Instrument of Slaughter (16 page)

‘I didn’t expect you so soon, Jack.’

‘There was a change of plan today. I’ve had to leave Nancy at home. Her brother went off to open his shop so she couldn’t go to the house.’

‘Gone back to work, you say? Is that wise?’

‘It’s my brother-in-law’s way of getting through this ordeal.’

‘Is anyone sitting with Nancy?’

‘No,’ said Dalley, ‘she’s on her own and, to be honest, I’m rather worried about her. Do you think you could ask Elaine to pop over there at some point?’

‘Yes, of course – she’s been waiting for the call.’

‘Thanks, Perce.’

Customers arrived and they were both kept busy for a while, filling the place with the clang of steel and the roar of the fire. It was not until an hour later that the blacksmith had time to pass on a rumour he’d picked up.

‘As I was leaving the house,’ he said, ‘I bumped into the postman. He’d heard something about a second attack in Shoreditch.’

Fry was amazed. ‘You mean there was
another
murder?’

‘No, it stopped short of that. The killer was interrupted and ran off before he could finish the job. This all took place only two streets away from our house. I daren’t tell Nancy about it or she’d be afraid to leave the house.’

‘It would scare anybody, Jack. There was nothing like this when we lived in Shoreditch. The place felt safe. Elaine was saying that over breakfast. People used to settle their differences with their fists. They didn’t need to kill each other.’

‘There was no war on when you lived there, Perce.’

‘So?’

‘It’s changed people for the worst – especially the lads who’ve fought in it.’

‘Well, yes, I’d agree with you there.’

‘I reckon that the man who killed Cyril was either a soldier or the father of one who died at the front. He couldn’t bear the sight of someone refusing to fight for his country when others have given their lives.’

‘We’ve said it before,’ noted Fry. ‘Nobody likes conchies.’

‘Cyril was the exception. I liked him.’

‘So did I – up to a point. What about this second one?’

‘What do you mean, Perce?’

‘Was he a conchie as well?’

‘The postman didn’t know any details,’ said Dalley, ‘but I think it’s very likely. In fact, I’ve got a horrible feeling that he’s connected to my nephew in some way. I’d put money on it.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘When she eventually hears about it, Nancy will be in a terrible state. She’s going to start wondering who’ll be next.’

One advantage of delivering bread was that Gordon Leach picked up all the local gossip. He was alarmed to hear of the second attack and deviated from his normal round in order to call on Fred Hambridge.
The carpenter and his boss were both at their benches in the workshop. They were horrified by the news of an attempted murder and even more shocked when they realised who the victim actually was. Hambridge knew the name.

‘James Howells was a curate at Cyril’s church, wasn’t he?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Leach. ‘He was going to marry me and Ruby.’

‘Maybe you’ve got a jealous rival, Gordon,’ suggested Redfern, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘He tried to bump off the priest to stop you getting hitched.’

‘That’s not funny, Charlie,’ said Hambridge.

‘It was only a joke.’

‘Well, we’re not laughing.’

‘We’ve got nothing to laugh about,’ said Leach, anxiously. ‘Two people I knew and liked have been attacked in a matter of days. One of them was murdered and the other is in hospital. I’m terrified.’

‘You’re not in any danger,’ said Redfern.

‘How do you know?’

‘You’d have more sense than to walk down a dark lane at night.’

‘The killer could strike anywhere and at any time.’

‘The police will get him,’ said Hambridge, confidently.

‘They haven’t got him so far, Fred.’

‘They caught that man who painted things on Cyril’s wall.’

‘So did Mansel. In fact, he got hold of him first.’

‘I trust the police.’

‘They ought to give us bodyguards.’

‘Whatever for?’ asked Redfern.

‘We need protection,’ insisted Leach.

‘You’re young and strong enough to look after yourselves.’

