Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER FOUR

The lane connected two streets in Shoreditch. It was narrow, twisting and unlit at night. When the detectives arrived there by car, policemen were on duty at either end of the little thoroughfare, stopping anyone from using it and trying to move on people who just came to stand and stare. Marmion identified himself to one of the policemen and asked to be taken to the exact spot where the body was found. He and Keedy were escorted to a point near the middle of the lane. The policeman indicated a rickety garden gate set into a recess.

‘It was right here, Inspector,’ he said.

‘Who found him?’ asked Keedy.

‘I’m told it was a courting couple, sir. You’ve got to feel sorry for them. They sneak down here for a kiss and a cuddle and they trip over a dead body.’

‘That must have cooled their ardour.’

‘It was well after midnight — must have been pitch-dark.’

‘How did they know it was a corpse?’

‘They didn’t, sir,’ replied the policeman. ‘In fact, they thought it might have been a drunk who passed out as he tottered home from the Weavers Arms.’

‘That’s the pub on the corner, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Afraid it might be more serious, they reported it.’

‘I’m glad they had the sense to do that.’

‘So am I, sir. By all accounts, it was a hideous sight. It’s just as well they moved the body away before the public got to see it.’

Marmion was only half-listening. Crouching down, he examined the ground with great care. When he eventually stood up, he stroked his chin meditatively.

‘This is not the scene of the crime,’ he concluded. ‘If it were, there’d be lots of bloodstains and there are hardly any. I think that the victim was killed elsewhere then dumped here. I also think that we’re after a local man.’

Keedy was puzzled. ‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Only someone who knew the area would be aware of this lane. It’s a good place to get rid of a dead body — but only after the pub closes and people stop using it to get home. The victim was brought here when there was nobody about.’

‘The killer might have needed an accomplice.’

‘Why?’

‘A dead body is easier to carry if there are two of you.’

‘It’s possible that someone else was involved, if only as a lookout. The killer was obviously a cautious man. He’d take no chances. Thank you, Constable,’ he said to the policeman. ‘You can get back on duty now. Keep everyone out of the lane for the time being — especially any press photographers.’ As the policeman went off to take up his position, Marmion turned to Keedy. ‘What’s your immediate reaction?’

‘It’s someone that Ablatt knows.’

‘That was my view.’

‘All that we’ve heard about him so far points to the fact that he’s a bright lad. In that photo we saw in his bedroom, he looked young and strong. He wouldn’t be easily overpowered unless he was taken unawares.’

‘Exactly,’ said Marmion. ‘If he was approached by an acquaintance, he’d be off guard. The trouble is that he’d have a hell of a lot of acquaintances. Since he worked in a library, he must know any number of people.’

‘One of them might be the phantom artist.’

‘Who?’

‘I’m thinking of the man who painted those things on the side of Ablatt’s house. The father had no idea who he was but it must be a neighbour with a malicious streak in him. We need to find out who he is.’

‘Or who she is,’ corrected Marmion. ‘A woman can handle a paintbrush as well as a man. I know that Alice can. When I papered her room last year, she insisted on painting the door and the window frame. As soon as we’d done that, of course,’ he said, face puckered with regret, ‘our daughter decided to move out of the house. We could have saved ourselves all that trouble.’

Keedy was sceptical. ‘You surely don’t think we’re looking for a female killer, do you?’

‘We need to consider every option. There’s no evidence to suggest that the artist and the killer are one and the same person but it’s a possibility we have to bear in mind. As for the murder itself,’ Marmion continued, ‘it’s highly unlikely that a woman committed it because of the brutality involved and the physical strength needed. On the other hand, there could be a female accomplice, someone who incited the crime in the first place. The fairer sex has become a lot more aggressive since the war started. Don’t forget that it’s women who hand out white feathers.’

‘Accusing someone of cowardice is a long way from plotting their death.’

‘I accept that.’

‘And what sort of man lets a woman talk him into committing a murder?’

‘The kind who are naturally inclined that way,’ said Marmion, levelly. ‘We’ve met quite a few of them in this job. They just need that final push.’

‘No,’ said Keedy, ‘I disagree with you there, Harv. I don’t believe a woman is involved in any way.’

‘What about the lady in that photograph we found?’

‘I was forgetting her.’

‘She could be indirectly culpable. If her husband discovered her friendship with Cyril Ablatt, he might have been enraged enough to kill him.’

