Instrument of Slaughter (5 page)

Hambridge slumped onto the settee with his head in his hands. Taking a seat opposite him, Keedy had his notebook and pencil ready. He waited until the younger man recovered enough to be able to meet his gaze.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hambridge, semaphoring an apology. ‘Cyril was my best friend. I feel so guilty about this.’

‘Why should that be?’

‘It’s because I should have stayed. He sent me on home after the meeting but I should have stayed with him. If I’d done that, he’d still be alive.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Keedy. ‘We could be investigating
two
deaths.’

Hambridge sat up. ‘Do you think I’m in danger, then?’

‘I don’t know at this stage but it seems doubtful. What I’m hoping to establish is where the murder is likely to have taken place. To do that, I’ll need you to describe the precise route that your friend would have taken to get back home.’

‘He would have been coming here. This is where we arranged to meet.’

‘How would he get back to Shoreditch?’

‘The same way as us,’ replied Hambridge.

‘Would that route take him anywhere near Drysdale Street?’

‘Oh, yes. My boss told me that’s where the murder took place.’

‘It’s where the body was found, I grant you, but we’ve reason to believe that he was set on elsewhere. Let’s go back to the meeting,’ he suggested. ‘Tell me what time you left, when you got back here and when you expected Cyril to join you.’

Hambridge was too disturbed to give an accurate account of his movements. He kept breaking off to wrestle with the horror of what had happened, continuing to blame himself for not being there to offer protection. Keedy had to be patient, teasing out the details one by one until he had a clearer idea of what had occurred on the previous evening. From the way that Hambridge talked about Price and Leach, he gathered that they were close friends who looked to Ablatt for guidance. The bereaved carpenter spread his arms.

‘Who could possibly have wanted to kill him?’ he asked.

‘I was hoping that you might have some ideas on that score.’

‘But I don’t, Sergeant. I can’t think of anyone who hated Cyril. He was so likeable. We’ve all had difficulties, mind you. There’ve been people who yelled nasty things because we haven’t joined up and an old man spat at us in the street one day, but nobody ever threatened to attack us.’

‘What about those slogans painted on the wall of the Ablatt house?’

‘Cyril used to shrug those off.’

‘Well, his father didn’t. They really upset him at first.’

‘I know. He told us. But it didn’t scare Cyril because he was so brave. He always used to quote that saying. You know – “Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” That was typical of Cyril.’

Keedy was about to point out that someone
had
broken the victim’s bones but he decided against it. For all his bulk, Hambridge seemed quite fragile. It was better to steer him away from gory details of the crime. Keedy’s pencil was poised.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘We grew up together.’

‘What about Price and Leach?’

The four of us went to the same school.’

‘And you’re all conscientious objectors, I gather.’

‘I’m a Quaker,’ said Hambridge, simply. ‘We utterly deny all outward wars and strife. That’s what George Fox said and he preached the gospel of peace all his life, even though they put him in prison time and again.’

‘What about the others?’

‘I’m the only Quaker. Cyril was a true Christian. Mansel refuses to let the state bully him into uniform and Gordon just thinks that war is wrong. It was Cyril who sort of spoke for the rest of us. He made a wonderful speech at the meeting. That’s why he was asked to stay behind afterwards. He had a real gift, Sergeant,’ said Hambridge, eyes moistening. ‘None of us could touch him. Cyril had a way with words. I could listen to him all day.’

Gordon Leach had gone on his delivery round with the furtiveness of a man expecting to be attacked at any moment. Convinced that his
friend had been murdered, he felt that his own life was also in jeopardy, even though it was now daylight and the streets were full of people. Customers who came to the door to pay him wondered why he thrust their loaves at them, took the money and fled. It was only towards the end of the round that he slowly regained his confidence and began to control his fears. When he found Inspector Harvey Marmion waiting for him at the bakery, however, his lurking desperation was rekindled. He was given official confirmation that Ablatt was indeed the murder victim and it made him turn the colour of flour.

They were alone in the back room that was still pulsing with warmth.

‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,’ said Marmion.

‘I knew it already,’ explained Leach. ‘Fred – that’s Fred Hambridge – came to warn me that he’d heard about someone being beaten to death not far from here. We both guessed it had to be Cyril. He didn’t turn up, you see.’

‘Turn up where?’

‘We agreed to meet at Fred’s house after the meeting of the NCF.’

