Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Alice Marmion had said nothing to her friend about her narrow escape from the man who’d followed her. If she’d confided in Vera Dowling, she’d have had to divulge the name of Joe Keedy and that would have let the cat out of the bag. It was important to keep their friendship a secret. Trustworthy in every other respect, Vera was prone to the occasional slip of the tongue. It was safer to keep her ignorant and to be spared her veiled disapproval. She’d never understand why Alice had become involved with a man almost ten years older. If anything, she’d be quietly scandalised and that would have an adverse affect on their friendship. Silence was definitely Alice’s best option. Having missed lunch because of the pressure of work, they were having a snack in the canteen that afternoon. As usual, Vera found something to worry about.

‘Have you had any more thoughts about Belgium?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Alice. ‘I’m wondering if there’s anyone left in the country. We’ve had so many refugees that the entire population must be here now.’

‘I was talking about that idea you had.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Have you made a decision yet?’

‘No, Vera. One day, I want to go, and the next day, I’ve changed my mind. It wouldn’t necessarily be in Belgium, of course. I could be driving a motorbike in France.’ Her face lit up. ‘I might even get close to Paul’s regiment. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could see my brother over there?’

Vera was sad. ‘Paul’s gain would be my loss.’

‘You could always come with me.’

‘I could never be a dispatch rider.’

‘There are lots of other things you could do over there, Vera.’

‘No,’ said the other, ‘I know my limits and I’ve already reached them. Besides, I promised Mummy that I’d never go abroad because of the danger. If you desert me, I’ll be left on my own.’

‘Hardly!’ said Alice with a laugh. ‘I’m not the only woman in the WEC.’

‘You’re the only one I get on with.’

‘You’ll soon find someone else, Vera.’

‘Nobody else seems to like me.’

‘That’s absurd! Lots of people like you.’

‘No, Alice, they put up with me because of you and that’s very different. Mrs Billington is a case in point. She tolerates me because she admires you.’

It was true and both women knew it. Though she’d had enough courage to leave home, Vera lacked the personality and thrust to mix easily in a group. She always needed someone to lean on. Without Alice beside her, Vera would struggle. She was too shy to make new women friends and too plain to attract male interest. While she sympathised with her friend’s plight, however, Alice had to be selfish. In many ways, she recognised, Vera was holding her back. Going abroad would allow Alice to escape from the dependency.

‘Look out,’ said Vera, tensing as she saw someone approaching their table with a purposeful stride. ‘Mrs Billington is on her way.’

‘Try to relax. Hannah’s one of us.’

‘Then why do I always feel so threatened?’

Alice turned to see the older woman coming towards them with a newspaper under her arm. As they exchanged greetings, Hannah sat down beside Alice.

‘How would tomorrow afternoon suit you, ladies?’ she asked. ‘You can come and have a proper tea at my house.’

‘Thanks very much, Hannah,’ said Alice. ‘We’d like that.’

Vera hesitated. ‘I’m … not sure that I can come, Mrs Billington.’

‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Hannah. ‘Why is that?’

‘I’ve got … something else on.’

‘In that case, Alice will have to come on her own. Is that all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice, helping to bail her friend out. ‘She did warn me that she’d be too busy to help me all day tomorrow,’ she went on, reinforcing the white lie. ‘You’ll have to come to Hannah’s house another time, Vera.’

‘I will,’ said Vera without enthusiasm.

Hannah took the newspaper from under her arm and unfurled it.

‘I take it that neither of you has seen the early edition?’ she said, pointing to the front page headline. ‘The Shoreditch killer is on the prowl again.’

‘Oh, no!’ cried Vera.

‘Luckily, he was stopped just in time.’

‘Let me see,’ said Alice, pulling the newspaper closer so that she could read it.

‘Your father almost had another murder to solve,’ said Hannah, seriously. ‘It’s clear that the man will stop at nothing. Inspector Marmion needs to catch this devil. Until he does, everyone in London will be looking over their shoulder.’

