Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER THREE

The day started early for Gordon Leach. While most of Shoreditch was slumbering quietly, he was helping his father to bake the daily assortment of bread. The one saving grace of a job that rousted him out of bed in the small hours was that it kept him warm on a viciously cold day. The pervasive aroma of bread was always pleasing and a world away from the industrial stink that so many Londoners had to endure at their places of work. Leach’s father was a big, taciturn man with a walrus moustache who left him to get on with his work in silence. He’d inherited the bakery from his own father and expected his son to take it over in time. Franklin Leach was no pacifist. Indeed, he was a man with few opinions on any subject and was content to live his life in an intellectual vacuum. He simply wanted to keep his trained assistant beside him throughout the war. When they heard a loud knock on the shop door, he looked up and spoke for the first time in an hour.

‘Tell them we’re closed,’ he said.

Leach wiped his flour-covered hands in a cloth and opened the door to the shop. Through the glass, he could see the familiar outline of Mansel Price. On his way to work, his friend had come in search of information rather than bread. Leach unlocked the shop door and opened it so that Price could step inside.

‘Is there any news?’ asked the Welshman.

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘Something must have happened to him.’

‘That’s my worry,’ admitted Leach. ‘I mean, Cyril is always so reliable. If he said he’d be somewhere, he’d never let you down. When I called at the house last thing at night, his father said he wasn’t at home.’

‘And he still isn’t, Gordon.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’ve just been there,’ said Price. ‘Nobody is in. I banged on the door for ages but got no answer. In the end, someone in the house next door opened the bedroom window and told me to clear off.’

They were deeply concerned. Ablatt was not merely their leader. He was their focus, their moral support and their communal voice. The meeting they’d held without him the previous evening had been a shambles. They’d been too busy trying to imagine what Ablatt would have said to formulate any views of their own about what they’d seen and heard. At first, Leach had been grateful when he didn’t turn up at Fred Hambridge’s house. The young baker was spared the verbal whipping he’d have received from Ablatt for not attending the second session of the No-Conscription Fellowship. As the evening slipped into night, however, Leach became increasingly alarmed. They’d expected Ablatt hours ago. If he’d been unable to come, he would have sent an apology by some means or other.

‘There’s only one explanation,’ decided Leach.

‘I can’t think of one.’

‘They must have talked Cyril into going off with them. After all, he made the best speech by far at the meeting. They’d be mad not to use him again. Yes, that’s it,’ he went on, vainly trying to reassure himself. ‘Cyril’s been taken on to the committee or something. They want him on the platform. See it from his point of view, Mansel. He’s got what he always wanted — a chance to make a name for himself.’

Price was unconvinced. ‘So he forgot all about us. Is that what you think?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘That’s rubbish and you know it. He’d never forget his friends.’

‘It’s unlikely, I know.’

‘It’s bloody impossible, mun.’

‘Then where is he and where’s his father? Mr Ablatt should have been at home at this time. He doesn’t open his shop until nine. Talking of which,’ he added, glancing over his shoulder, ‘I’d better get back to the oven or Dad will be after me.’

‘Yes,’ said Price, ‘and I’ve got to feed the travelling public. Not that I can cook them much of a breakfast since they brought in food rationing. They’ve even watered the beer. There’s just no pleasure left in this country.’

Leach gave a half-smile. ‘There is if you find yourself a girlfriend.’

‘Wish I could, Gordon. But girlfriends cost money I just haven’t got. In any case, what girl wants to go out with a conchie? They’d run a mile.’

‘Ruby didn’t.’

‘She’s different.’ Price saw the clock on the wall. ‘Got to go, I’m afraid. Changed your mind about today’s meeting?’

‘No,’ said Leach. ‘I promised to see Ruby this evening.’

‘But Cyril might turn up there.’

‘I hope he does.’

‘So do I,’ said Price, brightening. ‘He’s probably the one person who can tell me what a Muggletonian is.’

In spite of the countless times he’d been there, Harvey Marmion had never become sufficiently accustomed to the morgue to feel at ease inside it. He was therefore grateful when Joe Keedy volunteered to take Gerald Ablatt in to identify the body of his son. Marmion remained outside in the corridor. He was not squeamish. Unnatural death created some grotesque corpses and he could look on them without a tremor when they lay at the scene of the crime. Once they were naked on a slab, it was a very different matter. They were dehumanised, robbed of their dignity, at the mercy of the pathologist’s sharp and unforgiving instruments. Marmion hated to see someone who was so utterly defenceless.

