Instrument of Slaughter (19 page)

‘Most mothers would. They’d think it was because of a deficiency in them.’

‘I don’t know the full details. According to Jack, they don’t like to talk about it and I can understand that. But it makes it all the more remarkable that a woman who nurses a lasting sorrow could find time to comfort my sister.’

‘You know her better than I do, Gerald.’

‘I knew them both when they lived nearby,’ he said. ‘Elaine was a customer of mine. I used to sole and heel her shoes but Percy always repaired his boots himself. He’s that kind of man – very independent. He’s a bit like your husband.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

‘Wilf always liked to do things for himself.’

‘That wasn’t because he was independent. It was simple,
old-fashioned
meanness. He gets it from his mother. Wilf would never part with a penny unless he has to,’ she said, lips pursed. ‘He’d always rather do things himself, whether it’s mending shoes or cleaning windows or sweeping the chimney. The trouble is he can’t do any of them properly. Still,’ she continued, lowering her voice, ‘while we have a moment alone, there’s something we need to discuss.’

‘What’s that, Caroline?’

‘It’s the funeral – have you had any thoughts about it?’

‘No,’ he replied, a little flustered by the question. ‘The body hasn’t been released to us yet.’

‘What about Nancy?’

‘She’s in no state to make any decisions.’

‘Then you’ll have to choose the hymns and the order of service.’ Ablatt looked bewildered. ‘Unless you’d like some help, that is? I didn’t know Cyril that well,’ she said, softly, ‘but I was very fond of him and I’ll do anything I can to help with the arrangements.’

‘I see.’

‘I’m not trying to interfere, Gerald. If you’d rather do everything yourself, I’ll stay out of your way.’

‘No, no,’ he said, reaching out to take her hand. ‘It’s kind of you to offer. I need help from someone – thank you, Caroline.’

She sighed with satisfaction. ‘That’s settled, then.’

‘The truth is that I’m all at sea at the moment. I was going to ask the vicar what to do.’ He sighed. ‘It’s strange the way things work out, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Cyril never expected to die, of course, so he couldn’t plan ahead for his own funeral. If he’d done so, my guess is that he’d have wanted Father Howells to take the service rather than the vicar.’ He glanced sorrowfully at the newspaper. ‘But that’s not possible now, is it?’

The Reverend James Howells lay on the bed while a nurse took his blood pressure. Head heavily bandaged, he had various tubes attached to him and was under almost constant supervision. His parents were in the nearby waiting room, hoping for the slightest improvement. The vicar was with them, offering succour, leading them in prayer and telling them time and again what an asset their son was to the parish. Cards and messages of goodwill had come flooding in by hand, showing the
anguished parents how popular the curate had been. Only close family members were allowed to visit the single room where the patient was kept, but that didn’t stop a stranger from slipping into the hospital and finding out his whereabouts. Wearing a white coat by way of disguise, he lurked in an alcove from which he could keep the room under close observation. When a doctor and nurse emerged before going off in the other direction, he saw his opportunity and moved swiftly forward.

Before he reached the room, however, the door opened and a third person came out. Legs apart and hands behind his back, the uniformed constable was there to prevent any unauthorised visits. The stranger was baulked. As he walked past the policeman, he manufactured a smile.

‘Good evening,’ he said, pleasantly.

Then he headed for the nearest exit.

Gordon Leach felt as if he were being crushed between two millstones. On one side of him was Mansel Price and on the other was Fred Hambridge. The three friends were in the bakery, discussing the forthcoming marriage. Price was unequivocal. If Leach betrayed his principles and joined a non-combatant corps, the Welshman threatened to assault him. Hambridge took a more reasoned approach but his quiet reprimands were just as wounding as Price’s belligerence. The two of them kept on at Leach until the latter could take no more.

‘That’s enough!’ he yelled. ‘You’ve made your point.’

‘So what’s your decision?’ asked Hambridge.

‘Gordon has got to tell Ruby that he can’t do it,’ said Price. ‘I don’t know why he didn’t have the guts to do that when she came up with the idea.’

‘It wasn’t Ruby’s idea,’ said Leach. ‘It was her father’s. Mr Cosgrove was only trying to find a compromise.’