‘Being young and strong didn’t help Cyril – or our curate, for that matter. Mansel, Fred or I could be the next on the death list.’ He saw
Redfern’s smirk. ‘That may sound far-fetched to you, Charlie,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘but it doesn’t to me. There’s a killer on the loose in Shoreditch. If the police don’t catch him soon, my father will need a new assistant at the bakery and you could be looking for a new carpenter. Let’s see you laugh at that.’

After leaving the hospital, their first visit was to the scene of the crime. There’d been a considerable loss of blood and James Howells had needed an instant transfusion. Marmion and Keedy then drove on to the local police station and read the statement given by the man who disturbed the attacker. The witness had been returning home when he heard a noise in the lane. He could just make out a figure in silhouette, standing over someone on the ground, hand aloft as if about to strike. His yell had frightened the man off. When he realised how badly beaten the victim was, he ran to the police station to raise the alarm. An ambulance was summoned by telephone. Admitting that he’d never recognise the attacker, the witness said that he was simply glad that he came along in time to prevent a murder.

Since no other witnesses had come forward, Marmion decided that they’d start their investigation by interviewing a suspect for the earlier murder. On the drive to the cemetery, Keedy was curious.

‘Do you think the same person is behind both attacks, Harv?’

‘On the face of it,’ said Marmion, ‘it looks quite possible, though I have my doubts. However, we’ll proceed on the basis that we’re after one culprit.’

‘He’s someone who hates conchies and doesn’t like clergymen.’

‘That probably sums up Waldron quite well. He doesn’t sound like a regular churchgoer to me. And if he has to listen to dozens of different priests droning on as he’s waiting to fill in a grave, I daresay he loathes the whole breed.’

‘I’ll be interested to see what you make of him,’ said Keedy. ‘Maybe
you
can explain where his charm lies. I can’t see it.’

‘Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, Joe.’

‘You’d have to be as blind as a bat to find Horrie Waldron beautiful.’

‘Mrs Crowther’s not blind, is she?’

‘Quite the opposite, I’d say.’

As the car rolled along at a comfortable speed, it was overtaken by a rasping motorcycle. Marmion was reminded of something that his wife had told him.

‘I hope that Alice doesn’t go abroad,’ he said. ‘I encouraged her to move out of the house but I’d be very unhappy if she decided to go to France.’

Keedy was concerned. ‘There’s no chance of that, is there?’

‘It was something she mentioned to Ellen. Apparently, a couple of her friends have gone as dispatch riders. Knowing Alice, I think it would have appealed to her adventurous spirit.’

‘For your sake, I hope she doesn’t go.’

‘We can’t stop her, Joe. If she really wants something, she usually gets it.’

‘Your daughter takes after you, Harv. She’s single-minded.’

‘I’d hate to have
both
my children near the war front.’

Keedy was wounded by the information. He couldn’t understand why Alice hadn’t confided in him. At a time when they were getting closer, she was thinking of going abroad. It was not the best way to let their friendship ripen. As it was, he saw very little of Alice. If she left the country, he’d see nothing at all of her. Keedy was glad that her father could not read his mind.

The car turned in through the gates of the cemetery.

‘Where are we likely to find him?’ asked Marmion.

‘They’ll tell us.’

When they reached the reception lodge, Keedy let him do all the talking. He was too busy adjusting to the news about Alice, still wondering why she’d never touched on the subject with him. When Marmion wanted her to remain in England, he was speaking as a father. Keedy had equally strong reasons for not wishing to see her sail off to France. He hoped he’d get the chance to discuss them with her.

It did not take them long to track down Horrie Waldron. Shirt open at the neck and sleeves rolled up, he was leaning against a gravestone as he rolled himself a cigarette. When he saw the detectives coming, he spat on the ground by way of a welcome. Marmion saw how accurate Keedy’s description of the man had been. The only difference was that Waldron was not wearing the filthy old clothing on which the sergeant had commented. His shirt, waistcoat and trousers were ragged but they were not stained or impregnated with the stink of the grave. When Marmion introduced himself, he got a scowl of disrespect.

