Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER EIGHT

Having spent so much time behind the driving wheel throughout the day, Alice Marmion was glad to return to the depot and park the lorry beside the others. As she and Vera Dowling got out and stretched their legs, they were spotted by their supervisor. Shoes clacking on the tarmac, Hannah Billington strode across to them. She was a striking woman of middle height and indeterminate age, shifting between her mid thirties and late forties, depending on how closely she was scrutinised and in what light. Her husband was a brigadier general, in France with his regiment, and there was a distinctly military air about Hannah as well. Her back was straight, her head erect, her voice crisp and peremptory. But it was the fierce beauty of her face that caught the attention, the high cheekbones thrown into prominence by the way that her hair was severely brushed back. While the other women looked incongruous in their baggy uniforms, Hannah seemed always to have worn a tailored version and it enhanced her sense of authority.

‘Did everything go well?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Alice. ‘Apart from one or two problems, that is.’

‘Oh — what sort of problems?’

‘They were mostly to do with language. Four of the refugees were Walloons who couldn’t make head or tail of my French and there was a group of Russian Jews from Antwerp in the group as well. But I think we got through to them in the end, didn’t we, Vera?’

‘Yes,’ said Vera, nervous in the presence of their superior.

‘Life would certainly be easier if we all spoke the same language,’ said the older woman, briskly. ‘It would have to be English, of course. Some of the regional dialects we get from Belgium are real tongue-twisters.’

‘How many more will there be?’ wondered Alice.

‘Oh, they’ll continue to dribble out, I suspect. It was far worse when the war first started. We had a quarter of a million Belgian refugees then. It was like an invasion. There was even talk of founding a New Flanders in Britain. Heaven forbid!’

‘I don’t know where we managed to put them all.’

‘Neither do I, Alice, but we did it somehow and we’ll have to go on doing it. All the hotels and boarding houses are full up and so are lots of barns, warehouses, pavilions, racecourses, exhibition halls and skating rinks. My husband’s golf club has just been commandeered for accommodation.’ She brayed happily. ‘Not entirely sure that he’d approve of that.’

‘The War Refugees Committee is doing a wonderful job,’ said Alice.

‘And so is the WEC. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What about you, Vera?’

‘Yes, Mrs Billington,’ said Vera, meekly.

‘Can’t you sound a bit more positive?’

‘What we do is … very important.’

‘It’s absolutely vital and shows just what women can achieve when we all pull together. Unlike other wars, this one isn’t something that’s happening in a distant country. It’s just across the English Channel and we have to cope with the after-effects. As the refugees flood in, we have to absorb them somehow.’

‘I’ll have to start learning more languages,’ said Alice.

‘Your French is really good,’ said Vera, ‘and far better than mine. When the war is over, you’ll be able to teach it.’

‘I may not go back to teaching.’

Vera was surprised. ‘What else will you do?’

‘Wait and see.’

‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s far too early to make plans for what we’ll all do when the war finally comes to an end. Our task is clear. We must concentrate on day-to-day priorities. And while we’re on the subject, Vera, I’ve got some more work lined up for you this evening.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Vera, uncomfortably.

‘I know that you prefer to be with Alice but she can’t always hold your hand. You must learn to be more independent. Alice has already warned me that she wouldn’t be available for an evening shift.’

‘Actually,’ said Alice, ‘that’s not true.’

‘Oh?’

‘Things have changed, Hannah.’

‘You said that you were doing something with your parents.’

‘That was the idea,’ said Alice, opening the door of the lorry to reach inside. ‘But there’s been a slight complication.’ She brought out a newspaper and passed it to Hannah. ‘We picked this up earlier.’ As the other woman read the headline in the Evening News, Alice was fatalistic. ‘My father has been put in charge of that investigation. Family life just doesn’t exist when he’s working on a murder case. In other words,’ she went on, concealing her disappointment, ‘I’m ready to work on into the evening. It may be weeks before I see my father again.’

