Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

London was never allowed to forget that there was a war on. Apart from the fact that uniformed soldiers and sailors were always visible on the streets, there was the accumulated bomb damage. Emergency services were kept at full stretch. They were on duty that evening as a fleet of Zeppelins came up the Thames, cruising at ten thousand feet like a flock of giant eagles in search of prey. Laden with bombs, they’d come to inflict another night of terror on the capital. They had, however, been spotted and aircraft from the Royal Flying Corps were dispatched to intercept them. London was treated to a thrilling exhibition of aerial combat, with the smaller, faster and more manoeuvrable British planes trying to fly above the airships in order to bomb them or to get within machine-gun range. The dark sky was a kaleidoscope of bright flashes and sudden explosions. The sound of bullets and destruction reverberated across the heavens. When a Zeppelin blew up with spectacular effect, it scattered debris over a wide area.

The noise could be heard all over the capital. Percy Fry was holding the reins as the horse pulled the cart through Bethnal Green, reacting nervously to the clamour in the sky. At the end of the working day, he was giving Jack Dalley a lift home. The blacksmith looked upwards.

‘Listen to that, Perce,’ he said. ‘The Huns are back.’

‘Those bloody Zeppelins are a menace.’

‘They just keep on coming.’

They’d taken the cart because they had to deliver a gate they’d repaired for a customer. Fry intended to pick his wife up at Dalley’s house to drive her back to the forge. He listened to the pandemonium with foreboding.

‘It sounds as if it’s getting closer.’

‘Keep the bombs away from us,’ said Dalley, staring upwards. ‘We already have enough misery to cope with in our family.’

‘I hope that Elaine has been able to help.’

‘I’m sure she has, Perce. All that Nancy needs is someone to be there with her. To be honest, I’m glad that my brother-in-law went back to work. Having Nancy in his house all day was dragging him down.’ He glanced across at Fry. ‘It’s very kind of your wife to take over, especially when she’s not in the best of health.’

‘She’s bearing up, Jack.’

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘There’s not much he can do, really,’ said Fry, resignedly, ‘and it’s far too expensive for us to keep going back to him and trying new medicine. Elaine never complains. She grits her teeth and gets on with it. Having to help someone else is good for her in a way. It takes her mind off her own troubles.’

‘When there’s a death in the family, you need all the help you can get.’

‘Count on us, Jack.’

‘Thanks.’

As they picked their way through the streets, the distant commotion gradually diminished. The air raid seemed to be over and people were left to assess the damage, take the wounded off to hospital and douse any fires caused by incendiary bombs. The Zeppelins had retreated, still hounded by the British aircraft. Everyone knew that they’d soon be back. War now had an immediacy that was unthinkable in the early days of the conflict. Having invaded Belgium and penetrated into France, the enemy was now striking boldly at the very heart of Britain.

‘How many more of our soldiers will have to die before it’s all over?’ asked Fry, pulling the horse to a halt to let traffic go past at a junction. ‘It seems as if it could go on for ever.’

‘I blame the politicians,’ said Dalley, resentfully. ‘They didn’t put enough soldiers in the field at the very start. They were caught cold. Conscription should have been brought in a year ago. The only way to beat the Germans is with more men.’

‘It’d help if we had better weapons and equipment as well.’

‘What worries me is this poison gas they use. If it doesn’t kill our lads, it blinds them and sets their lungs on fire. What happens if the Germans find a way to drop it in canisters over London?’

Fry pulled a face. ‘I’d hate to find out, Jack.’

They continued to discuss the war until they eventually turned into the street where Dalley lived. Bringing the cart to a standstill, Fry got down onto the pavement and followed the blacksmith into the house. When they went into the front room, they saw Nancy Dalley on the settee with Fry’s wife beside her, one arm around the stricken woman. Elaine was a pale, gaunt, almost skeletal creature with frizzy grey hair and large, staring eyes. Yet she was putting someone else’s needs first. Both women were glad to see their respective husbands. Nancy got up and sought comfort in Dalley’s brawny arms. Before he could ask her how she felt, the door opened and Caroline Skene entered with a pot of tea on a tray.

