Instrument of Slaughter

CHAPTER NINE

Harvey Marmion understood the importance of being prepared. Before he and the superintendent went off to face the press conference, therefore, they agreed on just how much information about the crime they would release. Because of his reluctance to give them all the available facts, Claude Chatfield had always had a somewhat spiky relationship with reporters. He tended to hoard evidence and, to their utter frustration, hand it out in dribs and drabs. Marmion was more accommodating. He accepted that the press had certain rights and was alive to their needs. Over the years, he’d developed the technique of appearing to tell them everything they wanted to know while cleverly suppressing certain crucial facts. It was the reason why he’d been chosen by the commissioner to head the investigation. Whereas Chatfield was almost hostile to the press, Marmion had built up a rapport with them over the years.

They all knew his story. Marmion’s father had been a policeman. Largely because the job entailed shift work and low pay, it never appealed to his son. Marmion instead joined the civil service as a clerk. Fate intervened to change his mind. In the course of his duties, his father was murdered and the killer fled abroad. Maddened by the inability of the Metropolitan Police Force to catch the man, Marmion had taken action himself, launching a fund dedicated to the search for his father’s killer. When he had enough cash, he’d crossed the Channel by ferry and begun his own private investigation. With no experience of detection and with all the language difficulties to handicap him, he nevertheless picked up a trail that had eluded British police. Showing the tenacity that was to become his hallmark, Marmion pursued, caught and arrested the killer by force. By selling the story of how he did it, he earned enough from a national newspaper to repay everyone who’d contributed so generously to the fund.

His escapade had a significant result. It turned him into a policeman. After the heady excitement of the chase, he could never return to the tedium of the civil service. Marmion started like his father, walking the beat in uniform in all weathers. By dint of hard work, he earned successive promotions and eventually became a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. There were many people who believed that he should hold a higher rank. One of them was among the clutch of reporters at the press conference. When the police statement containing the basic facts of the case had been read out, it fell to him to put the first question.

‘Given your remarkable record of success, Inspector Marmion,’ he asked, ‘can you explain why you were not appointed to the rank of superintendent recently?’

There was muted laughter at the pained expression on Chatfield’s face.

‘That question is not relevant to the investigation,’ said Marmion, smoothly, ‘and, in any case, I believe that the right man got the job.’

Chatfield was mollified. ‘Who’s next?’ he asked, looking round.

They were in the large room reserved for meetings and press conferences. Marmion and Chatfield sat behind a desk and submitted to interrogation. The questions came thick and fast and, for the most part, Marmion was left to answer them. While he named no suspects, he repeated his belief that the killer was a local man who knew both the victim and the area. It was important for press coverage to stress that fact and to ask the inhabitants of Shoreditch if they’d seen anything suspicious on the night in question or if anyone they knew had been behaving strangely in its aftermath. After giving them a description of the life and character of the victim, he asked them to respect the privacy of the Ablatt family and to refrain from harassing them during a time of mourning.

When the questions dried to a trickle, a ginger-haired man with spectacles spoke for the first time. As he learnt more about the murder victim, his sympathy for Cyril Ablatt had waned. There was a note of outrage in his voice.

‘This man is a self-declared conchie,’ he said with vehemence. ‘At a time when police resources are stretched to the limit, why are you devoting so much manpower and effort to a miserable coward who refused to fight for his country?’

‘Cyril Ablatt is the victim of a brutal murder,’ said Marmion, firmly. ‘His death will be investigated with the same vigour as the murder of anybody else.’

‘Many people will find that scandalous.’

‘They’re entitled to their opinion.’

‘Wouldn’t the time and money spent on this investigation be better used in the fight against crime in the capital?’

‘I refute that suggestion,’ said Marmion. ‘Besides, as a man in your job ought to know, the latest statistics show that adult crime in the capital has actually gone down during the war. It’s not difficult to see why. The young men largely responsible for committing it have joined the army in droves. The pattern of crime has changed so dramatically that we have prisons standing half-empty.’

‘Then they should be filled with conchies like Cyril Ablatt.’

