Instrument of Slaughter (17 page)

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘He can join a non-combatant corps. They never have to take part in a battle and sometimes they don’t even leave this country. You’d be safe, Gordon, and I’m sure we’d get permission from your commanding officer to go ahead with the wedding in the summer.’ Squeezing his hands, she smiled lovingly at him. ‘Isn’t that the perfect solution?’

Leach could sense that Price was simmering with rage. He played for time.

‘Let me think it over, Ruby,’ he said, tactfully.

On his third visit to Shoreditch library, Marmion took Joe Keedy with him so that he could get the sergeant’s opinion of the librarian. When they arrived, Eric Fussell was in a meeting with his deputy so they had to wait. It gave them the opportunity to scour the shelves. Keedy was fascinated by an illustrated guide to angling.

‘It must be years since I got my fishing rod out,’ he moaned. ‘I used to love sitting in the sun on a riverbank when the fish were nibbling.’

‘You go fishing every day in this job,’ said Marmion with a grin. ‘If you use the right bait and remain patient, you always catch something in the end.’

‘The trouble is that it’s usually small fry, Harv – petty thieves and so on. I’d rather just toss them back into the water.’

‘We’re after more than small fry now.’

‘Then we need a big hook and a large net.’ Keedy replaced the book on the shelf and looked towards the librarian’s office. ‘I think he’s deliberately keeping us waiting. What’s he doing in there?’

‘He’s probably still trying to find out who supplied us with all that information about his feud with Cyril Ablatt. It riled him to think that one of his assistants had dared to betray him.’ He saw someone behind the desk. ‘It certainly wasn’t that lady.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s his wife, Mrs Fussell.’

Keedy looked at the portly woman writing something in a pad. She wore spectacles and had her hair pinned up at the back. Putting the pad aside, she reached out some books from under the counter and took them to a shelf nearby. As she stacked them wearily in position, she looked as if she was doing a tedious chore. Clearly, she didn’t share her husband’s zeal for the working at the library.

Marmion saw the door of the office open. The deputy librarian came out, followed by Fussell who beckoned the detectives over with a lordly crook of the finger. All three of them went into the office. After Keedy
had been introduced to the librarian, they took a seat. A copy of the
Evening News
lay on the desk.

‘I hope that you’ve brought me some glad tidings,’ said Fussell.

‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘You must have made
some
progress.’

‘We’re still gathering evidence.’

‘That takes time,’ said Keedy.

‘We have to sort out the wheat from the chaff, you see. The strange thing is that people don’t always tell us the truth,’ said Marmion. ‘Well, you’re a good example, sir. You told me what an outstanding assistant Cyril Ablatt was even though you’d done your level best to unload him onto another library.’

‘I explained that,’ snapped Fussell.

‘Indeed, you did – but only when someone had provided me with the facts.’

The librarian was tetchy. ‘Why are you bothering me again, Inspector? I would have thought you had plenty to keep you busy.’ He indicated the newspaper. ‘You have another case on your hands now and someone doesn’t like the way you’re handling the first one. You and the sergeant are more or less ridiculed in that article.’

‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, sir,’ said Keedy.

‘The impression given is that you’re both floundering.’

‘Appearances are deceptive,’ said Marmion, easily. ‘But let’s leave the press to its own peculiar ways. We came here to ask you about Father Howells. I believe that you know him, Mr Fussell.’

‘Yes – I’ve seen him here a number of times.’

‘He’s also a friend of yours, isn’t he?’

‘Everyone who comes into the library is a friend of mine. I make a point of fraternising with the readers. It’s important to understand their needs and to be aware of their likes and dislikes.’

‘You’re avoiding the question, sir.’

Fussell looked blank. ‘Am I?’

‘You knew James Howells as a friend, didn’t you?’

‘We often had a chat when he came in here, Inspector.’

‘And was the friendship no closer than that?’

‘Why should it be?’ asked Fussell.

‘When we visited the house where he lives,’ said Marmion, ‘we found his address book. Your name was in it.’

‘There’s nothing unusual in that,’ said Fussell, smoothly. ‘James – Father Howells, that is – was a regular visitor here. It’s not surprising that he kept the address of the library.’

‘But that’s not what he did,’ said Keedy. ‘He kept your
home
address.’

The librarian’s face was impassive but his eyes flicked to and fro.

‘Why did he do that, sir?’ asked Marmion, watching him intently. ‘Do you worship at St Leonard’s, by any chance?’