‘Why didn’t he leave with you?’

Leach told him that Ablatt had been detained by the people who organised the meeting. He also gave details of the route they’d taken back to Shoreditch and an approximate time of their arrival at Hambridge’s house. Talking it all through seemed to instil even more trepidation in him. Marmion tried to soothe him.

‘I really don’t think that you are in imminent danger,’ he said, ‘and neither are your friends. It was Cyril Ablatt who was singled out. If someone had had designs on any of you, then they’d have lain in wait until they saw a moment to strike. Have you ever felt that you were being watched?’

‘No, Inspector, I haven’t.’

‘What about your friends?’

‘They’d have mentioned it if that was the case – and they didn’t.’

‘Then none of you need be alarmed. For some unknown reason, the killer’s target was your friend, Cyril. Do you know what that reason might be?’

‘They wanted to silence him.’

‘Who did?’

‘Someone who knew how good Cyril was at making speeches,’ said Leach, blurting out his answer. ‘You could never get the better of him in an argument. He’d tie you in knots. And he could hold a big audience as well. He proved that yesterday. They decided to shut him up.’

‘And who might “they” be?’

‘They’re people who demand that we volunteer for the army,
so-called
patriots who wave the Union Jack and send others off to die on the battlefield. It’s got to be one of them, Inspector.’

‘I’ll reserve my judgement on that.’

‘There’s so many of them about, you see. I should know. When I deliver the bread, there are three houses I can’t go to any more. They say that they won’t touch anything baked by a conchie – only their language is not as polite as that.’

‘Did Cyril get that kind of response at the library?’

‘All the time,’ replied Leach, ‘but he could always talk himself out of the situation. He even turned the tables on Horrie Waldron.’

‘And who might he be?’ enquired Marmion.

‘He’s an old codger me and Cyril knew in the George and Vulture when we used to meet for a drink there. It’s in Pitfield Street. Cyril had to pass it on his way home from the library. Anyway,’ Leach went on, ‘we sometimes saw Horrie in there, sitting drunk in a corner. You could share a joke with him until the war broke out. He turned nasty then. Every time we went in there, he’d have a dig at us for not joining up. It got so bad that we stopped going there altogether.’

‘What’s this about turning the tables on him?’

‘Horrie turned up at the library just before Christmas. He’d obviously been drinking. He tried to cause a scene by telling Cyril he was a coward but he got more than he bargained for. Cyril took him on in argument and made him look stupid. Everyone was laughing at Horrie. According to Cyril,’ said Leach, revelling in his friend’s triumph, ‘he slunk out of there with his tail between his legs.’

‘He must have felt humiliated.’

‘He was, Inspector – good and proper.’

‘And would you say that this Horrie Waldron was a vindictive man?’

‘Oh, yes, and he has a foul mouth on him.’

‘I wonder why Mr Ablatt didn’t mention the incident,’ said Marmion. ‘When I asked him if his son had any enemies, he denied it.’

‘Cyril didn’t tell his father everything that happened. In fact, I’m probably the only person who knows about Horrie being turned into a laughing stock at the library. Fred and Mansel have no idea who Horrie Waldron is.’ Leach scowled. ‘They’re lucky. He can be a menace.’

‘You described him as an old codger.’

‘That’s what he looks like, Inspector, but he’s probably not
that
old. He just never takes care of himself. Also, he smells. I bumped into him once when I was out with Ruby and she thought he was a tramp.’

‘Is Ruby your girlfriend?’

Leach’s back straightened. ‘She’s my fiancée.’

‘Congratulations! Have you set a date?’

‘It’s in July,’ said Leach. ‘Going back to Horrie, I heard that the landlord at the George and Vulture got fed up with him and threw him out. Last time I saw Horrie, he was going into the Weavers Arms.’

It was not far from where the body of Cyril Ablatt had been found. Marmion made a mental note of the fact. In his opinion, Leach was an interesting character, weak in many respects yet strong enough to
hold to his principles in the face of daily hostility. Marmion had seen the way that people could bait conscientious objectors, making their lives a misery by taunting, abusing or sending them poison pen letters. More than one pacifist had been driven to suicide to escape the constant antagonism. Leach seemed unlikely to follow. For all his nervousness, there was a hard inner core that allowed him to withstand the jeers and the innuendo. And since a date for his wedding had been set, he didn’t wish to be somewhere in France or Belgium in the summer. Marmion’s own son, Paul, was very close in age to Leach and had volunteered readily with his father’s approval. Though he didn’t condone the stance that the young baker was taking, Marmion nevertheless admired him for his courage in doing so.