‘Do you know the Reverend James Howells?’ he asked. Waldron kept him waiting, lighting his cigarette and puffing on it.

‘I might do.’

‘Either you do or you don’t.’

‘I see priest after bleeding priest in here. Never remember their names.’

‘This gentleman is the curate at St Leonard’s.’

‘What’s that to me, Inspector?’

‘Someone tried to kill him last night.’

Waldron cackled. ‘Then he ought to write better sermons,’ he said, nastily. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the rubbish they come out with. When I first started here, I sometimes used to stand at the back of the chapel to listen to what the priest was saying. It was all I could do not
to laugh. Do they get
paid
for spouting all that bleeding nonsense?’ His grin vanished as he saw the way that they were looking at him. ‘Hey, you don’t think that
I
had anything to do with it, did you?’

‘Where were you last night just before midnight, Horrie?’ asked Keedy.

‘I was in my bed.’

‘Can anyone vouch for that?’

‘I was on my own.’

‘What about your landlady?’

‘I wouldn’t let that old witch anywhere near me,’ said Waldron. ‘She and her husband sleep upstairs and my room is in the basement. When I let myself in, they can’t even hear me.’

‘Did you drink at the Weavers Arms?’

‘Why are you bothering me with all these questions?’

‘We’re trying to eliminate you from our enquiries, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘Well, be quick about it. I got work to do.’

‘Were you at the pub?’ repeated Keedy. ‘We can check, you know.’

‘I left there at closing time. Stan will tell you that.’

‘And you went straight back to your digs?’

‘No,’ said Waldron, sarcastically, ‘I killed three old ladies and a couple of priests on the way. Why pick on me?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve never even heard this Reverend Thingamajig’s name before.’

‘But you’ve heard the name of Cyril Ablatt.’

‘Oh, yes. I remember that clever bugger. I’ll give three cheers at the funeral.’

‘That would be very unkind of you, Mr Waldron,’ said Marmion.

‘I won’t ask you why. What I’d like to know is what happened to the spade.’

The gravedigger blinked. ‘What spade, Inspector?’

‘This one,’ said Keedy, touching the implement that stood upright in
a mound of fresh earth. ‘It was the one you took to the pub on the night Cyril Ablatt was murdered. Mr Crowther confirmed that.’

‘It was my spade. I can do what I like with it.’

‘Not if you use it as a weapon, sir,’ warned Marmion.

‘So tell us what happened to it,’ said Keedy. ‘You took it to the pub and you had it with you when you went out for an hour or so. Why didn’t you bring it back with you when you went to the Weavers Arms again?’

Marmion saw him blench. ‘Wandering around in the dark with a spade is an odd thing to do, Mr Waldron,’ he said. ‘Answer the sergeant’s question. Where did you leave it when you went back to the pub?’

‘And what did you have it for in the first place?’ said Keedy, pulling the spade out and holding it up. ‘Did you, by any chance, take it home with you yesterday evening as well?’

Waldron’s bravado had melted away. Eyes darting, he looked like a cornered animal. He let his cigarette fall to the ground then stamped on it with a brutal heel. After a few moments, he snatched the spade from Keedy’s hand.

‘Give that here!’ he yelled. ‘It’s mine.’

Alice Marmion had said nothing to her friend about her narrow escape from the man who’d followed her. If she’d confided in Vera Dowling, she’d have had to divulge the name of Joe Keedy and that would have let the cat out of the bag. It was important to keep their friendship a secret. Trustworthy in every other respect, Vera was prone to the occasional slip of the tongue. It was safer to keep her ignorant and to be spared her veiled disapproval. She’d never understand why Alice had become involved with a man almost ten years older. If anything, she’d be quietly scandalised and that would have an adverse affect on their friendship. Silence was definitely Alice’s best option. Having missed lunch because of the pressure of work, they were having a snack in the canteen that afternoon. As usual, Vera found something to worry about.

‘Have you had any more thoughts about Belgium?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Alice. ‘I’m wondering if there’s anyone left in the country. We’ve had so many refugees that the entire population must be here now.’