‘We need to track the woman down.’

‘That’s what I intend to do — after we’ve interviewed the victim’s three friends. I’ll start with Gordon Leach. The family bakery is not far from the Ablatt house. I’ll find it. You can tackle Fred Hambridge. You’ve got his address. If you go there first, they might be able to tell you where he works.’

‘What about the third friend — Mansel Price?’

‘Try his address as well. Find out where he is. If you can’t reach him this morning, leave a message to the effect that we’d like to speak to him. By the time he gets it, he’ll know why.’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘This will be on the front page of the evening’s paper. Everybody in London will know.’ An image of Superintendent Chatfield popped into his mind. ‘When he gave his statement to the press, I hope that Chat asked for any witnesses to come forward. Somebody may have seen something.’

‘It’s a long shot but you never know.’

‘I take it that you’ll have use of the car.’

Marmion grinned. ‘It’s a privilege of rank.’

‘When do I get my own transport?’

‘When Sir Edward retires and you succeed him as commissioner.’ He slapped Keedy playfully on the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift to Hambridge’s house. It’s on my way to the bakery. Then I’ll see you back at Scotland Yard. The superintendent will want a report on the progress we’ve made so far.’

Keedy raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know we’d made any.’

‘Then you should remember just how much information we’ve gathered. Lots of it may be irrelevant but I fancy that we’ve already made one or two crucial discoveries.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘The trick is to work out which ones they are.’

When she heard a vehicle drawing up outside the house, Ellen Marmion hoped that it might be her husband, returning for a late breakfast. In fact, it was her daughter who climbed down from the lorry she’d been driving and used her key to let herself into the house. Ellen was delighted to see her.

‘Alice!’ she cried, embracing her. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

‘I can’t stay long. I came to scrounge a cup of tea.’

‘I’ll put the kettle on at once.’

Alice followed her into the kitchen and watched her fill the kettle under the tap before setting it on the stove and using a match to ignite the gas. Ellen turned to appraise her daughter with a mixture of pleasure and disapproval.

‘I can never get used to you in that uniform,’ she said, clicking her tongue. ‘Khaki is such an unflattering colour.’

‘It cost me two pounds,’ said Alice, defensively, ‘and I like it.’

‘I preferred it when you worked as a teacher and wore your own clothes.’

‘There’s a war on, Mummy. I’m far more use working for the WEC than I would be keeping a classroom of noisy children in order. Even you must realise that by now.’

‘Frankly, I don’t but I’m not going to argue about it.’

‘Thank you.’

Alice Marmion was a comparatively tall, slim, lithe woman in her early twenties with attractive features and bright eyes. Against her mother’s wishes, she’d given up her job at a nearby school in order to join the Women’s Emergency Corps, one of the many women’s organisations dedicated to helping the war effort. It was interesting work that confronted her with a whole range of problems but it involved long hours and kept her at full stretch. Ellen noticed the signs of fatigue.

‘You look tired,’ she said, anxiously. ‘Are you getting enough sleep?’

‘Who cares about sleep when there are so many jobs to do?’

‘I do. It’s important.’

‘So is helping people in dire circumstances.’

‘Oh, I do wish you still lived at home so that I could take care of you.’

‘I can cope perfectly well on my own, Mummy.’

‘I worry that you don’t get enough food.’

Alice laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve put on weight.’

‘Then you’re not getting the right kind of food.’

‘Stop worrying about me. I’ve been in the WEC for well over six months now and I’ve looked after myself all that time. Living on my own gives me the kind of freedom I could never enjoy here.’

Ellen was hurt. ‘You make this house sound like a prison.’

‘I didn’t mean to. I was very happy here — when I was younger, that is. I just felt too old to be living with my parents.’

‘We miss you dreadfully. At least,’ added Ellen, ‘I certainly do. Your father is hardly ever here so I miss him as well. They got him out of bed around five o’clock this morning for the latest crisis. I probably won’t see him again until it’s time to turn in.’ She pulled a face. ‘Who’d marry a policeman?’

‘Daddy must have warned you what it would be like.’

‘He was just a bobby on the beat in those days. I didn’t like him working shifts but at least I knew when I’d see him again.’

‘Do you regret that you married him?’

Ellen gasped. ‘What a terrible question to ask!’

