A Bespoke Murder Page 9

  Dorothy glanced at the evening paper on the arm of the sofa.

  ‘Did you find anything that tempted you?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Irene. ‘There are plenty of jobs advertised but I’d like to know a bit more about them before I commit myself.’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘I wanted something that gets me out and about. I’d like a job that helps me to meet new people all the time.’

  ‘Then you should work in our shop,’ said Dorothy, chuckling. ‘We have all sorts coming through the door.’

  ‘I’m not sure it would suit me, Dot.’

  ‘Then what would?’

  ‘Well,’ said Irene, reaching for the newspaper, ‘one of the adverts that caught my eye was to do with trams.’

  ‘You mean, working as a conductress?’

  ‘I might start as that but I’d really want to be a driver. Apart from anything else, they earn more money. The tram that brought me here had a woman driver.’ Having opened the paper to the correct page, she passed it to her sister. ‘There you are – down at the bottom. I put a circle round it.’

  ‘There are four or five circles.’

  ‘Those are other jobs I might go after.’

  ‘Here we are,’ said Dorothy, finding the advertisement and reading the details. ‘Well, why not? A job on the trams would give you continuity.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s another form of transport. You start off on ships then you move on to trams. You’d certainly meet lots of people that way.’ There was a twinkle in Dorothy’s eye. ‘You might even get a proposal of marriage out of one of them.’

  Irene smiled wanly. ‘No, thank you. That’s all behind me.’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘Oh yes I do. My future is here with you and Miss James.’

  ‘She was thrilled when I told her you were back.’

  ‘Good – it feels so right, Dot.’

  ‘Let’s celebrate with another glass, shall we?’

  Putting the newspaper aside, Dorothy topped up their glasses from the sherry bottle. It was such a long time since she’d been able to share a companionable drink with anyone. Indeed, very few people were even invited into the house. Such as it was, Dorothy’s social life took place elsewhere. She regarded her sister through narrowed lids.

  ‘What was he like, Irene?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m talking about the chap who fell madly in love with you.’

  Irene gave a half-laugh. ‘I don’t know about falling in love,’ she said. ‘Ernie wasn’t romantic in that way. He just wanted a woman and I happened to be the one on hand.’

  ‘There must have been more to it than that.’

  After thinking it over, Irene gave an affirmative nod.

  ‘There was, Dot.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It no longer seems to matter. Ernie Gill belongs to a past life before the ship went down. Everything is different now. I’ve no regrets about what I did. I just don’t want to dwell on it.’

  ‘In other words, I’m to mind my own business.’

  ‘I’d just like you to give me more time to … settle down.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Dorothy, sweetly. ‘You want to forget.’

  ‘This sherry will help me to do that.’

  They clinked their glasses then sipped their drinks. After they chatted for another hour, Dorothy looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and saw how late it was.

  ‘I have to leave early in the morning,’ she said, ‘but you deserve a long lie-in. You can spend the whole day in bed, if you like.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Irene. ‘I’ll be up at the crack of dawn. When you go off, I’ll probably come with you. I may have a lot of doors to knock on tomorrow.’

  It took two days to gather all the documentation together. Before they departed, Sir Edward Henry insisted on speaking to Marmion and Keedy in his office. He handed over passports, warrants and a letter from the War Office.

  ‘I can’t tell you what a struggle I had to get authorisation,’ he said, clenching his teeth. ‘I had to contend with some blunt speaking at the War Office. One man went so far as to claim that any young unattended woman out at night is more or less asking to be molested and that Miss Stein had effectively provoked the rape.’

  ‘That’s a revolting suggestion,’ said Marmion, angrily.

  ‘There was worse to come, Inspector. The same fellow had the gall to ask me which was the more important – a deflowered Jewish virgin of no consequence or a pair of gallant soldiers ready to lay down their lives for their country? I gave him a flea in his ear.’

  ‘That was very restrained of you, Sir Edward.’

