Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As he delivered bread on his daily round, Gordon Leach contemplated a grim future. Any decision that he made involved substantial loss. There was no escape from it. If he sided with Ruby Cosgrove, he would lose his two closest friends and for ever be despised by them. Yet if he stood shoulder to shoulder with Mansel Price and Fred Hambridge, he risked losing his fiancee. There would also be a loss of liberty. The government’s position was unequivocal. Those who defied the call to arms would be sent to prison. It was conceivable that Hambridge’s long association with the Quakers might be accepted as a legitimate excuse but it wasn’t one that Leach could offer. He would be incarcerated in a military detention centre such as Wandsworth and be subjected to a punitive regime. It was a bleak prospect.

He reminded himself of the reassuring words that Cyril Ablatt had often used. They would not be common criminals. They would be prisoners of conscience, martyrs to a just cause and an inspiration to others. Leach was young, fit and able to withstand the rigours of imprisonment. What he did not know was whether Ruby would be waiting for him when he was released. If she were, he could cope with anything. If not, his time behind bars would be continuous torture. His conscience might be salved but his hopes of a happy marriage would be dashed. A life without Ruby, he felt, was quite meaningless.

Unable to make up his mind, he tried to recall the days when he and his three friends had their regular meetings and committed themselves to an agreed cause of action. It had all seemed so clear then. Though she had misgivings, Ruby had supported his decision. The right path had been chosen. Ablatt’s death had introduced an element of panic into the situation. Leach had been convinced that he was also in jeopardy. A second brutal attack had intensified his fears but at least it had brought Ruby back to him. Her love, however, might be conditional on his accepting her father’s advice about joining a non-combatant corps. How could he keep her without losing the respect of his two friends?

When he’d had problems in the past, he’d always been able to turn to Ablatt, whose clarity of thought was a godsend to Leach. Since he could no longer rely on him, he decided to call on Ablatt’s father instead to see if he could draw strength from another source. After completing his round, therefore, he drove to the cobbler’s shop and pulled the horse to a halt outside. He could see Gerald Ablatt through the window, bent over a last as he mended a shoe. Leach let himself into the little shop and was met by a strong aroma of leather and polish.

‘Good morning, Mr Ablatt,’ he said.

‘Oh hello, Gordon,’ said the cobbler, looking up.

‘I saw that the shop was open when I drove past yesterday.’

‘Yes, it’s business as usual.’

‘How are you?’

Ablatt’s head rocked from side to side. ‘I’m as well as can be expected,’ he said. ‘Everybody has been very kind. Cyril’s aunt spent a lot of time with me, then my cousin, Mrs Skene, popped in yesterday. I’m never alone.’

‘That’s good.’

‘What about you?’

‘Oh,’ said Leach, ‘I’m all right, I suppose. Well, no,’ he corrected, ‘to be honest with you, I’m not. I don’t really know what to do. Cyril would have guided me in the right direction. Without him, I’m a bit lost.’

‘I feel the same,’ said Ablatt with a wan smile. ‘What’s the trouble?’

‘I can’t bother you with my problems, Mr Ablatt.’

‘But I’d like to help. Pretend that I’m Cyril.’

The cobbler was so calm, friendly and steadfast that Leach was persuaded to confide in him. He explained the quandary he was in and how he could see no compromise that would satisfy all parties. Ablatt listened to arguments that his son had put to him many times and he felt a nostalgic glow.

‘Well,’ he said when Leach had finished his recital, ‘we both know what Cyril would have told you. He’d have said you must be true to your conscience. Nothing could be simpler than that.’

‘What if I lose Ruby?’

‘I think she’s more likely to admire you for your principles.’

Leach was unsure about that but he felt oddly comforted by the visit. His difficulties paled beside those of Gerald Ablatt, who, having lost his son in a foul murder, would have to endure an inquest and a family funeral before going back to live alone in an empty house. Leach thought about the slogans there.

‘I’m glad they caught the man who painted those words on your wall.’

‘Yes — so am I, Gordon.’

‘It was a rotten thing to do. At least you know he won’t be back.’

‘He might not be,’ said Ablatt, ‘but somebody else came in the night with a paintbrush. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw what he’d done.’

Leach was aghast. ‘Was someone else mocking Cyril?’