‘Oh,’ she said, smiling at the newcomers. ‘You’re back.’ She put the tray on the table. ‘I went to Gerald’s house to see if I could be of any use but he wasn’t there. So I came here instead.’

‘And you’re very welcome, Caroline,’ said Dalley, turning to indicate Fry. ‘You remember Percy, don’t you?’

‘Yes, we met at your daughter’s wedding. Nancy has been showing me the photos of it.’ She gave a nod. ‘Hello, Mr Fry.’

‘It’s nice to see you again, Mrs Skene,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘And if there’s another cup of tea going, I’ll be happy to drink it.’

Harvey Marmion took control of the press conference that evening. Though he sat beside the inspector, Claude Chatfield was content to take on the role of an observer. Joe Keedy was seated on the other side of Marmion, always willing to learn from him the art of keeping reporters at bay. The trio of detectives had a lively audience. Hot on the heels of a murder there’d been a vicious attack on a clergyman. Everyone assumed that one man committed two crimes. Marmion disillusioned them.

‘It’s both foolish and misleading to link the two incidents as a certain newspaper has already done,’ he warned, looking around the upturned faces. ‘Granted, there are surface similarities. Both victims were young men who suffered bad head injuries, but there the resemblance ends. Cyril Ablatt was killed and mutilated at some unknown spot then brought to the place where his body was later found. In short, gentleman, we are looking for a killer who is both cautious and calculating.’

‘And who has so far run rings around you, Inspector,’ said a voice.

Marmion smiled. ‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’ There was general laughter. ‘The second attacker is very different. He takes chances. He struck when other people were still about — one of them actually interrupted him — so he failed in his purpose. That suggests to me that he’s impulsive. Unlike Cyril Ablatt’s killer, he doesn’t plan carefully and bide his time. If you still think that we should be hunting one and the same man, ask yourselves this. If you had murdered someone and had the police in full cry after you, would you be reckless enough to commit a second crime in a place, and at a time, when you couldn’t guarantee escaping unseen? People who get away with a murder tend to cover their tracks. They don’t come back within days to take foolish risks.’

‘Why was James Howells the target, Inspector?’ asked a reporter.

‘I was coming to that. Look closely at the two victims. If they were both the targets of the same man, you’d expect them to have a lot in common, but that’s not true at all. They knew each other, of course. But they are a world away from being twins. In fact,’ said Marmion with emphasis, ‘the differences between them are far greater in number and in scope than any similarities.’

He gave a character sketch of both men, comparing the lives they led and the values they held. Keedy watched the reporters, slowly revising their reflex opinions about the second attack and recording the inspector’s phrases in their notebooks. Marmion had won them back. He not only convinced them that the first investigation had made some significant advances, he persuaded them that important steps had already been taken to apprehend the man who attacked Howells. In the space of fifteen minutes, he’d ensured that Scotland Yard would have kinder headlines in the morning papers.

Questions came from all sides and they were asked with a degree of respect.

‘Is it true that Father Howells is under police guard?’

‘It is,’ said Marmion. ‘His attacker has unfinished business. I can’t rule out the possibility that he might strike again.’

‘Have any suspects been identified?’

‘We have certain people in mind but I’m afraid that I’m unable to release names at this stage. We continue to seek the assistance of the public, however, and ask you to appeal for any information relating to the crimes.’

‘What has the hospital said about Father Howells’s condition?’

‘The patient remains in a coma,’ said Marmion. ‘The latest bulletin describes his condition as stable. It appears that he’s now out of danger. Naturally, I must bow to medical advice. When he recovers, I’ll only be allowed to question him if the doctor deems it sensible.’