‘No, I do not,’ said Fussell, stiffly. ‘My wife and I are Roman Catholics.’

‘Did you ever meet him socially?’

‘What has this got to do with a violent attack in the night?’

‘You’re avoiding the question again, sir.’

‘No,’ retorted Fussell, ‘I did not meet Father Howells socially. I have, by choice, a very limited social life. After a long day here, all that my wife and I wish to do is to have a quiet evening at home.’

‘So you can’t explain how your name got into that address book?’

‘I don’t have the foggiest idea.’

The reply was assertive and bolstered by a defiant glare. Marmion thanked him for his time and rose to his feet. Keedy got up to follow him out. As they strolled towards the door, they walked past Mrs Fussell and saw her avert her gaze from them. When they came out into the fresh air, Marmion turned enquiringly to Keedy.

‘You were right,’ said the other. ‘I disliked him on sight as well.’

‘Why did he lie about having his name in that address book?’

‘That wasn’t the
only
lie he told us, Harv. When we walked out, you must have noticed his wife.’

‘Yes, she looked rather bored and unhappy.’

‘I don’t wish to be unkind,’ said Keedy, ‘but she’s not the most attractive woman. She looks as if she’d be very dull company. For all his arrogance, Fussell has got a real spark in him. Could you really imagine him spending all his spare time at home with a wife like that?’

Maud Crowther placed the flowers in front of the headstone then stood back to gaze down at the inscription. She had made her weekly pilgrimage to the cemetery and was weighed down by sad thoughts of her late husband. After all this time, she missed him as much as ever. They’d been happily married for a long time. Lost in her memories, she stood there in silence for almost twenty minutes. When she finally turned away, she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back. Having paid her respects to her husband, she went in search of a friend.

Horrie Waldron was waist-deep in a grave. He was aware that Maud would pay her customary visit to the cemetery but he knew better than to interrupt her. If she wanted to talk, she’d come to him. As a rule, she simply went straight home without even seeing him. Today, it was different. She was anxious to find him. When he saw her walking along the gravel path, he clambered out of the grave and used his arms to semaphore. Maud spotted him and went across the grass.

‘Good afternoon, Horrie,’ she said.

He gave a sly grin. ‘Nice to see you.’

‘Have you heard the news?’

‘I’ve done more than that, Maud. I’ve had the coppers out here after me.’

She was shocked. ‘They surely don’t think that
you
had something to do with it, do they?’

‘They’d pin every crime on me, if they could,’ he said, sourly. ‘Just because I had a spot of bother with them once or twice, they blame me for every damn thing.’

‘Did you mention me this time?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Good – I don’t want them sniffing around my house again. It could get back to Stan,’ she said, worriedly, ‘and you know what would happen then. You’d need someone to dig
your
grave.’

Waldron cackled. ‘It’d be worth it, Maud.’

‘Don’t be stupid. I’d lose my son’s respect for ever.’

‘Then we make sure Stan never finds out.’

‘There’s one simple way to do that,’ she said, moving closer and clearing her throat. ‘Look, Horrie, I’ve been thinking about this for some time. Maybe we should stop taking all these risks. It’s silly at my age. I’m fed up with having to creep round and tell lies to everyone. The game is not worth the candle.’

His hackles rose. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

‘We’d still be friends.’

‘What about my …visits?’

‘They’ll have to stop.’

‘But I don’t want them to stop, Maud.’

‘It’s starting to get too dangerous.’

‘Thought you liked danger,’ he said, looming over her. ‘It was all part of the fun.’ When she tried to move away, he grabbed her wrist. ‘You won’t get rid of me as easily as that,’ he warned. ‘I’ll be there at the usual time on the usual day. Is that clear?’

‘You’re hurting my wrist.’

‘Is that clear?’ he demanded, tightening his grip.

‘I don’t want you any more, Horrie,’ she said, angrily.

His eyes flashed. ‘Got no choice, have you?’

They got back to Scotland Yard to find a pile of putative witness statements awaiting them on Marmion’s desk. They related to both crimes. One purported to come from the killer, taunting them with their inability to identify him. A second ‘confession’ came in the form of a crude cartoon with images of two victims being clubbed from behind. Other people did make a stab at naming the culprit. Among the suspects put forward was a gravedigger from Abney Park cemetery. The information about the second attack seemed more reliable. Three separate people claimed to have seen someone running out of the lane and down the street around the time when the curate had been bludgeoned to the ground. A woman who looked out of her bedroom window caught a glimpse of him as well. All they could see was a tall figure with long strides. He’d vanished into the night.