Alice was dismayed. The new case would not only entail additional work for her father. It would mean that Joe Keedy would be completely preoccupied as well. Given the extended hours he’d now have to work, there was no hope at all of seeing him soon. She would have to survive on memories.

When he read the same newspaper report, Marmion was pulsing with anger. The superintendent had given the press the impression that the inspector agreed with him that the two heinous crimes were the work of the same man. Normally so frugal with the amount of information he fed reporters, Chatfield had said too much too soon and reached a conclusion that — in Marmion’s opinion — they’d live to regret. The Evening News had turned it into a sensation. All of a sudden, London had a new monster stalking the streets. If he struck again, it was argued, he would be taking on the mantle of Jack the Ripper as an evil phantom who left the police utterly baffled. The article was very unflattering to Marmion, claiming that his hitherto untarnished reputation was slowly crumbling because he’d made no progress with the murder investigation, thereby leaving the killer to choose a second victim with impunity.

‘That makes my blood boil!’ he said, tossing the newspaper aside.

Keedy picked it up. ‘What does it say, Harv?’

‘They think we’re idiots.’

‘If they’ve been talking to Chat, I’m not surprised. He’s the idiot-in-chief.’ Keedy read the article. ‘This is so unfair,’ he said, hotly. ‘Anyone would think we’ve been sitting on our hands for the last few days. It’s especially unfair to you. They ought to show more respect.’

‘They have newspapers to sell, Joe.’

‘That doesn’t mean they can print lies.’

‘They’d call it “informed opinion”.’

‘Well, if you want my informed opinion,’ said Keedy with spirit, ‘the man who wrote this drivel ought to be kicked the length of Piccadilly. I’ll volunteer to do the kicking and to wear some hobnail boots.’

‘Never get into a fight with a reporter. They always have more ink.’

‘We can’t let him get away with this, Harv.’

‘We won’t,’ Marmion promised him. ‘We’ll solve both crimes and show him just how maliciously wide of the mark this article is.’

During a morning of ceaseless activity, they paid a visit to Gerald Ablatt’s shop where the cobbler had been working quietly away. Aghast at the news of an attack on James Howells, he’d confirmed that his son had been friends with the curate and talked of him visiting the house once or twice. Ablatt was honest. While he appreciated the curate’s many fine qualities, he still preferred the vicar’s sermons. They offered more comfort and far less challenge. After a series of other calls, the detectives had ended up in the room where Howells had lived. It presented a sharp contrast to Cyril Ablatt’s bedroom. Where the latter was small, untidy and filled with books, this one was large, scrupulously organised and devoid of ornament. There was an austere feel to the place. Hidden behind a curtain, a single bed stood in the corner. The furniture comprised a table, a chair and a wardrobe. A neat pile of books stood on the table. Inevitably, the Bible was one of them.

Keedy whistled in surprise. ‘This room makes mine look like Aladdin’s cave.’

‘It is rather bare,’ agreed Marmion.

‘Where are the paintings, the knick-knacks, the personal items?’

‘He didn’t need those, Joe.’

‘Most of us have something to look at.’

‘Perhaps he chose to look inwards.’

Marmion sifted through the books on the table. When he picked up the Bible, nothing fell out of it. The Reverend James Howells was patently not a man who spent much money on himself. They opened the wardrobe to find very little inside apart from some shirts, socks, underclothes and a pair of trousers.

‘He seems to have lived like a monk,’ said Keedy. ‘This whole room reeks of self-denial.’

Marmion grinned. ‘I’m surprised you know what self-denial is, Joe.’

‘I don’t.’

‘They tell me it’s good for the soul.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ Keedy drew back the curtain to look at the bed. On a shelf supported by a wall bracket were shaving equipment, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Getting down onto his knees, he peered underneath the bed then reached for something. ‘This might be interesting.’

‘What have you found?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘Can you manage, Joe?’

‘I think so.’