Marmion’s response was tinged with irritation. ‘When he became a murder victim,’ he said, ‘he ceased to be a conscientious objector. I think you should bear that in mind.’

‘One last question,’ said Chatfield, intervening to bring the proceedings to an end. ‘Inspector Marmion and I can’t spare you any more time. When we have more information — and when the results of the post-mortem are known — you will be informed.’ He saw a hand shoot up. ‘Yes?’

‘This concerns yesterday’s meeting of the NCF,’ said a man in a crumpled suit. ‘You told us that Ablatt went there with like-minded friends. Who were they?’

When the three of them met in Mansel Price’s digs, Leach was unwise enough to reveal his plan for bringing forward the date of his marriage. The Welshman was livid. Leaping up from his chair, he pointed an accusatory finger.

‘You’re a bloody traitor, Gordon,’ he yelled. ‘You’d be turning your back on everything you’ve ever believed in.’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Leach.

‘You’ve lost your nerve completely.’

‘I have to consider Ruby.’

‘Why? She’s not liable to be called up. This is between you and the Military Service Act. Fred and I will defy it. All you’re going to do is to dodge it.’

‘That’s what I told him,’ said Hambridge.

Price was shaking with fury. ‘Honestly, Gordon, I’m ashamed of you. I thought you were one of us.’

‘I still am,’ insisted Leach.

‘No — you just want to watch from the safety of the sidelines while we take on the government. You’ve always claimed that you’d rather go to prison than fight in the army. All of a sudden, you’ve gone soft.’

‘It was only an idea, Mansel.’

‘Well,’ said Hambridge, hotly, ‘you know what we think of it.’

‘I’d never call you my friend ever again,’ warned Price.

‘Neither would I.’

‘Calm down, both of you,’ said Leach with a failed attempt at a smile of appeasement. ‘Nothing has been decided. If you want to know the truth, Ruby was in two minds about it and I can guarantee that her parents won’t like the idea all that much either. At the time when it occurred to me, it seemed like a … solution. But,’ he added quickly as he saw Price poised for attack, ‘I can see now that it wouldn’t really solve anything. So why don’t we forget all about it? I promise that I will.’

‘Will you swear to that?’ asked Price, standing over him. ‘We don’t want you sneaking off behind our backs and getting married. I know you’re keen to get Ruby into bed but you don’t need to be her husband to do that. Anybody else would have pulled her drawers off before now.’

‘Maybe he already has,’ said Hambridge with a grin.

‘I don’t think so, Fred. He wouldn’t look so desperate if he had.’

‘Enough of your sneers, Mansel,’ said Leach, angering. ‘You’re only jealous because you don’t have a girlfriend. Let’s keep Ruby out of this. The point is that I believe in pacifism as much as any of you. When it’s my turn to face a tribunal, I’ll nail my colours to the mast.’

‘They want you to join the army — not the bloody navy!’

The comment eased the tension at once. They traded a laugh and Price flopped back into his chair. He rented the attic room in an old Victorian house. The minimal warmth from the fire in the grate was countered by a series of draughts that blew in. Hurt that his suggestion had met with such opposition, Leach was consoled by the fact that he’d retained their friendship. Hambridge was pleased that their differences had now been resolved. He hated friction of any sort.

‘Think of Cyril,’ he advised. ‘His death should bring us together, not split us apart. After all, he was the one who showed us what we have in common.’

‘I agree,’ said Leach.

‘We’ve got to ask ourselves what he would have wanted.’

‘There’s an easy answer to that,’ said Price. ‘Cyril would urge us to have the courage of our convictions instead of rushing off to church to get married.’

Leach was upset. ‘Don’t keep on about it, Mansel,’ he complained. ‘I’ve told you that it won’t happen. Anyway, it wouldn’t have been in a church. It would have been in a register office and that wouldn’t have pleased Ruby at all. Instead of thinking about ourselves,’ he went on, ‘we ought to be thinking about Mr Ablatt. He and Cyril were very close. It must be terrible to lose your only child.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hambridge. ‘I asked Mansel if we ought to call on him but he thought we should wait a bit until the shock wears off a little.’

