Instrument of Slaughter (7 page)

‘He was,’ said Fussell, ‘I don’t dispute that. Unfortunately, libraries do not merit inclusion among reserved occupations. There’s nothing that I could say that would be of any help to Cyril.’

‘It’s not what you could say but what you could
do
, sir.’

‘Could you be more explicit?’

‘I’m thinking of it from Mr Ablatt’s viewpoint,’ said Marmion. ‘At the very least, you could make a gesture. Your very appearance on his behalf at the tribunal would have raised his morale. Did that never occur to you?’

Fussell’s tone was icy. ‘In all honesty, it never did.’

‘Now that it has, what’s your feeling? Had your young assistant requested your help, how would you have responded?’

There was a long pause, then Fussell enunciated the words crisply.

‘I’d have been obliged to disappoint him, Inspector.’

‘Was that because he could defeat you in argument?’ asked Marmion.

He saw the librarian wince.

Maud Crowther was a stout woman in her early sixties with sparkling blue eyes in a face more suited to laughter than sorrow. Age had obliged her to use a walking stick but she’d lost none of her zest. When she
opened her front door to him, Keedy guessed that she’d spent much of her life behind a bar counter, serving drinks to all manner of customers with a welcoming smile that had been her trademark. Strangers never disconcerted her. They provided her income. Pleased to see such a
good-looking
man on her doorstep, she gave him a broad grin.

‘What can I do for you, young man?’ she asked.

‘Are you Mrs Maud Crowther?’

‘I am and I have been from the day I married Tom Crowther.’

‘I wondered if we might speak in private, Mrs Crowther.’

Keedy introduced himself and told her about the murder investigation. She was horrified to hear the details, all the more so because the body had been found only a few hundred yards from her house. As soon as he mentioned the name of Horrie Waldron, her eyes glinted.

‘Don’t believe a word that good-for-nothing tells you!’

‘You do know him, then?’

‘I know
of
him,’ she said, carefully choosing her words, ‘but I’d hardly call him an acquaintance of mine, still less a friend.’

Keedy could understand why she was trying to distance herself from Waldron and why she was furious that he’d even mentioned his name to a detective. Any relationship between the two of them was meant to be secret. Maud felt betrayed. Inviting her visitor into the house, she hobbled into the front room ahead of him and lowered herself gingerly into an armchair. Keedy sat opposite her. The room was small and crammed with furniture. There was an abiding aroma of lavender.

‘Why are you bothering me?’ she asked, glaring defiantly.

‘I just need to clear up one simple point, Mrs Crowther.’

‘Who else knows about this?’

‘Nobody,’ he replied. ‘And I’m talking to you in confidence. Nothing you tell me will become public knowledge. I’m not here to delve into your private life. I simply wish to confirm an alibi.’

She stiffened. ‘
Alibi
– you surely don’t suspect Horrie?’

‘I just wish to eliminate him from our enquiries.’

‘Why is that, Sergeant? What has he done? What has he said?’

‘He knew the deceased,’ said Keedy, ‘and there was bad blood between them. I interviewed him as a matter of routine. He has a number of witnesses – including your son – who can vouch for his being at the Weavers Arms yesterday, but he admitted that he did slip away for an hour or two. At first, he refused point-blank to say where he’d been.’

‘So I should hope,’ she said, grimly.

‘It was only when I threatened him with arrest that he was forced to disclose your name. My question is simple, Mrs Crowther. Was he or was he not here in the course of yesterday evening?’

Maud Crowther took time to mull things over. As she did so, she looked Keedy up and down. A life spent in the licensing trade had given her the ability to make fairly accurate judgements about the character of any newcomers. Whatever test she applied to Keedy, he seemed to pass it.

‘It’s not what you think,’ she began.

‘I make no assumptions, Mrs Crowther.’

‘And nobody must ever know about it. People wouldn’t understand.’

‘Can you confirm what Mr Waldron told me?’

‘Horrie is not such a bad man, Sergeant,’ she said, her voice softening. ‘I know he’s been in trouble with the police before but never for anything really serious. Whoever killed this poor young man, it couldn’t have been Horrie. He just wouldn’t do anything like that.’

‘Did he call here yesterday or didn’t he?’

‘So you can stop treating him as a suspect.’

‘You haven’t answered my question, Mrs Crowther.’

She made him wait. ‘He might have done,’ she said at length.

‘And might he have been here for one hour or two?’

‘One hour.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘I’ll show you out.’