It was a case of third time lucky for Marmion. A study of the electoral roll told him that there were three families by the name of Skene living in Lambeth. At the first two addresses he drew a blank, but the last one finally introduced him to the woman in the sepia photograph. Caroline Skene was in the front room as the car drew up outside her house. When she saw him get out of the vehicle, she went to the door and opened it. He raised his hat courteously, showed her his warrant card and asked if he might have a private word with her. Though she was mystified, she admitted him and they went into the front room. At his suggestion, she sat down and he took the chair opposite her. The photograph had not done her justice. She was an attractive woman in her mid thirties with pale, delicate skin and she was well dressed, as if expecting to go out somewhere. Marmion sensed that they were alone in the house and he was relieved. In the presence of her husband, it would have been impossible to question her properly.

‘What’s this all about, Inspector?’ she asked, apprehensively.

‘I’m afraid that I have some bad news to pass on.’

She sat forward. ‘It’s not my husband, is it?’

‘No, Mrs Skene.’

‘There have been so many accidents at his factory. A man had his hand cut off last week. I’m terrified that it will be Wilf’s turn next.’

‘This is not about your husband,’ said Marmion.

‘So why have you come?’

‘I believe that you know a young man by the name of Cyril Ablatt.’

Her cheeks coloured. ‘I think you’re mistaken, Inspector.’

‘Let me ask you again,’ he said, patiently. ‘I appreciate why you’re so reticent but it’s important that you tell the truth.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Does the name of Cyril Ablatt mean anything at all to you?’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

He reached into his pocket for the photograph. ‘This is getting a little embarrassing, Mrs Skene. If you’ve never heard of him, how can you explain the fact that we found this photograph of you in his bedroom?’ He held it up for her to see. ‘I don’t need to read out the message on the back, do I?’

Caroline Skene was dumbstruck. She’d been caught. A friendship that was very precious to her had been discovered by a detective. When kept secret, it was a source of constant pleasure. Now that it had been exposed, however, it suddenly seemed to be morally wrong and faintly ridiculous. There was no point in trying to brazen it out when he held the evidence in his hand. All that she could hope to do was to limit the damage.

‘Cyril and I were friends,’ she confessed, head down. After a few seconds, she raised her eyes to him imploringly. ‘Please don’t tell my husband.’ she said. ‘It would hurt him beyond bearing. It would be cruel. Is that why you came, Inspector? Are you here to speak to Wilf?’

‘No, Mrs Skene,’ he replied. ‘I’ve no need to see him at all.’

‘Thank God for that!’

‘What happened between you and Cyril Ablatt is none of my business. The main reason I came is to tell you that … a dreadful crime has been committed.’

She shuddered. ‘What sort of crime?’

‘Mr Ablatt was murdered.’

For a moment, he thought that she was about to collapse. Her mouth fell open and she emitted a strange, muted cry of agony. With an effort, she somehow managed to regain her composure. Taking out the handkerchief tucked under her sleeve, she held it in readiness. Marmion gave her time to adjust to the horror. As a husband with a belief in the sanctity of marriage, he couldn’t approve of what she’d apparently done but neither could he condemn it. Caroline Skene was patently a woman in despair. Moral judgements were irrelevant. He just wanted to alleviate her pain. For her part, she was pathetically grateful for his discretion and forbearance. She’d never had dealings with a Scotland Yard detective before and found him unexpectedly considerate. His soothing presence helped her to recover enough to speak.

‘What happened?’

‘I’ll spare you the full details,’ he said. ‘Suffice it to say that the body of a young man was found in Shoreditch last night. Items found on his person identified him as Cyril Ablatt. His father has confirmed the identification.’ A hand shot to her heart. ‘I offer you my condolences, Mrs Skene. I suggest that you don’t read the newspapers for a while.’

‘Is it that bad?’

‘The killer used unnecessary violence.’

She shuddered again. ‘How did you find that photograph?’

‘We had to break the news to his father,’ he explained. ‘While we were at the house, we asked if we might look at his room so that we might learn a little more about him.’ He held up the photo. ‘This fell out of the Bible.’ He offered it to her. ‘Would you like it back?’

‘No, no,’ she cried, recoiling from it. ‘I should never have had it taken.’

‘Mr Ablatt clearly treasured it.’ He slipped the photo into his pocket. ‘Would you like me to destroy it, Mrs Skene?’

