Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Attempted murder was Marmion’s alarm clock. It woke him up early and sent him off to Scotland Yard in the police car dispatched to collect him. It took him the whole journey to come fully awake. He expected the superintendent to be there before him but had not counted on Chatfield being quite so animated at that time of the morning. Almost as soon as he entered the building, Marmion was pounced on.

‘He’s struck again,’ announced Chatfield.

‘Who are you talking about, sir?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘The driver gave me no details.’

‘The man who killed Cyril Ablatt has a second victim.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s because the modus operandi is identical in both cases. He lurks in a dark lane in Shoreditch and uses a blunt instrument to smash someone’s head in. Amongst the things found on the victim was a leaflet advertising that fateful meeting of the NCF. In short, he’s Ablatt by another name. My first impulse was right,’ said Chatfield with a self-congratulatory smile. ‘The man we’re after has a grudge against conchies.’

‘It seems to me that you’re making hasty assumptions,’ said Marmion.

‘There’s too much similarity for it to be a coincidence, Inspector.’

‘Perhaps you’d let me make up my own mind about that.’

On the walk to his office, the superintendent gave him the relevant facts. A man in his late twenties was attacked in a dark lane the previous night. Before he could kill his victim, the attacker was interrupted and ran off. Help was summoned and the wounded man was rushed to hospital. He’d sustained serious head injuries and was in a coma but he was still alive. His condition was described as critical. From information in his wallet, he was identified as the Reverend James Howells, a curate at St Leonard’s in Shoreditch High Street. A letter from his father, found in his pocket, showed that his family lived in York. Chatfield had rung the police station in the city and asked them to inform Mr and Mrs Howells that their son was in hospital as the result of a murderous attack. The superintendent had also sent word to the vicar of St Leonard’s.

‘It all fits together,’ he said, almost gleefully.

‘I don’t find a violent attack a subject for celebration, sir.’

‘We’ll catch him this time. The victim has survived.’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion, guardedly, ‘but we don’t know how much he’ll remember if and when he recovers consciousness. If there’s been excessive brain damage, he may be able to tell us nothing at all. And even if he makes a good recovery, he may have no idea who tried to kill him.’

‘He must have. I’m counting on it.’

‘Then there’s a question of motive, sir. Just because he had that NCF leaflet in his pocket, it doesn’t mean that he supports their cause.’

‘There’s no other conceivable reason why he should have it.’

‘I can think of one,’ said Marmion. ‘He wanted to use it as the basis of a sermon. That’s what the vicar of our church did. He stood in the pulpit a couple of Sundays ago and denounced those who refused to take part in what he called a holy crusade against the Germans. The Reverend Howells may be of the same view.’

‘That’s nonsense.’

‘You’re resorting to guesswork, Superintendent.’

‘The facts speak for themselves.’

‘Well, they don’t convince me,’ said Marmion, as they turned into the office. ‘The two incidents could be entirely unrelated.’

‘But the second is a mirror image of the first.’

‘I dispute that, sir. What we have now is an ambush in a dark lane. Whereas, in the first instance, we had someone killed elsewhere then dumped during the night. That’s a critical difference.’

‘You may be forced to eat your words, Inspector.’

‘Then I’ll do so in all humility — but only if I get concrete proof.’

Chatfield was peevish. He hated it when anyone challenged his theories. He had a particular aversion to being contradicted by Marmion. Walking around his desk, he lowered himself into his chair.

‘Do you recall the visit you made to Ablatt’s father?’ he asked.

‘I recall it very well, sir.’

‘He talked about his son’s passion for religion and you saw all those books about Christianity in his room. It was in the first report you gave me.’

‘I tried to be as comprehensive as possible.’

‘Did you ever ask which church Ablatt and his father attended?’

‘No, sir, I didn’t. Sergeant Keedy and I just let Mr Ablatt talk.’