While he was waiting, he took out the photograph they’d found at the Ablatt house and wondered who the attractive woman was. She wore a pretty dress and her hair was swept up at the back so that her facial features were completely exposed. There was a bewitching dimple in both cheeks. Could she be a lover or simply a close friend? The message on the back suggested the former but the age gap between Cyril Ablatt and her might have been a deterrent. There was also the obstacle posed by what appeared to be his devout Christianity. Acquainted with the Beatitudes, he would also be very much aware of the Ten Commandments. One of them expressly forbade adultery. Yet the telltale photo had been concealed in the Bible rather than in any of the other books. Marmion saw it as a case of the sacred harbouring the profane.

He and Keedy had agreed that they wouldn’t show the photograph to the father. Since it was hidden, it was clearly not meant for his eyes. Besides, he had enough to cope with as it was. He was still mourning the violent murder of his son. It would be cruel to introduce proof that his own flesh and blood had kept something from him. The important thing was to identify the woman and that would be fairly straightforward. The name of the photographer was franked into the corner of the photo. They would be able to find out who she was, when the photo was taken and, possibly, where she lived. She would need to be approached with discretion. Marmion didn’t want to cause a violent domestic upset with her husband but the woman obviously meant a great deal to Ablatt. She could be an important witness.

When he heard the door open, he quickly put the photo away in his pocket. Keedy emerged with an ashen Gerald Ablatt by his side. The detectives had both been touched to see that the father had taken the trouble to put on his best suit to visit the corpse of his son. The experience had patently had a profound effect on him. His eyes were glazed, his mouth agape and his movements uncertain. Keedy had to help him along with a hand under his elbow. They walked past Marmion in silence, went down the corridor and turned a corner. A minute later, Keedy came back to the inspector.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Marmion. ‘He wanted the nearest lavatory.’

‘When he saw the body, he very nearly threw up.’

‘Was it that bad?’

‘Somebody didn’t like Cyril Ablatt. They not only smashed in his skull, they battered his body as well.’

‘What about Mr Ablatt?’

‘He almost keeled over when the shroud was drawn back.’

‘Was he able to identify the body as that of his son?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Keedy. ‘There was a birthmark on his shoulder and a long scar on his arm that he’d picked up as a boy. Besides, I think he knew in his heart that it had to be his son. We didn’t even have to show him the deceased’s effects.’

‘Poor man!’ sighed Marmion. ‘He’ll need support.’

‘His only close relative is a sister. She lives not far away.’

‘Then we’ll call on her after we’ve taken him home. We can visit the scene of the crime afterwards.’

‘What about the press?’

‘The superintendent is going to issue a statement and say that we’ve been assigned to the case. That means they’ll be dogging our heels from now on.’

‘A dead conchie won’t arouse much compassion, I fear.’

‘He’s a murder victim, Joe — nothing else matters.’

‘It does to the press.’

‘Then we may have to educate them.’

They chatted on for several minutes, reviewing the information they’d so far gathered and discussing the form that the investigation would take. Eventually, they saw Cyril Ablatt coming slowly along the corridor towards them with his eyes on the floor. When he reached the detectives, he gazed up at them.

‘I’m very sorry about that,’ he murmured.

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Marmion told him with a consoling hand on his arm. ‘It’s a perfectly natural reaction. Your son’s effects belong to you now. When we’ve collected them, we’ll give you a lift home. Then we’ll make contact with your sister. At a time like this, you’ll need family around you.’

Ablatt looked surprised. ‘But I have to open the shop.’

‘Nobody will expect you to do that, sir.’

‘I hate to let customers down.’

‘People will understand,’ said Keedy. ‘In the circumstances, they’ll respect your right to mourn in private.’

‘There are so many things to do — funeral arrangements and that.’

‘The body won’t be released until after the post-mortem.’

Ablatt shuddered. ‘They’re going to cut him open?’ he said, aghast. ‘Hasn’t Cyril suffered enough already?’

‘It’s normal procedure in cases like this, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘A postmortem might yield some valuable clues — what the murder weapon was likely to be, for instance. We’ll let you know as soon as your son’s body is ready for collection. And there’s something else we’d advise.’

‘What’s that, Inspector?’