She was overwhelmed by his kindness. ‘Would you?’

‘There’s no reason for anyone else to see it.’

‘Thank you!’

The problem of discovery might have been solved but the far greater one of her intense grief remained. She could feel it already biting away at her like a greedy animal. Her lips began to tremble and tears formed. Having delivered his message, Marmion felt that he should withdraw quietly but there was an investigation in hand and Caroline Skene had information about the deceased that nobody else could give him.

‘When did you last see him?’ he asked, softly.

‘It was … weeks ago.’

‘Did you know he was involved with the No-Conscription Fellowship?’

‘Yes, Inspector — he mentioned that he might join it.’

‘What else did he tell you?’

‘He said very little about things like that. We just … enjoyed being together.’

‘I understand.’

She gave him a shrewd look. ‘I don’t think that you do.’

‘That may be true, Mrs Skene.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve no wish to intrude into your privacy but there are some questions I must ask.’

She braced herself. ‘Go on.’

‘Did your husband harbour any suspicions about the two of you?’

‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed.

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Wilf is not a suspicious man. If you met him, you’d realise that it would never even cross his mind.’

Marmion glanced at the framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed the couple arm-in-arm on their wedding day. At the time, Wilfred Skene had been a tall, angular young man with a neat moustache and dark, wavy hair. His wife seemed as blissfully happy as he did. Though a dozen or more years had passed since the event, she had not aged significantly.

She was adamant. ‘He doesn’t know and he must never find out.’

‘I’ve no intention of telling him,’ said Marmion. ‘Let’s turn to Cyril Ablatt. Did he ever mention any enemies to you?’

‘Cyril had no enemies,’ she replied with a sad smile. ‘He was a lovely young man and he got on well with everybody.’

‘That’s hardly borne out by the facts, I fear. Anyone who declares himself to be a conscientious objector is bound to attract criticism. As you may know, someone painted abusive words on the wall of his house.’

‘He told me about that. He said he’d simply turn the other cheek.’

‘You have to admire his bravery.’

‘He was brave and good and honest,’ she said, effusively. ‘He didn’t deserve this. It’s wicked, Inspector. Cyril wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘So what reason could there be to kill him?’

Her face was a study in hopelessness. ‘I don’t know.’

She was still trying to absorb the impact of the devastating news. Marmion felt that it would be harsh to put any more pressure on her. At the same time, however, he sensed that she knew things about Ablatt that might be relevant to the inquiry. This was not the moment to search for them. She needed a breathing space. After dabbing at her eyes, she put the handkerchief away.

He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll see myself out, Mrs Skene.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And thank you for being so … well, you know.’

‘I told you. I didn’t come to pry. However,’ he went on, ‘I believe that you may later think of things that might be of use to the investigation. Anything we can learn about his character and movements will be helpful.’ He took out his wallet and extracted a business card. ‘This has my number at Scotland Yard,’ he said, slipping it into her hand.

‘We don’t have a telephone,’ she bleated.

‘There’ll be one at your local police station. If you tell them that you wish to contact Inspector Marmion with regard to the inquiry, they’ll put you in touch with me. Anything — anything at all that you tell me,’ he emphasized, ‘will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

She didn’t seem to have heard him. ‘I’d like to be alone.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Skene,’ he said, moving to the door. ‘I’m sorry to bring such bad tidings but, on reflection, you may find that hearing them from me is preferable to reading them for the first time in the newspaper.’

Leaving the room, he opened the front door and let himself out. On the drive back to Scotland Yard, he found himself wondering about the true nature of the relationship between a mature woman and a young man. How had they first met? What had attracted them to each other? When had they moved on to a degree of intimacy? Was their friendship a pleasant diversion or did they hope for a future together? What had impelled her to take such dangerous risks? Why was nobody else aware of the romance? As the questions multiplied in his mind, there was one that dominated all the others.

What other secrets had Cyril Ablatt kept so carefully hidden?