He thought about the reported viciousness of the attack on Cyril Ablatt and the problem of getting the body to the location where it was later found.

‘Tell me about Waldron,’ he said. ‘Is he a strong man?’

‘He’s very strong, Inspector.’

‘Does he have a job or has he retired?’

‘Horrie will never retire. He’ll go on until he drops.’

‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He’s a gravedigger.’

Some high-ranking officers at Scotland Yard gave those below them a degree of freedom during the conduct of an investigation. Superintendent Claude Chatfield was not one of them. On the contrary, he insisted on being informed of progress at every stage. As he gave his superior an account of the action taken so far, Marmion provided enough detail to show how thorough he and Keedy had been while deliberately failing to mention the photograph discovered in the victim’s Bible. He knew full well that he was courting Chatfield’s fury but felt that discretion was paramount. If the lady in the photograph was, even tangentially, connected to the murder, Marmion could reveal the fact of her existence at a later date. If, however, she had no link whatsoever with the crime, he believed that it would be wrong to drag a secret friendship into the light of day, thereby causing pain and recrimination. It was better to let her retreat into anonymity. Chatfield watched him with the intensity of a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. When the inspector finished his report, the other man flashed his claws.

‘You’re holding something back,’ he challenged.

Marmion shrugged. ‘Why should I do that, sir?’

‘I sense that something is missing.’

‘There’s a great deal that’s missing, sir. Once you let me get on with my work, I’ll be able to fill in some of the blank spaces.’

‘You’ve described the interview you had with Gordon Leach. What about the other close friends of the deceased?’

‘Sergeant Keedy has yet to return, sir. When he does, I hope that he’ll have gleaned something useful from the two young men concerned – Hambridge and Price. They seem to have been part of a close-knit group.’

Chatfield was disdainful. ‘Four cowards banded together for safety.’

‘That’s not the impression I get, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘I’m not interested in your impressions, Inspector. I want facts. I want firm evidence. The press are already hounding me.’

‘I’m sure that you handled them with your usual tact.’

‘I told them as little as possible,’ said Chatfield with a thin smile, ‘but I did ask them to make an appeal on my behalf for any witnesses to come forward. In the course of his journey from that meeting back to Shoreditch, lots of people must have seen Ablatt.’ He picked up the photograph supplied by the victim’s father. ‘I’ll release this to the press. The sight of him may jog someone’s memory.’

‘Will that be all, sir?’ asked Marmion, rising hopefully from his chair.

‘No, it is not.’

‘I think we’ve covered more or less everything.’

‘Sit down again.’ Marmion obeyed him. ‘What is your next step?’

‘To be honest, sir, I was planning to grab a cup of tea and a bite to eat in the canteen. I had no breakfast this morning. After that – or possibly
during
it – I’ll liaise with Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Let me know what he found out.’

‘You’ll have a full report before we leave.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to Shoreditch,’ replied Marmion. ‘Manpower is severely limited, I know, but I’ll deploy the few detectives at my disposal to make house-to-house enquiries in the area where the body was found. I’ll then visit the library to speak to some of Cyril Ablatt’s colleagues.’

‘What about Sergeant Keedy?’

‘I’m going to suggest that he works the night shift, sir. When word gets out that Ablatt has been murdered, the person who daubed the wall of his house might be tempted to add to his handiwork. I’d like to apprehend him and find out just how deep his hatred goes. It will mean persuading a neighbour to allow the sergeant to spend the night under their roof so that he can keep the Ablatt house under surveillance.’

Chatfield sniffed. ‘That means a claim for overtime.’

‘It can be offset against the hours Sergeant Keedy will need to catch up on lost sleep. Our self-appointed artist works by night. No vigil is required in daylight.’

‘So you’ll be without the services of your right-hand man tomorrow.’

‘Only for a short time,’ said Marmion. ‘The sergeant is very resilient. He manages on far less sleep than the rest of us.’

‘I’m still not convinced that it’s the best use of his time.’

‘It could be, sir.’

‘The man may not even show up.’

‘That’s a possibility we have to allow for.’

‘Do you think he’s in any way associated with the crime?’

