Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER SEVEN

Joe Keedy was late arriving at the place where they’d agreed to meet. His diversion to Maud Crowther’s house had taken time. When he finally turned up, he found Harvey Marmion waiting for him in the car. On the drive to the photographer’s studio, they were able to compare notes. Keedy went first, talking about his encounter with Waldron and of his unexpected discovery that so repellent a man could, inexplicably, arouse romantic interest in a woman. He spoke about her with admiration. Maud had struck him as someone who’d worked hard all her life and retained more than a vestige of her once handsome features as well as her natural buoyancy.

‘What did she mean, Joe?’ asked Marmion. ‘When she told you that it wasn’t what you might think — what was she trying to say?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps they just play cards together.’

‘Oh, I fancy there’s more to it than that,’ said Keedy with a smile. ‘I could tell from her tone of voice. When I first mentioned Waldron’s name, she flared up and called him a good-for-nothing. As we went on to talk about him, however, she slowly mellowed and referred to him with real affection.’

‘It could still be an innocent friendship.’

‘Then why are they both so anxious to keep it secret? Waldron was scared stiff in case Mrs Crowther’s son ever found out about it. In the son’s place, I certainly wouldn’t be happy. I don’t mind admitting it. If my mother ever got involved with someone as revolting as Waldron, I’d be very upset.’

‘It’s not a fair comparison,’ Marmion pointed out. ‘Your father is still alive so your mother is not a widow. If a woman is on her own after years of having a man about the house, she could get very lonely. It may be that Mrs Crowther sees things in Waldron that eluded your sharp eye.’

‘It was my sharp nose that turned me off him. He stank to high heaven.’

‘Digging graves is not the most salubrious occupation.’

‘I can only think that he cleans himself up before he calls on her.’

‘That’s a matter between the two of them, Joe. The question remains. Do we or don’t we treat him as a suspect?’

Keedy pondered. ‘We keep his name on the reserve list.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It’s because he could have been away from the Weavers Arms long enough to visit his lady friend and to commit a murder. Waldron may not be very bright but he has a low animal cunning. It all depends on when Cyril Ablatt was killed.’

‘Post-mortems can never be that precise,’ said Marmion, sighing. ‘The best they can do is to give us an approximate time. I’ve sent someone to find out when Ablatt actually left Devonshire House yesterday. That will give us a rough time frame in which the murder occurred. However,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘from what you’ve told me about Waldron, I’m not sure that he’ll ever get off a notional reserve list of suspects.’

‘I still think we should keep probing, Harv.’

‘We will, I promise.’

It was Marmion’s turn to deliver a report and he recounted details of his visit to the library. Keedy was interested to hear that he’d taken such a dislike to Eric Fussell. As a rule, Marmion was a very tolerant man, able to work effectively with nauseating superiors like Superintendent Chatfield and to give most people the benefit of the doubt. Yet, in the short time they’d been together, he’d obviously taken against the librarian.

‘I’m not entirely sure why,’ he admitted as he tried to work it out. ‘There was just something about him that nettled me. He looked genuinely shocked when he heard about the murder, yet the moment I described Ablatt as a librarian, he pounced on the mistake. Even the death of his assistant couldn’t keep his self-importance at bay. Incidentally,’ continued Marmion, ‘he’s had a brush or two with Horrie Waldron. When he’s drunk, he reckons, the gravedigger could be very dangerous.’

‘I can verify that,’ said Keedy. ‘I wouldn’t like to have an argument with him when he’s got a spade in his hands. He’s a very strong man.’

‘He’s obviously capable of bludgeoning someone to death but I don’t accept that he’d have the brains to plan the murder. Someone else would have to do that. Waldron might simply be the hired killer, working for another man with a grudge against Ablatt.’

‘Do you have any idea who the other man could be, Harv?’

A name trembled instantly on Marmion’s tongue and he spat it out.

‘It could be someone like Eric Fussell.’