Keedy stood up with a small cardboard box in his hands. When he set it on the table, they examined the contents. There were letters from Howells’s father and from fellow clergymen with whom he’d studied. There were some family photographs, and a pile of sermons written in a neat hand with various words underlined. Of most interest to Marmion was a small address book. As he leafed through it, he saw that most of the people listed in it lived in Shoreditch and were, presumably, the curate’s parishioners. His parents’ address was there, as were those of relatives and friends in York. One name jumped out of the address book at Marmion.

‘Eric Fussell is in here,’ he said, curiosity stirring. ‘Yet he doesn’t live in Shoreditch, so he’s unlikely to attend services at St Leonard’s.’

Keedy looked over his shoulder. ‘I see what you mean. He lives in Lambeth.’

‘That raises a question, Joe.’

‘Yes — how did your favourite librarian make his way into the book?’

Mansel Price first heard about the attempted murder when he saw it emblazoned across the front of the newspaper stall at the railway station. Too mean to buy a copy, he instead went to a nearby wastepaper bin and retrieved one discarded earlier. He read it on the way to the bakery. Gordon Leach let him in by the side door.

‘Have you heard, Mansel?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been reading the details on the way here.’

‘It’s scared me rigid.’

‘Well,’ said Price, contemptuously, ‘it doesn’t take much to do that, does it?’

‘Aren’t you afraid you might be next?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘We could be targets.’

‘I don’t believe that. But just in case anybody does come after me,’ said the Welshman, slipping a hand under his coat, ‘I’ll be ready for him.’

He pulled out a knife and thrust it at Leach, making him jump back.

‘Steady on, Mansel! That’s dangerous.’

‘If anyone attacks me, I’ll cut his balls off.’

‘Put that thing away before someone gets hurt.’

Price slipped the knife back into its sheath. ‘You knew this Father Howells, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ replied Leach. ‘Some of us go to church.’

‘I’m a chapel man myself, though I haven’t seen the inside of one since I left Wales. Anyway, I’m usually working on a Sunday. Need the money.’

‘James Howells was a nice man. Thank heaven he survived!’

‘We don’t know that he did,’ said Price, realistically. ‘The paper says he’s still in a coma. He may never recover. That’d be two murders in less than a week.’

Leach was unnerved. ‘We need police on patrol at night around here,’ he argued. ‘It’s the only way to make sure there isn’t a third victim.’

‘If you expect the police to protect you,’ said Price with rancour, ‘you’ll wait till the cows come home. They don’t have the men to spare and they couldn’t care about us, anyway. Sergeant Keedy couldn’t even catch a man about to paint a wall. What chance has he got of arresting a killer?’

‘Fred trusts him.’

‘Don’t listen to Fred. He thinks well of everybody.’

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. When Leach opened it, Ruby Cosgrove threw herself into his arms. After hugging her for a moment, he eased her inside and closed the door.

‘What’s brought you here, Ruby?’ he asked.

‘When I heard the news, I just had to come.’ Seeing Price for the first time, she broke away from Leach. ‘Hello, Mansel.’

‘How are you, Rube?’

‘I’m terribly upset by what I heard.’

‘It wasn’t Gordon he banged on the head — it was only Father What’s-is-name.’

‘We know him,’ she emphasized. ‘Gordon and I saw him in church last Sunday. He was so friendly. Father Howells was going to marry us.’

Price sniggered. ‘I thought you were after this three-day licence.’

‘No,’ said Leach, firmly. ‘That’s out of the question now. We don’t need it any more.’

‘You mean that you and Gordon are not going to get married, after all?’ Price shook his head. ‘I wish the pair of you would make up your bleeding minds.’

‘Watch your language, Mansel,’ warned Leach. ‘I won’t have you swearing in front of Ruby. As for the wedding,’ he continued, shooting Ruby a nervous glance, ‘our plans are not definite at the moment.’

‘Yes, they are,’ she said, decisively.

Leach gaped. ‘Are they?’

‘That’s unless you’ve changed your mind, Gordon.’