‘I was talking about that idea you had.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Have you made a decision yet?’

‘No, Vera. One day, I want to go, and the next day, I’ve changed my mind. It wouldn’t necessarily be in Belgium, of course. I could be driving a motorbike in France.’ Her face lit up. ‘I might even get close to Paul’s regiment. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could see my brother over there?’

Vera was sad. ‘Paul’s gain would be my loss.’

‘You could always come with me.’

‘I could never be a dispatch rider.’

‘There are lots of other things you could do over there, Vera.’

‘No,’ said the other, ‘I know my limits and I’ve already reached them. Besides, I promised Mummy that I’d never go abroad because of the danger. If you desert me, I’ll be left on my own.’

‘Hardly!’ said Alice with a laugh. ‘I’m not the only woman in the WEC.’

‘You’re the only one I get on with.’

‘You’ll soon find someone else, Vera.’

‘Nobody else seems to like me.’

‘That’s absurd! Lots of people like you.’

‘No, Alice, they put up with me because of you and that’s very different. Mrs Billington is a case in point. She tolerates me because she admires you.’

It was true and both women knew it. Though she’d had enough courage to leave home, Vera lacked the personality and thrust to mix easily in a group. She always needed someone to lean on. Without Alice beside her, Vera would struggle. She was too shy to make new women friends and too plain to attract male interest. While she sympathised with her friend’s plight, however, Alice had to be selfish. In many ways,
she recognised, Vera was holding her back. Going abroad would allow Alice to escape from the dependency.

‘Look out,’ said Vera, tensing as she saw someone approaching their table with a purposeful stride. ‘Mrs Billington is on her way.’

‘Try to relax. Hannah’s one of us.’

‘Then why do I always feel so threatened?’

Alice turned to see the older woman coming towards them with a newspaper under her arm. As they exchanged greetings, Hannah sat down beside Alice.

‘How would tomorrow afternoon suit you, ladies?’ she asked. ‘You can come and have a proper tea at my house.’

‘Thanks very much, Hannah,’ said Alice. ‘We’d like that.’

Vera hesitated. ‘I’m … not sure that I can come, Mrs Billington.’

‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Hannah. ‘Why is that?’

‘I’ve got … something else on.’

‘In that case, Alice will have to come on her own. Is that all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Alice, helping to bail her friend out. ‘She did warn me that she’d be too busy to help me all day tomorrow,’ she went on, reinforcing the white lie. ‘You’ll have to come to Hannah’s house another time, Vera.’

‘I will,’ said Vera without enthusiasm.

Hannah took the newspaper from under her arm and unfurled it.

‘I take it that neither of you has seen the early edition?’ she said, pointing to the front page headline. ‘The Shoreditch killer is on the prowl again.’

‘Oh, no!’ cried Vera.

‘Luckily, he was stopped just in time.’

‘Let me see,’ said Alice, pulling the newspaper closer so that she could read it.

‘Your father almost had another murder to solve,’ said Hannah,
seriously. ‘It’s clear that the man will stop at nothing. Inspector Marmion needs to catch this devil. Until he does, everyone in London will be looking over their shoulder.’

Alice was dismayed. The new case would not only entail additional work for her father. It would mean that Joe Keedy would be completely preoccupied as well. Given the extended hours he’d now have to work, there was no hope at all of seeing him soon. She would have to survive on memories.

When he read the same newspaper report, Marmion was pulsing with anger. The superintendent had given the press the impression that the inspector agreed with him that the two heinous crimes were the work of the same man. Normally so frugal with the amount of information he fed reporters, Chatfield had said too much too soon and reached a conclusion that – in Marmion’s opinion – they’d live to regret. The
Evening News
had turned it into a sensation. All of a sudden, London had a new monster stalking the streets. If he struck again, it was argued, he would be taking on the mantle of Jack the Ripper as an evil phantom who left the police utterly baffled. The article was very unflattering to Marmion, claiming that his hitherto untarnished reputation was slowly crumbling because he’d made no progress with the murder investigation, thereby leaving the killer to choose a second victim with impunity.