‘Oh, no, it was nothing like that. He did us a favour. The whole wall had been painted white and those cruel words have disappeared. There are some good people here,’ said Ablatt, thankfully. ‘I’m sorry I had to lose Cyril to find that out.’

Harvey Marmion returned to Scotland Yard to hear about the arrest and questioning of Horrie Waldron. He, in turn, told Joe Keedy about his visit to Lambeth to see Caroline Skene. They were both keenly aware that they possessed information relating to the murder that they hadn’t passed on to the superintendent. Chatfield knew nothing of Caroline’s existence and the relationship between Waldron and Maud Crowther had also been kept from him. The detectives hoped that they could solve the crime without having to reveal everything to their superior. Should he find out that they’d deceived him, they’d be hauled up before the commissioner.

‘It’s a chance we have to take,’ argued Marmion. ‘I gave my word to Mrs Skene that her friendship with Ablatt would not become common knowledge.’

‘And I did the same to Mrs Crowther,’ said Keedy, seriously. ‘Though I’d never break that trust, I did pretend to Waldron that I was going to, if only to provoke him. He went berserk. I charged him with resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. That gives us enough reason to hold him in custody while we dig deeper.’

‘I’d like to have a go at him myself.’

‘He’s not very cooperative, Harv.’

‘The Waldrons of this world never are.’ He winked at Keedy. ‘I’ll appeal to his finer instincts.’

‘Horrie doesn’t have any.’

‘Mrs Crowther obviously thinks that he does. I fancy that another visit to her might pay dividends, Joe. Acquaint her with the plight that her admirer is in.’

‘She’ll disown the old bugger on the spot.’

‘Only if she thinks he’s guilty of murder, and the evidence for that is far from conclusive. I’ve brought the trousers back with me, by the way. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’re spattered with blood — but did it get there during the murder of Cyril Ablatt?’

‘It’s possible. Chat, of course, thinks it’s highly probable.’

‘He’s eager to get the case wrapped up so that the press will say more nice things about him. But he’s enough of a detective to know that we need more evidence or — praise God that this happens — a confession out of Waldron.’

Keedy chuckled. ‘You’re more likely to get a volcanic eruption.’

‘I’ll remember to wear a tin hat.’ Marmion seemed to drift off into a world of his own for a few minutes. When he emerged from his daydream, he was surprised that Keedy was there. ‘Off you go, then. Talk to Mrs Crowther first, then call at the pub. Her son told you that Waldron had returned there that evening with the same clothes he had on when he left. Ask him if he noticed any bloodstains on the trousers.’

‘What will you be doing?’

Marmion adopted a fighting pose. ‘I’ll be going three rounds with Horrie Waldron,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Want to place a bet on the outcome?’

Alice Marmion pointed out that it was not too late to change her mind but Vera Dowling was adamant. She didn’t wish to go to tea at Hannah Billington’s house that afternoon, though she was looking forward to hearing every last detail about the visit when her friend came back. After loading the lorry, they were having a brief rest. Alice was excited at the thought of the visit to a grand home. It would be a one-sided treat. Alice would never dream of inviting Hannah to tea at her own house and especially not at her digs. She’d be too embarrassed to show the older woman the place where she lived. Hannah had seen it from the outside when she dropped Alice off there but she had no idea how poor the accommodation was. Vera, curiously enough, had a better room in a larger house and she’d pressed her friend to join her there, but it was an offer that Alice had politely turned down. Had she been sharing accommodation with Vera Dowling, there was no way that Keedy would have been able to make contact with her the previous night. Indeed, the evolving friendship with him would have been virtually impossible.

‘I told Mummy about your idea,’ said Vera.

‘What idea?’

‘That plan of yours to go abroad.’

‘Hey, hold on a minute,’ said Alice. ‘Nothing’s been decided. It was only a possibility that I was considering.’

‘I mentioned it in my letter to Mummy. She’d die rather than let me do anything as adventurous as that. And, yes,’ she went on, anticipating her friend’s comment, ‘I know that I’m supposed to be old enough to make up my own mind, but I’d never defy my parents. What about you, Alice?’

‘If it meant that much to me, then I’d go — whatever the protests at home.’

‘You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?’