‘No, no,’ he said, happily. ‘I’m dying to get married.’

‘Then we leave the date exactly as it was,’ she explained. ‘We’ll have to ask the vicar to take the service, of course, but I’m sure he’ll agree to that.’

‘Wait a minute, Rube,’ said Price, hands on hips, ‘there’s something you’re forgetting. Me and Gordon will be hauled up before a tribunal soon. Fred Hambridge has already had his summons. We’re the next in the queue. How can you walk down the aisle with Gordon when he’s likely to be locked up in prison with me? We’re conchies. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic with me, Mansel Price.’

‘Then don’t plan for something that can’t possibly happen.’

‘But it can,’ she insisted. ‘My father explained it to me. There’s a way for Gordon to stick to his principles without being imprisoned.’

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘He can join a non-combatant corps. They never have to take part in a battle and sometimes they don’t even leave this country. You’d be safe, Gordon, and I’m sure we’d get permission from your commanding officer to go ahead with the wedding in the summer.’ Squeezing his hands, she smiled lovingly at him. ‘Isn’t that the perfect solution?’

Leach could sense that Price was simmering with rage. He played for time.

‘Let me think it over, Ruby,’ he said, tactfully.

On his third visit to Shoreditch library, Marmion took Joe Keedy with him so that he could get the sergeant’s opinion of the librarian. When they arrived, Eric Fussell was in a meeting with his deputy so they had to wait. It gave them the opportunity to scour the shelves. Keedy was fascinated by an illustrated guide to angling.

‘It must be years since I got my fishing rod out,’ he moaned. ‘I used to love sitting in the sun on a riverbank when the fish were nibbling.’

‘You go fishing every day in this job,’ said Marmion with a grin. ‘If you use the right bait and remain patient, you always catch something in the end.’

‘The trouble is that it’s usually small fry, Harv — petty thieves and so on. I’d rather just toss them back into the water.’

‘We’re after more than small fry now.’

‘Then we need a big hook and a large net.’ Keedy replaced the book on the shelf and looked towards the librarian’s office. ‘I think he’s deliberately keeping us waiting. What’s he doing in there?’

‘He’s probably still trying to find out who supplied us with all that information about his feud with Cyril Ablatt. It riled him to think that one of his assistants had dared to betray him.’ He saw someone behind the desk. ‘It certainly wasn’t that lady.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s his wife, Mrs Fussell.’

Keedy looked at the portly woman writing something in a pad. She wore spectacles and had her hair pinned up at the back. Putting the pad aside, she reached out some books from under the counter and took them to a shelf nearby. As she stacked them wearily in position, she looked as if she was doing a tedious chore. Clearly, she didn’t share her husband’s zeal for the working at the library.

Marmion saw the door of the office open. The deputy librarian came out, followed by Fussell who beckoned the detectives over with a lordly crook of the finger. All three of them went into the office. After Keedy had been introduced to the librarian, they took a seat. A copy of the Evening News lay on the desk.

‘I hope that you’ve brought me some glad tidings,’ said Fussell.

‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘You must have made some progress.’

‘We’re still gathering evidence.’

‘That takes time,’ said Keedy.

‘We have to sort out the wheat from the chaff, you see. The strange thing is that people don’t always tell us the truth,’ said Marmion. ‘Well, you’re a good example, sir. You told me what an outstanding assistant Cyril Ablatt was even though you’d done your level best to unload him onto another library.’

‘I explained that,’ snapped Fussell.

‘Indeed, you did — but only when someone had provided me with the facts.’

The librarian was tetchy. ‘Why are you bothering me again, Inspector? I would have thought you had plenty to keep you busy.’ He indicated the newspaper. ‘You have another case on your hands now and someone doesn’t like the way you’re handling the first one. You and the sergeant are more or less ridiculed in that article.’

‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, sir,’ said Keedy.

‘The impression given is that you’re both floundering.’