On the questions went for the best part of half an hour before Marmion called an end to the conference. The reporters rushed off to file their stories, each of them clutching a photograph of James Howells for publication. Marmion was left alone with Chatfield and Keedy.

‘That was masterly, Inspector,’ said Keedy.

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ returned Marmion.

‘You were like the Pied Piper and they danced to your tune.’

Marmion laughed. ‘If you don’t mind, Sergeant, I’d rather not be the Pied Piper. If I remember the poem accurately, they refused to pay him.’

‘Well done,’ said Chatfield, reluctantly.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It was a study in the conjuror’s art. You gave them the impression they’d seen something when it wasn’t actually there. I can’t do that, alas. I’m too fundamentally honest.’

‘The inspector was not dishonest, sir,’ said Keedy, loyally.

‘Maybe not, but he flitted around the edges of it.’

‘I’m glad that the reporter from the Evening News was rapped over the knuckles. What he wrote in the early edition was both unkind and untrue.’

‘We can’t control what they write, unfortunately,’ said Chatfield. ‘When it comes to war reporting, of course, there’s strict censorship and some radical papers have been closed down altogether. The Tribunal is one of them — a dreadful rag that campaigned against conscription. It’s important that the government monitors any information relating to the war so that the public is not misled. I’d like us to have similar powers when it comes to reporting crime.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘I just hate press exaggeration, that’s all. Newspapers should be reassuring the public, not frightening the living daylights out of them by turning these two cases into a sensation. Instead of vilification, we need their support. I think I rammed that point home.’

Chatfield was officious. ‘Forget the press for a while,’ he said. ‘Let’s turn to practicalities. Is your request for a search warrant an urgent one?’

‘We’ll need it in the morning, please,’ said Marmion. ‘The best time to go there is when Waldron is at work in the cemetery.’

‘I do hope you find enough to justify an arrest.’

‘So do we, Superintendent.’

‘What of this other suspect?’

‘Eric Fussell can be left alone for the moment,’ decided Marmion, ‘but he must remain under suspicion. While I may have pointed up the differences between the two victims, there are certain links between Ablatt and Howells. One of them is the librarian. We need to find out why.’

When he and his wife got back to their house in Lambeth that evening, Fussell went straight upstairs to the bedroom he used as an office. It was like a small replica of the one at the library, well ordered and stacked with books and magazines. He didn’t come downstairs until the meal was on the dinner table. He and his wife sat in a cold silence intermittently broken by an observation about their day at the library. She didn’t dare to ask about the visit from the detectives. It was a subject he refused to discuss. When the meal was over, he left her to clear everything away.

‘I’m going out,’ he said, taking his overcoat from its peg.

She was hurt. ‘You’re going out again, Eric?’

‘Yes — and I can’t say when I’ll be back.’

Gerald Ablatt was pleased when he had an unheralded visitor. Since he’d got back from the shop, all that he’d done was to sit in the kitchen and read the Evening News. The report of the latest crime had depressed him. His spirits rose slightly when Caroline Skene called. Inviting her in, he took her into the living room and they sat side by side.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ he said.

‘I came earlier but you weren’t here. One of your neighbours told me that you’d opened the shop. I couldn’t believe it.’

‘It’s true. I had to get out, Caroline. I just couldn’t stay here and brood. It was too painful. I needed to work, and, if I’m truthful,’ he confided, ‘I needed to get away from Nancy for a while.’

‘Then you did the right thing, Gerald.’

‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey.’

‘But I didn’t,’ she said, brightly. ‘Since I was in Shoreditch, I thought I’d go and call on Nancy instead. I spent the afternoon there with Mrs Fry.’

He was puzzled. ‘Elaine Fry — what was she doing there?’

‘She’d come to sit with Nancy to offer consolation. Apparently, it was Jack’s idea. He asked if she could go over there.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘Frankly, she looked ill. The woman is quite haggard.’