‘No, I haven’t, Vera. At the moment, there are too many things keeping me here. You’re one of them,’ said Alice, bringing a smile to her friend’s face. ‘And there are …other reasons why I’m not ready to charge off across the Channel just yet.’

Vera’s eyes sparkled with interest. ‘What are those other reasons?’

‘They’re private.’

‘Can’t you even give me a hint?’

‘No,’ said Alice, firmly, ‘because it would be in your next letter to your mother. That means it would get passed on to my mother, who’d be very upset that she had to hear things about me second hand.’

‘I never thought of it like that.’

‘Please bear it in mind.’ She clambered into the lorry and sat behind the driving wheel. Vera got in beside her. ‘I’ll ask you one more time,’ said Alice. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like afternoon tea in a mansion?’

‘No, no, no,’ replied her friend. ‘I’d be like a fish out of water.’

Marmion took him by surprise. Because Waldron was used to being interviewed in a room at a police station, the inspector chose to speak to him in the cell where he was being held. It was cramped, cold and austere. To show that he was not afraid of the prisoner, Marmion had the door locked behind him. He studied the gravedigger for some time before speaking.

‘I thought we’d have a little chat,’ he began.

‘I’ve said all I’m saying to those other two stupid fools.’

‘Superintendent Chatfield is not stupid, I can assure you, and neither is Sergeant Keedy. They’ve had years of experience of questioning suspects, and the kind of mindless abuse that comes out of your mouth just washes off them. For the record, they both believe that you’re a guilty man.’

‘I done nothing!’ wailed Waldron.

‘Making a run for it at the cemetery and trying to kill the sergeant — I wouldn’t call that nothing.’

‘The sergeant deserved it.’

‘Yet you came off worst,’ said Marmion, looking at the bruises on his face. ‘There’s not a scratch on him. You picked the wrong man to take on.’

‘I didn’t murder anybody,’ insisted Waldron.

‘Then how did that blood get on your trousers?’

‘Who knows? I pick up all sorts of things in my job.’

‘You seemed very anxious to wash those stains off.’

‘They’re my working trousers.’

‘Then why didn’t you wear them to work today?’

Waldron refused to answer. Seated on the edge of the narrow bed, he turned his back on his visitor. Marmion took a step forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

‘What’s his name?’ he asked.

‘Who are you on about?’

‘You’re not clever enough to do this on your own, are you? Someone put you up to it. He probably paid you. Who is he, Mr Waldron?’

‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘So you were acting on you own? Is that it?’

Waldron spun round to face him. ‘Stop trying to put words into my mouth.’

‘Either you have an accomplice or you did it alone.’

‘I didn’t do anything!’

‘Keep your voice down.’

‘Then don’t accuse me.’

‘Where did that blood come from?’

Waldron was contemptuous. ‘I couldn’t care less.’

‘How much were you paid to kill Cyril Ablatt?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Why did you take your spade home with you that evening?’

Waldron recoiled as if from a blow. Marmion had finally asked a question that shook him. Unable to find an answer, the gravedigger settled for a hurt silence. The inspector changed his tack. His tone was less harsh.

‘I’m not sure that I agree with my colleagues,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think that you did kill Cyril Ablatt.’

‘Thank God somebody believes me!’

‘You may have been involved but you didn’t actually batter him. To tell you the truth, Mr Waldron, I don’t think you’d have the nerve to do that.’ Angered by the remark, Waldron was on his feet immediately, glowering at Marmion. ‘So what did you do, I wonder? Did you help to transport the body? Did you act as a lookout while someone else dumped it in that lane? Or did you simply tell your accomplice where and how he could find his victim that night?’

‘You’re making all this up!’ sneered Waldron.

‘I’m just trying to work out if there’s something you’re actually capable of, you see; something simple you could be paid to do. No matter how minor it might be, of course, it would make you an accessory and you know what the penalty would be.’

Waldron attempted bravado. ‘You don’t scare me, Inspector.’

‘I’ll leave it to the public executioner to do that.’

The gravedigger stumbled slightly as if he’d just been hit by something. His bluster vanished. He was in police custody and they were determined to make him face serious charges. There’d be no fine to pay this time, nor even a short sentence. The shadow of the noose had suddenly fallen upon him.

‘I want to be alone,’ he said, sitting down again.

‘Very well,’ said Marmion, ‘but I’ll be back.’