‘Take a look at a map of Shoreditch, Inspector. The most likely church would have been the closest to the house. Do you agree?’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘That would be logical.’

‘Then he was a member of the congregation at St Leonard’s,’ said Chatfield with the deep satisfaction of someone who’d just made a decisive point in a debate. ‘It therefore follows that Ablatt must have known the curate very well. My feeling is that they were birds of a feather.’ He bared his teeth at Marmion. ‘Do you still think there’s no connection between the two crimes?’

Ellen was thrilled to see her daughter for the second time in a week. She liked to think that Alice had come specifically to see her, even though her daughter went straight upstairs to her bedroom to retrieve various items she needed. Alice didn’t even have time for a cup of tea. She bundled the things into a bag.

‘Have you ever thought about having a lodger?’ she asked.

‘I feel as if I already have one, Alice — it’s your father.’

‘I’m serious. We’re always looking for accommodation for refugees. Most of them come with families or friends but we do get the occasional person on their own. All they want is a roof over their head.’

Ellen was upset. ‘I’d never let anyone have your room.’

‘But I don’t need it any more.’

‘You may want it back one day when the war is over.’

‘No,’ said Alice, firmly. ‘I’ve moved out for good, Mummy. That’s no reflection on you and Daddy. I loved it when I lived at home. But everything has changed now and you’ll have to get used to it.’

‘It’s too early to be so certain about that.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Ellen refused to accept the inevitable. She still nurtured the hope that her daughter would, in time, begin to yearn for the comforts of home and return to live in the family house. She put a maternal hand on Alice’s shoulder.

‘Let’s talk about it properly when you’re not in such a rush.’

‘There’s no point. My mind is made up.’

‘Where will you live after the war?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll find somewhere. For the moment, I’m happy enough with the place I’ve got, even though the landlady is very strict. However,’ she said with a laugh, ‘I’m much better off than Vera. Her landlady is a real dragon.’ She gave her mother a peck on the cheek. ‘I must be off. Goodbye.’

Ellen eyed her shrewdly. ‘Has something happened, Alice?’

‘The war has happened. Our lives can never be the same again.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said her mother. ‘Ever since you’ve been in the house, you’ve been smiling to yourself as if you have some sort of secret. It reminds me of the time when you were at school and had your first boyfriend. You came home with a grin on your face but you wouldn’t tell us why.’

‘That was years ago,’ said Alice, ‘and it never lasted, anyway. I soon lost interest in him. As for boyfriends, the only young men I get to see are terrified refugees from Belgium. I just don’t have time for a social life.’ Picking up her bag, she went to the front door. ‘Give my love to Daddy.’

Ellen went to wave her off. ‘Take care, darling. Bye.’

She stood and watched as Alice got into the lorry and drove off. Ellen was both hurt and curious. She wondered why her daughter had just lied to her.

The first person Marmion spoke to at the hospital was the doctor in charge of the case. James Howells had had an emergency operation but was still in a coma. All that the medical staff could do was to wait and watch. The doctor promised that he would get in touch with Scotland Yard the moment that the patient was conscious again, though he warned that Howells might not be able to remember what had happened. In cases of brain damage, it was impossible to predict the outcome. Marmion thanked him and went into the waiting room where the Reverend Simon Ellway was sitting with his eyes closed as if in prayer. The old man’s shoulders sagged wearily. Marmion waited until the vicar’s eyes opened before introducing himself. Ellway was distraught.

‘Where will it end, Inspector?’ he asked in despair. ‘Only yesterday, I had to comfort the family of a parishioner of mine, Cyril Ablatt, who was murdered. Last night, someone tried to kill my curate.’

‘It’s not impossible that the two cases are related,’ said Marmion. ‘I’m here because I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder as well. Cyril Ablatt worshipped at St Leonard’s, then?’

‘Oh, yes. He and his father attended services regularly.’

‘Tell me a little about your curate.’

