Instrument of Slaughter (18 page)

On his way home from work, he habitually called in at the Weavers Arms for the first pint of the evening. Stan Crowther served the beer then appraised him.

‘You’ve spruced up a bit, Horrie,’ he said.

‘My other working clothes were starting to hoot a bit.’

‘I noticed.’

Waldron looked around the empty bar. ‘It’s very quiet, Stan.’

‘We won’t see many people in here tonight,’ complained the landlord. ‘That bugger has scared them off. As long as he goes on cracking heads open, people will be too frightened to leave their houses in the dark.’ The gravedigger made no comment. He took a long sip of his beer. ‘Had a good day?’

‘It was neither good nor bad.’

‘My mother was going to the cemetery today to put flowers on Dad’s grave. I don’t suppose you bumped into her, did you?’

‘No, Stan, I never laid eyes on her.’

‘I think it’s morbid myself – going back to a grave all the time.’

‘It helps some people,’ said Waldron, absently. ‘I got nothing against it.’

‘I’ve only been there once since Dad died.’ When another customer came in, Crowther served him before turning back to the gravedigger.
‘My mother should have got over it by now. That’s what I keep telling her.’

‘Women have got minds of their own, Stan.’

The landlord chuckled. ‘You can say that again! I’ve been married for fifteen years now and I still can’t guess what my wife is going to do and say. She never does what I expect her to. Is that your experience of women as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Waldron, ruefully. ‘It certainly is.’

After finishing his pint, he put the tankard down and walked off to his digs. For some reason, spending the whole evening at the pub had lost its appeal. He felt the need to be alone. Waldron rented a small, dank, low-ceilinged basement room with a scullery attached to it, enabling him to make fairly basic meals. The scullery was also the place where he did his infrequent washing. He’d rigged up a line from one side of the room to the other. Hanging from it was the shirt, vest and pair of trousers he normally wore at work. Taking the trousers off the line, he held them up close to the light bulb so that he could examine them. Waldron let out a snarl of disappointment.

After a second wash, the bloodstains were still there.

London was never allowed to forget that there was a war on. Apart from the fact that uniformed soldiers and sailors were always visible on the streets, there was the accumulated bomb damage. Emergency services were kept at full stretch. They were on duty that evening as a fleet of Zeppelins came up the Thames, cruising at ten thousand feet like a flock of giant eagles in search of prey. Laden with bombs, they’d come to inflict another night of terror on the capital. They had, however, been spotted and aircraft from the Royal Flying Corps were dispatched to intercept them. London was treated to a thrilling exhibition of aerial combat, with the smaller, faster and more manoeuvrable British planes trying to fly above the airships in order to bomb them or to get within machine-gun range. The dark sky was a kaleidoscope of bright flashes and sudden explosions. The sound of bullets and destruction reverberated across the heavens. When a Zeppelin blew up with spectacular effect, it scattered debris over a wide area.

The noise could be heard all over the capital. Percy Fry was holding
the reins as the horse pulled the cart through Bethnal Green, reacting nervously to the clamour in the sky. At the end of the working day, he was giving Jack Dalley a lift home. The blacksmith looked upwards.

‘Listen to that, Perce,’ he said. ‘The Huns are back.’

‘Those bloody Zeppelins are a menace.’

‘They just keep on coming.’

They’d taken the cart because they had to deliver a gate they’d repaired for a customer. Fry intended to pick his wife up at Dalley’s house to drive her back to the forge. He listened to the pandemonium with foreboding.

‘It sounds as if it’s getting closer.’

‘Keep the bombs away from us,’ said Dalley, staring upwards. ‘We already have enough misery to cope with in our family.’

‘I hope that Elaine has been able to help.’

‘I’m sure she has, Perce. All that Nancy needs is someone to be there with her. To be honest, I’m glad that my brother-in-law went back to work. Having Nancy in his house all day was dragging him down.’ He glanced across at Fry. ‘It’s very kind of your wife to take over, especially when she’s not in the best of health.’

‘She’s bearing up, Jack.’

‘What does the doctor say?’

‘There’s not much he can do, really,’ said Fry, resignedly, ‘and it’s far too expensive for us to keep going back to him and trying new medicine. Elaine never complains. She grits her teeth and gets on with it. Having to help someone else is good for her in a way. It takes her mind off her own troubles.’

‘When there’s a death in the family, you need all the help you can get.’

‘Count on us, Jack.’

‘Thanks.’

As they picked their way through the streets, the distant commotion
gradually diminished. The air raid seemed to be over and people were left to assess the damage, take the wounded off to hospital and douse any fires caused by incendiary bombs. The Zeppelins had retreated, still hounded by the British aircraft. Everyone knew that they’d soon be back. War now had an immediacy that was unthinkable in the early days of the conflict. Having invaded Belgium and penetrated into France, the enemy was now striking boldly at the very heart of Britain.