‘Don’t hurry. I got thinking to do.’

Maud Crowther went from one extreme to another. When she found the flowers on her doorstep, she was touched. The bouquet was both an apology and a romantic gesture. Having put them in a vase, she kept looking at them every time she came into the living room. She’d decided that she’d been too hard on Waldron. Perhaps he deserved a second chance, after all. Joe Keedy then arrived at the house. Invited in, he told her that the man who had tried to woo her with a bunch of flowers was now in police custody and was suspected of having some involvement in the murder of Cyril Ablatt. In the short term, he was being detained on lesser charges. If she was expecting to see him, she would be disappointed.

Her revived affection for Waldron changed in a flash to hatred. He’d promised her that he’d put his criminal past behind him. Thanks to her, he’d solemnly sworn, he’d turned over a new leaf. For a time, Maud had believed him but Keedy’s visit splintered her illusions. When she gazed at the flowers now, it was not with a fond smile. Seen in the cold light of reality, they looked as if they’d been stolen from a grave in the cemetery. They’d be much more appropriate there. Waldron had cheated her. His romantic gesture was nothing more than an act of theft. She grabbed the flowers, yanked them out of the vase and thrust them at Keedy.

‘Give these back to him,’ she said, tartly, ‘and tell him that I never want to lay eyes on that ugly face of his.’

‘I need to ask you about some bloodstains on his trousers, Mrs Crowther.’

One glance at her told Keedy that the question was redundant. Horrie Waldron was no longer part of her life and she refused to have anything more to do with him. It was pointless to stay. Keedy thought it unlikely that she’d know anything about the bloodstains. Waldron had been compelled to wear a suit whenever he called on her. She set standards. He lived up to them for a while. But it was all over. Maud Crowther didn’t wish to be linked with a criminal in any way. Their romance had crumbled into oblivion. How it had actually begun in the first place, Keedy could only guess. It still seemed bizarre to him. As he left the house, he took away more than a bunch of dripping flowers. He knew for certain that Horrie Waldron had no claim whatsoever on Maud now. It was something he could use to apply pressure on the prisoner.

From her point of view, Keedy saw, there was an element of relief in the decisive break from Waldron. Their secret meetings would no longer be in danger of discovery. While Maud would regret ever getting involved with him, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that they’d never be caught together now. It prompted Keedy to think of his friendship with Alice Marmion. That, too, was fraught with danger. If it ever came to light, her father would be deeply hurt. It might severely damage Keedy’s professional relationship with him. Yet that situation could not continue indefinitely. He and Alice would reach a point where they either decided to go their separate ways or were ready to make a proper commitment to each other. If the latter were the case, they would have to be honest with her parents.

Keedy reflected on his personal problems all the way to the Weavers Arms. It was not yet open for business but Stan Crowther was outside on the pavement, supervising the men who were unloading a delivery of beer from their dray. The landlord gave Keedy a cheerful welcome and took him inside the pub.

‘Before you arrest me for selling watered beer,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’m in the same boat as every other publican. It’s a wartime necessity.’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘it’s one more reason to hate the Germans.’

‘Have you found out who the killer is yet?’

‘No, but we’ve made an arrest. Horrie Waldron is in custody.’

Crowther gasped. ‘You’re not charging him with the murder, are you?’

‘He’s being held on lesser charges at the moment. Waldron was arrested because we found bloodstains on his trousers that we believe he was wearing on the night of the murder. In fact,’ said Keedy, ‘that’s what I wanted to ask you about. You told me that Waldron was away for a couple of hours that night and that he came back looking much cleaner than usual.’

‘Ha! That wouldn’t be difficult.’

‘Did you, by any chance, notice any blood on him?’

‘The pub was full, Sergeant. I didn’t look at Horrie’s trousers.’

‘But he was wearing the same clothes he had on when he left?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Crowther. ‘It’s more or less all he has. I don’t think he’s got a tailor in Savile Row somehow.’ His chortle was replaced by a frown. ‘But I don’t reckon that he’s your killer, I really don’t.’

‘Can you suggest any other way he got that blood on his trousers?’

An innocent question brought a look of guilt into Crowther’s eyes. He took a step backwards and licked his lips before mumbling an answer.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t.’