‘It remains to be seen, sir. But even if he’s not involved in the murder, he’s guilty of another crime – libel. What he wrote about Cyril Ablatt is both insulting and untrue.’

‘You can’t libel the dead, Inspector.’

‘The young man was alive when those harsh words were painted.’

Chatfield was dismissive. ‘That’s immaterial,’ he said, flicking a hand. ‘Before he acts as a nightwatchman, what will the sergeant be doing?’

‘I’m sending him off to the cemetery to speak to Horrie Waldron.’

‘Is he that gravedigger?’

‘He is indeed, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Chatfield, rubbing his hands together. ‘That’s the one positive lead that you’ve managed to uncover. This fellow fits the picture I envisage of the killer. He knows Ablatt well, he loathes conscientious objectors, he has a record of causing trouble and, I’ll venture, he’s often sufficiently inebriated to throw off all inhibition. There’s no need to send Sergeant Keedy. It’s a job for a uniformed constable. He can arrest Waldron and bring him in for questioning.’

‘I’d strongly advise against that, sir.’

‘Use your eyes, man! He’s a prime suspect.’

‘He’s certainly worthy of investigation,’ said Marmion, coolly, ‘but we have no evidence to arrest him. Besides, we don’t want to alert him to the fact that we harbour suspicions about him or he’s likely to be thrown on the defensive. A heavy-handed approach would be a mistake.’

‘There’s a history of friction between him and Ablatt, leading to that incident at the library. Isn’t that what Leach told you?’

‘Yes, sir, but he also told me that Waldron spends most of his free time in a pub. How would he even
know
about yesterday’s meeting at Devonshire House or be aware of Ablatt’s movements after he left Bishopsgate? I’ll wager that he’s sometimes too drunk to remember what day of the week it is. This murder involved calculation and I don’t believe that Waldron is capable of that.’

Chatfield was checked. ‘Please yourself,’ he said, patently annoyed at the rebuff. ‘You’re nominally in charge of this investigation. If and when it emerges that this fellow
was
indeed the killer, I hope that you’ll have the grace to apologise to me.’

‘I’ll do so on bended knee, Superintendent.’

‘Sarcasm ill becomes you.’

‘Put it down to lack of food,’ said Marmion, getting up again. ‘After I’ve had breakfast, I’m sure that I’ll feel much better. As for Waldron,’ he added, ‘I promise you that – if he
is
guilty – he won’t slip through our fingers.’

Abney Park cemetery was much more than a burial ground. It was also an arboretum, a place of architectural interest and a vital green lung in the urban sprawl of Stoke Newington. Horace Waldron never noticed the vast expanse of trees and shrubs. Nor did he pay any heed to the magnificent gates, the Egyptian lodges and the Gothic chapel. His gaze was fixed solely on the earth he had to shift in order to accommodate a new guest. Waldron was a burly man in his late fifties with an unsightly face, pitted with age and reddened by alcohol. His clothes were grimed beyond reclaim and his cap sat precariously on the back of his head. When he arrived for work that morning, he carried a spade over his shoulder. Putting it aside, he first stepped behind a large gravestone so that he could urinate against it with a measure of privacy. After spitting on the ground, he was about to start work when he noticed the dried bloodstains along the edge of his spade. He cleaned them off under the tap beside the shed where he usually kept his implements.

Laughing to himself, he was soon digging his first grave of the day.

When the notion was put to him, Keedy didn’t find it at all appealing. Over a cup of tea in the canteen, he explored the idea without enthusiasm.

‘What are the chances of him coming tonight?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘That’s the trouble, Harv. We’re very much in the realm of guesswork. We’re guessing that the artist lives nearby and would have an irresistible compulsion to pick up his brush tonight and get back to work.’

‘He may wait a few days before doing so,’ admitted Marmion.

‘He may not even come back at all.’

‘Oh, I fancy that he – or she, for that matter – will appear before long.’

‘So I have to shiver all through the night in someone’s front room for what could be a week or more. Is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, it isn’t, Joe. And if you think the assignment is too onerous, I can always find someone else to shoulder it. You were the one who said we needed to catch him. I was simply giving you the first chance to do that.’

‘Yes,’ confessed Keedy, ‘he certainly needs to be nabbed. It’s just that I was hoping for a little free time at the end of the day.’

‘Even romance takes second place in a murder case, especially one as problematical as this. You’ll have to disappoint her, I’m afraid.’