‘That makes my blood boil!’ he said, tossing the newspaper aside.

Keedy picked it up. ‘What does it say, Harv?’

‘They think we’re idiots.’

‘If they’ve been talking to Chat, I’m not surprised. He’s the idiot-
in-chief
.’ Keedy read the article. ‘This is so unfair,’ he said, hotly. ‘Anyone would think we’ve been sitting on our hands for the last few days. It’s especially unfair to you. They ought to show more respect.’

‘They have newspapers to sell, Joe.’

‘That doesn’t mean they can print lies.’

‘They’d call it “informed opinion”.’

‘Well, if you want
my
informed opinion,’ said Keedy with spirit, ‘the man who wrote this drivel ought to be kicked the length of Piccadilly. I’ll volunteer to do the kicking and to wear some hobnail boots.’

‘Never get into a fight with a reporter. They always have more ink.’

‘We can’t let him get away with this, Harv.’

‘We won’t,’ Marmion promised him. ‘We’ll solve both crimes and show him just how maliciously wide of the mark this article is.’

During a morning of ceaseless activity, they paid a visit to Gerald Ablatt’s shop where the cobbler had been working quietly away. Aghast at the news of an attack on James Howells, he’d confirmed that his son had been friends with the curate and talked of him visiting the house once or twice. Ablatt was honest. While he appreciated the curate’s many fine qualities, he still preferred the vicar’s sermons. They offered more comfort and far less challenge. After a series of other calls, the detectives had ended up in the room where Howells had lived. It presented a sharp contrast to Cyril Ablatt’s bedroom. Where the latter was small, untidy and filled with books, this one was large, scrupulously organised and devoid of ornament. There was an austere feel to the place. Hidden behind a curtain, a single bed stood in the corner. The furniture comprised a table, a chair and a wardrobe. A neat pile of books stood on the table. Inevitably, the Bible was one of them.

Keedy whistled in surprise. ‘This room makes mine look like Aladdin’s cave.’

‘It is rather bare,’ agreed Marmion.

‘Where are the paintings, the knick-knacks, the personal items?’

‘He didn’t need those, Joe.’

‘Most of us have
something
to look at.’

‘Perhaps he chose to look inwards.’

Marmion sifted through the books on the table. When he picked up the Bible, nothing fell out of it. The Reverend James Howells was patently not a man who spent much money on himself. They opened the wardrobe to find very little inside apart from some shirts, socks, underclothes and a pair of trousers.

‘He seems to have lived like a monk,’ said Keedy. ‘This whole room reeks of self-denial.’

Marmion grinned. ‘I’m surprised you know what self-denial is, Joe.’

‘I don’t.’

‘They tell me it’s good for the soul.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ Keedy drew back the curtain to look at the bed. On a shelf supported by a wall bracket were shaving equipment, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Getting down onto his knees, he peered underneath the bed then reached for something. ‘This might be interesting.’

‘What have you found?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘Can you manage, Joe?’

‘I think so.’

Keedy stood up with a small cardboard box in his hands. When he set it on the table, they examined the contents. There were letters from Howells’s father and from fellow clergymen with whom he’d studied. There were some family photographs, and a pile of sermons written in a neat hand with various words underlined. Of most interest to Marmion was a small address book. As he leafed through it, he saw that most of the people listed in it lived in Shoreditch and were, presumably, the curate’s parishioners. His parents’ address was there, as were those of relatives and friends in York. One name jumped out of the address book at Marmion.

‘Eric Fussell is in here,’ he said, curiosity stirring. ‘Yet he doesn’t live in Shoreditch, so he’s unlikely to attend services at St Leonard’s.’

Keedy looked over his shoulder. ‘I see what you mean. He lives in Lambeth.’

‘That raises a question, Joe.’

‘Yes – how did your favourite librarian make his way into the book?’