Joe Keedy’s visit to the police station was productive. He not only met and interviewed Mansel Price, he was able to use the duty sergeant’s local knowledge to advantage. When he confided that he needed to maintain surveillance on the Ablatt house that night, the sergeant recommended the nearby home of a pair of elderly sisters. They’d been burgled recently and would welcome the presence of a policeman to guard their property during the small hours. The front room of their house, Keedy was assured, would give him a good view of the wall that had been daubed with white paint. He was very grateful. If he’d had to knock on doors in search of a place in which to hold his vigil, there was always the danger that he might alert the artist. Since he (or she) was almost certainly a neighbour of the Ablatt’s, it would be ironic if there was a forewarning from the police. Staying with two old ladies obviated the danger of inadvertently coming face to face with the very person he wished to apprehend. It was a piece of good fortune that partially atoned for the evening out that he’d had to sacrifice in the interests of solving a murder

Keedy also learnt that Price was known to the police. He’d been arrested during an affray the previous year but had not been charged. The fractious Welshman had also been involved in two other incidents, one of which — refusing to pay for some groceries — had resulted in a fine. Price detested authority. Each time he’d been brought to the station, it transpired, he’d been awkward under questioning. It helped to explain why he’d been so prickly during his session with Keedy. The carpenter, Fred Hambridge, had been far more amenable and — according to Marmion — so had Gordon Leach. It would be interesting to learn how Price fitted into the quartet that included Cyril Ablatt. Since the latter was the undisputed leader, to what extent had the Welshman accepted to the authority vested in his friend?

Time was rolling on and there were decisions to be made. It would take Keedy far too long to go all the way to and from his digs so he resigned himself to remaining in Shoreditch. He first walked to the recommended house and made the acquaintance of Rose and Martha Haveron, two anxious ladies in their late sixties who confused their recent burglary with an attempt of their long-preserved virginity. Reassured by his status and by his easy charm, they were at the same time appalled to hear about the murder. They had nothing but good to say about Ablatt and his father and had been friendly with his mother until she died some years earlier. Even though it would be the first time that a man had spent a night under their roof, the sisters willingly offered up their front room as an observation post, ready to break with tradition if it would help the police. Indeed, they both revealed a hitherto hidden maternal instinct, offering Keedy food, providing him with blankets and generally trying to make his stay there as comfortable as it could be. He had difficulty escaping their urgent hospitality in order to go shopping.

As he left his two temporary landladies, he looked up at the side of the house on the corner. Nobody was left in any doubt as to who lived there. Amongst other things, Cyril Ablatt was described as a coward, a rat, a rotten conchie and a traitor to his country. The lettering was large but hastily done. Keedy decided that it must have taken the artist a number of visits to complete the work. His sympathy for the dead man welled up. Much kinder words would be etched on Ablatt’s gravestone. While the exterior of the house had been defaced, the real damage had been caused inside it. Keedy wondered how the family was coping with it.

‘Shall I make some more tea?’ asked Gerald Ablatt, getting to his feet.

He’d done little else from the time that his sister and brother-in-law had arrived. They come to offer him comfort but it was Nancy Dalley who most needed it. Between bouts of tears, she kept dredging up fond memories of her nephew and asking her brother to endorse their accuracy. Ablatt readily agreed with everything that she said, trying to ease her pain as a means of relieving his own. Dalley was forced into the position of an onlooker, watching them suffer and listening to the endless repetition of the same empty phrases.

‘I’ll do it,’ he said, reaching for the tea pot.

Ablatt came out of his reverie. ‘You don’t know where the tea is, Jack.’

‘I’ll find it.’

‘There are biscuits in the larder.’

‘I couldn’t touch food,’ said Nancy. ‘Even a biscuit would make me sick.’

‘You haven’t eaten anything since we got here, love,’ said her husband, solicitously. ‘There’s no need to starve.’

‘All I want is some tea.’

‘But we’ve been here for hours.’

‘Tea, Jack — nothing else.’

‘I’ll get it.’

As soon as Dalley left the room, Ablatt sat beside his sister and they embraced impulsively, letting the tears gush yet again. The murder had completely disoriented them. They’d lost all sense of time, place and purpose. All that they could do was to sit there and offer each other a degree of succour. When the blacksmith returned from the kitchen with the teapot and biscuits, he found them still locked together.

‘I’ll have to go soon,’ he warned. ‘It’s unfair to leave Perce on his own all day. He’ll wonder what’s happened.’