‘Appearances are deceptive,’ said Marmion, easily. ‘But let’s leave the press to its own peculiar ways. We came here to ask you about Father Howells. I believe that you know him, Mr Fussell.’

‘Yes — I’ve seen him here a number of times.’

‘He’s also a friend of yours, isn’t he?’

‘Everyone who comes into the library is a friend of mine. I make a point of fraternising with the readers. It’s important to understand their needs and to be aware of their likes and dislikes.’

‘You’re avoiding the question, sir.’

Fussell looked blank. ‘Am I?’

‘You knew James Howells as a friend, didn’t you?’

‘We often had a chat when he came in here, Inspector.’

‘And was the friendship no closer than that?’

‘Why should it be?’ asked Fussell.

‘When we visited the house where he lives,’ said Marmion, ‘we found his address book. Your name was in it.’

‘There’s nothing unusual in that,’ said Fussell, smoothly. ‘James — Father Howells, that is — was a regular visitor here. It’s not surprising that he kept the address of the library.’

‘But that’s not what he did,’ said Keedy. ‘He kept your home address.’

The librarian’s face was impassive but his eyes flicked to and fro.

‘Why did he do that, sir?’ asked Marmion, watching him intently. ‘Do you worship at St Leonard’s, by any chance?’

‘No, I do not,’ said Fussell, stiffly. ‘My wife and I are Roman Catholics.’

‘Did you ever meet him socially?’

‘What has this got to do with a violent attack in the night?’

‘You’re avoiding the question again, sir.’

‘No,’ retorted Fussell, ‘I did not meet Father Howells socially. I have, by choice, a very limited social life. After a long day here, all that my wife and I wish to do is to have a quiet evening at home.’

‘So you can’t explain how your name got into that address book?’

‘I don’t have the foggiest idea.’

The reply was assertive and bolstered by a defiant glare. Marmion thanked him for his time and rose to his feet. Keedy got up to follow him out. As they strolled towards the door, they walked past Mrs Fussell and saw her avert her gaze from them. When they came out into the fresh air, Marmion turned enquiringly to Keedy.

‘You were right,’ said the other. ‘I disliked him on sight as well.’

‘Why did he lie about having his name in that address book?’

‘That wasn’t the only lie he told us, Harv. When we walked out, you must have noticed his wife.’

‘Yes, she looked rather bored and unhappy.’

‘I don’t wish to be unkind,’ said Keedy, ‘but she’s not the most attractive woman. She looks as if she’d be very dull company. For all his arrogance, Fussell has got a real spark in him. Could you really imagine him spending all his spare time at home with a wife like that?’

Maud Crowther placed the flowers in front of the headstone then stood back to gaze down at the inscription. She had made her weekly pilgrimage to the cemetery and was weighed down by sad thoughts of her late husband. After all this time, she missed him as much as ever. They’d been happily married for a long time. Lost in her memories, she stood there in silence for almost twenty minutes. When she finally turned away, she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back. Having paid her respects to her husband, she went in search of a friend.

Horrie Waldron was waist-deep in a grave. He was aware that Maud would pay her customary visit to the cemetery but he knew better than to interrupt her. If she wanted to talk, she’d come to him. As a rule, she simply went straight home without even seeing him. Today, it was different. She was anxious to find him. When he saw her walking along the gravel path, he clambered out of the grave and used his arms to semaphore. Maud spotted him and went across the grass.

‘Good afternoon, Horrie,’ she said.

He gave a sly grin. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘Have you heard the news?’

‘I’ve done more than that, Maud. I’ve had the coppers out here after me.’

She was shocked. ‘They surely don’t think that you had something to do with it, do they?’

‘They’d pin every crime on me, if they could,’ he said, sourly. ‘Just because I had a spot of bother with them once or twice, they blame me for every damn thing.’

‘Did you mention me this time?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Good — I don’t want them sniffing around my house again. It could get back to Stan,’ she said, worriedly, ‘and you know what would happen then. You’d need someone to dig your grave.’

Waldron cackled. ‘It’d be worth it, Maud.’