Mansel Price first heard about the attempted murder when he saw it emblazoned across the front of the newspaper stall at the railway station. Too mean to buy a copy, he instead went to a nearby wastepaper bin and retrieved one discarded earlier. He read it on the way to the bakery. Gordon Leach let him in by the side door.

‘Have you heard, Mansel?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been reading the details on the way here.’

‘It’s scared me rigid.’

‘Well,’ said Price, contemptuously, ‘it doesn’t take much to do that, does it?’

‘Aren’t you afraid you might be next?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘We could be targets.’

‘I don’t believe that. But just in case anybody does come after me,’ said the Welshman, slipping a hand under his coat, ‘I’ll be ready for him.’

He pulled out a knife and thrust it at Leach, making him jump back.

‘Steady on, Mansel! That’s dangerous.’

‘If anyone attacks me, I’ll cut his balls off.’

‘Put that thing away before someone gets hurt.’

Price slipped the knife back into its sheath. ‘You knew this Father Howells, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ replied Leach. ‘Some of us go to church.’

‘I’m a chapel man myself, though I haven’t seen the inside of one since I left Wales. Anyway, I’m usually working on a Sunday. Need the money.’

‘James Howells was a nice man. Thank heaven he survived!’

‘We don’t know that he did,’ said Price, realistically. ‘The paper says he’s still in a coma. He may never recover. That’d be two murders in less than a week.’

Leach was unnerved. ‘We need police on patrol at night around here,’ he argued. ‘It’s the only way to make sure there isn’t a third victim.’

‘If you expect the police to protect you,’ said Price with rancour, ‘you’ll wait till the cows come home. They don’t have the men to spare and they couldn’t care about us, anyway. Sergeant Keedy couldn’t even catch a man about to paint a wall. What chance has he got of arresting a killer?’

‘Fred trusts him.’

‘Don’t listen to Fred. He thinks well of everybody.’

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. When Leach opened it, Ruby Cosgrove threw herself into his arms. After hugging her for a moment, he eased her inside and closed the door.

‘What’s brought you here, Ruby?’ he asked.

‘When I heard the news, I just had to come.’ Seeing Price for the first time, she broke away from Leach. ‘Hello, Mansel.’

‘How are you, Rube?’

‘I’m terribly upset by what I heard.’

‘It wasn’t Gordon he banged on the head – it was only Father What’s-is-name.’

‘We
know
him,’ she emphasized. ‘Gordon and I saw him in church last Sunday. He was so friendly. Father Howells was going to marry us.’

Price sniggered. ‘I thought you were after this three-day licence.’

‘No,’ said Leach, firmly. ‘That’s out of the question now. We don’t need it any more.’

‘You mean that you and Gordon are
not
going to get married, after all?’ Price shook his head. ‘I wish the pair of you would make up your bleeding minds.’

‘Watch your language, Mansel,’ warned Leach. ‘I won’t have you swearing in front of Ruby. As for the wedding,’ he continued, shooting Ruby a nervous glance, ‘our plans are not definite at the moment.’

‘Yes, they are,’ she said, decisively.

Leach gaped. ‘Are they?’

‘That’s unless you’ve changed your mind, Gordon.’

‘No, no,’ he said, happily. ‘I’m dying to get married.’

‘Then we leave the date exactly as it was,’ she explained. ‘We’ll have to ask the vicar to take the service, of course, but I’m sure he’ll agree to that.’

‘Wait a minute, Rube,’ said Price, hands on hips, ‘there’s something you’re forgetting. Me and Gordon will be hauled up before a tribunal soon. Fred Hambridge has already had his summons. We’re the next in the queue. How can you walk down the aisle with Gordon when he’s likely to be locked up in prison with me? We’re conchies. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

‘There’s no need to be sarcastic with me, Mansel Price.’

‘Then don’t plan for something that can’t possibly happen.’

‘But it can,’ she insisted. ‘My father explained it to me. There’s a way for Gordon to stick to his principles without being imprisoned.’