Having started work early that morning, Mansel Price was due to finish by mid afternoon. Before he’d left the train, he’d cooked himself a meal then wolfed it down in the privacy of the galley kitchen. When he came off duty, he was astonished to see Fred Hambridge waiting for him on the station platform. Though the carpenter knew his friend’s shift pattern, he should have been working himself at that time. Price could not understand why he wasn’t beavering away in his workshop. Hambridge had a newspaper under his arm. Spotting the Welsh cook, he ran across to him.

‘Hello, Mansel,’ he said. ‘Have you heard?’

Price’s face went blank. ‘Heard what?’

‘About Cyril.’

‘What about him?’

‘I can’t tell you here. Let’s go outside.’

They picked their way along the crowded platform towards the exit. Once outside in the street, Hambridge took Price by the elbow and led him to a quiet corner further along the pavement. He opened the newspaper to show him the headline.

‘This is the early edition,’ he said, giving it to him.

Price saw the front page story in the Evening News and gasped in horror.

‘Is this our Cyril Ablatt?’ he asked, incredulously.

‘I’m afraid so, Mansel.’

‘I just don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true. My boss was the first who told me about it. Then this detective came to my house to ask me all sorts of questions about Cyril. I was too upset to go back to work. It must be years since I cried but I don’t mind telling you that I cried my eyes out earlier on.’ He pointed to the headline. ‘Now we know why he never got to my house last night.’

Price was hypnotised by the newspaper report. It contained few details but the significant one was the name of the victim. He noted that the detective in charge of the case was an Inspector Marmion. Eventually, he thrust the paper back at his friend.

‘Does Gordon know about this?’

‘He’ll know for certain by now because the police will have told him. I warned him earlier on when my boss said there’d been a murder last night but I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that it was Cyril. No doubt about it now.’

‘I’ll kill the bastard who did this!’ vowed Price.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Hambridge, a calming hand aloft. ‘You don’t believe in killing anybody. That’s why you’re a pacifist.’

‘I’ll make an exception for this man.’

‘I felt the same at first, Mansel, but it’s not our job to get revenge. We must let the police hunt him down.’

‘Well,’ said Price, venomously, ‘at the very least, I’ll be dancing outside the prison when they hang the swine. It’s awful. Who would do such a thing?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Do the police have any idea?’

‘Not as yet,’ said Hambridge. ‘By the way, they want to talk to you. Sergeant Keedy — he’s the detective who spoke to me — was going to call at your house and, if you weren’t there, leave a message.’

‘What can I tell them?’

‘Much the same as me and Gordon, I suppose. They want to know everything they can find out about Cyril.’

Price was defensive. ‘Well, there’s nothing I can add. You knew him better than we did because you used to play in the same darts team as him. I hardly saw anything of Cyril until the war broke out, and Gordon, of course, spent most of his time with Ruby. No,’ he said, ‘you’re the one the police should talk to.’

Hambridge nodded soulfully. ‘I’ve been wondering about his father.’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, should we go to see him?’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Mr Ablatt’s a nice enough man and I feel sorry for him but I’m not sure what we could do — not at this stage, anyway. He’ll have family around him and we don’t want to be in the way.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Let’s leave it for a bit, shall we?’

‘You’re probably right, Mansel.’

‘I want to know more details first.’

‘So do I. But we mustn’t leave it too long,’ said Hambridge. ‘We owe it to Cyril to show Mr Ablatt what his son meant to us. He must be really upset.’

‘We may not want to visit the house just yet,’ said Price, meaningfully, ‘but someone else might.’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘I’m talking about whoever painted those things on Cyril’s wall.’

‘Yes,’ said Hambridge, ‘they were vile.’

‘He’ll be gloating when he hears the news.’

‘Think of those names he called Cyril.’

‘I don’t know why they were left there. If it was my house, I’d have hidden them beneath a coat or two of whitewash. I’d love to meet the man responsible,’ growled Price through gritted teeth. ‘He deserves to hang alongside the killer — and I’d like to be the bloody executioner!’

