Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER SIX

Alice Marmion had never regretted the decision to join the Women’s Emergency Corps and to move out of the family home. She was doing work that gave her great satisfaction and she enjoyed the challenge of having to fend for herself. Inevitably, there were drawbacks. While she was happy with the two small rooms she rented in a rambling Victorian house, they came with a landlady who imposed strict rules on her four tenants — all of them young and female — the main one being that no gentlemen were allowed into their respective rooms. Male visitors could only be entertained during specified hours in the drawing room, where they had to sit in one of the uncomfortable single chairs, the settee and the chaise longue having been carefully removed because they might encourage intimacy between couples seated together. It was also inconvenient to share the only bathroom with all the other people in the house, but Alice had circumvented that problem by getting up earlier than anyone else and being the first through the door.

Notwithstanding the house rules, she liked living there and woke up every morning with a sense of control that she’d never felt at home. It was empowering. Never lacking in confidence, Alice now had a greater self-belief and an increased readiness to take on responsibility. It had earned her respect in the WEC. Her friend, Vera Dowling, had marvelled at the changes in her.

‘It’s amazing, Alice,’ she said. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to.’

‘I never thought I’d drive a lorry, I must admit.’

‘You took to it like a duck to water — whereas I was hopeless.’

‘That’s not true, Vera.’

‘As soon as I get behind the driving wheel, I lose my nerve.’

‘It’s only a question of practice.’

‘I tried and tried again but I still made a mess of it. That’s why they’ll never let me take charge of any vehicle. I start to panic.’

Alice tried to reassure her but it was in vain. The two of them were sitting in the lorry, waiting for the delayed train from Folkestone. On her way to the railway station, Alice had picked up her friend from her digs. Much as she liked Vera, she’d baulked at the idea of actually sharing accommodation with her. It would impose too many constraints. Vera Dowling was a short, shapeless young woman in khaki uniform with a plain, uninteresting face that accentuated Alice’s loveliness. Diligent and trustworthy, Vera had thrown herself into her new job with more commitment than skill and, as a result, tended to be given only a supportive role. Unlike Alice, she was not relishing her freedom. Living in digs, she missed the comforts of home and the joy of her mother’s cooking. And she’d always had difficulty in making new friends, forcing her to rely even more on the few she already had. As her closest friend, Alice sometimes found that irksome.

‘Are you glad you joined the WEC?’ she asked.

‘You know I am, Alice. As soon as you did, I followed suit.’

‘Then why does your mother think that you might give it up?’

‘I’d never do that,’ said Vera, ‘not while you’re still in it, anyway.’

‘She told Mummy that you were finding it a bit of a trial.’

‘Well, that’s true — but it doesn’t mean that I’m going to pack it in. I just grit my teeth and get on with it. Giving up would be such a selfish thing to do when people depend on me.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘What are a few aches and pains compared to being driven out of your own home and chased out of your own country? Refugees come first, Alice,’ she said. ‘They need us.’

‘I knew that you felt the same as me.’

‘Whatever happens, I’ll stay in the WEC until the war is over.’

‘That’s what I told Mummy.’

She broke off as a fleet of trucks arrived and drew up beside each other. Troops clambered quickly out with their rifles and kit, falling into line when commands were barked at them. In their ill-fitting serge uniforms, they all looked so young and untried. Alice was reminded of her brother, who’d joined the army at the start of the war and whom they’d only seen once since then. He’d gone off with the same alacrity that these new recruits were showing but his letters from the front were hinting at disillusion. She wondered how long it would be before the brave smiles were wiped off the faces of the latest batch of infantry. As they were marched past the lorry in their hobnail boots, some of the men noticed them and waved cheerily. A few whistled in admiration. Alice waved back but Vera was too embarrassed to do so.

‘How many of them will come back alive?’ she asked, sadly.

Alice hid her pessimism. ‘We must pray that they all do.’

Vera waited until the last of them had gone past to join the others as they boarded the waiting train. They would soon be on their way to war in a country none of them had ever visited. In the minds of the recruits, there was a whiff of adventure about what they were doing. Having seen so many dead and wounded brought back from the trenches, the friends no longer believed that there was anything adventurous in the conflict. All that they saw were the accelerating losses and the sheer futility.

Vera’s question came out of the blue. ‘What do you make of Mrs Billington?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I just wondered, that’s all.’

‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘I admire her a lot. I know that some people find her too bossy but that’s what she has to be to get things done. Hannah is a nice woman and she was one of the very first to join the WEC.’

‘There you are,’ said Vera, wistfully. ‘You call her Hannah because you’re on first-name terms with her. She’s always Mrs Billington to me. I’d be afraid to call her anything else.’

‘She won’t bite, Vera.’

‘It’s the way she stares at me.’

‘Hannah does that to everyone,’ said Alice. ‘When you get to know her better, you’ll find out what a warm-hearted person she is.’

Vera frowned. ‘I’m not sure that I want to know her better.’

‘She’s the one who really helped me to develop my talents.’

‘I don’t have any talents to develop.’ Vera made an effort to brighten. ‘Did you say that you saw your mother this morning?’

‘Yes, I called in for a quick cup of tea.’

‘Is she still missing you?’

‘Mummy would have me back at the drop of a hat.’

‘It must be so lonely being there alone.’

‘It is, Vera — though she does get out a lot.’

‘Did you see your father as well?’

Alice gave a hollow laugh. ‘Fat chance of that!’

‘Had he already left for work?’

‘Daddy went off hours before breakfast. There was an emergency.

That always means another case of murder. Until it’s over, all that Mummy will get of him is an occasional glimpse.’

‘I’d hate that. I could never marry a policeman.’

‘There are compensations,’ said Alice, loyally.

‘Not enough of them for me.’

‘Wait until you meet Mr Right. You won’t care what he does for a living.’

‘I would if he was a policeman,’ said Vera. ‘What about you?’

Alice heard the sound of an approaching train and opened her door.

‘That’ll be them,’ she said, getting out of the lorry. ‘Come on, Vera — and don’t forget to speak in your very best French.’

When it was opened twenty years earlier, the main library in the Metropolitan Borough of Shoreditch had impressed everyone with its Victorian solidity and with the grandeur of its facade. It was less striking now, its novelty gone, its brickwork soiled and the early signs of wear and tear apparent. The first thing that Harvey Marmion noticed was that some slates were missing from the roof. He stood on the pavement opposite for some time, studying the building in which Cyril Ablatt had spent so much of his life. People were streaming in and out, mostly women or older men. The library was obviously popular and well used. Marmion crossed the road and went in through the main entrance. Shelves of books stood everywhere. He could see that it was the ideal habitat for Ablatt.

Having established who was in charge, Marmion introduced himself to Eric Fussell, an exceptionally tall, middle-aged man who kept his back straight and who peered down at people through wire-framed spectacles that seemed to double the size of his eyeballs. Fussell was quick to appreciate the need for privacy. He ushered the inspector into his office and closed the door. As they exchanged niceties, they sat down. Marmion glanced around the room. It was large, high-ceilinged, lined with books and spectacularly tidy. Everything on the desk was in neat piles, making him feel self-conscious about the clutter in his own office. Fussell exuded intelligence. His manner was polite and confiding.

‘What seems to be the problem, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘I believe that Cyril Ablatt works here.’

‘That’s correct. He’s not here at the moment, alas. If you wish to speak to him, you’ll have to go to his home.’ His eyelids narrowed. ‘Is Cyril in any kind of trouble? Is that the reason he didn’t turn up for work this morning?’

‘No,’ said Marmion, solemnly. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that he won’t be turning up at the library ever again. Mr Ablatt’s body was discovered during the night. He’d been bludgeoned to death.’

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Fussell. ‘That’s appalling!’ Doubt clouded his eyes. ‘Are you quite sure that it was Cyril?’

‘No question about it, sir. His father has identified the body.’

‘My heart goes out to him. This is dreadful news. Cyril was a fixture here. He used the library regularly for many years before he joined the staff.’

‘Mr Ablatt was very proud that his son became a librarian.’

‘Technically,’ said the other with more than a hint of pedantry, ‘he was only a library assistant. I’m the librarian. We’re an odd species. Librarians are rather like concert pianists — nobody needs two.’

‘I sit corrected, sir. What kind of an assistant was Cyril Ablatt?’

‘I couldn’t fault him. This was his true metier. Large numbers of people go through life either hating their job or regretting the one they failed to get. Cyril wasn’t like that. I’ve never met anyone so happy in his work. It was a labour of love to him.’

‘Tell me a bit more about him.’

‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’

‘Everything you can remember,’ said Marmion. ‘My mental picture of him is still incomplete. I need more detail.’

‘Well, I can certainly give you that.’