‘Remember what Cyril used to say. We never compromise.’

Leach was outnumbered. With Ablatt resurrected, he was up against three of them and his resistance cracked. It had been an article of faith for all four of them that they wouldn’t assist the war effort in any way. Joining a non-combatant corps would, in essence, be almost as bad as joining the army. It was easy for Price and Hambridge to maintain their extreme position. They only had to think of themselves. Price’s family lived in Wales and took little interest in him. Hambridge’s parents supported him in his stance. Leach’s situation was more complicated. After apparently being spurned by Ruby, he’d been forgiven in the wake of the attack on the curate. She’d been so concerned for his safety that she came to assure him that she still wanted to marry him and that there was a way to do it that could be reconciled with his pacifist beliefs. What would Ruby say if he rejected the compromise suggested by her father? Would he lose her altogether? What had brought her running to him was a combination of love and fear. If he sided with his friends, Leach might well be sacrificing her love while doing nothing to allay her fear. He was impaled on the horns of a dilemma. All that he could do was to squirm in agony.

Hambridge’s softly spoken question was like a stab in the ribs.

‘What are you going to do, Gordon?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t
know
,’ echoed Price with lip-curling disgust. ‘You’ve spent all this time with Fred, Cyril and me, boasting that you’d never, in a hundred years, join the army, yet you’re ready to serve in a non-combatant corps.’

‘I didn’t say that, Mansel. I’m still thinking it over.’

‘What is there to think over?’

‘And don’t get the wrong idea about a non-combatant corps,’ cautioned Hambridge. ‘I’ve got a friend who joined one of those. They sent him off to Belgium as part of an ambulance unit. He spends all his
time carrying wounded soldiers on a stretcher. If that’s not taking part in the war – then what is?’

‘There’s another thing, Gordon. Suppose you get sent to the front like that. Do you think the commanding officer will give a monkey’s fuck for your wedding plans? He needs every man he’s got,’ said Price. ‘He’s not going to release you so that you can get married and have a wonderful honeymoon. You’re going to be stuck in some godforsaken place with no chance of even seeing Ruby, let alone jumping into bed with her at long last.’

‘Shut up!’ howled Leach. ‘Let’s keep Ruby out of this.’

‘But she’s the bloody problem.’

‘Be quiet, Mansel.’

‘Who’s going to wear the trousers in the marriage – you or Ruby Cosgrove?’

Leach was on his feet. ‘I told you to shut up!’

‘Who’s going to make me?’ demanded Price, getting up.

‘I am.’

Leach exploded and grappled with the Welshman. Before they could get in any punches, however, they were each grabbed by the neck and pulled roughly apart by Hambridge. He was seething with fury.

‘That’s enough!’ he bellowed. ‘We’re
friends
, for heaven’s sake! Is this the way to behave? We’re supposed to be in this together. Act like it, the pair of you!’

On his way to the hospital, Marmion nursed the faint hope that James Howells might have regained consciousness and been ready to give him some idea who might have been responsible for the attack. In reality, he knew that it rarely happened like that. He’d seen other victims who’d sustained appalling head wounds. Most of them had been unable to remember the moment of attack, let alone speculate on who was behind
it. Earlier that year, there’d been the case of a man who was deliberately knocked down by the driver of a motor car. Although he survived, brain damage was so serious that the victim couldn’t even speak and was doomed to spend the rest of his life trapped in a private world. Marmion hoped that the curate would escape that fate.

The news at the hospital was not encouraging. The patient was stable but there’d been no marked improvement. He needed more time and continuous care. Marmion spoke to the constable on duty outside the room. The man had just started the night shift. Marmion felt that it was unlikely the attacker would make a second attempt to kill Father Howells but he didn’t wish to take any chances. He was pleased to hear that the curate’s parents had finally been persuaded to leave. At the invitation of Simon Ellway, they were staying the night at the vicarage. Marmion suspected that Mr and Mrs Howells would be back in the waiting room shortly after breakfast on the following day. Since there was nothing else he could do at the hospital, he was given a lift home in a police car. His wife was still up, delighted at his comparatively early return.