With the newspaper rolled up in his hand, the man walked briskly along the street before turning the corner. He looked up at the wall of the Ablatt house and smiled inwardly. The bold lettering he’d painted there took on a new meaning now and it was one that gave him immense pleasure. Without breaking stride, he held the newspaper up as if it were a weapon and fired an imaginary bullet at the wall. Minutes later, he reached his own home and let himself in. The first thing he did was to go into the garden to check how much paint he still had locked away in his shed. The death of a conscientious objector was something to be celebrated. It was time for some more nocturnal art.

The photographer’s studio was in a side street in Finsbury. Several examples of his work were on display in the shop window. Marmion and Keedy looked at three different married couples, standing outside their respective church porches with broad grins and expressions of unassailable hope. Poised over a many-candled iced cake, an elderly couple were marking an anniversary of some kind. There were photographs of young men in uniform and one taken at a children’s party. The youngest person in the exhibition was a baby, cradled in the arms of a doting mother while the proud father looked on. Vernon Nethercott catered for all the family.

Entering the shop, the detectives learnt that Nethercott was busy so they were forced to wait. Childish laughter from the next room suggested that the photographer knew how to amuse his customers. The young woman who acted as receptionist had only been with Nethercott for six months and she was unable to identify the woman in the photograph that Marmion showed her. But she boasted that her employer had a remarkable memory and that he’d certainly recall her name. It was some time before Nethercott eventually appeared, shepherding a mother and her two little children out of the shop. All three of them had clearly enjoyed their visit.

Nethercott was taken aback to hear that two detectives had descended upon him. He was a short, slight man with a gleaming bald head and bushy eyebrows.

‘Dear me!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not in trouble, am I?’

‘No, Mr Nethercott,’ said Marmion. ‘We simply need your help. Not all that far from here, a murder occurred last night.’ The photographer and his receptionist reacted with alarm. ‘When we called at the victim’s house, we found this.’ He handed the photograph to Nethercott. ‘Your name and address are franked on it.’

‘It’s standard practice, Inspector. I do it with all my photographs.’

‘Do you recognise the lady?’

‘I recognise her very well — though I can’t give you an exact date when this was taken. Some months ago — that much is certain. If you want me to be more specific, I’ll have to consult my appointments book.’

‘That won’t be necessary, sir. I just need the lady’s name and, if possible, her address. I’m told that you have a wonderful memory.’

‘What I remember are faces, Inspector. I treasure people’s expressions as they stare at a camera. Each one is unique to a particular individual. Take this lady, for instance,’ he said, tapping the photograph. ‘When she first came into my studio that day, she was rather uneasy, not to say furtive. The moment I told her to smile, however, she came alive. You can see the delight in her eyes.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Mrs Skene — Caroline Skene.’

‘Does she live locally?’

‘No,’ said Nethercott, ‘that’s what surprised me a little. She lives in Lambeth. Why come all the way here when there must be dozens of other photographers nearer to her home? I’m quite well known in Finsbury but I didn’t think that my reputation would stretch south of the river.’

‘Do you have the lady’s address?’ asked Keedy.

‘I’m afraid not. When she came in to book the appointment, all she told me was that she lived in Lambeth. To be honest, she was a bit secretive.’ He gave the photograph back to Marmion. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t be more helpful.’

‘You’ve pointed me in the right direction, sir,’ said Marmion, ‘and I’m grateful for that. I’d be even more grateful if you’d tell nobody about our visit.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘That goes for you as well, young lady. Mrs Skene is not a suspect in this inquiry. I don’t want her name to be spread abroad.’

‘We understand, Inspector,’ said Nethercott.

Marmion and Keedy left the shop in a flurry of farewells. As they did so, they saw a young couple approaching. The man was in army uniform and the woman was clutching his arm with the desperation of someone holding onto a lifebelt. The detectives stood aside to let them enter the premises.