‘I know,’ said Ablatt, deeply sympathetic. ‘The last time I saw her was at Nora’s wedding last year and she was almost at death’s door then. Well, you were there. You must remember how she had to keep sitting down.’

‘What I recall is that her husband was very attentive.’

‘He needs to be. Percy Fry is a good man. He carries his troubles lightly.’

‘Does he?’

‘It’s not just the sick wife, Caroline. They lost their only child as well.’

She was taken aback. ‘When was this?’

‘Oh, it was years ago,’ he explained. ‘The boy was no more than nine or ten at the time. He died of rickets. He just wasted away as his mother seems to be doing. She blamed herself, of course.’

‘Most mothers would. They’d think it was because of a deficiency in them.’

‘I don’t know the full details. According to Jack, they don’t like to talk about it and I can understand that. But it makes it all the more remarkable that a woman who nurses a lasting sorrow could find time to comfort my sister.’

‘You know her better than I do, Gerald.’

‘I knew them both when they lived nearby,’ he said. ‘Elaine was a customer of mine. I used to sole and heel her shoes but Percy always repaired his boots himself. He’s that kind of man — very independent. He’s a bit like your husband.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘Wilf always liked to do things for himself.’

‘That wasn’t because he was independent. It was simple, old-fashioned meanness. He gets it from his mother. Wilf would never part with a penny unless he has to,’ she said, lips pursed. ‘He’d always rather do things himself, whether it’s mending shoes or cleaning windows or sweeping the chimney. The trouble is he can’t do any of them properly. Still,’ she continued, lowering her voice, ‘while we have a moment alone, there’s something we need to discuss.’

‘What’s that, Caroline?’

‘It’s the funeral — have you had any thoughts about it?’

‘No,’ he replied, a little flustered by the question. ‘The body hasn’t been released to us yet.’

‘What about Nancy?’

‘She’s in no state to make any decisions.’

‘Then you’ll have to choose the hymns and the order of service.’ Ablatt looked bewildered. ‘Unless you’d like some help, that is? I didn’t know Cyril that well,’ she said, softly, ‘but I was very fond of him and I’ll do anything I can to help with the arrangements.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m not trying to interfere, Gerald. If you’d rather do everything yourself, I’ll stay out of your way.’

‘No, no,’ he said, reaching out to take her hand. ‘It’s kind of you to offer. I need help from someone — thank you, Caroline.’

She sighed with satisfaction. ‘That’s settled, then.’

‘The truth is that I’m all at sea at the moment. I was going to ask the vicar what to do.’ He sighed. ‘It’s strange the way things work out, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Cyril never expected to die, of course, so he couldn’t plan ahead for his own funeral. If he’d done so, my guess is that he’d have wanted Father Howells to take the service rather than the vicar.’ He glanced sorrowfully at the newspaper. ‘But that’s not possible now, is it?’

The Reverend James Howells lay on the bed while a nurse took his blood pressure. Head heavily bandaged, he had various tubes attached to him and was under almost constant supervision. His parents were in the nearby waiting room, hoping for the slightest improvement. The vicar was with them, offering succour, leading them in prayer and telling them time and again what an asset their son was to the parish. Cards and messages of goodwill had come flooding in by hand, showing the anguished parents how popular the curate had been. Only close family members were allowed to visit the single room where the patient was kept, but that didn’t stop a stranger from slipping into the hospital and finding out his whereabouts. Wearing a white coat by way of disguise, he lurked in an alcove from which he could keep the room under close observation. When a doctor and nurse emerged before going off in the other direction, he saw his opportunity and moved swiftly forward.

Before he reached the room, however, the door opened and a third person came out. Legs apart and hands behind his back, the uniformed constable was there to prevent any unauthorised visits. The stranger was baulked. As he walked past the policeman, he manufactured a smile.

‘Good evening,’ he said, pleasantly.

Then he headed for the nearest exit.