As Fussell removed his spectacles, his eyes contracted to a more normal size. Taking out a handkerchief, he blew on the lenses before cleaning them methodically. He kept Marmion waiting a full minute before he spoke.

‘Cyril Ablatt is the best library assistant I’ve ever had the good fortune to have under me,’ he began, ‘and that includes my dear wife, whom you probably saw at the desk when you first arrived. According to the last census, this borough has a population of over 111,000 inhabitants. Not one of them could hold a candle to Cyril. He was tireless. When someone made a request, nothing was too much trouble for him. He built up a reputation for efficiency and amiability. Then, I fear,’ he went on, ‘the war broke out and people looked at him differently. His hard-earned reputation slowly began to crumble.’

‘How did he react to that?’

‘He carried on in the same pleasant and dedicated way — even when some people began to voice their criticism. They couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t join the army and fight for his country. It reached a point where a few of them refused to let him stamp their books.’

‘Did you understand his position, sir?’

‘I understood it very well. We discussed it at length in this very office.’

‘And did you approve of what he did?’

‘To be quite candid with you, I didn’t,’ said Fussell, holding the spectacles up to the light so that he could examine the lenses. ‘In times of crisis, pacifism seems quite indefensible. Cyril thought differently, of course, arguing that it was only during a war that pacifism had any real meaning. He could be very persuasive. He’d have made a first-rate public speaker.’

Marmion changed his tack. ‘Is the name Horrie Waldron familiar to you?’

‘It’s eerily familiar.’

‘Does he come in here often?’

‘Thankfully, he doesn’t. You can always tell when he is here by the smell. He never borrows books. He only drops in now and then to read a newspaper.’

‘Do you recall an argument he had with Mr Ablatt?’

‘I do indeed, Inspector. Waldron was obnoxious. If Cyril hadn’t sent him packing, I’d have called the police to remove him.’

‘Would you say that he’s a dangerous man?’

‘When drink is taken, he’s a very dangerous man.’

‘That confirms what I’ve heard,’ said Marmion. ‘By the way, did you know that your assistant went to a meeting of the No-Conscription Fellowship?’

The librarian replaced his spectacles. ‘Yes,’ he said, adjusting them. ‘He showed me their leaflet and sought my opinion. I told him that I thought they were a lot of well-intentioned cranks and that he was better off keeping away from them.’

‘What was his reply?’

Fussell quoted it in exact detail. He and his young assistant had evidently had some lively arguments. As the other man talked at length of Ablatt’s early days at the library, Marmion wondered why he’d taken a dislike to him. The librarian was astute, well qualified and undeniably in command. Yet he somehow annoyed the inspector. It was partly the way that he shifted between a lordly authority and an ingratiating humility. One minute, he was basking in his importance, the next, he was trying to curry favour. Marmion decided that he wouldn’t have liked to work under the man. You never knew what he was thinking.

‘Had he lived,’ said Marmion, ‘we both know what would have happened.’

‘Yes, Inspector, he’d have been conscripted.’

‘The first stage would be an appearance before a tribunal.’

‘Cyril had already worked out what he was going to say.’

‘And what about you, sir?’

Fussell was taken aback. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Surely, you’d speak up before the tribunal on his behalf.’

‘I hadn’t planned to do so.’

‘But you told me that he was your best assistant.’

‘He was,’ said Fussell, ‘I don’t dispute that. Unfortunately, libraries do not merit inclusion among reserved occupations. There’s nothing that I could say that would be of any help to Cyril.’

‘It’s not what you could say but what you could do, sir.’

‘Could you be more explicit?’

‘I’m thinking of it from Mr Ablatt’s viewpoint,’ said Marmion. ‘At the very least, you could make a gesture. Your very appearance on his behalf at the tribunal would have raised his morale. Did that never occur to you?’

Fussell’s tone was icy. ‘In all honesty, it never did.’

‘Now that it has, what’s your feeling? Had your young assistant requested your help, how would you have responded?’

There was a long pause, then Fussell enunciated the words crisply.

‘I’d have been obliged to disappoint him, Inspector.’

‘Was that because he could defeat you in argument?’ asked Marmion.

He saw the librarian wince.