‘How many more of our soldiers will have to die before it’s all over?’ asked Fry, pulling the horse to a halt to let traffic go past at a junction. ‘It seems as if it could go on for ever.’

‘I blame the politicians,’ said Dalley, resentfully. ‘They didn’t put enough soldiers in the field at the very start. They were caught cold. Conscription should have been brought in a year ago. The only way to beat the Germans is with more men.’

‘It’d help if we had better weapons and equipment as well.’

‘What worries me is this poison gas they use. If it doesn’t kill our lads, it blinds them and sets their lungs on fire. What happens if the Germans find a way to drop it in canisters over London?’

Fry pulled a face. ‘I’d hate to find out, Jack.’

They continued to discuss the war until they eventually turned into the street where Dalley lived. Bringing the cart to a standstill, Fry got down onto the pavement and followed the blacksmith into the house. When they went into the front room, they saw Nancy Dalley on the settee with Fry’s wife beside her, one arm around the stricken woman. Elaine was a pale, gaunt, almost skeletal creature with frizzy grey hair and large, staring eyes. Yet she was putting someone else’s needs first. Both women were glad to see their respective husbands. Nancy got up and sought comfort in Dalley’s brawny arms. Before he could ask her how she felt, the door opened and Caroline Skene entered with a pot of tea on a tray.

‘Oh,’ she said, smiling at the newcomers. ‘You’re back.’ She put the tray on the table. ‘I went to Gerald’s house to see if I could be of any use but he wasn’t there. So I came here instead.’

‘And you’re very welcome, Caroline,’ said Dalley, turning to indicate Fry. ‘You remember Percy, don’t you?’

‘Yes, we met at your daughter’s wedding. Nancy has been showing me the photos of it.’ She gave a nod. ‘Hello, Mr Fry.’

‘It’s nice to see you again, Mrs Skene,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘And if there’s another cup of tea going, I’ll be happy to drink it.’

Harvey Marmion took control of the press conference that evening. Though he sat beside the inspector, Claude Chatfield was content to take on the role of an observer. Joe Keedy was seated on the other side of Marmion, always willing to learn from him the art of keeping reporters at bay. The trio of detectives had a lively audience. Hot on the heels of a murder there’d been a vicious attack on a clergyman. Everyone assumed that one man committed two crimes. Marmion disillusioned them.

‘It’s both foolish and misleading to link the two incidents as a certain newspaper has already done,’ he warned, looking around the upturned faces. ‘Granted, there are surface similarities. Both victims were young men who suffered bad head injuries, but there the resemblance ends. Cyril Ablatt was killed and mutilated at some unknown spot then brought to the place where his body was later found. In short, gentleman, we are looking for a killer who is both cautious and calculating.’

‘And who has so far run rings around you, Inspector,’ said a voice.

Marmion smiled. ‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’ There was general laughter. ‘The second attacker is very different. He takes chances. He struck when other people were still about – one of them actually interrupted him – so he failed in his purpose. That suggests to me that he’s impulsive. Unlike Cyril Ablatt’s killer, he doesn’t plan carefully and
bide his time. If you still think that we should be hunting one and the same man, ask yourselves this. If
you
had murdered someone and had the police in full cry after you, would you be reckless enough to commit a second crime in a place, and at a time, when you couldn’t guarantee escaping unseen? People who get away with a murder tend to cover their tracks. They don’t come back within days to take foolish risks.’

‘Why was James Howells the target, Inspector?’ asked a reporter.

‘I was coming to that. Look closely at the two victims. If they were both the targets of the same man, you’d expect them to have a lot in common, but that’s not true at all. They
knew
each other, of course. But they are a world away from being twins. In fact,’ said Marmion with emphasis, ‘the differences between them are far greater in number and in scope than any similarities.’

He gave a character sketch of both men, comparing the lives they led and the values they held. Keedy watched the reporters, slowly revising their reflex opinions about the second attack and recording the inspector’s phrases in their notebooks. Marmion had won them back. He not only convinced them that the first investigation had made some significant advances, he persuaded them that important steps had already been taken to apprehend the man who attacked Howells. In the space of fifteen minutes, he’d ensured that Scotland Yard would have kinder headlines in the morning papers.

Questions came from all sides and they were asked with a degree of respect.

‘Is it true that Father Howells is under police guard?’

‘It is,’ said Marmion. ‘His attacker has unfinished business. I can’t rule out the possibility that he might strike again.’

‘Have any suspects been identified?’

‘We have certain people in mind but I’m afraid that I’m unable to release names at this stage. We continue to seek the assistance of the
public, however, and ask you to appeal for any information relating to the crimes.’

‘What has the hospital said about Father Howells’s condition?’