‘Don’t talk to the press. Newspapers have no right to hound you but that won’t stop them trying to do so. If they pester you, we can always put a constable outside your house to keep them at bay.’

‘It’s not the newspapers that worry me,’ said Ablatt, grimly. ‘It’s them.’

‘Who do you mean, sir?’

‘I’m talking about the people who painted those things on our wall. When they hear what’s happened, they’ll be back again.’ His face crumpled. ‘What kind of cruel things will they say about Cyril this time?’

Of the three friends, Fred Hambridge was the one who relied most heavily on the young librarian. Price had a more independent mind and Leach’s main emotional commitment was to Ruby Cosgrove. It was Hambridge who hung on every word that Cyril Ablatt uttered. He was in awe of his friend’s superior education and assurance. In their discussions of religion, Ablatt had even made the carpenter look afresh at his Quaker upbringing. Because he wanted to attend the second session of the NCF, Hambridge got to the workshop an hour earlier than usual to compensate for the time he intended to take off in the afternoon. There was plenty to do. He was making a sash window for a customer in Stepney and had a variety of other tasks awaiting his attention. Unlike Price and Leach, he actually enjoyed his job. He’d always been good with his hands and soon learnt the mysteries of working with different woods.

In return for the books that Ablatt had loaned him, Hambridge had made the bookcase that stood in his friend’s bedroom. It had been a Christmas present. The carpenter was a slow reader but a quick worker. In the time it took him to read a book from cover to cover, he’d finished, varnished and delivered the gift to a grateful Ablatt. As he worked away at the sash window, he sifted through his memories of the meeting of the NCF. Chief among them was the sense of awe he’d felt when he saw his friend speak with such fire and cogency in front of a room of strangers. Ablatt seemed to grow in stature and importance. The effect on the audience was startling. He had every handkerchief there fluttering madly by way of an ovation. Ablatt’s testimony was at once personal and universal, something that came from his inner convictions yet embodying an ideal that all of them shared.

Time sped past in the cluttered workshop. Hambridge was still bent over the bench when his employer finally arrived. Charlie Redfern was a flabby man in his forties with a beard that never managed to come to fruition and, invariably, with a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. He had a cheerful disposition and a ready supply of jokes. For once, however, he looked serious.

‘Hello, Fred.’

‘Good morning, Charlie.’

‘You’ve already started,’ said Redfern, noting the window. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘About an hour or so,’ said Hambridge. ‘And there’s a reason. Will it be all right if I leave earlier this afternoon?’

The request was ignored. ‘Which way did you come here?’

‘I came the usual way.’

‘Then you’ll have missed it. There’s a crowd up near Drysdale Street. I stopped to see what all the fuss was about — and guess what?’

‘Tell me.’

‘There’s been a murder. Policemen were guarding the place where it happened. The rumour is that someone was beaten to death there.’

Hambridge gulped. ‘Did they say who’d been killed?’

‘It was a young chap.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Sometime last night, I suppose. That’s all I know.’

Hambridge’s mind was an inferno of doubt and apprehension. On the previous evening, the route to the carpenter’s house would have taken Ablatt close to Drysdale Street. Was that the reason he’d failed to arrive? Hambridge was rocked. The thought that his friend and mentor had been killed was horrifying. He couldn’t imagine how he and his friends could manage without their leader. There was no proof that the murder victim was Cyril Ablatt but, in his fevered brain, the possibility that it might be swiftly grew into a likelihood before settling into a certainty. He had to know the truth. Reaching for his coat and hat, he put them on as fast as he could.

‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to go.’

Redfern was nonplussed. ‘But I need you here.’

‘I’ll explain later.’

Running to the door, Hambridge let himself out.

When they’d driven Gerald Ablatt back home, he told them that his sister was a very nervous woman and that her husband needed to be present when they divulged the terrible news to her. Accordingly, Marmion and Keedy made their way to a forge in Bethnal Green. In central London, the detectives were used to seeing a large number of cars, vans, lorries and buses chugging along. Here, however, horse-drawn vehicles were in the majority and Jack Dalley’s livelihood was secure. As Marmion entered the forge, the blacksmith was hammering the last nail into a horseshoe. His customer paid the money owed and led the horse out. Dalley gave Marmion a smile of welcome. He was a brawny man with a gnarled face and dark-green eyes.