‘I feel sorry for her,’ said Keedy. ‘She wants something to remember him by in case he doesn’t come back from the front.’

‘It works both ways, Joe,’ said Marmion. ‘When he’s shipped overseas, I can guarantee that he’ll have a photo of that pretty face in his pocket.’

‘What did you make of this Mrs Skene?’

‘The description of her behaviour fits with what we know. She was furtive because she felt guilty about what she was doing.’

‘Why did she choose Nethercott?’

‘I believe that Cyril Ablatt might have been involved in that. He told her where she could have a photo discreetly taken. Living where he does, Finsbury is the sort of place you’d expect him to know.’

‘So what do we do now — track the lady down?’

‘It doesn’t take two of us to do that. I’ll try to pick up Mrs Skene’s trail, starting at the library in Lambeth. The name is not all that common. If it’s listed there, I should be able to get the correct address.’

‘What about me?’

‘I suggest that you call in at the police station in Shoreditch to see if Mansel Price has made an appearance yet. Hambridge told you that he comes off duty this afternoon. I’ll need the car but I’ll drop you off on the way to Lambeth.’

‘You’re assuming that she actually lives there.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Well,’ said Keedy, ‘she may have lied about Lambeth and given a false name into the bargain. You could be on a wild goose chase, Harv.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Marmion, taking out the photograph again. ‘What I see here is an honest, self-respecting woman. When she’s embarrassed to go into a photographer’s studio, she must be troubled by guilt. She’s unlikely to be a seasoned liar. Mrs Skene gave her real name. You can bank on that. I’ll find her — and it will definitely be somewhere in Lambeth.’

He put the photograph back into his pocket. They walked towards the car.

‘How many more of them are there?’ asked Keedy.

‘I’m not with you, Joe.’

‘How many other mystery women will come out of the woodwork?’

Marmion grinned. ‘I’d have thought you liked mystery women.’

‘Oh, it’s not a complaint — just an observation. First, we have Ablatt’s secret lady, then up pops Waldron’s unlikely friend, Maud Crowther.’

‘Men and women are attracted to each other — nothing unusual about that.’

‘There is in both these cases,’ argued Keedy. ‘They’re highly dangerous friendships. Ablatt and Waldron had to hide what was going on because they were afraid of the consequences. Ablatt was deceiving Mrs Skene’s husband, who may yet turn out to be a suspect. For his part, Waldron was terrified that Maud’s son would find out what his mother had been up to.’

‘Danger can sometimes add spice to a relationship.’

‘Do you speak from experience, Harv?’

Marmion laughed. ‘No, I don’t and you should know it. Ellen and I already have enough spice in our marriage. Neither of us would ever look outside it.’

‘You’re an example to us all.’

‘Stop teasing.’

‘I was being serious — I swear it.’

‘Then why are you still single after all these years?’

Keedy’s smile was enigmatic. ‘That would be telling,’ he said.

The discussion on the park bench lasted for over an hour and the issue was never resolved. Leach took Ruby home and left her to explain to her mother why she was back so early. He knew that his suggestion about an almost immediate wedding ceremony would be passed on to Mrs Cosgrove and he feared that she would disapprove. Ruby’s own reaction had been ambiguous. She both liked the idea and found it disturbing. Something about it unsettled her and it was not just the fact that she’d be robbed of the joy of coming down the aisle beside him in the dress that her aunt had so patiently made for her. There was an element of suspicion in her manner that Leach had never seen before. It worried him.

On leaving Ruby’s house, he walked a couple of blocks to the street where Hambridge lived and was pleased to find the carpenter at home. Over a cup of tea, they bewailed the loss of their friend and speculated on who the killer might be.

‘Mansel is going to be as shocked as we are,’ said Leach.

‘He knows, Gordon. I was there when he found out. I waited for him at the station and showed him the Evening News. He was stunned.’

‘The three of us must stick together even more closely now.’

Hambridge’s brow crinkled. ‘Must we?’

‘It was a warning, Fred.’

‘Was it?’