‘Well — do you?’

‘Don’t be silly. I love your father. I’d just like to see more of him.’

‘It may be better when the war’s over.’

‘That’s what I keep telling myself,’ said Ellen. ‘We live in hope. But I can see why Joe Keedy never married. Working at Scotland Yard is much easier when you don’t have a family to worry about.’

‘Joe does have a family.’

‘Yes, but they’re up in the Midlands somewhere. He has very little to do with them. He can live a bachelor life and do as he pleases.’

‘Not exactly,’ said Alice. ‘He’s in the same boat as Daddy. They’re never off duty. The call can come at any time of day or night.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

The kettle was starting to boil. Ellen turned to reach for the teapot before emptying its contents down the sink and rinsing it out. When steam began to billow out of the kettle, she switched off the gas then poured a little hot water into the pot to warm it up. Spoonfuls of tea followed, then she added the hot water, put the lid back on and slipped the cosy over the pot. When they were side by side, the resemblance between mother and daughter was very clear. The difference was that Ellen was twice Alice’s age and had greying hair, a lined face and a spreading midriff. She struggled hard to master her intense concern for her children. Her son had joined the army and was somewhere in France. Her daughter had left home, ostensibly to join the WEC but, in reality, to spread her wings as well. With her husband absent for long periods, Ellen was bound to feel sad and neglected.

‘What are you doing today?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got to drive to the station to collect another batch of refugees. It’s some more Belgians this time. Just as well I’ve picked up so much French,’ said Alice, cheerfully. ‘Being in the WEC is a real education. I’ve learnt how to drive any kind of vehicle and can get by in French and German. More importantly, I’ve learnt how to look after myself so that I’m not a burden on you and Daddy.’

‘What a ridiculous idea!’ protested Ellen. ‘You never were a burden.’

‘There were times when I felt that I was.’

‘Well, I never felt that. As a matter of fact-’

‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ interrupted Alice, ‘but I’ll have to go soon. Could you pour that tea now, please?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

After putting two teacups on the table, Ellen used a strainer to pour tea into them. They sat either side of the kitchen table, taking it in turns to add milk and sugar to their respective cups before stirring with a teaspoon. Ellen regarded her daughter through troubled eyes.

‘Is this what you really want, Alice?’

‘Yes, it is. I love working for the WEC.’

‘Vera Dowling doesn’t. I spoke to her mother yesterday. She said that

Vera is finding it too demanding and expects her to give it up soon.’

Alice shook her head. ‘Vera would never do that. She has a good moan at times but so does everyone else. We joined the WEC together and we both admire what it’s trying to do. Mrs Dowling is wrong, honestly. Vera’s like me — she’ll see it through to the end.’

Ellen sipped her tea and ventured a smile. ‘It’s so good to see you again,’ she said, ‘if only for a short while. Your father will be so annoyed that he missed you.’

‘Give him my love,’ said Alice, sipping her own tea.

‘You haven’t seen him since Christmas.’

‘We’ve been so madly busy.’

‘We’d hoped that you might at least spend New Year’s Eve with us.’

‘I told you — I was invited to a party.’

‘Well, you’re invited to a party here any time you like,’ said Ellen, beaming hospitably. ‘You can bring Vera Dowling along, if you wish, or any of the new friends you’ve made in the WEC. I’d like to meet them. And if your father is free, I’ll ask him to invite Joe Keedy as well. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice, quietly. ‘That would be very nice.’

Keedy was in luck. When the police car dropped him off outside Hambridge’s house, the carpenter was at home. He was startled when the detective introduced himself and shattered when his worst fears were confirmed. Keedy had to offer a steadying hand. Invited into the house, he saw how spotless and uncluttered it was. There were no paintings on the walls and very few ornaments. The simplicity was striking.

Hambridge slumped onto the settee with his head in his hands. Taking a seat opposite him, Keedy had his notebook and pencil ready. He waited until the younger man recovered enough to be able to meet his gaze.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hambridge, semaphoring an apology. ‘Cyril was my best friend. I feel so guilty about this.’

‘Why should that be?’

‘It’s because I should have stayed. He sent me on home after the meeting but I should have stayed with him. If I’d done that, he’d still be alive.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Keedy. ‘We could be investigating two deaths.’

Hambridge sat up. ‘Do you think I’m in danger, then?’