  The commissioner nodded. ‘In retrospect, I think it was,’ he agreed, ‘but I got my way in the end. However, let’s put that aside, shall we? We must consider practicalities. What will happen while you’re away?’

  ‘The investigation will continue along the lines we’ve set down,’ said Marmion. ‘I’ve briefed my team. They’ll search for other people involved in the incident but the main focus will be on identifying the killer.’

  ‘Mr Stone keeps ringing me to ask about progress.’

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I’m suitably vague but mildly encouraging.’

  ‘Have you told him about our trip to France?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector – it’s the one thing of which he approved. He voiced his disapproval of just about everything else.’

  ‘I’m surprised that he has time to hound you, Sir Edward,’ said Keedy. ‘His brother’s body has been released to the family. I would have thought he’d be preoccupied with the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘Mr Stone seems to think that he has to bark at our heels to get any results.’ The commissioner gave a forbearing smile. ‘Given what happened to his brother and to his niece, the fellow is under intense pressure. We must make allowances for that.’

  He looked down at the report in front of him and flicked through the pages. It had been prepared by Marmion and gave details of all arrests, interviews and names relevant to the investigation. Marmion and Keedy had spoken to everyone who worked for Jacob Stein, as well as to some of his rival tailors. They’d built up a much fuller picture of the deceased. What they had not so far been able to do was to track down the man who had been dismissed and the one who left Stein’s employ of his own accord. Nor had they managed to identify and arrest the arsonist with the can of petrol. Newspapers had carried a detailed description of the individual and a number of names were put forward by members of the public. Though they were all checked, none of them belonged to the man in question and so he remained at large.

  ‘Who was the ringleader?’ said Sir Edward. ‘That’s what I really want to know. Was he also the killer?’

  ‘That’s possible,’ said Marmion, ‘but none of the witnesses picked out one particular person. All they remembered seeing was a chanting mob coming along the street.’

  ‘One of whom had a petrol can,’ added Keedy.

  The commissioner pursed his lips and shook his head sadly.

  ‘Murder, rape and arson,’ he said, ruefully. ‘It’s not what we expect of the West End. Were the crimes related?’

  ‘We won’t know until we’ve interviewed the two soldiers,’ said Marmion. ‘One of them was certainly guilty of rape and might also have been responsible for the fire. But I think we can absolve the pair of them of the murder.’

  ‘On what grounds do you say that, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m going on what the victim told us – or, at least, on what her mother was able to tell us on the girl’s behalf. Ruth Stein left her father upstairs and went off to raise the alarm. The two men pounced on her in the alley. They could have come from the shop, of course,’ reasoned Marmion, ‘but they definitely did not come from the upstairs room where Mr Stein was murdered. After the rape, they went off in the opposite direction. The fire had taken hold on the shop by then.’r />
  ‘Somebody else killed him,’ concluded Keedy.

  The commissioner sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

  ‘Do you have any theories about who that might be?’

  ‘We do, Sir Edward.’ Keedy glanced at Marmion. ‘As it happens, the inspector and I have slightly conflicting theories.’

  ‘What’s yours, Sergeant?’

  ‘Well,’ said Keedy, seizing his chance to impress, ‘we know for a fact that the property was attacked because it had a German name over it and obscenities were being chanted against all Germans. However, that may not be the explanation for the murder. I have a feeling – and it’s no more than a feeling, mark you – that Jacob Stein was killed because he was a Jew, and not because of any association with the enemy.’

  ‘What leads you to think that?’

  ‘I’ve been looking at some of the riots in the East End where they’ve been far more prevalent. The main targets were shops and houses owned by people of German origin. But they were not the only victims,’ said Keedy. ‘Some people took advantage of the situation to attack Jewish immigrants in general, especially those from Russia.’

  ‘You’ll no doubt remember the activities of the British Brothers’ League,’ said Marmion. ‘They organised constant demonstrations against Jewish immigration at the start of the century.’