‘I don’t mend cars, sir,’ he said, politely.

‘Are you Jack Dalley?’ asked Marmion.

‘That’s me, sir — who wants to know?’

Marmion introduced himself and explained, as gently as he could, why he was there. When he heard that his nephew had been murdered, Dalley was shocked and sympathetic. He tore off his leather apron at once and hung it on a nail.

‘Perce!’ he called to his assistant.

‘Yes?’ replied the man.

‘Take over here. I’ve got to go.’

‘What’s the trouble, Jack?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’

Percy Fry looked mystified. He’d just fitted a rim to a cartwheel and was testing his handiwork. Fry was a sinewy man of middle height with receding hair and wrinkles that made him seem much older than his fifty years. As he watched his employer getting into the police car, he scratched his head.

On the journey to his house, Dalley pressed for details but there was little that the detectives could tell him. The blacksmith had fond memories of the victim.

‘Cyril was a good lad,’ he said. ‘When he was a boy, he loved to hang about the forge and hold horses while I shoed them. There was a time when I thought about taking him on as an apprentice but Gerald was against it. He wanted his son to have a job where he could look smart and not get dirty. But I’d have taught him a real trade. Handing out books all day was beneath him.’ His lip curled. ‘It’s the kind of work a woman could do.’

‘They’ve been doing most things since the war started,’ said Keedy, ‘and doing them as well as men. The inspector’s daughter is a case in point. She was a qualified teacher but she gave it up to learn to drive so that she could help with the war effort. And there are thousands like her.’

‘I’m not sure I hold with that.’

‘It’s one of the necessities of war.’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion, heading off a potential argument, ‘but that’s not the issue at stake at the moment. What I’d like to hear is what sort of a nephew Cyril Ablatt was. Did you see much of him, Mr Dalley?’

‘He called in from time to time,’ said the blacksmith, ‘and we had tea there on a Sunday every so often.’

‘Did he ever mention any enemies he had?’

‘No, Inspector, though he was never going to be popular, what with those strange ideas he had. I disagreed with Cyril but I tried not to have a row with him for my wife’s sake. Nancy hates family quarrels.’

‘His father said that he didn’t have a young lady.’

‘He always claimed that he didn’t have time,’ recalled Dalley, ‘but I think there was another reason. Cyril talked too much. Girls don’t like that. Nora — that’s my eldest — went out with him once. She said that she couldn’t shut him up. He didn’t want female company — just an audience.’

‘It seems that he spent all his time reading in his bedroom.’

‘That’s not right and it’s not healthy. If he’d been my son, I’d have burnt those books and told him to act normal. Mind you,’ he added, ruefully, ‘if I’d been his father, he’d be fighting for his country right now.’

‘Would you have forced him against his will?’ asked Keedy.

Dalley was blunt. ‘I’d have got him into army uniform somehow.’

When they reached the blacksmith’s house, they saw a more tender side of him. He asked them to wait outside while he told his wife what had happened. He felt that the blow would be slightly softer if it came from him. The detectives stayed in the car and looked at the small, squat, unpretentious house. Its one feature of note was a wrought-iron gate that gave access to the tiny front garden.

‘I reckon that Dalley made that,’ said Marmion.

‘Why doesn’t he live over the forge?’ asked Keedy. ‘It’s a fair old way for him to go every day. It’d be much easier if he lived on the premises. Apart from anything else, he’d be able to keep an eye on the place. There must be some expensive tools and equipment in the forge.’

‘There is, Joe. I’m sure he has a reason to live here.’

‘I’d be interested to know what it is.’

‘Then you’ll have to ask him.’

‘What did you make of Dalley?’

‘He’s something of a gentle giant.’

‘I don’t think he’d be all that gentle if you got on the wrong side of him.’

‘We met him at a vulnerable time,’ Marmion reminded him. ‘His emotions are bound to be a bit raw. He was really shaken when I told him the news.’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy, reflectively. ‘That’s the trouble with murder. It wounds so many people. It reaches out to family, then friends, then mere acquaintances. Dalley won’t be allowed to forget it. When the story gets into the newspapers, every customer at his forge will want to ask about his nephew.’

‘Each time it will be as if someone is twisting the knife anew.’

‘Does anyone ever get over the violent death of a loved one?’

‘I doubt it, Joe.’