The vicar spoke warmly. ‘James is a delightful young man. The moment he arrived, he seemed to fit in perfectly. He is indefatigable. Nothing is too much trouble for him. He took a huge load off my back. We had our differences, naturally,’ admitted Ellway. ‘He didn’t entirely share my passion for the Old Testament and, by the same token, I was rather resistant to some of the modern ideas he tried to press upon me. In truth, I suppose, I’m a hopeless traditionalist. But none of our differences get in the way of our friendship. James is like a son to us.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘We offered him a room at the vicarage but he preferred to be out in the community he served. He has digs within walking distance of the church.’ He smiled fondly. ‘James is single but I don’t think he’ll remain a bachelor for long. He’s very handsome and sets many a female heart aflutter. My wife used to tease me about it. When James took a service, she said, there are always more young ladies in the congregation than when I’m on duty.’

‘Given his popularity, why should anyone wish to attack him?’

‘It was more than just an attack, Inspector. It was a case of attempted murder. If someone hadn’t, mercifully, come along when he did, James would be dead.’

‘Did he ever talk about enemies that he had?’

‘No,’ replied Ellway, ‘because there weren’t any. Everyone liked him.’

‘People said the same thing about Cyril Ablatt, yet he was murdered.’

‘I know. It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘There is one possible motive.’

‘You’re talking about him being a conscientious objector, aren’t you?’

‘Yes — that makes him an object of disgust to some people.’

‘You could never be disgusted by Cyril. He was a splendid young fellow.’

‘What about your curate?’ asked Marmion.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Did he agree with the stand that Cyril was taking?’

‘He did and he didn’t,’ said the old man. ‘He agreed that everyone had the right to take a stand on an issue of moral principle and he admired him for doing so. At the same time, however, James couldn’t support him. He felt that the needs of a national emergency should come first. On the subject of war, the Bible is rather ambiguous. They had long theological arguments, quoting bits of the Old and New Testaments at each other.’

‘Who won the argument?’

‘The issue was unresolved. Cyril tried to persuade James to go to a meeting of something called the No-Conscription Fellowship. My curate showed me the leaflet he’d been given.’

‘Did he attend the meeting?’

‘No, Inspector. He felt that he’d be there under false pretences.’

Marmion was interested to hear how the leaflet had come into the curate’s possession and would take pleasure in passing on the information to Chatfield. It would puncture the superintendent’s theory about the second attack being an exact copy of the first. Howells and Ablatt were not interchangeable victims. They were on opposite sides of the argument. The vicar provided a link between the two men.

‘You mentioned that you visited Mr Ablatt,’ recalled Marmion.

‘That’s right,’ said Ellway with a sigh. ‘As you can imagine, I’ve had rather too much experience of visiting a house of mourning but it’s usually because someone has died a natural death. There have also been families here whose sons have been killed during the war, of course, and there have been rather too many of them. What I’ve never had to do before is to offer consolation to the father of a murder victim.’

‘How did Mr Ablatt seem?’

‘He seemed totally baffled. He just couldn’t understand what was going on. His sister, however, was beyond my reach. She was so consumed by anguish that I don’t think she heard a word of what I said. There was another member of the family there,’ he went on, ‘a Mrs Skene, a cousin of Gerald Ablatt. She struck me as one of those practical women who subdue their own grief in order to help those unable to do so. Yes, Mrs Skene was very capable.’

Marmion did not disclose her ulterior motive in visiting the house. He didn’t wish to betray a confidence or to shatter the fond image of Cyril Ablatt that the vicar had. Unlike his young parishioner, Simon Ellway would never have been able to reconcile religious conviction and an intimate relationship with a married woman. After thanking him for his help, Marmion took his leave and headed for the exit. Before he reached it, he saw Keedy coming down the corridor towards him.

‘Good morning, Joe.’

‘Good morning. The superintendent told me I’d find you here.’

‘Did he tell you why?’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘The killer went after a second victim.’