Gordon Leach felt as if he were being crushed between two millstones. On one side of him was Mansel Price and on the other was Fred Hambridge. The three friends were in the bakery, discussing the forthcoming marriage. Price was unequivocal. If Leach betrayed his principles and joined a non-combatant corps, the Welshman threatened to assault him. Hambridge took a more reasoned approach but his quiet reprimands were just as wounding as Price’s belligerence. The two of them kept on at Leach until the latter could take no more.

‘That’s enough!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘So what’s your decision?’ asked Hambridge.

‘Gordon has got to tell Ruby that he can’t do it,’ said Price. ‘I don’t know why he didn’t have the guts to do that when she came up with the idea.’

‘It wasn’t Ruby’s idea,’ said Leach. ‘It was her father’s. Mr Cosgrove was only trying to find a compromise.’

‘Remember what Cyril used to say. We never compromise.’

Leach was outnumbered. With Ablatt resurrected, he was up against three of them and his resistance cracked. It had been an article of faith for all four of them that they wouldn’t assist the war effort in any way. Joining a non-combatant corps would, in essence, be almost as bad as joining the army. It was easy for Price and Hambridge to maintain their extreme position. They only had to think of themselves. Price’s family lived in Wales and took little interest in him. Hambridge’s parents supported him in his stance. Leach’s situation was more complicated. After apparently being spurned by Ruby, he’d been forgiven in the wake of the attack on the curate. She’d been so concerned for his safety that she came to assure him that she still wanted to marry him and that there was a way to do it that could be reconciled with his pacifist beliefs. What would Ruby say if he rejected the compromise suggested by her father? Would he lose her altogether? What had brought her running to him was a combination of love and fear. If he sided with his friends, Leach might well be sacrificing her love while doing nothing to allay her fear. He was impaled on the horns of a dilemma. All that he could do was to squirm in agony.

Hambridge’s softly spoken question was like a stab in the ribs.

‘What are you going to do, Gordon?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know,’ echoed Price with lip-curling disgust. ‘You’ve spent all this time with Fred, Cyril and me, boasting that you’d never, in a hundred years, join the army, yet you’re ready to serve in a non-combatant corps.’

‘I didn’t say that, Mansel. I’m still thinking it over.’

‘What is there to think over?’

‘And don’t get the wrong idea about a non-combatant corps,’ cautioned Hambridge. ‘I’ve got a friend who joined one of those. They sent him off to Belgium as part of an ambulance unit. He spends all his time carrying wounded soldiers on a stretcher. If that’s not taking part in the war — then what is?’

‘There’s another thing, Gordon. Suppose you get sent to the front like that. Do you think the commanding officer will give a monkey’s fuck for your wedding plans? He needs every man he’s got,’ said Price. ‘He’s not going to release you so that you can get married and have a wonderful honeymoon. You’re going to be stuck in some godforsaken place with no chance of even seeing Ruby, let alone jumping into bed with her at long last.’

‘Shut up!’ howled Leach. ‘Let’s keep Ruby out of this.’

‘But she’s the bloody problem.’

‘Be quiet, Mansel.’

‘Who’s going to wear the trousers in the marriage — you or Ruby Cosgrove?’

Leach was on his feet. ‘I told you to shut up!’

‘Who’s going to make me?’ demanded Price, getting up.

‘I am.’

Leach exploded and grappled with the Welshman. Before they could get in any punches, however, they were each grabbed by the neck and pulled roughly apart by Hambridge. He was seething with fury.

‘That’s enough!’ he bellowed. ‘We’re friends, for heaven’s sake! Is this the way to behave? We’re supposed to be in this together. Act like it, the pair of you!’

On his way to the hospital, Marmion nursed the faint hope that James Howells might have regained consciousness and been ready to give him some idea who might have been responsible for the attack. In reality, he knew that it rarely happened like that. He’d seen other victims who’d sustained appalling head wounds. Most of them had been unable to remember the moment of attack, let alone speculate on who was behind it. Earlier that year, there’d been the case of a man who was deliberately knocked down by the driver of a motor car. Although he survived, brain damage was so serious that the victim couldn’t even speak and was doomed to spend the rest of his life trapped in a private world. Marmion hoped that the curate would escape that fate.