‘I don’t know at this stage but it seems doubtful. What I’m hoping to establish is where the murder is likely to have taken place. To do that, I’ll need you to describe the precise route that your friend would have taken to get back home.’

‘He would have been coming here. This is where we arranged to meet.’

‘How would he get back to Shoreditch?’

‘The same way as us,’ replied Hambridge.

‘Would that route take him anywhere near Drysdale Street?’

‘Oh, yes. My boss told me that’s where the murder took place.’

‘It’s where the body was found, I grant you, but we’ve reason to believe that he was set on elsewhere. Let’s go back to the meeting,’ he suggested. ‘Tell me what time you left, when you got back here and when you expected Cyril to join you.’

Hambridge was too disturbed to give an accurate account of his movements. He kept breaking off to wrestle with the horror of what had happened, continuing to blame himself for not being there to offer protection. Keedy had to be patient, teasing out the details one by one until he had a clearer idea of what had occurred on the previous evening. From the way that Hambridge talked about Price and Leach, he gathered that they were close friends who looked to Ablatt for guidance. The bereaved carpenter spread his arms.

‘Who could possibly have wanted to kill him?’ he asked.

‘I was hoping that you might have some ideas on that score.’

‘But I don’t, Sergeant. I can’t think of anyone who hated Cyril. He was so likeable. We’ve all had difficulties, mind you. There’ve been people who yelled nasty things because we haven’t joined up and an old man spat at us in the street one day, but nobody ever threatened to attack us.’

‘What about those slogans painted on the wall of the Ablatt house?’

‘Cyril used to shrug those off.’

‘Well, his father didn’t. They really upset him at first.’

‘I know. He told us. But it didn’t scare Cyril because he was so brave. He always used to quote that saying. You know — “Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” That was typical of Cyril.’

Keedy was about to point out that someone had broken the victim’s bones but he decided against it. For all his bulk, Hambridge seemed quite fragile. It was better to steer him away from gory details of the crime. Keedy’s pencil was poised.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘We grew up together.’

‘What about Price and Leach?’

The four of us went to the same school.’

‘And you’re all conscientious objectors, I gather.’

‘I’m a Quaker,’ said Hambridge, simply. ‘We utterly deny all outward wars and strife. That’s what George Fox said and he preached the gospel of peace all his life, even though they put him in prison time and again.’

‘What about the others?’

‘I’m the only Quaker. Cyril was a true Christian. Mansel refuses to let the state bully him into uniform and Gordon just thinks that war is wrong. It was Cyril who sort of spoke for the rest of us. He made a wonderful speech at the meeting. That’s why he was asked to stay behind afterwards. He had a real gift, Sergeant,’ said Hambridge, eyes moistening. ‘None of us could touch him. Cyril had a way with words. I could listen to him all day.’

Gordon Leach had gone on his delivery round with the furtiveness of a man expecting to be attacked at any moment. Convinced that his friend had been murdered, he felt that his own life was also in jeopardy, even though it was now daylight and the streets were full of people. Customers who came to the door to pay him wondered why he thrust their loaves at them, took the money and fled. It was only towards the end of the round that he slowly regained his confidence and began to control his fears. When he found Inspector Harvey Marmion waiting for him at the bakery, however, his lurking desperation was rekindled. He was given official confirmation that Ablatt was indeed the murder victim and it made him turn the colour of flour.

They were alone in the back room that was still pulsing with warmth.

‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,’ said Marmion.

‘I knew it already,’ explained Leach. ‘Fred — that’s Fred Hambridge — came to warn me that he’d heard about someone being beaten to death not far from here. We both guessed it had to be Cyril. He didn’t turn up, you see.’

‘Turn up where?’

‘We agreed to meet at Fred’s house after the meeting of the NCF.’

‘Why didn’t he leave with you?’

Leach told him that Ablatt had been detained by the people who organised the meeting. He also gave details of the route they’d taken back to Shoreditch and an approximate time of their arrival at Hambridge’s house. Talking it all through seemed to instil even more trepidation in him. Marmion tried to soothe him.

‘I really don’t think that you are in imminent danger,’ he said, ‘and neither are your friends. It was Cyril Ablatt who was singled out. If someone had had designs on any of you, then they’d have lain in wait until they saw a moment to strike. Have you ever felt that you were being watched?’

‘No, Inspector, I haven’t.’