Maud Crowther was a stout woman in her early sixties with sparkling blue eyes in a face more suited to laughter than sorrow. Age had obliged her to use a walking stick but she’d lost none of her zest. When she opened her front door to him, Keedy guessed that she’d spent much of her life behind a bar counter, serving drinks to all manner of customers with a welcoming smile that had been her trademark. Strangers never disconcerted her. They provided her income. Pleased to see such a good-looking man on her doorstep, she gave him a broad grin.

‘What can I do for you, young man?’ she asked.

‘Are you Mrs Maud Crowther?’

‘I am and I have been from the day I married Tom Crowther.’

‘I wondered if we might speak in private, Mrs Crowther.’

Keedy introduced himself and told her about the murder investigation. She was horrified to hear the details, all the more so because the body had been found only a few hundred yards from her house. As soon as he mentioned the name of Horrie Waldron, her eyes glinted.

‘Don’t believe a word that good-for-nothing tells you!’

‘You do know him, then?’

‘I know of him,’ she said, carefully choosing her words, ‘but I’d hardly call him an acquaintance of mine, still less a friend.’

Keedy could understand why she was trying to distance herself from Waldron and why she was furious that he’d even mentioned his name to a detective. Any relationship between the two of them was meant to be secret. Maud felt betrayed. Inviting her visitor into the house, she hobbled into the front room ahead of him and lowered herself gingerly into an armchair. Keedy sat opposite her. The room was small and crammed with furniture. There was an abiding aroma of lavender.

‘Why are you bothering me?’ she asked, glaring defiantly.

‘I just need to clear up one simple point, Mrs Crowther.’

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘Nobody,’ he replied. ‘And I’m talking to you in confidence. Nothing you tell me will become public knowledge. I’m not here to delve into your private life. I simply wish to confirm an alibi.’

She stiffened. ‘Alibi — you surely don’t suspect Horrie?’

‘I just wish to eliminate him from our enquiries.’

‘Why is that, Sergeant? What has he done? What has he said?’

‘He knew the deceased,’ said Keedy, ‘and there was bad blood between them. I interviewed him as a matter of routine. He has a number of witnesses — including your son — who can vouch for his being at the Weavers Arms yesterday, but he admitted that he did slip away for an hour or two. At first, he refused point-blank to say where he’d been.’

‘So I should hope,’ she said, grimly.

‘It was only when I threatened him with arrest that he was forced to disclose your name. My question is simple, Mrs Crowther. Was he or was he not here in the course of yesterday evening?’

Maud Crowther took time to mull things over. As she did so, she looked Keedy up and down. A life spent in the licensing trade had given her the ability to make fairly accurate judgements about the character of any newcomers. Whatever test she applied to Keedy, he seemed to pass it.

‘It’s not what you think,’ she began.

‘I make no assumptions, Mrs Crowther.’

‘And nobody must ever know about it. People wouldn’t understand.’

‘Can you confirm what Mr Waldron told me?’

‘Horrie is not such a bad man, Sergeant,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘I know he’s been in trouble with the police before but never for anything really serious. Whoever killed this poor young man, it couldn’t have been Horrie. He just wouldn’t do anything like that.’

‘Did he call here yesterday or didn’t he?’

‘So you can stop treating him as a suspect.’

‘You haven’t answered my question, Mrs Crowther.’

She made him wait. ‘He might have done,’ she said at length.

‘And might he have been here for one hour or two?’

‘One hour.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘I’ll show you out.’

Still reeling from the shock of what she’d been told, Ruby Cosgrove was unable to return to work that afternoon. Instead of taking her home where her mother would act as a chaperone, Gordon Leach guided her towards the nearest park. They found a bench and ignored the cold. Ruby was on the verge of tears. Leach slipped an arm around her and they sat there in companionable silence. Instead of being able to enjoy a stolen afternoon of togetherness, they were lost in their respective thoughts. It was Ruby who finally broke the silence.

‘What are we going to do, Gordon?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I can’t stop thinking of what happened to Cyril.’

‘It’s driving me to distraction as well.’

‘He never harmed anyone in his life.’

‘Cyril was a conchie,’ he said, flatly. ‘Some people don’t like us.’

She grabbed at his coat. ‘Are you saying that they may be after you as well?’

‘No, Ruby. For some reason, Cyril was picked out. I don’t know why.’

‘Do the police have any idea who did it?’

‘I gave the inspector the name of one person,’ he said with a slight surge of importance. ‘And the more I think about him, the more convinced I am that it could be him. He hated Cyril.’

‘Have the police gone to arrest him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But he might do it again.’

‘We don’t know for certain that he is the killer, Ruby.’