Claude Chatfield was interested to hear of the latest interview with Waldron but disappointed that it had yielded no definite result. He was desperate to have some positive news to release to the press. Marmion cautioned against an announcement that they had a murder suspect in custody. They needed much more proof that Waldron was involved in some way. Keedy had been sent off in search of it.

‘We need a breakthrough,’ said Chatfield, impatiently.

‘It’s bound to come in due course, Superintendent.’

‘I still think there’s a connection between the two crimes. I know that you don’t believe that, but there’s a similarity that can’t be ignored.’

‘I beg to differ,’ said Marmion. ‘And even if they are linked, Waldron is certainly not a common factor. He may be implicated in the murder but he has no reason to attack Father Howells. I doubt if Waldron’s ever been inside St Leonard’s church. Besides,’ he continued, ‘witnesses who saw the attacker run away from that lane say that he was moving at some speed. That rules out our gravedigger. He’s not fast enough. When he tried to outrun Sergeant Keedy at the cemetery, he was soon overhauled.’

‘What about your other suspect?’

‘Eric Fussell can be linked to both victims, sir.’

‘How did his name get into the curate’s address book?’

‘He declined to answer that.’

‘Do you think that he could run fast?’

‘He’d certainly outpace Waldron,’ said Marmion, ‘though I didn’t take him for a natural athlete. Also, of course, he’s a very careful man. He’d never take the risk of attacking someone at a time when he might be interrupted. And why would he be out late at night? According to Fussell, he and his wife prefer quiet evenings at home.’

‘Did you believe him when he told you that?’

‘Frankly, I treat everything he tells me with suspicion.’

Chatfield nodded and looked down at some notes about the librarian. The two men were in his office and the morning’s newspapers stood in a pile on his desk, each one open at the page on which the superintendent was mentioned by name. After he’d read through the information that Marmion had provided him, he looked up.

‘I think you’re placing too much emphasis on Waldron and not enough on Fussell,’ he decided. ‘You’re slipping up for once. The librarian is the man you should be putting under the microscope. Why aren’t you doing that, Inspector?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Marmion, deflecting the criticism, ‘I already am. As of yesterday, Mr Fussell has been placed under observation. A detective will be watching him throughout the day.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’ asked Chatfield, peevishly.

‘I acted on my initiative, sir. I knew that it was exactly the kind of thing that you would have done in my position.’ His smile was as broad as it was mischievous. ‘All that I did was to follow your example.’

Eric Fussell worked until late morning, then left his deputy in charge of the library. As he walked past her towards the exit, his wife looked up in surprise but he didn’t explain where he was going. He left the building, crossed the road and walked to the bus stop. Within minutes, he was climbing onto a bus. Absorbed in thought, he didn’t look out of the window or take note of any of the other passengers. He certainly was not aware of the detective who’d followed him onto the bus and taken a seat at the rear of the vehicle so that he could watch the librarian. After several stops, the bus eventually came to the one that Fussell wanted. Realising where he was, he got up and alighted with a handful of other passengers. All of them set off in the same direction. Making sure that he stayed well back, the detective strolled along in Fussell’s wake.

He followed him all the way to the main entrance of the hospital.

Joe Keedy returned to Scotland Yard in time to see Marmion walking along the corridor towards his office. After an exchange of greetings, the inspector explained that he’d just been summoned by the commissioner who wanted to be brought up to date with the two investigations.

‘And was Chat in there with you?’ asked Keedy.

‘Yes, Joe — he did most of the talking.’

‘And I daresay he took whatever credit was going.’

‘Well,’ said Marmion with amusement, ‘he did give the impression that it was his idea to have Eric Fussell shadowed and I didn’t contradict him.’

They went into Marmion’s office. Keedy heard what had happened during his absence and took particular note of the exchange in his cell with Horrie Waldron. It was the cue for him to relate his story. Marmion was diverted to hear of Maud Crowther’s explosive reaction to the news that her erstwhile beau had been arrested.

‘Did you bring the flowers back with you?’

‘No,’ said Keedy, ‘I threw them in the nearest bin. When I looked closely at them, I could see that one or two had started to wilt. They didn’t come from any shop,’ he reasoned. ‘How could they? Maud found them on her doorstep early this morning. What florist is open at that time? Horrie got them from somewhere else.’

Marmion nodded. ‘He pinched them from someone’s grave.’

