Instrument of Slaughter (26 page)

‘It’s to do with a criminal act,’ insisted Chatfield.

‘The inspector is correct,’ resumed Keedy. ‘Waldron was clever enough to kill and steal over a dozen rabbits but he had no means of selling them. That’s where Stan Crowther came in. He knew which of his customers would be ready to pay up for a rabbit and ask no questions. Waldron got a share of the spoils.’

‘Why didn’t he tell you all this when you arrested him?’

‘He’s afraid of repercussions, sir. Stan Crowther terrifies him.’

Chatfield banged his desk. ‘Well, it’s about time we terrified the landlord of the Weavers Arms. I’m not having anyone running a black market during severe food restrictions.’

‘The matter is in hand, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘As soon as the sergeant told me what was afoot, I rang the police station in Shoreditch. Mr Crowther will soon be arrested and I fancy that we’ll discover he had far more than rabbits on offer.’ He indicated to Keedy. ‘I think that the sergeant should be congratulated on getting Waldron to spill the beans.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Chatfield, grudgingly. ‘Well done, Sergeant. It’s a pity you didn’t work your wonders on the librarian.’

‘Mr Fussell will be more difficult to crack, sir,’ said Keedy.

‘That’s a pity, a real pity. Well, I suppose we’ve had a success of sorts, but stopping the illegal sale of rabbits is small beer compared to a murder and an attempted murder.’

‘We’re closer to solving both crimes than you think,’ said Marmion.

‘I feel that, too,’ added Keedy. ‘We’re getting warm.’

Chatfield sniffed. ‘The trail looks pretty cold to me.’

‘We’ve made some advances, sir. Now that we know that Mr Fussell actually went to see Father Howells, we can connect him even more closely to both of the crimes we’re investigating.’

‘We also caught him out lying,’ said Marmion. ‘He clearly has a lot to hide.’

‘Then find out what it is!’ snapped Chatfield. ‘I want progress. I need an arrest.’ The phone rang on his desk. He snatched it up with obvious irritation. ‘Superintendent Chatfield here.’ His brow furrowed as he listened to the message. After nodding a few times, he replaced the receiver. The whisper of a smile touched his lips. ‘It’s the hospital again,’ he said. ‘Father Howells wants to speak to Inspector Marmion.’

She knew that he was out there somewhere. When she peeped through the curtains in the front bedroom, Caroline Skene could see nobody in the street outside yet she was convinced that the house was being watched. Her stomach was knotted with fear and she could find no relief. Lacking the courage to go outside and investigate, she was also unable to ask her husband to do so. He knew nothing of her life beyond the marriage and she was certain that the surveillance was somehow connected with it. She was therefore compelled to suffer in silence. During the morning and afternoon, there’d been no problem. She’d been out shopping and been able to move about freely without any sense of being menaced. Now, however, he was back. What made her writhe in terror was that she had no idea of what he wanted.

Covering her trepidation as best she could, she went downstairs to the living room, ready to engage in conversation with her husband. There was, however, no call for her to do so. Wilf Skene was asleep in an armchair with a newspaper across his lap. Having worked the early
morning shift at the factory, he’d come home tired. He managed to stay awake long enough to eat an evening meal with her then dozed off in the chair. Caroline looked at him with an affection shadowed by discontent. He’d been a good, loyal, hard-working husband but he was an increasingly dull companion. An industrial accident had left him with a limp and he was now having a problem with his hearing. He was starting to look like an old man. The couple hadn’t had sexual relations for years. Distressed about it at first, she’d come to see it as a blessing. It gave her a sense of freedom and allowed her to give her thoughts full rein. Only because of what she felt was a sham marriage was she able to respond to the interest shown in her by Cyril Ablatt. He’d been her redemption.

While he was still alive – and their romance had blossomed – Caroline had been happier than at any other time in her life. When they were alone, the age difference vanished. They complemented each other. He’d educated her and she, in turn, had taught him about sensual pleasure. The rare nights they’d spent together had given her a satisfaction she’d never known before. It pained her to deceive her husband and, by extension, Gerald Ablatt, but she couldn’t help herself. She was swept along on a torrent of love seasoned with a lust she’d never realised she had. It left her at once ashamed and exhilarated, guilty at what she was doing yet thrilled that she’d got away with it. She knew that the situation would soon change. Her young lover’s refusal to accept conscription would land him in prison and keep him there for some time. Caroline had promised to stand by him. No matter how long he was incarcerated, she would be waiting for him on his release.