‘The family will comfort him,’ said Price. ‘Cyril’s aunt and uncle will have been told by now. They’ll rally round. The rest of his relatives live outside London.’

‘Should we send a card or something?’

‘I don’t think so, Fred.’

‘What about you, Gordon? Should we get in touch?’

‘In due course,’ decided Leach after consideration. ‘Mansel is right. This is a family matter. Let them mourn in private.’

Though he lacked his employer’s physique, Percy Fry could work hard for long hours without respite. In the absence of Jack Dalley, he’d done just that at the forge. Lunch had consisted of the gobbled sandwich and the cup of tea that his wife had made for him. He lost count of the customers who came in need of his services and explained Dalley’s absence so many times that it was like reciting a favourite passage from a book. As the working day drew to a close, he began to put everything back in its place before closing up the forge. When the blacksmith finally returned to Bethnal Green, he was full of apologies for his abrupt departure. Fry made light of the pressure he’d been under.

‘Only too glad to help, Jack,’ he said, ‘though I’m still not sure what it’s all about. When the milkman called in, he said there was something in the paper about a murder in Shoreditch. I hope that was nothing to do with your family.’

‘It was, Perce,’ said Dalley, grimly. ‘The victim was my nephew, Cyril.’

‘Blimey! What happened?’

‘They’re still trying to work that out.’

‘Murdered — that’s terrible! I remember Cyril well — came in here from time to time. He was a cocky young devil and I liked him for that.’

Dalley told him all he knew about the crime and how his wife and his brother-in-law had reacted to the news. He warned Fry that he might have to take time off again in the course of the next few days.

‘Do what needs to be done, Jack,’ said Fry. ‘I can manage here.’

‘You must have been rushed off your feet.’

‘Rather be busy than idle.’

‘So would I,’ said Dalley. ‘But what’s going to keep me busy from now on is trying to console Nancy. This has shaken her up. She loved Cyril. My brother-in-law is in pieces, as you can imagine, but Nancy is far worse.’

‘Anything we can do?’

‘Yes — just hold the fort here.’

‘Thinking of Nancy,’ said Fry. ‘Would it help if my wife went to keep her spirits up? Elaine is good at that.’

‘Thanks all the same, Perce, but we’ll be all right.’

‘Offer stays open.’

Dalley gave a nod of gratitude and looked around the forge. He recalled the many occasions when his nephew had visited the place in his younger days. Ablatt had been eager, fresh-faced and uncomplicated. He’d been in awe of his uncle’s skills and developed a love of horses. Education had lured him away from the forge and put ideas into his head with which Dalley took issue. On the occasions when they’d been alone together, they’d had some lively arguments. The blacksmith had always enjoyed their exchanges even though they’d shown the wide gap that had opened up between uncle and nephew.

‘Who were those men who came here?’ asked Fry, washing his hands in a pail of water. ‘I didn’t catch their names.’

‘One of them was Inspector Marmion, who’s in charge of the case. The other was Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Do they have any idea who killed young Cyril?’

‘They don’t, Perce, but I do.’

‘Oh?’

‘It was someone who took against him because he was a conchie. To be honest,’ confessed Dalley, ‘I went off him a bit myself when he started telling me that war was evil and that it was wrong to bear arms. Well, you heard him sounding off in here a couple of times. What are we supposed to do, I asked him — surrender to the Germans and let them take over the country?’

‘Yes, I remember what he said.’

‘He had a clever answer as usual. Cyril had a clever answer for everything. Even though he was my nephew, there were times when I just wanted to punch him on the nose to bring him to his senses.’

‘P’raps you should have done just that.’

‘Nancy would never have forgiven me.’

‘But it might have saved his life.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

Fry dried his hands on an old towel. ‘How do you feel now?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘None of my business, of course, but you don’t seem as upset as I’d be if it was my nephew.’ Seeing a flash of anger in the blacksmith’s eyes, he was immediately repentant. ‘Forget I said that, Jack. I take it back.’