The news at the hospital was not encouraging. The patient was stable but there’d been no marked improvement. He needed more time and continuous care. Marmion spoke to the constable on duty outside the room. The man had just started the night shift. Marmion felt that it was unlikely the attacker would make a second attempt to kill Father Howells but he didn’t wish to take any chances. He was pleased to hear that the curate’s parents had finally been persuaded to leave. At the invitation of Simon Ellway, they were staying the night at the vicarage. Marmion suspected that Mr and Mrs Howells would be back in the waiting room shortly after breakfast on the following day. Since there was nothing else he could do at the hospital, he was given a lift home in a police car. His wife was still up, delighted at his comparatively early return.

‘This is a nice surprise!’ said Ellen, giving him a welcoming kiss.

‘I’ll have to be off again at the crack of dawn, love.’

‘At least you’re back in time to be fed. And while you’re waiting, I’ve got a treat for you.’ She slipped a hand into the pocket of her dressing gown. ‘We had a letter from Paul.’

‘Wonderful!’ he said, taking it from her.

While she made a pot of tea and got out bread and cheese from the pantry, he read the letter avidly, relieved that their son was unharmed. The letter was full of complaints about the privations on the front but it was also reassuring. Absorbing every detail, he read it through three times. Over their supper, he told her a little about the events of the day and was grateful that she hadn’t read the barbed criticism of him in the Evening News. Ellen was more interested in family matters. She talked about their son’s letter and about their daughter’s flying visit that morning.

‘How was she?’ asked Marmion, slicing off some more cheese.

‘Alice was in a mad rush as usual.’

‘They certainly keep her on her toes in the WEC.’

‘She only came to collect a few things from her room.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ said Marmion. ‘It was just an excuse to see her mother.’

‘Well, she didn’t see very much of me, Harvey. She was in and out in a flash — though she did stay long enough to ask if we could take in a Belgian refugee.’

He blinked. ‘What? Where the hell would he sleep?’

‘Alice said they could have her bedroom,’ replied Ellen, sadly. ‘It was another way of saying that she’s not going to be living here again.’

‘She’s over twenty-one, love. If that’s her decision, we must accept it.’

‘I know but you can’t blame me for hoping. It was bad enough when Paul left. Now that Alice has gone as well, it’s like a morgue in here.’

He laughed. ‘I see. So I’m the resident corpse, am I?’

‘You know what I mean, Harvey. The place is dead.’

‘It’s not as if you’re here all day, love. You’re out doing voluntary work most of the week. I’m very proud of you for helping the war effort. Paul and Alice are doing it in more obvious ways,’ he conceded, ‘but I don’t underestimate what you and women like you are doing on the home front.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, cheered by the compliment. ‘Anyway, there’s something else I must tell you about Alice’s visit. I could be wrong, of course, but I had this feeling about her.’

‘What sort of a feeling?’

‘I think that she has a chap.’

‘Oh? Did she admit it?’

‘No, Harvey. In fact, she denied it strongly but … I sort of sensed it.’

‘You’ve had a lot of experience of doing that and you’re usually right.’

‘I’d love to know who he is.’

‘We’re not entirely sure that he exists yet,’ Marmion reminded her, ‘so don’t jump the gun. All we have at the moment is your intuition, reliable as it is.’

‘Alice was so happy. That’s what gave her away.’

‘I thought that I was supposed to be the detective.’

She smiled confidingly. ‘Who do you think it could be?’

‘I don’t know, love,’ he replied, swallowing his food. ‘When Alice is good and ready, I’m sure that she’ll tell us. Frankly, I hope that she does have some kind of social life. She’s earned it. And as I said earlier, she’s over twenty-one. Our daughter can do whatever she likes.’