The one possibility she’d never even considered was his murder. It had ruined her life, leaving her bereft and vulnerable. Gone was the excitement of a young lover. All that was left behind was the awful
predictability of an existence with a tedious husband. At least he would never know about her adultery. She’d managed to establish that all the letters she’d written to Cyril had gone from his bedroom and she knew that the telltale photograph of her had been taken away by Inspector Marmion. She relied heavily on his discretion and understanding and wished that she could seek help from him at that very moment. But it would entail a walk to the police station to use the telephone and she was too frightened to venture outside. He was still lurking out there somewhere. If she was foolish enough to present a target, there was no telling what he might do.

It would all be different in the morning. Her husband would have gone to work and it would be safe for her to leave the house. Caroline wouldn’t just tell Marmion about the latest incident. She’d plead for protection. She couldn’t spend another evening in such a state. It was unendurable. The police had to rescue her from torment by catching the man who was stalking her. If they didn’t do so, he might tire of simply watching and move in for the kill.

It was different this time. Father Howells had actually asked to speak to Marmion. During their first conversation at the hospital, the curate had been both weary and befuddled. Marmion felt that he might also have been evasive. As he and Keedy drove to the hospital again, they allowed themselves a guarded optimism.

‘He’s had time to think things over,’ said Marmion. ‘With luck, he’s going to be more honest this time.’

Keedy smiled. ‘Are you accusing a priest of telling lies?’

‘No, he didn’t do that, Joe. He just refrained from telling the truth.’

‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

‘It depends how you look at it.’

There was another difference. When they went up to the room
where Father Howells was being kept, Marmion learnt that the patient had asked to see him on his own. No nurse or doctor would be in attendance. It was promising. Marmion went into the room alone and was met with an immediate setback. The curate was asleep and there was clearly no pretence involved. Not daring to wake him, all that he could do was to watch and wait. His patience was eventually rewarded. Father Howells stirred, rolled onto his side and half-opened his eyes.

‘Who’s there?’ he asked, hoarsely. ‘Is it the inspector?’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘How are you?’

‘My head still hurts.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Could you …?’

He lifted a hand to indicate the glass of water on the bedside table. Marmion helped him to sit up, then held the glass while he took several sips from it. When he spoke again, the curate sounded a little clearer.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘My throat is very dry.’

Marmion sat beside the bed. ‘Why did you want to see me alone?’

‘I want to know if I can trust you, Inspector.’

‘Trust me to do what, sir?’

‘My parents must never know the full details,’ said the other, solemnly. ‘They would never understand and I don’t want them to be hurt unnecessarily.’

‘I give you my word that I’ll be as discreet as possible.’

‘That’s good enough for me.’

‘Go on, sir.’

There was a considered pause. ‘It’s … not what you may think.’

‘I have no preconceptions about the attack, I assure you.’

‘There
have
been threats against me.’

‘Do you know who made them?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the curate, sadly. ‘I know only too well. I didn’t take them seriously at first. In fact, I destroyed the letters.’

‘Who sent them?’

‘It was someone who was once a close friend. We studied together at theological college. He was always rather intense even then. I completed the course but he dropped out for some reason. But we always kept in touch. That’s to say,’ he added, ‘
he
always kept in touch with me.’

‘What you’re saying is that the friendship was rather one-sided,’ observed Marmion. ‘Is that a fair description?’

‘With regard to the last few weeks, I suppose that it is.’

‘It sounds as if he’s possessive.’

‘He’s very possessive and prone to jealousy.’

‘What’s his name, sir?’

‘Be gentle with him, Inspector,’ urged Father Howells. ‘Strange as it may seem, I bear him no ill will. Michael misread the situation. When he saw me talking to a new friend, he thought that he was being replaced in my affections. But that’s not true at all. I never entertained the kind of feelings for Michael that he had for me.’ He looked at Marmion. ‘Do I need to be more explicit?’

‘No, sir – and you don’t need to tell me who this new friend was.’

‘He, too, saw something that isn’t there, Inspector. I don’t know why I inspire such strong feelings in other men. It’s always worried me. I’ve learnt to tolerate it. In Michael’s case, I tolerated it far too much and almost died as a result.’

‘What’s his other name, sir?’

‘Michael Goodrich. By rights, it should be the Reverend Michael Goodrich because he’s a very gifted man. And if he had a parish to look after, he wouldn’t have had time for any intense friendship. He’d have been kept as busy as I am. That’s the irony of it,’ said the patient. ‘I’m not interested in another man … in that way. What made me drift apart
from Michael was the sheer volume of work I have as a curate. In the course of that, curiously enough, I deal with far more women than men. Pastoral care is very time-consuming.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Marmion, taking out his notebook. ‘I appreciate the effort it must have cost for you to confide this information.’ He raised his pencil. ‘Could you please give me Mr Goodrich’s address?’