‘This is a nice surprise!’ said Ellen, giving him a welcoming kiss.

‘I’ll have to be off again at the crack of dawn, love.’

‘At least you’re back in time to be fed. And while you’re waiting, I’ve got a treat for you.’ She slipped a hand into the pocket of her dressing gown. ‘We had a letter from Paul.’

‘Wonderful!’ he said, taking it from her.

While she made a pot of tea and got out bread and cheese from the pantry, he read the letter avidly, relieved that their son was unharmed. The letter was full of complaints about the privations on the front but it was also reassuring. Absorbing every detail, he read it through three times. Over their supper, he told her a little about the events of the day and was grateful that she hadn’t read the barbed criticism of him in the
Evening News
. Ellen was more interested in family matters. She
talked about their son’s letter and about their daughter’s flying visit that morning.

‘How was she?’ asked Marmion, slicing off some more cheese.

‘Alice was in a mad rush as usual.’

‘They certainly keep her on her toes in the WEC.’

‘She only came to collect a few things from her room.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ said Marmion. ‘It was just an excuse to see her mother.’

‘Well, she didn’t see very much of me, Harvey. She was in and out in a flash – though she did stay long enough to ask if we could take in a Belgian refugee.’

He blinked. ‘What? Where the hell would he sleep?’

‘Alice said they could have her bedroom,’ replied Ellen, sadly. ‘It was another way of saying that she’s not going to be living here again.’

‘She’s over twenty-one, love. If that’s her decision, we must accept it.’

‘I know but you can’t blame me for hoping. It was bad enough when Paul left. Now that Alice has gone as well, it’s like a morgue in here.’

He laughed. ‘I see. So I’m the resident corpse, am I?’

‘You know what I mean, Harvey. The place is dead.’

‘It’s not as if you’re here all day, love. You’re out doing voluntary work most of the week. I’m very proud of you for helping the war effort. Paul and Alice are doing it in more obvious ways,’ he conceded, ‘but I don’t underestimate what you and women like you are doing on the home front.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, cheered by the compliment. ‘Anyway, there’s something else I must tell you about Alice’s visit. I could be wrong, of course, but I had this feeling about her.’

‘What sort of a feeling?’

‘I think that she has a chap.’

‘Oh? Did she admit it?’

‘No, Harvey. In fact, she denied it strongly but … I sort of sensed it.’

‘You’ve had a lot of experience of doing that and you’re usually right.’

‘I’d love to know who he is.’

‘We’re not entirely sure that he exists yet,’ Marmion reminded her, ‘so don’t jump the gun. All we have at the moment is your intuition, reliable as it is.’

‘Alice was so happy. That’s what gave her away.’

‘I thought that
I
was supposed to be the detective.’

She smiled confidingly. ‘Who do you think it could be?’

‘I don’t know, love,’ he replied, swallowing his food. ‘When Alice is good and ready, I’m sure that she’ll tell us. Frankly, I hope that she
does
have some kind of social life. She’s earned it. And as I said earlier, she’s over twenty-one. Our daughter can do whatever she likes.’

Alice Marmion was propped up in bed with a book in her hands. She was trying to read but the romantic novel that Vera Dowling had lent her was failing to hold her attention. Her mind kept wandering to Joe Keedy. The fact that he’d rescued her from an assault had served to strengthen her feelings for him. Alice had travelled home in some trepidation that evening, fearing that the same man might stalk her again. Glad to see that he was not on the bus, she was afraid that he might be lurking near her stop in order to follow her. But there was no sign of him and she was very grateful. Had there been a second attack, Keedy would not have been there to rescue her. At his suggestion, she kept a pair of nail scissors in her pocket but they were not needed.

She’d always been fond of him. When she first met him, she was a callow teenager and he was a young detective constable in his twenties. Her father had seen promise in him and advised him to push for promotion. As the two men began to work together on cases, Alice saw rather more of Keedy and her affection for him slowly intensified. It was
matched by her mother’s fondness for him and – in spite of the age gap between them – Ellen had hinted that the sergeant and her daughter would be a good match. Because that opinion wasn’t shared by Marmion, it was never voiced in his presence. Alice knew he’d disapprove of it on a number of counts.