Alice Marmion was propped up in bed with a book in her hands. She was trying to read but the romantic novel that Vera Dowling had lent her was failing to hold her attention. Her mind kept wandering to Joe Keedy. The fact that he’d rescued her from an assault had served to strengthen her feelings for him. Alice had travelled home in some trepidation that evening, fearing that the same man might stalk her again. Glad to see that he was not on the bus, she was afraid that he might be lurking near her stop in order to follow her. But there was no sign of him and she was very grateful. Had there been a second attack, Keedy would not have been there to rescue her. At his suggestion, she kept a pair of nail scissors in her pocket but they were not needed.

She’d always been fond of him. When she first met him, she was a callow teenager and he was a young detective constable in his twenties. Her father had seen promise in him and advised him to push for promotion. As the two men began to work together on cases, Alice saw rather more of Keedy and her affection for him slowly intensified. It was matched by her mother’s fondness for him and — in spite of the age gap between them — Ellen had hinted that the sergeant and her daughter would be a good match. Because that opinion wasn’t shared by Marmion, it was never voiced in his presence. Alice knew he’d disapprove of it on a number of counts.

It had taken her by surprise. From the time that she first met him, Keedy had always had an attractive girlfriend. Some of them lasted for months and one even survived for over a year. Since he appeared to be spoken for, Alice had never seriously entertained the possibility of a relationship with him. They then discovered just how much they liked each other. In the nature of things, their jobs kept them apart but their occasional secret meetings were always more than pleasant and left her with an urge to see him again. Keeping the friendship from Vera Dowling wasn’t difficult. She wasn’t blessed with sharp instincts. Her mother, however, had had her suspicions aroused and Alice fancied that Hannah Billington was aware that her young protegee might have a man in her life. The maddening thing was that she was unable to tell anyone about Keedy. Until she could do that, the whole thing seemed faintly unreal.

Alice made an effort to dismiss him from her thoughts. On the following day, she was due to go to tea at Hannah’s house. That would be a treat, not merely because she liked the woman. She was curious to see where and how someone from a very different class lived. Vera had been shocked to hear that Hannah had released two of her servants to join the army, retaining only a cook-housekeeper. The idea that anyone could have domestic staff was beyond Vera’s comprehension. Until she’d joined the WEC, she’d never met a woman in a position to employ them. Now that she had, she was tongue-tied in her presence, whereas Alice found Hannah very engaging. She snatched at the opportunity to get an insight into the older woman’s private life. Alice smiled with anticipatory pleasure.

Her reverie was cut short by a sound she could not at first identify. It was a gentle tap but she couldn’t work out from where it came. When it happened again, however, she heard it more clearly and realised that something had just tapped on the window of her room. Jumping out of bed, she ran to pull back a curtain. Down below in the garden, Alice could just make out the figure of a man. Her heart began to pound. The only person who would try to contact her at that late hour was Joe Keedy. Leaving the curtain half-drawn to indicate that she knew he was there, she dressed as fast as she could then crept out onto the landing. Alice moved with great stealth. If her landlady realised what one of her tenants was doing, she’d accuse her of breaking one of the cardinal rules of the house. Alice would be lucky to retain the accommodation. She therefore needed to move with an absolute minimum of noise.

When she got to the front door, she paused to make sure that nobody had been roused. Alice then let herself out and walked furtively around to the garden. But Keedy was not there. Had it been a mirage? Or was he teasing her? Either way, she was overwhelmed with disappointment. She was just about to creep back to the front door when a hand shot out to pull her behind some bushes. Before she could speak, a palm was placed over her mouth. When she recognised Keedy in the gloom, her whole body ignited with joy. He moved his hand so that she could speak.

‘I didn’t dare to hope that you’d be here again,’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘I just happened to be passing.’

Then he took her in his arms and kissed her.