‘What else could it be?’ reasoned Leach. ‘Because he worked at the library, Cyril was well known in Shoreditch. He made no bones about the fact that he was a conscientious objector. In a sense, he sort of gloried in it.’

‘Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed about,’ said Hambridge.

‘Inspector Marmion told me that we weren’t under threat, but I’m not so sure. I don’t feel safe. Someone is coming to get us.’

‘I’ll be ready for him. I hate violence but I’ll be carrying a chisel wherever I go. Cyril was killed because he wasn’t expecting an attack. I’ll be more careful.’

‘So will I.’

‘But I don’t think there’s any real danger now,’ said Hambridge. ‘Not while the police are looking for the killer. He’ll lie low until everything blows over — or until he’s caught, of course.’

‘The inspector said they’d leave no stone unturned.’

‘The detective who came here was a Sergeant Keedy. I liked him. He had his wits about him. According to the sergeant, this Inspector Marmion has got a good record for solving murders. He never gives up. He’ll be working around the clock to find the person who did this to Cyril.’

‘I won’t be able to relax until he’s behind bars.’ Leach finished his tea and put the cup down. ‘Can I ask you something, Fred?’

Hambridge gave a silly grin. ‘There’s nobody else here.’

‘What would you think if I got married?’

‘I’d be happy for you but you’ve months to wait.’

‘No,’ said Leach, ‘it could be a lot less than that. There’s such a thing as a three-day licence, you see. It’s for couples who … just can’t wait.’

‘But you can wait — and so can Ruby.’

‘I want to get married as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘The murder has scared me to death. What if someone has got his eye on me? I’m a conchie, just like Cyril. I’ve had my warning. There’s only one way out.’

‘Sorry — I don’t see where marriage comes into it.’

‘I’d be safe, Fred. I wouldn’t be a conchie, fighting off conscription. I’d be a married man who wasn’t liable to be called up. There’d be no need to pick on me. I could carry on as I am.’ Hambridge was studying him with mingled curiosity and disgust. ‘Do you see what I mean?’

‘You’re only thinking of yourself, Gordon.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m thinking of Ruby as well.’

‘She’s in no danger.’

‘She is, if I get killed. Ruby will lose everything she’s ever dreamt about.’

Hambridge was unhappy. ‘I don’t like the idea.’

‘But it will solve a problem.’

‘I still don’t like it.’

Leach was hurt. ‘Why not? I thought I could count on you.’

‘You wanted my opinion. You’ve got it.’

‘Things are different now that Cyril is dead.’

‘Yes,’ said Hambridge with uncharacteristic passion, ‘you wouldn’t have dared to mention this when he was alive. You’d have done what you pledged to do. You’d have stood beside us, Gordon.’

‘It’s not as if I’m deserting you.’

The carpenter had said his piece. He sipped his tea morosely, leaving his friend to regret having brought the subject up. His idea had had a lukewarm reception from Ruby and a hostile one from Hambridge. Given the latter’s response, he wondered if it would be wise to broach the topic with Price.

‘Where’s Mansel now?’ he asked.

‘He’s gone to the police station.’

‘I’ll speak to him later.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t tell him what you just told me,’ warned the other, ‘or he’ll go mad. Mansel will think you’re running out on us.’

The message that Keedy had left for him had asked Price to report to the local police station where he would be told how to get in touch with Scotland Yard. In the event, the Welshman was actually in the building when Keedy was dropped off there by Marmion. Introduced to Price, he borrowed a room where he could interview him in private. As they sat down either side of a table, he noticed the other’s expression. Price looked grim and resentful. His muscles were taut.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ said Keedy.

‘I don’t like police stations.’

‘Is there any particular reason?’

‘They’re always full of people telling me what to do.’

‘I’m not here to tell you anything — except that we need all the help we can get in this investigation. I would have thought you’d be eager to do anything that might lead to an arrest.’

‘I am,’ said Price, ‘but there’s nothing I can add to what Fred told you.’