  ‘I remember it vividly,’ said the commissioner. ‘They made a lot of noise until they got what they wanted – the Aliens Act. But that was ten years ago,’ he went on. ‘I thought the BBL more or less disappeared after 1905.’

  ‘So did I, Sir Edward,’ said Keedy, ‘but some of its members formed much smaller groups under other names. Jews continue to be their scapegoats. They blame them for everything. I’m wondering if Jacob Stein was killed by a member of one of these rabid anti-Semitic groups.’

  ‘It’s an interesting theory. What do you think, Inspector?’

  ‘It’s a line of inquiry that needs pursuing,’ said Marmion, ‘and I have men doing just that. But I still hold to the view that there’s a personal aspect to this case. Stein was murdered by someone who knew him and his routine at the shop. It was someone with an axe to grind, someone with a score to settle. Above all else, it was someone who knew where that safe was kept.’

  ‘That points to a present or former employee, then.’

  ‘We can discount the present ones, Sir Edward.’

  ‘What about former ones?’

  ‘There are two who’ve aroused our interest. One was middle-aged and left after a long time with the firm. The other was much younger and was – according to Mr Cohen, the manager – very angry at being dismissed. We’re urgently seeking both of them.’

  ‘You say that one was middle-aged, Inspector. Would this man have been physically capable of stabbing Mr Stein to death?’

  ‘Possibly not, Sir Edward.’

  ‘Then how can he be held culpable?’

  ‘Because he stage-managed it,’ said Marmion with growing certainty. ‘He knew the confusion that would be created by the attack on the shop and he hired someone to take full advantage of it. Jacob Stein was not killed accidentally, Sir Edward. His death was plotted and paid for in advance. In my opinion,’ he decided, ‘what confronts us is a bespoke murder.’

  There had been a heady excitement when they first joined the army. They were treated as heroes by their families and friends. When they marched in uniform through the streets, they were cheered to the echo by large crowds. That was all in the past. There was no cheering now, only the distant boom and whizz of artillery. Oliver Cochran and John Gatliffe found a moment to have a cigarette together. They were camped with their regiment to the west of Ypres where hostilities were continuing apace. Gatliffe had seen some of the wounded British soldiers being stretchered from the front.

  ‘It turned my stomach, Ol,’ he said with a grimace. ‘Keep away from that field hospital unless you want to spew up your dinner. I saw men with arms and legs missing and others who’d been blinded. One was crying because they’d shot his bollocks off.’ He shuddered at the memory. ‘I don’t know how the stretcher-bearers can do their job.’

  ‘We do far worse to the Germans,’ insisted Cochran.

  ‘It’s not what I expected at all.’

  ‘War is war, Gatty. We’re not here to play ping-pong.’

  ‘The noise never stops – and I hate that terrible stink in the air.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it.’

  ‘There was something else,’ said Gatliffe, ‘and it really scared me. They’re using poisonous gas, Ol. The Germans are attacking us with gas bombs.’

  ‘So? We’ll probably have gas masks to wear.’

  ‘I’d hate to be poisoned to death.’

  ‘Stop getting so upset, will you?’ said Cochran, irritably. ‘A fine bloody soldier you are – giving up before we’ve even started. We’ve already fought one battle at Ypres. That was last year and we won it.’

  ‘Yet look at how many thousands of our men were killed in the battle. And they were regular soldiers, blokes who’d fought in the Boer War and that. They were professionals, Ol. We’re just raw recruits.’

  ‘I’m not raw. I’m as good as any fucking Hun.’

  Snatching up his rifle, he jabbed at an imaginary enemy then pulled out his bayonet before stabbing a second one. As he showed off his proficiency with rifle and bayonet, there was a zestful fury about Cochran that lifted his friend’s spirits. Gatliffe, too, picked up his weapon and went through some of the moves they’d learnt during bayonet drill. It felt good to have a rifle in his hands. Confidence returned. He looked forward to the time when he could fire at the enemy. With Cochran beside him, he was ready for the fight.