‘That was my guess and I think Maud realised it as well. Until I got there, she was enjoying the flowers. I felt sorry I had to bring her down to earth with a bang. Anyway,’ Keedy went on, ‘when I left her, I had a word with her son.’

‘What did Mr Crowther have to say for himself?’

‘He’s like me, Harv. He thinks that watering the beer should be a criminal offence. I bet they’re drinking a stronger brew in Berlin.’

‘Did you tell him that Waldron had been arrested?’

‘Yes, and he was flabbergasted.’

‘What about those trousers?’

‘I asked him if he noticed any bloodstains on them when Waldron got back to the pub but he said he didn’t pay any attention to what he was wearing.’

‘He paid enough attention to observe that Waldron looked much cleaner.’

‘That’s true,’ said Keedy. ‘There’s not much that Stan Crowther misses — apart from the fact that his mother has a weird taste in men, that is. Then something very odd happened.’

‘And what was that, Joe?’

‘Well, I never thought that anything could throw him off balance. A landlord in that part of London must see some pretty strange behaviour. All sorts of rough-and-ready customers come in and out and Crowther doesn’t turn a hair. When I asked him a simple question, however,’ Keedy recalled, ‘it upset him for some reason. All I wanted to know was whether or not he could think of another way that the blood could have ended up on Waldron’s trousers.’

It was late afternoon when they finally got away. Hannah Billington drove her car with Alice in the passenger seat. Both wore their uniforms but Alice had been told to bring a dress into which she could change at the house. They chatted amiably all the way to Hampstead then turned into the road where Hannah lived. As they swung into a drive, Alice looked up at the building with her mouth agape. It was even bigger than she’d expected, a house in the Regency style with startling symmetry, a balustrade along the edge of the roof and a marble portico. The facade was arresting. Alice thought of the little three-bedroomed, semi-detached house where she and her family had lived. Beside this mansion, it would look like a glorified shed.

Hannah used a key to let her in, then took her upstairs to show her where the bathroom was. Alice was amazed at its size and its facilities. She already had dozens of startling details about the house to pass on to Vera Dowling. After taking off her uniform, she washed with the perfumed soap then put on her dress, checking her appearance in the full-length mirror. When she heard the rattle of cups from downstairs, she went to investigate in what turned out to be the dining room, another place with generous proportions and a high ceiling with plaster moulding. Everything about the room was redolent of class, money and exquisite taste. The cook-housekeeper was a short, plump woman in her forties wearing a dark dress and a white apron. After giving the guest a warm smile, she went off to the kitchen.

Alice looked at the plates of food on the table. It was more like a banquet than an afternoon snack. Triangular sandwiches of different varieties were laid out on the three levels of a silver stand. On each of the three plates was an array of different cakes. A selection of biscuits had been artfully arranged on the largest plate of all. Other items of food were held in reserve at the far end of the table. Alice’s immediate thought was that the meal was in open defiance of rationing. She couldn’t imagine how the cook had got hold of the ingredients at a time when there were government restrictions on what could be bought in the shops.

Hannah sailed in, wearing a beautiful blue silk dress that showed off her figure and shimmered as she moved. Alice had very little make-up but Hannah had used cosmetics liberally. She looked more striking than ever.

‘I can see it in your face,’ said Hannah with a brittle laugh. ‘You’re wondering where we get all the eggs to make a meal like this. The answer is that we have them delivered on the premises. There’s a henhouse in the garden and we get a steady supply. What we don’t use ourselves, we pass on to deserving persons.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Hannah.’

‘It’s practical and, in times like these, practicality is our watchword.’

She indicated a chair and Alice sat down. Hannah took the seat opposite her and poured the tea into cups of the most delicate porcelain. They sampled a first sandwich apiece. Alice had noticed the array of portraits on the walls, all of men in uniform. She was told that they were ancestors of Hannah’s husband. Evidently, his family had military connections that went back over a hundred years. One of his forbears had fought against the French with the Duke of Wellington. Alice was most interested in the portrait of Hannah’s husband. In the uniform of a brigadier-general, he looked tall, straight-backed and resolute with greying hair and a curling moustache. Hannah gazed at him with affection.