‘Don’t be stupid. I’d lose my son’s respect for ever.’

‘Then we make sure Stan never finds out.’

‘There’s one simple way to do that,’ she said, moving closer and clearing her throat. ‘Look, Horrie, I’ve been thinking about this for some time. Maybe we should stop taking all these risks. It’s silly at my age. I’m fed up with having to creep round and tell lies to everyone. The game is not worth the candle.’

His hackles rose. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

‘We’d still be friends.’

‘What about my …visits?’

‘They’ll have to stop.’

‘But I don’t want them to stop, Maud.’

‘It’s starting to get too dangerous.’

‘Thought you liked danger,’ he said, looming over her. ‘It was all part of the fun.’ When she tried to move away, he grabbed her wrist. ‘You won’t get rid of me as easily as that,’ he warned. ‘I’ll be there at the usual time on the usual day. Is that clear?’

‘You’re hurting my wrist.’

‘Is that clear?’ he demanded, tightening his grip.

‘I don’t want you any more, Horrie,’ she said, angrily.

His eyes flashed. ‘Got no choice, have you?’

They got back to Scotland Yard to find a pile of putative witness statements awaiting them on Marmion’s desk. They related to both crimes. One purported to come from the killer, taunting them with their inability to identify him. A second ‘confession’ came in the form of a crude cartoon with images of two victims being clubbed from behind. Other people did make a stab at naming the culprit. Among the suspects put forward was a gravedigger from Abney Park cemetery. The information about the second attack seemed more reliable. Three separate people claimed to have seen someone running out of the lane and down the street around the time when the curate had been bludgeoned to the ground. A woman who looked out of her bedroom window caught a glimpse of him as well. All they could see was a tall figure with long strides. He’d vanished into the night.

Marmion and Keedy were still discussing the dubious evidence when the superintendent breezed into the office. Chatfield demanded an instant report on how they’d spent their time. When he’d heard the details of their movements, he was disappointed by their apparent lack of progress.

‘This will only give more ammunition to the press,’ he grumbled.

‘You’ve given them far too much already, sir,’ said Marmion, reproachfully, ‘and they fired it straight back at us. Why tell them that we were looking for one man when you had no actual proof of that? You were working entirely on supposition.’

‘I was relying on my experience, Inspector.’

‘Well, I’d advise more caution in the future. According to you, the curate was Cyril Ablatt by another name yet that’s not what the vicar thinks.’

‘And he should know,’ Keedy interjected.

‘The two of them are on opposite sides when it comes to the subject of conscientious objection to military service. That NCF leaflet misled you completely.’

Chatfield was unrepentant. ‘I don’t accept that.’

‘In future,’ said Marmion, ‘I’d be grateful if you let me handle any press conferences. I am, after all, supposed to be in charge of the two cases. Isn’t that why I was given the assignment — because I know how to handle reporters?’

‘You were chosen against my wishes,’ Chatfield reminded him, spitefully. ‘And for the record, I, too, know how to keep the press in its place.’

‘Then why did they launch that attack on us in the paper?’ asked Keedy. ‘It’s not helpful when we’re mocked like that. Thanks to you, the inspector came in for the heaviest criticism. We expect you to support us, sir, not offer us up as sacrifices.’

‘That’s enough, Sergeant!’

‘Very well,’ said the other, backing off, ‘but at least you know how we feel.’

‘I expect more deference from a junior officer.’

‘Then you ought to earn it,’ said Marmion under his breath. Aloud, he was placatory. ‘There’s no point in arguing about it. I’m sure it won’t happen again and I’m sorry if the sergeant and I overstepped the mark, sir.’

‘So you should be,’ said Chatfield. ‘What’s the next move?’

‘I think that we should probe a little deeper into Waldron’s private life.’

‘How will you do that, Inspector?’

‘By taking a look at his digs,’ said Marmion. ‘To do that, we’ll need you to get us a search warrant. I’ve got a strong feeling that Waldron is hiding something.’