  Tossing his cigarette butt to the ground, Cochran sliced it apart with a thrust of his bayonet. Like Gatliffe, he was having misgivings about his decision to join the army. While his friend was honest about his fears, however, Cochran suppressed his apprehension beneath a mixture of boasting and bravado. He would never show a hint of trepidation to Gatliffe because it would undermine his strong hold over his friend. Cochran was the acknowledged leader and he was determined to retain his leadership.

  ‘Know what, Ol?’ said Gatliffe. ‘You ought to be a corporal, even a sergeant.’

  ‘Nah!’ retorted Cochran with a sneer. ‘It’s a stupid idea.’

  ‘You’d be really good at it.’

  ‘NCOs are all wankers, especially the ones we’ve got.’

  ‘I could just see you with three stripes on your arm.’

  ‘You’re off your bleeding head, Gatty. There’s only one thing worse than being a sergeant and that’s being a fucking officer. Look at the idiots we got in command. You wouldn’t catch me mixing with silly sods like that. They all talk as if they got a plum in their gobs.’

  Gatliffe scratched his head. ‘It was only a thought.’

  ‘Well, don’t bleeding think it again,’ said Cochran. ‘I’m where I want to be and I’ll stay right here, OK?’ A slow smile spread across his face. ‘If you want something to think about, remember what we did on that last night in London. She was an ugly little thing but she had a good body, I’ll give her that. I had a great ride on her and you could have done the same.’

  Gatliffe was reflective. ‘I’m beginning to wish I had now.’

  ‘You got cold feet, Gatty, that’s your trouble.’

  ‘I was afraid that somebody would come and catch us.’

  ‘You didn’t want it enough, did you? Whereas I did,’ bragged Cochran, ‘and so I bloody well had it. That’s the thing about women. You got to grab them when you get the chance.’ His smirk broadened. ‘And there’s something special about virgins like her. It means I was the first. She’ll always remember me.’

  Ruth Stein felt imprisoned in her own house. They never left her alone. When her mother was not watching her, she was kept under surveillance by her Uncle Herman or by a member of his family. She was not even allowed to sleep by herself. One of her cousins
shared the same bedroom. Nobody ever mentioned her suicide attempt in so many words but it was neither forgotten nor forgiven. Everything they did was informed by it. At one and the same time, she was being punished for her crime and smothered by their collective love. It was agonising. Her father’s funeral was over now and they had entered a seven-day period of bereavement called shiva when Ruth and the other chief mourners did not leave the house. It all served to heighten her sense of incarceration. When she joined the others in the thrice-daily recitation of Kaddish, she could barely mumble the words.

  Armed with their documentation, and carrying a pair of handcuffs apiece, Harvey Marmion and Joe Keedy took a train to Dover and boarded a ferry. Standing on deck, they were the only passengers not in uniform. Inevitably, Marmion thought about his son who had crossed to France with his regiment the previous year. Since then they’d only seen him once on leave. Paul Marmion’s letters from the front were eagerly seized on by every member of the family. They were not always comfortable reading. Joe Keedy had many friends who had enlisted in the army, several of them from the police force. But they were not in his thoughts at the moment. What interested him was the large number of horses on the vessel.

  ‘Is there still a place for a cavalry regiment?’ he wondered.

  ‘Somebody clearly thinks so, Joe,’ said Marmion.

  ‘I wouldn’t fancy charging at the German lines with nothing but a lance or a sabre. The enemy have got machine guns and rifles. What use are horses when bullets are flying about?’

  ‘They get our soldiers to the point of attack much quicker. It’s one of the things Paul is always complaining about – how painfully slow you are, trying to run across a field with mud up to your ankles.’

  ‘I keep remembering that poem we learnt at school.’

  Marmion grinned. ‘I never took you for the poetic type.’

  ‘I’m not, Harv,’ said Keedy, speaking more familiarly now that they were off duty. ‘I used to hate having to learn all those verses. But this one stuck in my mind somehow. It was about the Crimean War.’