Dalley’s ire subsided at once and he became pensive. He thought about the moment when he caught his wife and brother-in-law in a tearful embrace. Grief was visibly devouring them. It troubled Dalley that he could not feel their pain to the same degree and that he remained somewhat detached from it all. In spite of their many disagreements, he liked his nephew and should have been shattered by his death. Because he was not, he was assailed by guilt.

‘You’re right, Perce,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’d never admit this to Nancy but I can’t mourn him the way that she can. It’s something to do with his beliefs. Cyril is not the only conchie in the country. There are far too many of the buggers. Women hand out white feathers and you sometimes read stories in the papers about conchies being thrown in a pond or beaten up. It’s happening everywhere.’

Fry was terse. ‘Got no sympathy for them, Jack.’

‘Neither have I — they asked for it.’

‘But I’m very sorry about Cyril. I understand people turning on a conchie but there’s a limit. Murder is going too far.’

‘That’s what I think. It’s a dreadful crime. You wouldn’t want your worst enemy to be battered to death like that.’ Dalley was bewildered. ‘So why don’t I feel like the others? Is there something wrong with me, Perce?’ he asked with concern. ‘Am I being cruel? Why — God forgive me — am I almost relieved that he’s dead?’

Hannah Billington had committed herself fully to the work of the WEC. She was unfailingly generous with her time and money. At the end of a long day, she was always willing to use her own car as a taxi, driving her colleagues home no matter how far it took her out of her way. It was Alice Marmion and Vera Dowling who were given a lift this time. They were quick to accept the offer. Travelling home after dark could sometimes have unexpected hazards. Relaxed in Hannah’s company, Alice was as chatty as ever but her friend was silent for most of the journey. Seated in the back of the vehicle, Vera lacked the confidence to take a full part in the conversation. She was the first to be dropped off. When the car started off again, Hannah turned to her passenger.

‘I must say that you make an odd couple,’ she observed.

‘Really — in what way?’

‘You’re so forthright and Vera is so reserved. The poor girl wouldn’t say boo to a goose, whereas you’d be capable of wringing its neck and roasting it for supper.’

Alice grinned. ‘I’m not sure about that, Hannah.’

‘But you take my point.’

‘I think so.’

‘It must be a case of attraction of opposites.’

‘Vera is not as shy as she looks. If you want the truth, she was the one who first suggested that we should give up our jobs and join the WEC. It’s just that she feels rather cowed by you.’

‘Why?’ asked Hannah with a laugh. ‘Am I that intimidating?’

‘You are to Vera.’

‘And do I unsettle you as well?’

‘Not in the least,’ said Alice. ‘I admire the way you run things. You’ve got so much energy and you know how to organise people.’

‘I do my best.’

‘The WEC is very different from what either of us expected. People kept telling us that it would be full of suffragettes who’d try to convert us, but it’s not like that at all. All sorts of people have joined.’

‘Yes, that’s right — everyone from domestic servants to members of the peerage. Many of us do believe in equal rights for women but we don’t ram it down people’s throats. Also, of course,’ said Hannah, ‘the militant suffragettes have suspended their campaign until the war is over. They don’t need to break windows in Oxford Street when German bombs will do the job for them.’

‘What will happen when the war is over?’

‘Who can say? One would like to think that the government will show some appreciation for the work that women have done. We’ve proved that we can do even the most onerous and dangerous jobs. The least reward that we deserve,’ insisted Hannah, taking the car around a sharp bend, ‘is a say in the way this country is run.’

‘You ought to be a Member of Parliament.’

‘Oh, I don’t have any ambitions in that direction, Alice.’

‘You’d really stir things up there.’

‘I’d be bored to tears, spending so much time with all those men.’ She peered through the windscreen. ‘I’ve been here before but I can’t quite remember how. Am I going the right way?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice, ‘it’s the next left then the second on the right. It’s so kind of you to give us both a lift home.’

‘You worked hard today. You deserve a reward.’

‘Thank you.’

Following the directions, Hannah drove on into the street where Alice lived and brought the vehicle to a grinding halt. She looked up at the house.