Marmion and Keedy were still discussing the dubious evidence when the superintendent breezed into the office. Chatfield demanded an instant report on how they’d spent their time. When he’d heard the details of their movements, he was disappointed by their apparent lack of progress.

‘This will only give more ammunition to the press,’ he grumbled.

‘You’ve given them far too much already, sir,’ said Marmion, reproachfully, ‘and they fired it straight back at us. Why tell them that we were looking for one man when you had no actual proof of that? You were working entirely on supposition.’

‘I was relying on my experience, Inspector.’

‘Well, I’d advise more caution in the future. According to you, the
curate was Cyril Ablatt by another name yet that’s not what the vicar thinks.’

‘And he should know,’ Keedy interjected.

‘The two of them are on opposite sides when it comes to the subject of conscientious objection to military service. That NCF leaflet misled you completely.’

Chatfield was unrepentant. ‘I don’t accept that.’

‘In future,’ said Marmion, ‘I’d be grateful if you let me handle any press conferences. I am, after all, supposed to be in charge of the two cases. Isn’t that why I was given the assignment – because I know how to handle reporters?’

‘You were chosen against my wishes,’ Chatfield reminded him, spitefully. ‘And for the record, I, too, know how to keep the press in its place.’

‘Then why did they launch that attack on us in the paper?’ asked Keedy. ‘It’s not helpful when we’re mocked like that. Thanks to you, the inspector came in for the heaviest criticism. We expect you to support us, sir, not offer us up as sacrifices.’

‘That’s enough, Sergeant!’

‘Very well,’ said the other, backing off, ‘but at least you know how we feel.’

‘I expect more deference from a junior officer.’

‘Then you ought to earn it,’ said Marmion under his breath. Aloud, he was placatory. ‘There’s no point in arguing about it. I’m sure it won’t happen again and I’m sorry if the sergeant and I overstepped the mark, sir.’

‘So you should be,’ said Chatfield. ‘What’s the next move?’

‘I think that we should probe a little deeper into Waldron’s private life.’

‘How will you do that, Inspector?’

‘By taking a look at his digs,’ said Marmion. ‘To do that, we’ll need you to get us a search warrant. I’ve got a strong feeling that Waldron is hiding something.’

Stroking his chin, the superintendent looked first at Marmion then at Keedy.

‘I sometimes get that feeling about you two,’ he said, darkly. ‘It’s bad enough when the public deliberately withholds evidence. When it’s my own officers doing it, I resent it bitterly.’ He regarded each of them in turn once more. His voice contained an unspecified threat. ‘What are the two of you keeping from me?’

‘Nothing, sir,’ said Marmion, straight-faced.

‘Nothing at all,’ added Keedy. ‘We wouldn’t
dare
, Superintendent.’

Horrie Waldron ended his working day by rolling himself a cigarette and locking up his spade in the shed. As he trudged toward the main gate, he reflected on the visit of Maud Crowther. He’d been pleased to see her at first, knowing that she’d taken the trouble to seek him out. But her decision to end his visits to her house had been like a slap in the face. He’d retaliated in the only way that he knew. He regretted doing that now. Maud deserved better of him. She’d taken great risks on his behalf. If the truth came out, he’d escape with a few broken bones, but she’d never be able to look her son in the eye again. That was far worse than a beating. Waldron saw now that his menacing behaviour had been both ill-judged and unfair. A spirited woman like Maud Crowther couldn’t be threatened. She had to be wooed and coaxed and stroked like a cat. Waldron needed a change of approach.

On the long walk home, he had plenty to think about. The first thing he had to do was to apologise and he could only do that in person. Barely literate, he’d never trust himself to find the right words for a letter. They’d need to speak but only after a lapse of time. When she
walked away from the cemetery, Maud had been puce with anger and indignation. She needed time to calm down. Only then could Waldron even hope to wheedle himself back into her affections. To achieve the best result, the apology should be accompanied by a gift of some sort. That would absorb some of her ill feeling towards him. He spent the rest of the journey trying to choose a gift that would buy back her interest in him. While he accepted that he was only a diversion for her, Maud Crowther meant a great deal to Waldron. Only now that he’d lost her did he realise what she meant to him.