It was no use. After a third attempt at writing a letter, Alice Marmion tore it up and threw it into the wastepaper basket. In her mind, she knew exactly what she wanted to say but the right words would simply not drop onto the page. She now realised why. What she had to tell him needed to be said to his face and not written down. It was too important to be consigned to a letter that might be misinterpreted. The only fair and proper way was to confront him. Joe Keedy would certainly not turn up outside the house for a third time so Alice had to go to him. Though he lived on the other side of London and she’d have to get there in the dark, she didn’t hesitate for a second. Reaching for her coat and hat, she put them on and let herself out of the room.

Michael Goodrich lived alone in the cottage that he’d inherited from his parents. Since it was close to Epping Forest, it was a long drive for the detectives. Keedy was fascinated to hear the information that had been divulged.

‘I can see why he doesn’t want his parents to know everything,’ he said. ‘They didn’t strike me as a worldly couple.’

‘I agree, Joe. They wouldn’t understand how another man could actually fall in love with their son. It would distress them beyond measure, even though Father Howells didn’t have the same feelings for his friend – or for any other man, as it happens. He’s simply not of that persuasion.’

‘But we now know who is, Harv.’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘It’s our librarian once again. Eric Fussell was the reason that the curate was attacked in a fit of jealousy. He’d befriended Father Howells and had hidden motives for doing so. Goodrich wrongly identified Fussell as the lover who’d usurped him.’

Keedy grimaced. ‘I just can’t imagine Fussell as a lover somehow.’

‘Neither could Father Howells. As soon as he realised what was going on, he tried to distance himself from the librarian but he wasn’t easily shaken off.’

‘Are we
sure
that this so-called friend tried to kill Father Howells?’

‘I think so.’

‘What if it was the other way round?’ asked Keedy, thoughtfully. ‘Eric Fussell could have been provoked into that savage attack because he was jealous of Goodrich. If he saw him and the curate together, he’d feel that something was going on.’

‘Let’s deal with Goodrich first,’ said Marmion. ‘He’s the more likely suspect and the one named by Father Howells himself. We’ll keep Fussell in reserve for the moment.’ An idea struck him. ‘The fact that he prefers the company of men gives us a new slant on Ablatt’s murder, of course. We know that he was a handsome young chap. Caroline Skene emphasized that. Was his boss’s hatred of him fuelled by the fact that Ablatt had once rejected his advances?’

‘It’s not impossible, I suppose.’

‘There could be wheels within wheels.’

When they reached the cottage, they saw that it was small, thatched and fairly isolated. The curtains were drawn but there was a light on in the front room. There was no response to Marmion’s knock. He tried again, knocking even harder. When nobody came to the door, he and Keedy went around to the rear of the premises. They peered into the kitchen but it was empty. Marmion banged on
the window with his knuckles. It was all to no avail. After one last attempt to rouse someone inside the cottage, he nodded to Keedy who used a gloved hand to punch a hole in the kitchen window. Lifting the latch, he opened the window and clambered through before letting Marmion in by means of the back door. They switched on the light and went through to the living room. Marmion crossed to the staircase and looked up.

‘Is anyone here?’ he yelled.

There was dead silence. ‘I’ll take a look,’ said Keedy.

He bounded up the stairs and switched on the lights in each of the bedrooms. When he came back down again, he shook his head. They looked around the living room with its low ceiling and shabby furniture. It reminded them of Cyril Ablatt’s bedroom. Filled with books and magazines pertaining to the Anglican church, it also contained some anthologies of poetry. A Bible stood on the table beside a half-written article about the significance of Easter. The cottage felt lived in yet there was no sign of its owner. Keedy remembered something.

‘Isn’t there a shed at the back?’ he asked.

‘I believe that there is.’

‘Let’s go and see it.’

‘Why should he be hiding out there?’

Marmion had thought to bring a torch. When they went outside, he had to use it to guide them towards the large shed at the bottom of a garden that was clearly untended. The door of the shed was slightly ajar and the wind was making it tap against the jamb like a woodpecker. Opening the door wide, Marmion shone the torch inside and the beam illumined the body of Michael Goodrich, hanging from a rafter. They cut him down at once and tried to resuscitate him but he was already dead. In his pocket was a letter addressed to the Reverend James Howells. Marmion opened it and read the neat calligraphy.

They looked down at the lifeless body. Goodrich was a short, slim young man with an almost boyish face twisted into an expression of agony, eyes bulging and tongue sticking out. Marmion and Keedy felt a surge of compassion. The case had been solved but they were sorry that it had involved a gruesome suicide.

‘Are you going to show Father Howells that letter?’ asked Keedy.