‘Do you like it here?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I would have thought that you’d share with Vera.’

Alice was tactful. ‘That would never have worked,’ she said. ‘We’re much better off apart. Vera’s just a friend. We’re not Siamese twins.’

Hannah laughed and turned to her. Alice had the impression that she wanted to be asked in but it was late and, in any case, her landlady discouraged even female visitors after a certain time. She was about to get out of the vehicle when Hannah put a hand on her arm.

‘Have you heard from your brother recently?’ she asked.

‘No — we haven’t had a letter from Paul for weeks.’

‘My husband is stationed near the Somme. I get nothing but complaints in his letters. I daren’t tell him about his clubhouse.’ She released Alice’s arm. ‘Don’t marry a soldier, Alice.’

Alice was amused. ‘I’m not thinking of marrying anyone at the moment.’

‘With a face like yours, you’ll never be short of offers.’

‘While the war’s on, the WEC comes first.’

‘That makes two of us,’ said Hannah. ‘You go off and get a good night’s sleep while I see if I can find my way home. Goodbye, Alice.’

‘Goodbye — and thanks again!’

Getting out of the car, Alice waved her off and waited until the car was chugging down the street. Then she ran up the path and used her latchkey to let herself into the house. Any letters that came for the tenants were left on the gatelegged table in the hall. Alice crossed over to it but there was nothing waiting for her.

‘Damn!’ she exclaimed under her breath.

Ellen Marmion was never sure if she should wait up for her husband or go to bed when she felt tired. In an effort to stay up as long as possible that night, she did some knitting then read a book by the light from the standard lamp. The story failed to hold her attention and she eventually drifted off. When her husband came into the house, he found her slumbering beside a fire that had dwindled to a faint glow. Removing the book from her lap, he set it aside then kissed her gently on the forehead.

‘Is that you, Harvey?’ she asked, coming slowly awake.

He chuckled. ‘Who else were you expecting?’

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s time for bed, Ellen. Come on — I’ll help you up.’

She took his hands and let him pull her to her feet. He’d taken off his overcoat and hat and hung them up. She was in her dressing gown and slippers. Before she could stop it, a yawn suddenly escaped.

‘Why are you so late?’

‘Time stands still when I have another murder case.’

‘Where have you been all day?’

‘Trudging around Shoreditch and slipping back to Scotland Yard for the dubious pleasure of reporting to the superintendent.’

‘You should have got that job,’ she said with feeling. ‘You’d have done it much better than Claude Chatfield.’

‘Give the devil his due,’ said Marmion. ‘He was at his desk an hour before I got there and he was still working when I left. His wife must think she’s a nun. We know that’s not true,’ he added with a laugh. ‘She’s had five children.’

‘How many of them live at home?’

‘I’m not sure, Ellen — two at least.’

‘Then she won’t get lonely. When you go off, I’m entirely on my own. I can’t blame Paul for not being here but I do miss Alice. It wouldn’t be so bad if she spent the odd night or two here.’

‘She values her freedom, love.’

‘Well, it’s not doing her health any good.’

Marmion was worried. ‘How do you know? Have you seen her?’

‘Alice called in early this morning,’ said Ellen, ‘and we had a cup of tea together. She looked so thin and drawn. She claims that she’s put on weight but I couldn’t see it. There was a sense of fatigue about her.’

‘Like father, like daughter!’

‘It’s not a joke, Harvey.’

‘It wasn’t meant as one,’ he said. ‘I was being serious. Alice is like me. When she takes something on, she gives it every last ounce of her energy.’ He used a hand to suppress a yawn. ‘Up we go. I’m dropping.’

After switching off the light, he put the fireguard in the grate then followed her upstairs. When he’d been to the bathroom and changed into his pyjamas, he clambered into bed beside her.

‘What sort of a case is it?’ she asked.

‘It’s a very baffling one at the moment.’

‘Do you have any suspects?’

‘We might have. It’s too early to tell.’

‘And is this the sort of time you’ll be coming home from now on?’