Marmion took a deep breath. ‘That’s not quite what happened …’

Against all advice, Gerald Ablatt opened his shop that morning. He felt that he’d been writhing in pain for long enough and he sought the anaesthetic of work. It gave him a sense of purpose and showed him that not everyone in Shoreditch disapproved of the fact that someone hadn’t volunteered for military service. Customers were uniformly sympathetic. They made the cobbler feel both proud of his son and comforted in his loss. As a result of his decision to resume work, his sister was forced to stay at home. Promising to come back early, Dalley went off to work. He met the postman on the way and stopped for a chat. When the blacksmith reached the forge, his assistant was dealing with a customer whose horse he’d just shoed. After the bill had been paid, Percy Fry came over to his boss.

‘I didn’t expect you so soon, Jack.’

‘There was a change of plan today. I’ve had to leave Nancy at home. Her brother went off to open his shop so she couldn’t go to the house.’

‘Gone back to work, you say? Is that wise?’

‘It’s my brother-in-law’s way of getting through this ordeal.’

‘Is anyone sitting with Nancy?’

‘No,’ said Dalley, ‘she’s on her own and, to be honest, I’m rather worried about her. Do you think you could ask Elaine to pop over there at some point?’

‘Yes, of course — she’s been waiting for the call.’

‘Thanks, Perce.’

Customers arrived and they were both kept busy for a while, filling the place with the clang of steel and the roar of the fire. It was not until an hour later that the blacksmith had time to pass on a rumour he’d picked up.

‘As I was leaving the house,’ he said, ‘I bumped into the postman. He’d heard something about a second attack in Shoreditch.’

Fry was amazed. ‘You mean there was another murder?’

‘No, it stopped short of that. The killer was interrupted and ran off before he could finish the job. This all took place only two streets away from our house. I daren’t tell Nancy about it or she’d be afraid to leave the house.’

‘It would scare anybody, Jack. There was nothing like this when we lived in Shoreditch. The place felt safe. Elaine was saying that over breakfast. People used to settle their differences with their fists. They didn’t need to kill each other.’

‘There was no war on when you lived there, Perce.’

‘So?’

‘It’s changed people for the worst — especially the lads who’ve fought in it.’

‘Well, yes, I’d agree with you there.’

‘I reckon that the man who killed Cyril was either a soldier or the father of one who died at the front. He couldn’t bear the sight of someone refusing to fight for his country when others have given their lives.’

‘We’ve said it before,’ noted Fry. ‘Nobody likes conchies.’

‘Cyril was the exception. I liked him.’

‘So did I — up to a point. What about this second one?’

‘What do you mean, Perce?’

‘Was he a conchie as well?’

‘The postman didn’t know any details,’ said Dalley, ‘but I think it’s very likely. In fact, I’ve got a horrible feeling that he’s connected to my nephew in some way. I’d put money on it.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘When she eventually hears about it, Nancy will be in a terrible state. She’s going to start wondering who’ll be next.’

One advantage of delivering bread was that Gordon Leach picked up all the local gossip. He was alarmed to hear of the second attack and deviated from his normal round in order to call on Fred Hambridge. The carpenter and his boss were both at their benches in the workshop. They were horrified by the news of an attempted murder and even more shocked when they realised who the victim actually was. Hambridge knew the name.

‘James Howells was a curate at Cyril’s church, wasn’t he?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Leach. ‘He was going to marry me and Ruby.’

‘Maybe you’ve got a jealous rival, Gordon,’ suggested Redfern, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘He tried to bump off the priest to stop you getting hitched.’

‘That’s not funny, Charlie,’ said Hambridge.

‘It was only a joke.’

‘Well, we’re not laughing.’

‘We’ve got nothing to laugh about,’ said Leach, anxiously. ‘Two people I knew and liked have been attacked in a matter of days. One of them was murdered and the other is in hospital. I’m terrified.’

‘You’re not in any danger,’ said Redfern.