‘I’m a typical army wife,’ she said, reaching for another sandwich. ‘It’s been an ideal arrangement. We may be married but we don’t live in each other’s pockets. It’s important for a wife to have a degree of freedom to pursue her own interests. Remember that when you come to choose your own husband.’

‘I haven’t got to that stage yet, Hannah.’

‘It won’t be long before you do. You’re far too attractive to remain single for long. I’ve seen the way that men look at you.’ Her smile revealed a wicked streak. ‘They don’t look that way at Vera Dowling, poor girl. She’s as plain as a pikestaff.’

‘Vera has her virtues,’ said Alice in defence of her friend.

‘I’ll take your word for it. I’ve yet to detect any.’

‘She’s honest, hard-working and very loyal.’

‘Yes,’ said Hannah, becoming serious. ‘They’re estimable qualities and you’re right to point them out. I place great value on loyalty.’ She ate her sandwich then sipped her tea. ‘I can’t believe that you haven’t had at least one proposal of marriage.’

‘It’s true, I’m afraid.’

‘But you must have a sweetheart somewhere.’

Alice stopped herself just in time from admitting that there was a man in her life. If she’d done so, she knew that Hannah would keep probing until she had the details and Alice had promised Joe Keedy to tell nobody about their friendship.

‘No,’ she lied. ‘There’s nobody at the moment.’

Hannah changed the subject. ‘What do you think of the sandwiches?’

‘They’re delicious.’

‘Molly is wonderful at rustling up a spread like this. By way of thanks, perhaps you can do something for her.’

‘I don’t understand — unless she’d like me to help her with the washing-up.’

‘Heavens, no!’ said Hannah with a laugh. ‘I’d never let a guest do anything like that. It’s to do with your father. Molly’s been reading about those dreadful cases in the paper. When I told her that Inspector Marmion was in charge of them — and that his daughter was coming to tea here — she wanted to know if you could tell her anything about the two investigations.’

‘All I can tell her is that my father will solve both crimes in the end.’

‘You can say it to her yourself when she comes in to clear everything away.’

Over a second cup of tea, they discussed activities in the Women’s Emergency Corps. Hannah sounded her guest out about how she would feel if offered a promotion. Since it would entail a complete break from Vera and, in effect, cast her friend adrift, Alice was in two minds about it. Hannah suggested that she thought it over. When Molly came in to clear the table, Alice apologised for not being able to pass on any inside information about the crimes but she assured the cook that the investigations were in the best possible hands.

Adjourning to the living room, the two women sat either end of a long settee. Alice was impressed by the room’s sheer size, its elegant furniture and its tasteful decorations. There was a batch of framed photographs to be identified by Hannah, who had both a husband and two sons at the front. Her wedding photograph stood in the centre of the mantelpiece. She and her husband made a handsome couple. Time passed slowly and pleasantly by. Alice was enjoying herself so much that she didn’t realise that she’d been there for almost two hours. After quizzing her about her home life, Hannah rose to her feet and indicated the door with a gracious gesture.

‘Come on,’ she said, smiling to herself, ‘I’m sure you’ll want to tell Vera all about the house. Let me show you around.’

Alice got up from the settee. ‘Oh, thank you. That would be nice.’

‘We’ll start upstairs.’

Hannah led the way up the carpeted staircase and along the landing. There were five bedrooms on the first floor. Molly occupied one of the attic rooms. Alice was shown those used by the family. They finished in the main bedroom and she was amazed to see that it had an adjoining dressing room bigger than her own bedroom in the family house. Space and luxury were the defining features. The only time Alice had seen anything remotely like it was on a visit with her mother to Harrods when she simply gawped at the display in the bedding department.

Alice felt privileged to be shown around the house. Though it was the sort of place in which she could never aspire to live, she was grateful for the chance of a glimpse into the domain of the wealthy. Since she’d arrived there, she’d been happy and relaxed. The mood changed instantly.

‘You don’t have to go back to those squalid digs, you know,’ said Hannah, casually.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You’re very welcome to stay the night.’

Alice was all of six feet away from the other woman but she suddenly felt threatened. It was a disturbing sensation. Something was happening that was outside her experience and over which she had no control. It unsettled her. She’d arrived there as a guest but had the sense that she was now being wooed. Biting her lip, she did her best to hide her embarrassment.

‘I think I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind,’ she said.