‘Think yourself lucky, Ellen,’ he said, snuggling under the bed sheets. ‘Your loving husband will actually get some sleep tonight. That wouldn’t be the case if you were married to Joe Keedy. He’s got to stay awake until dawn.’

When he left the Weavers Arms, Keedy had first walked to the lane where the body had been discovered. The police had gone now, so it was possible to go to the spot where Cyril Ablatt had lain. By the light of his torch, he saw that the blood had been washed away to deter sightseers from finding the exact place. He imagined the shock that the courting couple must have felt when they stumbled on the corpse. It might have had an adverse effect on their romance. Before he returned to his vantage point, he walked around the vicinity to familiarise himself with it. These were the streets that Ablatt and his friends knew by heart. Hiding in one of them, he believed, was the killer. Their job was to root him out.

The Haveron sisters were delighted to see him again and pressed food and drink on to him. They were like a pair of eccentric aunts who’d just encountered a nephew they never knew they had and wanted to make up for lost time.

‘Do you do this kind of thing often?’ asked Rose.

‘As it happens,’ said Keedy, ‘I don’t. This is an exception.’

‘Well, it’s certainly an exception for us,’ Martha chimed in, ‘isn’t it, Rose? Who’d ever have thought that we’d play host to a detective?’

‘It’s rather exciting,’ said Rose.

‘I do hope it’s not a waste of time.’

‘So do I,’ said Keedy, touched by their sweetness. ‘But at least I’ll be comfortable in your front room. The last time I did this all night, I had to hide in the back of a cattle truck and look through the slats. You can imagine the stench.’

‘Oh dear!’ said Martha.

‘You won’t have that problem here,’ Rose assured him.

Fortunately, the sisters went to bed early every night and even the presence of a detective did not alter their routine. They wished him well, then withdrew upstairs. When he adjourned to the front room, Keedy could hear one of them walking about in the bedroom above his head. He’d politely declined their offer to light a fire for him. It was evident that Rose and Martha Haveron were ladies of limited means. He didn’t wish to make inroads into their coal supply nor did he want to make the room too snug. A warm fire might send him off to sleep. Cold air would keep him awake. Even with the blankets around him, he could feel a bracing chill.

The Ablatt house was diagonally opposite. When he sat beside the window on an upright chair, he could look through a chink in the curtains. It would be impossible to miss anyone who came to add something to the already well-decorated wall. Keedy settled down for what might be a long and fruitless wait. He staved off boredom by going through all the evidence so far gathered. He thought of the conversations he’d had with Hambridge and Price, young men of fundamentally different character who’d been united by a single purpose. He’d liked the carpenter and distrusted the cook on sight. When they came before a tribunal, he suspected, the quiet certainty of the Quaker would be more effective than the Welshman’s truculence. The person who really interested him was Horrie Waldron. How on earth had such a reprobate aroused affection in Maud Crowther? Given the size and muscularity of Stan Crowther, both of them were tempting fate. The discovery that Waldron was making secret visits to his mother would enrage the landlord. If he dared to put his head into the pub after that, the gravedigger would need his spade to defend himself.

Hours drifted by and tiredness slackened his muscles. Every so often, his eyes would close for a couple of minutes and he’d have to shake himself awake. Having lost all track of time, Keedy stood up, walked around the room and took off the blankets so that he could feel the piercing cold. It served to galvanise him just in time. From outside the house, there was a loud yell then he heard something thud onto the pavement. Charging across to the window, he pulled back the curtain. A ladder was standing against the wall of the Ablatt house. Beside it was an upturned tin of paint. In the middle of the road, two figures were grappling wildly. Keedy jumped into action. He ran to the front door, let himself out and raced across to the two men. In the course of a fierce struggle, one of them threw the other to the ground and dived on top of him. Keedy grabbed him from behind and pulled him off.

‘That’s enough!’ he shouted.

The man on the ground leapt to his feet, punched Keedy in the face and pushed him against the other man. He then fled off down the street and vanished around the corner. Before the second man could run after him, he was overpowered by Keedy and held in a vice-like grip.

‘You silly bastard!’ howled Mansel Price. ‘You let him get away.’