‘How do you know?’

‘You’d have more sense than to walk down a dark lane at night.’

‘The killer could strike anywhere and at any time.’

‘The police will get him,’ said Hambridge, confidently.

‘They haven’t got him so far, Fred.’

‘They caught that man who painted things on Cyril’s wall.’

‘So did Mansel. In fact, he got hold of him first.’

‘I trust the police.’

‘They ought to give us bodyguards.’

‘Whatever for?’ asked Redfern.

‘We need protection,’ insisted Leach.

‘You’re young and strong enough to look after yourselves.’

‘Being young and strong didn’t help Cyril — or our curate, for that matter. Mansel, Fred or I could be the next on the death list.’ He saw Redfern’s smirk. ‘That may sound far-fetched to you, Charlie,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘but it doesn’t to me. There’s a killer on the loose in Shoreditch. If the police don’t catch him soon, my father will need a new assistant at the bakery and you could be looking for a new carpenter. Let’s see you laugh at that.’

After leaving the hospital, their first visit was to the scene of the crime. There’d been a considerable loss of blood and James Howells had needed an instant transfusion. Marmion and Keedy then drove on to the local police station and read the statement given by the man who disturbed the attacker. The witness had been returning home when he heard a noise in the lane. He could just make out a figure in silhouette, standing over someone on the ground, hand aloft as if about to strike. His yell had frightened the man off. When he realised how badly beaten the victim was, he ran to the police station to raise the alarm. An ambulance was summoned by telephone. Admitting that he’d never recognise the attacker, the witness said that he was simply glad that he came along in time to prevent a murder.

Since no other witnesses had come forward, Marmion decided that they’d start their investigation by interviewing a suspect for the earlier murder. On the drive to the cemetery, Keedy was curious.

‘Do you think the same person is behind both attacks, Harv?’

‘On the face of it,’ said Marmion, ‘it looks quite possible, though I have my doubts. However, we’ll proceed on the basis that we’re after one culprit.’

‘He’s someone who hates conchies and doesn’t like clergymen.’

‘That probably sums up Waldron quite well. He doesn’t sound like a regular churchgoer to me. And if he has to listen to dozens of different priests droning on as he’s waiting to fill in a grave, I daresay he loathes the whole breed.’

‘I’ll be interested to see what you make of him,’ said Keedy. ‘Maybe you can explain where his charm lies. I can’t see it.’

‘Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, Joe.’

‘You’d have to be as blind as a bat to find Horrie Waldron beautiful.’

‘Mrs Crowther’s not blind, is she?’

‘Quite the opposite, I’d say.’

As the car rolled along at a comfortable speed, it was overtaken by a rasping motorcycle. Marmion was reminded of something that his wife had told him.

‘I hope that Alice doesn’t go abroad,’ he said. ‘I encouraged her to move out of the house but I’d be very unhappy if she decided to go to France.’

Keedy was concerned. ‘There’s no chance of that, is there?’

‘It was something she mentioned to Ellen. Apparently, a couple of her friends have gone as dispatch riders. Knowing Alice, I think it would have appealed to her adventurous spirit.’

‘For your sake, I hope she doesn’t go.’

‘We can’t stop her, Joe. If she really wants something, she usually gets it.’

‘Your daughter takes after you, Harv. She’s single-minded.’

‘I’d hate to have both my children near the war front.’

Keedy was wounded by the information. He couldn’t understand why Alice hadn’t confided in him. At a time when they were getting closer, she was thinking of going abroad. It was not the best way to let their friendship ripen. As it was, he saw very little of Alice. If she left the country, he’d see nothing at all of her. Keedy was glad that her father could not read his mind.

The car turned in through the gates of the cemetery.

‘Where are we likely to find him?’ asked Marmion.

‘They’ll tell us.’