‘Go when you want to, Jack,’ said Ablatt.

‘Will you stay here, Nance?’

‘Yes,’ she murmured.

‘I’ll come back when I shut up the forge.’

‘I’ll still be here.’

Dalley put the teapot on the table and opened the biscuit barrel. He helped himself to a digestive them offered the selection to Ablatt who shook his head. His sister had started crying again and he was afraid to leave go of her. The blacksmith munched his biscuit and tempered his sorrow with a light-hearted remark.

‘One thing, anyway,’ he said. ‘Cyril won’t ever have to join the army now.’

The moment the words came out of his mouth, he realised how crass and hurtful they could be. However, he was spared any reproach from the others. Neither Ablatt nor Nancy heard what he said. They were miles away, trapped irretrievably in their private misery.

Notwithstanding his shortcomings, Claude Chatfield was an industrious man. By the time Marmion got back to Scotland Yard, the superintendent had immersed himself in the details of the murder, acquired a map of London and its inner suburbs, and set up a press conference. He’d also informed the commissioner about the progress of the investigation. Knowing how finicky Chatfield was about detail, Marmion had taken pains to rehearse what he was about to say. Accordingly, his report was full and lucid. He described his meeting with Eric Fussell and did his best to hide his aversion to the librarian. He went on to talk about Keedy’s questioning of Horrie Waldron. It led to the sergeant’s subsequent visit to a woman the gravedigger had claimed could supply him with an alibi for the time when he was away from the Weavers Arms the previous evening. Chatfield listened intently.

‘Who is this woman?’

‘Her name is Maud Crowther.’

‘Is that Miss or Mrs?’

‘It’s Mrs Crowther, sir.’

‘So this egregious gravedigger is dallying with a married woman.’

‘The lady is a widow, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘To gain her cooperation, Sergeant Keedy had to promise her that her name would be kept out of any newspaper reports. I think that we should honour that promise.’

‘What if she’s simply inventing an alibi for Waldron?’

‘The sergeant was convinced that Mrs Crowther was honest and reliable, sir. When it comes to women,’ he added with a smile, ‘I accept his judgements without question. He has an insight into the opposite sex that I lack.’

‘This is no time to discuss Keedy’s amours, Inspector,’ said Chatfield with a note of reprimand. ‘I know that they are the stuff of canteen gossip but they have no bearing on this case.’

‘I disagree, sir.’

‘As to this woman, we’ll hold her name back for the time being. If, however, she turns out to be an accomplice of sorts, both you and the sergeant will bear the weight of my displeasure.’

‘Neither of us wishes to incur that, Superintendent.’

‘I don’t blame you.’ He studied Marmion for a moment. ‘Is that all?’

‘I believe so.’

‘I’d hate to think that you’ve missed anything out.’

‘You’ve heard everything, sir.’

Marmion’s expression gave nothing away. Once again, he’d taken care to make no mention of the woman with whom Cyril Ablatt had enjoyed a secret romance. In addition to everything else, it would have unleashed a torrent of denunciation from the superintendent. Chatfield was a devout Roman Catholic who viewed extra-marital adventures of any kind with revulsion. Caroline Skene’s name would have prompted a fiery sermon from him. But that was not the only reason why Marmion kept back details of his meeting with her. He felt sorry for her in her bereavement and was not at all sure that she could endure it. To add public exposure of her friendship with Ablatt would be a crippling blow, leading to dire repercussions with her husband. While Chatfield would think that such punishment was well-deserved, Marmion wanted to protect her.

The danger was that the superintendent might learn that he was being deceived and that would have disastrous results. Official reprimand and demotion were the least that Marmion could expect. A vengeful man like Chatfield would undoubtedly find other means of blighting his career at Scotland Yard. It was a risk that had to be taken. When he gave his word to someone, Marmion strove to keep it. Caroline Skene had been assured of his discretion. He was not going to betray her.

‘Right,’ said Chatfield, leaning forward and pointing to the map on his desk. ‘Based on what we gathered from two of his friends, I’ve marked the route that Ablatt would have taken from Bishopsgate to the house in Shoreditch where they agreed to meet. Somewhere along that route, he was intercepted and killed.’ He looked up. ‘How and where did it happen?’