The wait was much longer than anticipated. It was light now and there were more people around, setting off to work or coming out to wonder why a car was standing outside the Dalley house. It was half an hour before the couple appeared. The blacksmith was still in his working clothes but his wife, Nancy, was wrapped up in a thick coat with a tippet around her shoulders and a feathered hat. Dalley more or less carried her to the car and it was apparent that she was too grief-stricken to say anything. The detectives expressed their condolences then remained silent during the journey to the Ablatt house. When they got there,their passengers got out, went to the front door and knocked. Gerald Ablatt appeared and his sister flung herself into his arms. He ushered her inside. Dalley came briefly back to the car.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re grateful for the lift.’

‘We’ll be in touch, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Before we go, however, the sergeant has something to ask you.’

Keedy took his cue. ‘I wondered why you didn’t live over the forge, sir, that’s all. It would save you going to and fro all the time.’

‘We used to live there,’ explained Dalley, ‘but it’s not the cleanest place to bring up a family. When my parents died, they left me the house where you took me earlier. We moved into it four or five years ago. As for the forge,’ he went on, ‘my assistant lives there. Percy and his missus look after the place for me. I take the rent out of his wages.’ He pursed his lips. ‘He’ll have to manage on his own for a long while now. I’m needed here.’

Turning on his heel, he went into the house and shut the door behind him. The car set off and rounded the corner, giving them a clear view of the slogans and taunts painted crudely on the side wall. It was evident that the anonymous artist was burning with hatred for Cyril Ablatt.

‘Do you think someone will be back with a paintbrush?’ asked Keedy.

‘Not as long as Dalley is here,’ replied Marmion. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

Running the bakery involved the whole family. Gordon Leach’s mother worked in the shop with the help of his sister. Having done his stint of baking, Leach had to go off on the first of his delivery rounds. The horse stood patiently between the shafts while he loaded the bread into the back of the cart. Still warm, it was wrapped in tissue paper. When the job was complete, he clambered into the cart and was about to set off. Then he saw the animated figure of Fred Hambridge coming towards him. He climbed out immediately.

‘I was hoping to catch you,’ said Hambridge, panting for breath.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘You haven’t heard, then?’

‘Heard what?’

‘It was my boss who told me about it. Charlie was coming past Drysdale Street when he saw this crowd. That’s how he knew.’

‘You’re not making much sense, Fred,’ said Leach. ‘Why don’t you get your breath back and tell me what’s actually happened?’

‘There’s been a murder.’

Leach started. ‘A murder — where?’

‘I’ve just told you. It was near Drysdale Street.’

‘Who was the victim?’

Even as he asked the question, Leach thought of a possible answer and it made his blood congeal. He shook his head in a frenzy of denial.

‘No, no,’ he protested. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I didn’t at first,’ said Hambridge.

‘It can’t have been Cyril.’

‘It was a young man, according to Charlie. That much is certain.’

‘But he had no idea what his name was.’

‘None at all,’ admitted the other, ‘but we have to face facts, Gordon. He was killed last night after dark. And it was near a place that Cyril would have walked past on his way to my house. It all fits. It explains why he never turned up.’

Leach’s head was spinning. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t believe it.’

‘I went to the police station but they wouldn’t give me any details. They told me to wait until the newspapers come out this evening. There may be a name in that. When I told them that I was a friend of Cyril, they didn’t want to know and told me to stop being a nuisance.’

‘There must be some way to find out the truth.’

‘We can go to his house and ask his father.’

Leach brought a hand to his throat. ‘Oh, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s why Mr Ablatt wasn’t there when Mansel called earlier this morning. He told me that he’d gone to find out if Cyril got back late last night.’

‘He didn’t get back,’ said Hambridge, woefully, ‘because he simply couldn’t. Someone had battered him to death. What are we going to do, Gordon?’

‘We try to find out the truth.’

‘We both know the truth. Cyril Ablatt is dead. Why argue about it? I was asking a different question. What the hell are we going to do now that we don’t have him here to guide us? What would Cyril want us to do?’

Leach didn’t even hear him. His mind was running on another track altogether. If their friend really was the murder victim, there would be implications. Ablatt had given a brilliant speech at the meeting of the NCF. Had he been killed by way of punishment? Was someone determined to silence conscientious objectors? Leach was overcome by a sense of panic.

‘Cyril may just be the first one,’ he cried. ‘Which one of us is next?’