Stroking his chin, the superintendent looked first at Marmion then at Keedy.

‘I sometimes get that feeling about you two,’ he said, darkly. ‘It’s bad enough when the public deliberately withholds evidence. When it’s my own officers doing it, I resent it bitterly.’ He regarded each of them in turn once more. His voice contained an unspecified threat. ‘What are the two of you keeping from me?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ said Marmion, straight-faced.

‘Nothing at all,’ added Keedy. ‘We wouldn’t dare, Superintendent.’

Horrie Waldron ended his working day by rolling himself a cigarette and locking up his spade in the shed. As he trudged toward the main gate, he reflected on the visit of Maud Crowther. He’d been pleased to see her at first, knowing that she’d taken the trouble to seek him out. But her decision to end his visits to her house had been like a slap in the face. He’d retaliated in the only way that he knew. He regretted doing that now. Maud deserved better of him. She’d taken great risks on his behalf. If the truth came out, he’d escape with a few broken bones, but she’d never be able to look her son in the eye again. That was far worse than a beating. Waldron saw now that his menacing behaviour had been both ill-judged and unfair. A spirited woman like Maud Crowther couldn’t be threatened. She had to be wooed and coaxed and stroked like a cat. Waldron needed a change of approach.

On the long walk home, he had plenty to think about. The first thing he had to do was to apologise and he could only do that in person. Barely literate, he’d never trust himself to find the right words for a letter. They’d need to speak but only after a lapse of time. When she walked away from the cemetery, Maud had been puce with anger and indignation. She needed time to calm down. Only then could Waldron even hope to wheedle himself back into her affections. To achieve the best result, the apology should be accompanied by a gift of some sort. That would absorb some of her ill feeling towards him. He spent the rest of the journey trying to choose a gift that would buy back her interest in him. While he accepted that he was only a diversion for her, Maud Crowther meant a great deal to Waldron. Only now that he’d lost her did he realise what she meant to him.

On his way home from work, he habitually called in at the Weavers Arms for the first pint of the evening. Stan Crowther served the beer then appraised him.

‘You’ve spruced up a bit, Horrie,’ he said.

‘My other working clothes were starting to hoot a bit.’

‘I noticed.’

Waldron looked around the empty bar. ‘It’s very quiet, Stan.’

‘We won’t see many people in here tonight,’ complained the landlord. ‘That bugger has scared them off. As long as he goes on cracking heads open, people will be too frightened to leave their houses in the dark.’ The gravedigger made no comment. He took a long sip of his beer. ‘Had a good day?’

‘It was neither good nor bad.’

‘My mother was going to the cemetery today to put flowers on Dad’s grave. I don’t suppose you bumped into her, did you?’

‘No, Stan, I never laid eyes on her.’

‘I think it’s morbid myself — going back to a grave all the time.’

‘It helps some people,’ said Waldron, absently. ‘I got nothing against it.’

‘I’ve only been there once since Dad died.’ When another customer came in, Crowther served him before turning back to the gravedigger. ‘My mother should have got over it by now. That’s what I keep telling her.’

‘Women have got minds of their own, Stan.’

The landlord chuckled. ‘You can say that again! I’ve been married for fifteen years now and I still can’t guess what my wife is going to do and say. She never does what I expect her to. Is that your experience of women as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Waldron, ruefully. ‘It certainly is.’

After finishing his pint, he put the tankard down and walked off to his digs. For some reason, spending the whole evening at the pub had lost its appeal. He felt the need to be alone. Waldron rented a small, dank, low-ceilinged basement room with a scullery attached to it, enabling him to make fairly basic meals. The scullery was also the place where he did his infrequent washing. He’d rigged up a line from one side of the room to the other. Hanging from it was the shirt, vest and pair of trousers he normally wore at work. Taking the trousers off the line, he held them up close to the light bulb so that he could examine them. Waldron let out a snarl of disappointment.

After a second wash, the bloodstains were still there.