Instrument of Slaughter Page 6

  ‘What a ridiculous idea!’ protested Ellen. ‘You never were a burden.’

  ‘There were times when I felt that I was.’

  ‘Well, I never felt that. As a matter of fact—’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mummy,’ interrupted Alice, ‘but I’ll have to go soon. Could you pour that tea now, please?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  After putting two teacups on the table, Ellen used a strainer to pour tea into them. They sat either side of the kitchen table, taking it in turns to add milk and sugar to their respective cups before stirring with a teaspoon. Ellen regarded her daughter through troubled eyes.

  ‘Is this what you really want, Alice?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I love working for the WEC.’

  ‘Vera Dowling doesn’t. I spoke to her mother yesterday. She said that

  Vera is finding it too demanding and expects her to give it up soon.’

  Alice shook her head. ‘Vera would never do that. She has a good moan at times but so does everyone else. We joined the WEC together and we both admire what it’s trying to do. Mrs Dowling is wrong, honestly. Vera’s like me – she’ll see it through to the end.’

  Ellen sipped her tea and ventured a smile. ‘It’s so good to see you again,’ she said, ‘if only for a short while. Your father will be so annoyed that he missed you.’

  ‘Give him my love,’ said Alice, sipping her own tea.

  ‘You haven’t seen him since Christmas.’

  ‘We’ve been so madly busy.’

  ‘We’d hoped that you might at least spend New Year’s Eve with us.’

  ‘I told you – I was invited to a party.’

  ‘Well, you’re invited to a party here any time you like,’ said Ellen, beaming hospitably. ‘You can bring Vera Dowling along, if you wish, or any of the new friends you’ve made in the WEC. I’d like to meet them. And if your father is free, I’ll ask him to invite Joe Keedy as well. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alice, quietly. ‘That would be very nice.’

  Keedy was in luck. When the police car dropped him off outside Hambridge’s house, the carpenter was at home. He was startled when the detective introduced himself and shattered when his worst fears were confirmed. Keedy had to offer a steadying hand. Invited into the house, he saw how spotless and uncluttered it was. There were no paintings on the walls and very few ornaments. The simplicity was striking.

  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.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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. ‘W
hat 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.’