Still reeling from the shock of what she’d been told, Ruby Cosgrove was unable to return to work that afternoon. Instead of taking her home where her mother would act as a chaperone, Gordon Leach guided her towards the nearest park. They found a bench and ignored the cold. Ruby was on the verge of tears. Leach slipped an arm around her and they sat there in companionable silence. Instead of being able to enjoy a stolen afternoon of togetherness, they were lost in their respective thoughts. It was Ruby who finally broke the silence.

‘What are we going to
do
, Gordon?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I can’t stop thinking of what happened to Cyril.’

‘It’s driving me to distraction as well.’

‘He never harmed anyone in his life.’

‘Cyril was a conchie,’ he said, flatly. ‘Some people don’t like us.’

She grabbed at his coat. ‘Are you saying that they may be after you as well?’

‘No, Ruby. For some reason, Cyril was picked out. I don’t know why.’

‘Do the police have any idea who did it?’

‘I gave the inspector the name of one person,’ he said with a slight surge of importance. ‘And the more I think about him, the more convinced I am that it could be him. He hated Cyril.’

‘Have the police gone to arrest him?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But he might do it again.’

‘We don’t know for certain that he
is
the killer, Ruby.’

‘Who is this man? Does he know where you live?’

‘Forget about him,’ he said, tightening his grip on her shoulder. ‘Let the police get on with their job; Inspector Marmion seemed like a shrewd man. He knows what he’s doing. All we have to consider is what
we’ll
do.’

‘There’s nothing much that we
can
do,’ she said. ‘And what about Fred and Mansel – they’re in the same position as you. All four of you swore to do the same thing when they tried to force you to join the army. Now that Cyril has gone, the rest of you might feel different.’

‘I don’t,’ he declared, ‘and neither will Fred and Mansel.’

‘They might be frightened by what happened.’

‘That won’t change their minds. Conscription is an infringement of our human rights. Nobody can make me put on a uniform and kill people.’

‘What if it gets worse?’ she asked, dabbing at tears with a handkerchief. ‘You saw those awful things they painted on the wall of Cyril’s house. Suppose they do that at the bakery? And it’s not only you that suffers, Gordon. Because they just don’t understand, my parents keep saying that you ought to join up. As for the women at work,’ she went on, ‘they’re already passing remarks about me. I’ve got some good friends at the factory but there are some nasty ones as well and they keep taunting me for getting engaged to a coward.’

‘I’m not a coward!’ he protested.

‘I know that, Gordon. But lots of people think otherwise.’

‘They can think what they damn well like. The only person whose opinion I respect is yours. As long as you support me, Ruby, I can face anything.’

‘And so can I!’

In a display of ardour, he pulled her close and kissed her on the lips. Then she huddled into his shoulder and they lapsed into silence again. An old lady with a dog went by, casting a disapproving glance at him.
When an old man shuffled past, he couldn’t resist shooting Leach a look of scorn. Instead of sitting on a park bench – he seemed to imply – an able-bodied young man should be abroad with his regiment. The baker had been subjected to so many contemptuous stares that he took no notice of them. Ruby, however, did. The old man’s hostility jolted her.

‘How can he be so unfair?’ she wondered.

‘Ignore him, Ruby.’

‘I can’t stand that look they give you. They don’t know what a kind person you really are. You wouldn’t dream of hurting any of them, yet they turn on you as if you’ve done something really horrible.’

‘In their eyes, I have. I’ve stood up for pacifism.’

‘But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Ruby – and one day, God willing, people might realise that.’

‘I’m so proud of you, standing up for what you believe in.’

‘Cyril did that,’ he reminded her, ‘and he paid with his life. I’ll never forget that. He’s been my inspiration. It’s the same for Fred and Mansel.’

‘I’m only interested in
you
,’ she said, pulling away to look into his eyes. ‘Nobody else matters. You’re everything to me, Gordon. That’s why I can’t wait to become Mrs Leach.’

He looked at her with sudden intensity as an idea whirred away in his brain. The date for their wedding had been set in the summer. If he was compelled to join the army – or imprisoned for refusing to do so – then the marriage might not even take place. Patient years of waiting would come to nothing. Their mutual passion would fall cruelly short of consummation. It would be unbearable.

‘I love you, Ruby,’ he said, impulsively.

‘And I love you.’

‘Do you know what we should do?’

‘What?’

‘We should get married.’

‘But it’s already been arranged. We’ve even worked out the guest list.’

