘How did he react?’

‘In fairness, I have to say that he did the same.’

‘But you must have nursed some resentment, sir.’

‘It was a breach of trust,’ said Fussell, ‘and that was unforgivable. What the public saw was an obliging young man always ready to advise people what to read. What I saw was — to put it no higher than this — a snake in the grass.’

‘So why did you tell me that you liked him?’ asked Marmion.

‘One should never speak ill of the dead, Inspector.’

‘But that’s just what you’ve been doing.’

‘It was only because you pressed me about that infernal report.’

‘I can see that you must have felt betrayed.’

‘Let me be more explicit,’ said Fussell, shedding all pretence. ‘I loathed Cyril Ablatt for reasons too numerous to list. When I couldn’t sack him, I tried to get rid of him another way. I’m sure that a meticulous man like you was going to check my claim that I put in a word for him with the librarian in Lambeth. You can save yourself the trouble, Inspector. It was true. I was so desperate to unload Cyril onto someone else that I traded on a close friendship.’

‘Nevertheless, he was turned down for the post.’

‘The word had got out about him.’

‘What word was that, sir?’

‘Cyril Ablatt was a disruptive influence. Nobody wants that.’

The portrait was changing even more. When Marmion took charge of the case, Ablatt was a murder victim with a steadfast belief in the tenets of Christianity and with a job in which he excelled. Darker elements had intruded. He’d not only had an intimate relationship with a married woman, he’d had the gall to challenge the librarian’s authority by producing a critique of him. Marmion scratched out the mental note to visit Lambeth. Fussell was being honest for once. He’d tried to shift a burdensome assistant to another library and had failed.

‘I can see why you won’t be attending the funeral,’ said Marmion, ‘but, when all is said and done, he did work under you for some while. I daresay that you’ll be sending your condolences to his father.’

Fussell was brusque. ‘No, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ll send no card. I’ve washed my hands of the entire Ablatt family.’

There was a steady stream of customers at the forge on Bethnal Green and, because Percy Fry was there by himself, they either had to wait in the queue or be turned away. Things had eased by mid morning and Fry was able to snatch a few minutes’ rest. He was relieved to see Dalley striding in.

‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Jack,’ he said.

‘I came as soon as I could.’

‘No need to come at all. I can cope.’

‘If truth be told, I was glad to escape, Perce. All that misery was getting me down. Not that I’m hard-hearted,’ said Dalley, keen to correct any misunderstanding. ‘I’m very upset at what happened to Cyril, but I’m a practical man. I’ve a job to do and a forge to run.’

‘How’s the wife?’

‘Nancy is worse than ever this morning.’

‘Don’t forget that offer we made.’

‘Later on — when the worst is over — Nancy might be glad of Elaine’s company. But that time may be weeks away.’

‘Where is she at the moment?’

‘I took her over to her brother’s. She can’t bear to be apart from him.’ He took off his hat and coat and tossed them onto a stool. ‘Everyone knows now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s in all the papers, Perce. The one I saw even had a photo of Cyril. As we walked to my brother-in-law’s house, people were already pointing and whispering. I’m not a blacksmith any more,’ complained Dalley. ‘I’m the uncle of the lad who was battered to death.’

‘That will pass,’ said Fry.

‘Not for a long while. If he’d been killed in the war, everyone would have showered us with sympathy for a day or two. This is different. Cyril is a murder victim. That makes him a sort of freak. People won’t forget that,’ said Dalley, sourly. ‘As long as the hunt for the killer goes on, the event stays fresh in the mind.’

‘They’ll catch the bastard eventually.’

‘London’s got millions of inhabitants. Where do the police start looking?’

‘That’s up to them, Jack. Let them get on with it, I say. The only thing you need to worry about is Nancy. She’s the one who needs help.’

‘Too true — she was awake for most of the night again.’

‘Might not be so bad when the funeral is over and done with,’ said Fry.

‘I’m not looking forward to that,’ confessed Dalley. ‘It’ll be harrowing. Nancy and her brother are bad enough now. They both look ten years older. What are they going to be like when they actually bury Cyril?’

From the time that she got there, Caroline Skene had endeavoured to be useful. She made tea, passed round biscuits and offered what solace she could. Her presence was so comforting to Gerald Ablatt and his sister that Dalley had felt able to leave them and return to work. Caroline was in charge. She was tirelessly helpful and full of compassion. When they wept, so did she. Neither of them realised that she had as much cause for anguish as they did.

‘It was good of you to come, Caroline,’ said Ablatt.

‘I felt I might be needed.’

‘You are — and we’re grateful.’

‘Yes,’ said Nancy with a woeful smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘How is Wilf?’ asked Ablatt.

‘He’s fine,’ replied Caroline. ‘He sends his love.’

‘Is he still having that back trouble?’

‘Oh, let’s not talk about him, Gerald. What are a few back pains compared to what you have to suffer? You can forget Wilf. Think of yourself for once.’

‘He can’t do that,’ said Nancy. ‘Gerald always puts other people first. His son has been killed yet he still worries about his customers.’

‘I hate to let anyone down,’ said Ablatt.

‘Do you know what he did last night?’

He was embarrassed. ‘There’s no need to mention that, Nancy.’

‘I think there is. Caroline deserves to know.’

‘Know what?’ asked Caroline.

‘When Jack took me back home last night,’ said Nancy, glancing at her brother, ‘Gerald should have gone straight to bed. He was as exhausted as we were. Instead of that, he went to the shop and started mending shoes.’

‘Never!’

‘I simply had to do something,’ he declared. ‘I thought it might take my mind off Cyril. I needed to be occupied. Can’t you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ soothed Caroline, ‘I think I can. It seems ridiculous but what you did was right. It fulfilled an urge.’ When there was a knock at the door, she got up at once. ‘You stay here. I’ll see who it is.’

She went to the front door and opened it. The vicar was standing on the doorstep and he asked if he might come in. Caroline would have turned anyone else away but both Cyril and his father had worshipped regularly at the nearby church. She’d heard them speak well of the vicar, an elderly man with a kind face and wisps of white hair curling down from under his hat. In the hope that he might be able to alleviate grief and provide some spiritual sustenance, Caroline stood aside to let him in. When she took him into the front room, Ablatt and his sister looked up with gratitude, pleased to see the old man. Removing his hat, he set it aside and offered a consoling hand to each of them. Caroline put the hat outside on a peg and went into the kitchen to make yet another pot of tea. When she returned, she saw that the vicar had already lifted the morale of the mourners.

It was the chance for which she’d been waiting. After pouring the tea and handing the cups around, she excused herself to go to the bathroom, making sure that she shut the door of the front room behind her. She then scampered upstairs and went straight to Cyril Ablatt’s room, opening the door and gazing around with a mixture of sadness and nostalgia. She needed minutes to recover.

Caroline then began a frantic search.