‘Mr Hambridge was much more cooperative than you. He tells me that you work on the railway.’ Price nodded. ‘Do you like your job?’

‘It bores me to tears.’

‘Then why don’t you do something else?’

‘It’s not easy to find a job if you’re my age. Every time I’ve applied for one, I was told to join the army instead. So I’m stuck with the GWR.’

‘That’s a reserved occupation, isn’t it?’

‘Not if you’re a cook,’ said Price, bitterly. ‘We’re ten a penny. They can even find women to do my job. Drivers and firemen and so on are different. They’re all needed, so they’re exempt — what’s left of them, anyway. Thousands from the GWR joined up when they had that first recruitment drive.’

‘The ones who are left do a vital job,’ said Keedy. ‘There’s no better way to move men and equipment around in large numbers. But let’s come back to Cyril Ablatt. Tell me about him.’

Price was hesitant, offering snippets of information between pauses. The longer he went on, however, the more relaxed he became. While he didn’t share Hambridge’s hero worship of their dead friend, he spoke warmly about Ablatt and added details that Keedy hadn’t heard before. The sergeant jotted them down in his notebook. When asked if he could suggest the name of anyone who should be considered a suspect, Price shook his head.

‘What about Horrie Waldron?’ asked Keedy.

‘I don’t know him.’

‘His name was given to us by Gordon Leach.’

‘Gordon may know him but I don’t. Who is he?’

‘Waldron is a man who crossed swords with your friend, Cyril. Not that that’s enough in itself to arouse suspicion. In any case, Waldron seems to have an alibi for the time when Cyril was murdered.’

‘Do you have any other suspects?’ asked Price.

‘We’re … considering a number of possibilities,’ said Keedy, evasively.

‘Well, I hope that one of them turns out to be the killer. He needs to be caught and caught soon. You must comb the whole of Shoreditch until you find him.’

‘Don’t try to tell us how to do our job, Mr Price.’

‘I want to make sure that you do it properly.’

‘We have procedures, based on long experience.’

‘Yes,’ said Price with asperity, ‘but that’s for ordinary victims, isn’t it? Cyril was a conchie. You won’t make the same effort for him. I saw the police outside that meeting last night. Some of them looked as if they’d like to tear us to pieces. I thought they were there to keep the crowd back but one big bugger gave me a real shove.’

‘I’m sure that it was accidental.’

‘Conchies are scum to you.’

‘You deserve the full protection of the law in the same way that everyone else does. We make no distinctions based on class, colour, creed or anything else.’

Price was blunt. ‘I don’t believe you, Sergeant.’

‘Then we’ll have to make you believe us, won’t we? Scotland Yard has given this case priority. That’s why they put Inspector Marmion in charge. His name is well known in the criminal underworld of London. He’s had a long string of successes and they were achieved by a combination of instinct and unremitting hard work. So don’t you dare to suggest we’re not fully committed to this investigation,’ said Keedy with controlled anger. ‘We’ll do all we can to hunt down the killer and we won’t rest until he’s hauled up before a judge and jury.’

‘Can I go now?’ asked Price, cheekily.

‘You’ll go when I tell you.’

‘What did I say? Policemen always have to order you about.’

‘Don’t you like orders?’

‘No, Sergeant, I don’t — unless I’m getting paid to obey them, of course.’

‘I have to say that Mr Hambridge was much more pleasant to interview.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Price, smirking, ‘Fred is Fred. He’s nice to everyone whereas I speak as I find. And I told you at the start — I don’t like police stations.’

‘That means you’ve been inside a few,’ guessed Keedy. ‘I wonder why. Have you been a naughty boy at work — putting poison in the soup or serving ground glass in the omelettes? Do you know what I’m beginning to wonder?’ he continued, leaning across the table. ‘I’m getting a very strong feeling that you might have a criminal record. Am I right, sir?’

The smirk disappeared from Mansel Price’s face. All of a sudden, he looked profoundly uncomfortable.