‘No,’ he said, grasping her hands, ‘we should get married
now
. There’s such a thing as a three-day licence. It’s what some soldiers have been doing before they get sent abroad again.’

She was distressed. ‘But they don’t do it properly in a church.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘It does to me, Gordon. I’ve set my heart on a church wedding. Auntie Gwen has already started making my dress.’

‘There’s nothing to stop you wearing it at the register office.’

‘It’s not the same.’

He was crestfallen. ‘Don’t you
want
to marry me?’

‘You know that I do. I want it more than anything else in the world.’

‘Then we should be man and wife sooner rather than later.’

‘Everyone I know has been married in a church.’

‘That’s the ideal place, I agree,’ he said, ‘but you have to look at the situation we’re in. The law says that I should be called up. One way or another, we may be separated. We must face facts. I may not be able to marry you in the summer. If we have a wedding with this special licence, we can not only be together,’ he stressed, ‘but I’ll be exempt from conscription. Married men are not liable to be called up.’

Ruby looked at him but it was not in the usual adoring way. For the first time in their long courtship, there was doubt in her eyes. While she loved him enough to marry him, she had the strange feeling that she was not only being deprived of the joy of a church wedding; she was being used as an escape route.

Joe Keedy was late arriving at the place where they’d agreed to meet. His diversion to Maud Crowther’s house had taken time. When he finally turned up, he found Harvey Marmion waiting for him in the car. On the drive to the photographer’s studio, they were able to compare notes. Keedy went first, talking about his encounter with Waldron and of his unexpected discovery that so repellent a man could, inexplicably, arouse romantic interest in a woman. He spoke about her with admiration. Maud had struck him as someone who’d worked hard all her life and retained more than a vestige of her once handsome features as well as her natural buoyancy.

‘What did she mean, Joe?’ asked Marmion. ‘When she told you that it wasn’t what you might think – what was she trying to say?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Perhaps they just play cards together.’

‘Oh, I fancy there’s more to it than that,’ said Keedy with a smile. ‘I could tell from her tone of voice. When I first mentioned Waldron’s
name, she flared up and called him a good-for-nothing. As we went on to talk about him, however, she slowly mellowed and referred to him with real affection.’

‘It could still be an innocent friendship.’

‘Then why are they both so anxious to keep it secret? Waldron was scared stiff in case Mrs Crowther’s son ever found out about it. In the son’s place, I certainly wouldn’t be happy. I don’t mind admitting it. If
my
mother ever got involved with someone as revolting as Waldron, I’d be very upset.’

‘It’s not a fair comparison,’ Marmion pointed out. ‘Your father is still alive so your mother is not a widow. If a woman is on her own after years of having a man about the house, she could get very lonely. It may be that Mrs Crowther sees things in Waldron that eluded your sharp eye.’

‘It was my sharp nose that turned me off him. He stank to high heaven.’

‘Digging graves is not the most salubrious occupation.’

‘I can only think that he cleans himself up before he calls on her.’

‘That’s a matter between the two of them, Joe. The question remains. Do we or don’t we treat him as a suspect?’

Keedy pondered. ‘We keep his name on the reserve list.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘It’s because he could have been away from the Weavers Arms long enough to visit his lady friend
and
to commit a murder. Waldron may not be very bright but he has a low animal cunning. It all depends on when Cyril Ablatt was killed.’

‘Post-mortems can never be that precise,’ said Marmion, sighing. ‘The best they can do is to give us an approximate time. I’ve sent someone to find out when Ablatt actually left Devonshire House yesterday. That will give us a rough time frame in which the murder
occurred. However,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘from what you’ve told me about Waldron, I’m not sure that he’ll ever get off a notional reserve list of suspects.’

‘I still think we should keep probing, Harv.’

‘We will, I promise.’

It was Marmion’s turn to deliver a report and he recounted details of his visit to the library. Keedy was interested to hear that he’d taken such a dislike to Eric Fussell. As a rule, Marmion was a very tolerant man, able to work effectively with nauseating superiors like Superintendent Chatfield and to give most people the benefit of the doubt. Yet, in the short time they’d been together, he’d obviously taken against the librarian.

‘I’m not entirely sure why,’ he admitted as he tried to work it out. ‘There was just something about him that nettled me. He looked genuinely shocked when he heard about the murder, yet the moment I described Ablatt as a librarian, he pounced on the mistake. Even the death of his assistant couldn’t keep his self-importance at bay. Incidentally,’ continued Marmion, ‘he’s had a brush or two with Horrie Waldron. When he’s drunk, he reckons, the gravedigger could be very dangerous.’