Keedy made no reply. He thought about the jibes painted on the wall of the Ablatt house. They were cruel and vulgar. Whoever put them there had spent a fair amount of time up a ladder. The artist could have relied on the fact that, even if he’d been discovered at work, nobody was likely to report him to the police. Most people in the area would have condoned what he was doing. A conscientious objector was being punished. Thick white paint was more conspicuous than a frail white feather.

‘I’ll do it, Harv,’ he said at length. ‘It could be important.’

‘I agree. Before that, however, we’ve other work to do.’

‘What can you tell me about this gravedigger you want me to find?’

‘All I know is what I picked up from Gordon Leach.’

He passed on the description given to him of Horrie Waldron then offered his assessment of the baker. Keedy had already told him about the visit to Hambridge’s house and how the carpenter was devastated by the news. Unable to make contact with Mansel Price, the sergeant had left a message for him at his digs.

‘We can be sure of one thing,’ said Marmion. ‘All three of his friends relied completely on Ablatt. How will his death affect their resolve? Or, to put it another way, how conscientious will their objections be now that he’s gone?’

‘Hambridge is a Quaker. It won’t change his mind.’

‘I’m less certain about Leach. He could waver.’

‘Apparently, Price is one of those characters who hates all authority.’

‘So do I when it’s in the hands of someone like the superintendent.’

Keedy chuckled. ‘Did you get another rap over the knuckles from Chat?’

‘He wanted Waldron arrested and hauled into Scotland Yard.’

‘But we have nothing on him yet.’

‘According to Superintendent Chatfield, we do. We have a man with motive and means to kill Ablatt. We simply have to establish that he had the opportunity as well and we can charge him.’

‘It’s another of Chat’s barmy theories.’

‘In fairness,’ conceded Marmion, ‘they’re not always so barmy. He made some very significant arrests during his time as an inspector. However, it’s an open question as to whether that was luck or judgement. We’ll have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Finish your tea,’ he went on, standing up. ‘We have people to see and answers to get.’

‘Right,’ said Keedy, swallowing the last of his tea then leaping to his feet. ‘I’m ready, Harv. Will you give me a lift to the cemetery?’

‘Of course – and we must arrange a place to meet up afterwards.’

‘Where do we go then?’

‘We need to speak to a certain photographer.’

They left the canteen and walked side by side along the corridor. All that lay ahead of them was the promise of hard work, much of which would be tedious and unrewarding. Yet they felt excited in a way that
they always did at the start of a hunt for a killer. Keedy recalled what the inspector had said earlier.

‘Why do you think Leach will waver?’ he asked.

‘I don’t doubt the sincerity of his pacifism,’ said Marmion, ‘and he won’t renounce that. But I sensed a weakness. He’s engaged to be married. He has to make decisions that involve
two
people. That could make things a lot trickier.’

Leach’s head was pounding. So much had happened in the space of a couple of hours that he was confused and fearful. He’d awoken with a sense of dread, then been told what Hambridge had learnt about a gruesome murder during the night. Leach felt certain that it had to be his friend. A Scotland Yard detective had confirmed the name of the victim and questioned him about his contact with Ablatt the previous day. It had left the baker completely jangled. He’d pleaded with his father to be released from his duties at the shop and, since he’d finished his delivery rounds, he was allowed to leave. Leach had arranged to meet Ruby Cosgrove that evening but he couldn’t contain himself that long. As a matter of urgency, he needed to speak to her now. She had to be told.

His fiancée had responded to the appeal for help in the war effort by working in a small factory that produced tinned meat to be sent to British soldiers in the trenches. It was boring, repetitive, undemanding labour but it gave her the feeling that she was making a contribution. Ruby worked set hours. Leach knew that during her lunch break she usually popped out of the factory to escape the pandemonium, get some fresh air and enjoy a cigarette.

When he got to the factory, he saw her lurking in a doorway with some of the other female employees. Even though she was wearing an ugly fawn overall and a fawn scarf, the mere sight of Ruby Cosgrove lifted his spirits. Spotting him, the other women nudged Ruby and
giggled. One of them whispered something in her ear and she blushed. By the time he got to them, Leach was out of breath.

‘What are you doing here, Gordon?’ she asked in surprise.

Unable to find the words at first, he gave the other women such a look of desperation that they took pity on him and moved away so that the couple could talk alone. He led Ruby to a low wall and made her sit down.