‘What about your friends?’

‘They’d have mentioned it if that was the case — and they didn’t.’

‘Then none of you need be alarmed. For some unknown reason, the killer’s target was your friend, Cyril. Do you know what that reason might be?’

‘They wanted to silence him.’

‘Who did?’

‘Someone who knew how good Cyril was at making speeches,’ said Leach, blurting out his answer. ‘You could never get the better of him in an argument. He’d tie you in knots. And he could hold a big audience as well. He proved that yesterday. They decided to shut him up.’

‘And who might “they” be?’

‘They’re people who demand that we volunteer for the army, so-called patriots who wave the Union Jack and send others off to die on the battlefield. It’s got to be one of them, Inspector.’

‘I’ll reserve my judgement on that.’

‘There’s so many of them about, you see. I should know. When I deliver the bread, there are three houses I can’t go to any more. They say that they won’t touch anything baked by a conchie — only their language is not as polite as that.’

‘Did Cyril get that kind of response at the library?’

‘All the time,’ replied Leach, ‘but he could always talk himself out of the situation. He even turned the tables on Horrie Waldron.’

‘And who might he be?’ enquired Marmion.

‘He’s an old codger me and Cyril knew in the George and Vulture when we used to meet for a drink there. It’s in Pitfield Street. Cyril had to pass it on his way home from the library. Anyway,’ Leach went on, ‘we sometimes saw Horrie in there, sitting drunk in a corner. You could share a joke with him until the war broke out. He turned nasty then. Every time we went in there, he’d have a dig at us for not joining up. It got so bad that we stopped going there altogether.’

‘What’s this about turning the tables on him?’

‘Horrie turned up at the library just before Christmas. He’d obviously been drinking. He tried to cause a scene by telling Cyril he was a coward but he got more than he bargained for. Cyril took him on in argument and made him look stupid. Everyone was laughing at Horrie. According to Cyril,’ said Leach, revelling in his friend’s triumph, ‘he slunk out of there with his tail between his legs.’

‘He must have felt humiliated.’

‘He was, Inspector — good and proper.’

‘And would you say that this Horrie Waldron was a vindictive man?’

‘Oh, yes, and he has a foul mouth on him.’

‘I wonder why Mr Ablatt didn’t mention the incident,’ said Marmion. ‘When I asked him if his son had any enemies, he denied it.’

‘Cyril didn’t tell his father everything that happened. In fact, I’m probably the only person who knows about Horrie being turned into a laughing stock at the library. Fred and Mansel have no idea who Horrie Waldron is.’ Leach scowled. ‘They’re lucky. He can be a menace.’

‘You described him as an old codger.’

‘That’s what he looks like, Inspector, but he’s probably not that old. He just never takes care of himself. Also, he smells. I bumped into him once when I was out with Ruby and she thought he was a tramp.’

‘Is Ruby your girlfriend?’

Leach’s back straightened. ‘She’s my fiancee.’

‘Congratulations! Have you set a date?’

‘It’s in July,’ said Leach. ‘Going back to Horrie, I heard that the landlord at the George and Vulture got fed up with him and threw him out. Last time I saw Horrie, he was going into the Weavers Arms.’

It was not far from where the body of Cyril Ablatt had been found. Marmion made a mental note of the fact. In his opinion, Leach was an interesting character, weak in many respects yet strong enough to hold to his principles in the face of daily hostility. Marmion had seen the way that people could bait conscientious objectors, making their lives a misery by taunting, abusing or sending them poison pen letters. More than one pacifist had been driven to suicide to escape the constant antagonism. Leach seemed unlikely to follow. For all his nervousness, there was a hard inner core that allowed him to withstand the jeers and the innuendo. And since a date for his wedding had been set, he didn’t wish to be somewhere in France or Belgium in the summer. Marmion’s own son, Paul, was very close in age to Leach and had volunteered readily with his father’s approval. Though he didn’t condone the stance that the young baker was taking, Marmion nevertheless admired him for his courage in doing so.

He thought about the reported viciousness of the attack on Cyril Ablatt and the problem of getting the body to the location where it was later found.

‘Tell me about Waldron,’ he said. ‘Is he a strong man?’

‘He’s very strong, Inspector.’

‘Does he have a job or has he retired?’

‘Horrie will never retire. He’ll go on until he drops.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He’s a gravedigger.’