‘If only we knew, sir,’ said Marmion, bending over the map with interest. ‘There seem to be a number of dots here.’

‘I’ve marked the principal locations.’ Chatfield used his finger to point them out. ‘This is the Ablatt house and this is where Hambridge lives. Over here is the library and — since Waldron is implicated — I’ve also marked the cemetery.’

Marmion indicated another dot. ‘What’s this one, sir?’

‘It’s the pub close to the scene of the crime — the Weavers Arms.’

The Weavers Arms was the haunt of Horrie Waldron, still the only real suspect in the case. When he’d finished his shopping, Keedy decided to pay it a visit. In a large paper bag was the torch he’d just bought along with the razor, shaving brush and shaving soap he needed. The Haveron sisters had given him such a cordial welcome that he felt they deserved more, first thing on the following morning, than the sight of a bleary-eyed detective with dark whiskers. While he was out, Keedy had also availed himself of a snack. A glass of beer was now very tempting. He entered the bar to find that it was relatively empty so early in the evening. Standing behind the counter, the landlord gave him a grin of welcome.

‘What can I get you, sir?’ he asked.

‘I’ll have a pint of your best, please.’

‘It’s on its way.’

Reaching for a tankard, Stan Crowther filled it slowly with practised use of the pump. One mystery was solved for Keedy. When he’d heard Waldron express fear of the landlord, he couldn’t understand why such a sturdy man as the gravedigger would be afraid of anyone. The explanation was standing in front of him. Crowther was a beefy man with immense forearms and hands like shovels. But it was his face that gave the game away. Any trace of his mother had been pummelled away in a boxing ring. Crowther had a broken nose, a cauliflower ear and eyebrows that looked to be permanently swollen and misshapen. Hanging on the wall behind the landlord was a framed poster advertising a series of fights. Top of the bill was a heavyweight contest between Stan Crowther and Eli Montgomery.

‘In case you’re wondering,’ said Crowther, putting the full pint in front of him. ‘I knocked him out in the fourth round. Old Eli was a good fighter but he had a glass jaw.’ He chuckled. ‘He went down like a sack of spuds.’

After paying for the beer, Keedy sipped it and gave a nod of approval. There was no need to introduce himself. In the same way that he’d guessed the landlord’s former occupation, Crowther had worked out that he must be a detective.

‘I was expecting a visit from you sooner or later,’ he said.

‘Then you’ll know why I’m here.’

‘It’s a bad business, this murder. I mean, we have the odd fight in here and I got nothing against that, provided they don’t break the furniture. But murder is out of order — especially when it’s almost on our doorstep.’ He scratched his cauliflower ear. ‘What’s the name, sir?’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Have you got any suspects yet?’

‘These are early days, Mr Crowther.’

‘Everyone calls me Stan — except Eli Montgomery, of course. He calls me a black-hearted bastard. Eli always was a bad loser.’

‘One man has come to our notice, Stan,’ admitted Keedy. ‘He’s not exactly a suspect but we believe that he and the victim had quarrelled. The man’s name is Horrie Waldron.’

Crowther grinned. ‘Horrie quarrels with everybody.’

‘He’d have more sense than to quarrel with you, I fancy.’

‘Even he is not stupid enough to do that, Sergeant.’

‘I spoke to him earlier at the cemetery. He tells me that he was in here all evening apart from an hour or two when he popped out.’

‘Then he’s told the truth for once.’

‘You’ll vouch for that, Stan?’

‘I will,’ said Crowther. ‘Horrie was in here the moment we opened. For some reason, he was carrying his spade. God knows why. Anyway, he has a pint, looks at the clock and goes out. We didn’t see him until a couple of hours later.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘For once in his life, he looked fairly clean even though he had his working clothes on. He must have sneaked off and had a bath somewhere.’

‘What about the spade?’

‘Oh, he took that with him but came back without it. The spade is like a fifth limb,’ said Crowther. ‘I’ve seen him using it at work. He’s amazing. You should see what Horrie can do with it.’

Keedy thought of the corpse on the slab at the police morgue.