‘I can verify that,’ said Keedy. ‘I wouldn’t like to have an argument with him when he’s got a spade in his hands. He’s a very strong man.’

‘He’s obviously capable of bludgeoning someone to death but I don’t accept that he’d have the brains to plan the murder. Someone else would have to do that. Waldron might simply be the hired killer, working for another man with a grudge against Ablatt.’

‘Do you have any idea who the other man could be, Harv?’

A name trembled instantly on Marmion’s tongue and he spat it out.

‘It could be someone like Eric Fussell.’

Having started work early that morning, Mansel Price was due to finish by mid afternoon. Before he’d left the train, he’d cooked himself a meal then wolfed it down in the privacy of the galley kitchen. When he came off duty, he was astonished to see Fred Hambridge waiting for him on the station platform. Though the carpenter knew his friend’s shift pattern, he should have been working himself at that time. Price could not understand why he wasn’t beavering away in his workshop. Hambridge had a newspaper under his arm. Spotting the Welsh cook, he ran across to him.

‘Hello, Mansel,’ he said. ‘Have you heard?’

Price’s face went blank. ‘Heard what?’

‘About Cyril.’

‘What about him?’

‘I can’t tell you here. Let’s go outside.’

They picked their way along the crowded platform towards the exit. Once outside in the street, Hambridge took Price by the elbow and led him to a quiet corner further along the pavement. He opened the newspaper to show him the headline.

‘This is the early edition,’ he said, giving it to him.

Price saw the front page story in the
Evening News
and gasped in horror.

‘Is this
our
Cyril Ablatt?’ he asked, incredulously.

‘I’m afraid so, Mansel.’

‘I just don’t believe it.’

‘It’s true. My boss was the first who told me about it. Then this detective came to my house to ask me all sorts of questions about Cyril. I was too upset to go back to work. It must be years since I cried but I don’t mind telling you that I cried my eyes out earlier on.’ He pointed to the headline. ‘Now we know why he never got to my house last night.’

Price was hypnotised by the newspaper report. It contained few details but the significant one was the name of the victim. He noted
that the detective in charge of the case was an Inspector Marmion. Eventually, he thrust the paper back at his friend.

‘Does Gordon know about this?’

‘He’ll know for certain by now because the police will have told him. I warned him earlier on when my boss said there’d been a murder last night but I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that it was Cyril. No doubt about it now.’

‘I’ll kill the bastard who did this!’ vowed Price.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Hambridge, a calming hand aloft. ‘You don’t believe in killing anybody. That’s why you’re a pacifist.’

‘I’ll make an exception for this man.’

‘I felt the same at first, Mansel, but it’s not our job to get revenge. We must let the police hunt him down.’

‘Well,’ said Price, venomously, ‘at the very least, I’ll be dancing outside the prison when they hang the swine. It’s awful. Who would
do
such a thing?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Do the police have any idea?’

‘Not as yet,’ said Hambridge. ‘By the way, they want to talk to you. Sergeant Keedy – he’s the detective who spoke to me – was going to call at your house and, if you weren’t there, leave a message.’

‘What can I tell them?’

‘Much the same as me and Gordon, I suppose. They want to know everything they can find out about Cyril.’

Price was defensive. ‘Well, there’s nothing I can add. You knew him better than we did because you used to play in the same darts team as him. I hardly saw anything of Cyril until the war broke out, and Gordon, of course, spent most of his time with Ruby. No,’ he said, ‘you’re the one the police should talk to.’

Hambridge nodded soulfully. ‘I’ve been wondering about his father.’

‘What about him?’

‘Well, should we go to see him?’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Mr Ablatt’s a nice enough man and I feel sorry for him but I’m not sure what we could do – not at this stage, anyway. He’ll have family around him and we don’t want to be in the way.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Let’s leave it for a bit, shall we?’

‘You’re probably right, Mansel.’

‘I want to know more details first.’

‘So do I. But we mustn’t leave it too long,’ said Hambridge. ‘We owe it to Cyril to show Mr Ablatt what his son meant to us. He must be really upset.’

‘
We
may not want to visit the house just yet,’ said Price, meaningfully, ‘but someone else might.’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘I’m talking about whoever painted those things on Cyril’s wall.’

‘Yes,’ said Hambridge, ‘they were vile.’

‘He’ll be gloating when he hears the news.’

‘Think of those names he called Cyril.’