‘Who is this man? Does he know where you live?’

‘Forget about him,’ he said, tightening his grip on her shoulder. ‘Let the police get on with their job; Inspector Marmion seemed like a shrewd man. He knows what he’s doing. All we have to consider is what we’ll do.’

‘There’s nothing much that we can do,’ she said. ‘And what about Fred and Mansel — they’re in the same position as you. All four of you swore to do the same thing when they tried to force you to join the army. Now that Cyril has gone, the rest of you might feel different.’

‘I don’t,’ he declared, ‘and neither will Fred and Mansel.’

‘They might be frightened by what happened.’

‘That won’t change their minds. Conscription is an infringement of our human rights. Nobody can make me put on a uniform and kill people.’

‘What if it gets worse?’ she asked, dabbing at tears with a handkerchief. ‘You saw those awful things they painted on the wall of Cyril’s house. Suppose they do that at the bakery? And it’s not only you that suffers, Gordon. Because they just don’t understand, my parents keep saying that you ought to join up. As for the women at work,’ she went on, ‘they’re already passing remarks about me. I’ve got some good friends at the factory but there are some nasty ones as well and they keep taunting me for getting engaged to a coward.’

‘I’m not a coward!’ he protested.

‘I know that, Gordon. But lots of people think otherwise.’

‘They can think what they damn well like. The only person whose opinion I respect is yours. As long as you support me, Ruby, I can face anything.’

‘And so can I!’

In a display of ardour, he pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. Then she huddled into his shoulder and they lapsed into silence again. An old lady with a dog went by, casting a disapproving glance at him. When an old man shuffled past, he couldn’t resist shooting Leach a look of scorn. Instead of sitting on a park bench — he seemed to imply — an able-bodied young man should be abroad with his regiment. The baker had been subjected to so many contemptuous stares that he took no notice of them. Ruby, however, did. The old man’s hostility jolted her.

‘How can he be so unfair?’ she wondered.

‘Ignore him, Ruby.’

‘I can’t stand that look they give you. They don’t know what a kind person you really are. You wouldn’t dream of hurting any of them, yet they turn on you as if you’ve done something really horrible.’

‘In their eyes, I have. I’ve stood up for pacifism.’

‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Ruby — and one day, God willing, people might realise that.’

‘I’m so proud of you, standing up for what you believe in.’

‘Cyril did that,’ he reminded her, ‘and he paid with his life. I’ll never forget that. He’s been my inspiration. It’s the same for Fred and Mansel.’

‘I’m only interested in you,’ she said, pulling away to look into his eyes. ‘Nobody else matters. You’re everything to me, Gordon. That’s why I can’t wait to become Mrs Leach.’

He looked at her with sudden intensity as an idea whirred away in his brain. The date for their wedding had been set in the summer. If he was compelled to join the army — or imprisoned for refusing to do so — then the marriage might not even take place. Patient years of waiting would come to nothing. Their mutual passion would fall cruelly short of consummation. It would be unbearable.

‘I love you, Ruby,’ he said, impulsively.

‘And I love you.’

‘Do you know what we should do?’

‘What?’

‘We should get married.’

‘But it’s already been arranged. We’ve even worked out the guest list.’

‘No,’ he said, grasping her hands, ‘we should get married now. There’s such a thing as a three-day licence. It’s what some soldiers have been doing before they get sent abroad again.’

She was distressed. ‘But they don’t do it properly in a church.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘It does to me, Gordon. I’ve set my heart on a church wedding. Auntie Gwen has already started making my dress.’

‘There’s nothing to stop you wearing it at the register office.’

‘It’s not the same.’

He was crestfallen. ‘Don’t you want to marry me?’

‘You know that I do. I want it more than anything else in the world.’

‘Then we should be man and wife sooner rather than later.’

‘Everyone I know has been married in a church.’

‘That’s the ideal place, I agree,’ he said, ‘but you have to look at the situation we’re in. The law says that I should be called up. One way or another, we may be separated. We must face facts. I may not be able to marry you in the summer. If we have a wedding with this special licence, we can not only be together,’ he stressed, ‘but I’ll be exempt from conscription. Married men are not liable to be called up.’

Ruby looked at him but it was not in the usual adoring way. For the first time in their long courtship, there was doubt in her eyes. While she loved him enough to marry him, she had the strange feeling that she was not only being deprived of the joy of a church wedding; she was being used as an escape route.