‘The patient remains in a coma,’ said Marmion. ‘The latest bulletin describes his condition as stable. It appears that he’s now out of danger. Naturally, I must bow to medical advice. When he recovers, I’ll only be allowed to question him if the doctor deems it sensible.’

On the questions went for the best part of half an hour before Marmion called an end to the conference. The reporters rushed off to file their stories, each of them clutching a photograph of James Howells for publication. Marmion was left alone with Chatfield and Keedy.

‘That was masterly, Inspector,’ said Keedy.

‘It’s kind of you to say so,’ returned Marmion.

‘You were like the Pied Piper and they danced to your tune.’

Marmion laughed. ‘If you don’t mind, Sergeant, I’d rather not be the Pied Piper. If I remember the poem accurately, they refused to pay him.’

‘Well done,’ said Chatfield, reluctantly.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It was a study in the conjuror’s art. You gave them the impression they’d seen something when it wasn’t actually there. I can’t do that, alas. I’m too fundamentally honest.’

‘The inspector was not dishonest, sir,’ said Keedy, loyally.

‘Maybe not, but he flitted around the edges of it.’

‘I’m glad that the reporter from the
Evening News
was rapped over the knuckles. What he wrote in the early edition was both unkind and untrue.’

‘We can’t control what they write, unfortunately,’ said Chatfield. ‘When it comes to war reporting, of course, there’s strict censorship and some radical papers have been closed down altogether. The
Tribunal
is one of them – a dreadful rag that campaigned against conscription. It’s
important that the government monitors any information relating to the war so that the public is not misled. I’d like us to have similar powers when it comes to reporting crime.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘I just hate press exaggeration, that’s all. Newspapers should be reassuring the public, not frightening the living daylights out of them by turning these two cases into a sensation. Instead of vilification, we need their support. I think I rammed that point home.’

Chatfield was officious. ‘Forget the press for a while,’ he said. ‘Let’s turn to practicalities. Is your request for a search warrant an urgent one?’

‘We’ll need it in the morning, please,’ said Marmion. ‘The best time to go there is when Waldron is at work in the cemetery.’

‘I do hope you find enough to justify an arrest.’

‘So do we, Superintendent.’

‘What of this other suspect?’

‘Eric Fussell can be left alone for the moment,’ decided Marmion, ‘but he must remain under suspicion. While I may have pointed up the differences between the two victims, there are certain links between Ablatt and Howells. One of them is the librarian. We need to find out why.’

When he and his wife got back to their house in Lambeth that evening, Fussell went straight upstairs to the bedroom he used as an office. It was like a small replica of the one at the library, well ordered and stacked with books and magazines. He didn’t come downstairs until the meal was on the dinner table. He and his wife sat in a cold silence intermittently broken by an observation about their day at the library. She didn’t dare to ask about the visit from the detectives. It was a subject he refused to discuss. When the meal was over, he left her to clear everything away.

‘I’m going out,’ he said, taking his overcoat from its peg.

She was hurt. ‘You’re going out
again
, Eric?’

‘Yes – and I can’t say when I’ll be back.’

Gerald Ablatt was pleased when he had an unheralded visitor. Since he’d got back from the shop, all that he’d done was to sit in the kitchen and read the
Evening News
. The report of the latest crime had depressed him. His spirits rose slightly when Caroline Skene called. Inviting her in, he took her into the living room and they sat side by side.

‘I didn’t expect to see you again,’ he said.

‘I came earlier but you weren’t here. One of your neighbours told me that you’d opened the shop. I couldn’t believe it.’

‘It’s true. I had to get out, Caroline. I just couldn’t stay here and brood. It was too painful. I needed to work, and, if I’m truthful,’ he confided, ‘I needed to get away from Nancy for a while.’

‘Then you did the right thing, Gerald.’

‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey.’

‘But I didn’t,’ she said, brightly. ‘Since I was in Shoreditch, I thought I’d go and call on Nancy instead. I spent the afternoon there with Mrs Fry.’

He was puzzled. ‘Elaine Fry – what was she doing there?’

‘She’d come to sit with Nancy to offer consolation. Apparently, it was Jack’s idea. He asked if she could go over there.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘Frankly, she looked ill. The woman is quite haggard.’

‘I know,’ said Ablatt, deeply sympathetic. ‘The last time I saw her was at Nora’s wedding last year and she was almost at death’s door then. Well, you were there. You must remember how she had to keep sitting down.’

‘What I recall is that her husband was very attentive.’

‘He needs to be. Percy Fry is a good man. He carries his troubles lightly.’

‘Does he?’

‘It’s not just the sick wife, Caroline. They lost their only child as well.’

She was taken aback. ‘When was this?’

‘Oh, it was years ago,’ he explained. ‘The boy was no more than nine or ten at the time. He died of rickets. He just wasted away as his mother seems to be doing. She blamed herself, of course.’