When they reached the reception lodge, Keedy let him do all the talking. He was too busy adjusting to the news about Alice, still wondering why she’d never touched on the subject with him. When Marmion wanted her to remain in England, he was speaking as a father. Keedy had equally strong reasons for not wishing to see her sail off to France. He hoped he’d get the chance to discuss them with her.

It did not take them long to track down Horrie Waldron. Shirt open at the neck and sleeves rolled up, he was leaning against a gravestone as he rolled himself a cigarette. When he saw the detectives coming, he spat on the ground by way of a welcome. Marmion saw how accurate Keedy’s description of the man had been. The only difference was that Waldron was not wearing the filthy old clothing on which the sergeant had commented. His shirt, waistcoat and trousers were ragged but they were not stained or impregnated with the stink of the grave. When Marmion introduced himself, he got a scowl of disrespect.

‘Do you know the Reverend James Howells?’ he asked. Waldron kept him waiting, lighting his cigarette and puffing on it.

‘I might do.’

‘Either you do or you don’t.’

‘I see priest after bleeding priest in here. Never remember their names.’

‘This gentleman is the curate at St Leonard’s.’

‘What’s that to me, Inspector?’

‘Someone tried to kill him last night.’

Waldron cackled. ‘Then he ought to write better sermons,’ he said, nastily. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the rubbish they come out with. When I first started here, I sometimes used to stand at the back of the chapel to listen to what the priest was saying. It was all I could do not to laugh. Do they get paid for spouting all that bleeding nonsense?’ His grin vanished as he saw the way that they were looking at him. ‘Hey, you don’t think that I had anything to do with it, did you?’

‘Where were you last night just before midnight, Horrie?’ asked Keedy.

‘I was in my bed.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

‘I was on my own.’

‘What about your landlady?’

‘I wouldn’t let that old witch anywhere near me,’ said Waldron. ‘She and her husband sleep upstairs and my room is in the basement. When I let myself in, they can’t even hear me.’

‘Did you drink at the Weavers Arms?’

‘Why are you bothering me with all these questions?’

‘We’re trying to eliminate you from our enquiries, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘Well, be quick about it. I got work to do.’

‘Were you at the pub?’ repeated Keedy. ‘We can check, you know.’

‘I left there at closing time. Stan will tell you that.’

‘And you went straight back to your digs?’

‘No,’ said Waldron, sarcastically, ‘I killed three old ladies and a couple of priests on the way. Why pick on me?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve never even heard this Reverend Thingamajig’s name before.’

‘But you’ve heard the name of Cyril Ablatt.’

‘Oh, yes. I remember that clever bugger. I’ll give three cheers at the funeral.’

‘That would be very unkind of you, Mr Waldron,’ said Marmion.

‘I won’t ask you why. What I’d like to know is what happened to the spade.’

The gravedigger blinked. ‘What spade, Inspector?’

‘This one,’ said Keedy, touching the implement that stood upright in a mound of fresh earth. ‘It was the one you took to the pub on the night Cyril Ablatt was murdered. Mr Crowther confirmed that.’

‘It was my spade. I can do what I like with it.’

‘Not if you use it as a weapon, sir,’ warned Marmion.

‘So tell us what happened to it,’ said Keedy. ‘You took it to the pub and you had it with you when you went out for an hour or so. Why didn’t you bring it back with you when you went to the Weavers Arms again?’

Marmion saw him blench. ‘Wandering around in the dark with a spade is an odd thing to do, Mr Waldron,’ he said. ‘Answer the sergeant’s question. Where did you leave it when you went back to the pub?’

‘And what did you have it for in the first place?’ said Keedy, pulling the spade out and holding it up. ‘Did you, by any chance, take it home with you yesterday evening as well?’

Waldron’s bravado had melted away. Eyes darting, he looked like a cornered animal. He let his cigarette fall to the ground then stamped on it with a brutal heel. After a few moments, he snatched the spade from Keedy’s hand.

‘Give that here!’ he yelled. ‘It’s mine.’