‘I don’t know why they were left there. If it was my house, I’d have hidden them beneath a coat or two of whitewash. I’d love to meet the man responsible,’ growled Price through gritted teeth. ‘He deserves to hang alongside the killer – and I’d like to be the bloody executioner!’

With the newspaper rolled up in his hand, the man walked briskly along the street before turning the corner. He looked up at the wall of the Ablatt house and smiled inwardly. The bold lettering he’d painted there took on a new meaning now and it was one that gave him immense
pleasure. Without breaking stride, he held the newspaper up as if it were a weapon and fired an imaginary bullet at the wall. Minutes later, he reached his own home and let himself in. The first thing he did was to go into the garden to check how much paint he still had locked away in his shed. The death of a conscientious objector was something to be celebrated. It was time for some more nocturnal art.

The photographer’s studio was in a side street in Finsbury. Several examples of his work were on display in the shop window. Marmion and Keedy looked at three different married couples, standing outside their respective church porches with broad grins and expressions of unassailable hope. Poised over a many-candled iced cake, an elderly couple were marking an anniversary of some kind. There were photographs of young men in uniform and one taken at a children’s party. The youngest person in the exhibition was a baby, cradled in the arms of a doting mother while the proud father looked on. Vernon Nethercott catered for all the family.

Entering the shop, the detectives learnt that Nethercott was busy so they were forced to wait. Childish laughter from the next room suggested that the photographer knew how to amuse his customers. The young woman who acted as receptionist had only been with Nethercott for six months and she was unable to identify the woman in the photograph that Marmion showed her. But she boasted that her employer had a remarkable memory and that he’d certainly recall her name. It was some time before Nethercott eventually appeared, shepherding a mother and her two little children out of the shop. All three of them had clearly enjoyed their visit.

Nethercott was taken aback to hear that two detectives had descended upon him. He was a short, slight man with a gleaming bald head and bushy eyebrows.

‘Dear me!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’m not in trouble, am I?’

‘No, Mr Nethercott,’ said Marmion. ‘We simply need your help. Not all that far from here, a murder occurred last night.’ The photographer and his receptionist reacted with alarm. ‘When we called at the victim’s house, we found this.’ He handed the photograph to Nethercott. ‘Your name and address are franked on it.’

‘It’s standard practice, Inspector. I do it with all my photographs.’

‘Do you recognise the lady?’

‘I recognise her very well – though I can’t give you an exact date when this was taken. Some months ago – that much is certain. If you want me to be more specific, I’ll have to consult my appointments book.’

‘That won’t be necessary, sir. I just need the lady’s name and, if possible, her address. I’m told that you have a wonderful memory.’

‘What I remember are faces, Inspector. I treasure people’s expressions as they stare at a camera. Each one is unique to a particular individual. Take this lady, for instance,’ he said, tapping the photograph. ‘When she first came into my studio that day, she was rather uneasy, not to say furtive. The moment I told her to smile, however, she came alive. You can see the delight in her eyes.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Mrs Skene – Caroline Skene.’

‘Does she live locally?’

‘No,’ said Nethercott, ‘that’s what surprised me a little. She lives in Lambeth. Why come all the way here when there must be dozens of other photographers nearer to her home? I’m quite well known in Finsbury but I didn’t think that my reputation would stretch south of the river.’

‘Do you have the lady’s address?’ asked Keedy.

‘I’m afraid not. When she came in to book the appointment, all she told me was that she lived in Lambeth. To be honest, she was a bit
secretive.’ He gave the photograph back to Marmion. ‘I’m sorry that I can’t be more helpful.’

‘You’ve pointed me in the right direction, sir,’ said Marmion, ‘and I’m grateful for that. I’d be even more grateful if you’d tell nobody about our visit.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘That goes for you as well, young lady. Mrs Skene is not a suspect in this inquiry. I don’t want her name to be spread abroad.’

‘We understand, Inspector,’ said Nethercott.

Marmion and Keedy left the shop in a flurry of farewells. As they did so, they saw a young couple approaching. The man was in army uniform and the woman was clutching his arm with the desperation of someone holding onto a lifebelt. The detectives stood aside to let them enter the premises.

‘I feel sorry for her,’ said Keedy. ‘She wants something to remember him by in case he doesn’t come back from the front.’

‘It works both ways, Joe,’ said Marmion. ‘When he’s shipped overseas, I can guarantee that he’ll have a photo of that pretty face in his pocket.’

‘What did you make of this Mrs Skene?’

‘The description of her behaviour fits with what we know. She was furtive because she felt guilty about what she was doing.’