Instrument of Slaughter (6 page)

‘I had to come,’ he said, lowering himself down beside her.

‘Whatever’s the matter with you? You’re trembling.’

‘There’s something I must tell you, Ruby.’

‘Well, be quick about it,’ she said. ‘The hooter will go in a minute.’

He looked into her face and realised why he loved her so much. Ruby had an exaggerated prettiness that had captivated him when he first met her and a way of jiggling her head about as she spoke that he found entrancing. He didn’t mind that she was rather plump. If anything, it added to her attraction, the large bust swelling under her overall, the generous thighs and wide hips enlarging her contours. He hated having to pass on such tragic news but he could hold it in no longer. Taking her by the shoulders, he inhaled deeply.

‘Something terrible has happened,’ he said.

She tensed. ‘What is it?’

‘Cyril is dead.’

‘No!’ she exclaimed, palms slapping against her chubby cheeks. ‘I don’t believe it. Tell me it’s not true, Gordon. Tell me it’s some kind of joke.’

‘I swear that it’s true – and there’s worse to come.’

‘What could possibly be worse than that?’

Tears now streamed down his face. ‘He was murdered, Ruby. A detective came to the bakery to tell me. While we were all waiting for him at Fred’s house, Cyril was battered to death.’

It was all too much for Ruby. She simply couldn’t cope with the gravity of the news and its many implications for her fiancé, and for her. While she liked Ablatt, she resented him for taking up so much of Leach’s time. All that resentment vanished now, drowned beneath a flood of sympathy. After biting her lip and emitting a laugh of disbelief, she swayed to and fro before fainting into his arms.

When the factory hooter sounded, she never even heard it.

‘Are you Horace Waldron?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘But I was told that you were.’

‘Then you was told lies – my name is Horrie.’

‘It’s only a diminutive of Horace.’

‘What the fuck is that?’

‘Never mind, sir.’

‘And who are you calling “sir”? What’s your game?’

‘I need to speak to you.’

‘Not when I got work to do.’

‘This is important.’

‘So is earning my bleeding beer money.’

Joe Keedy could see that he was in for a difficult interview. When he tracked Waldron down in the cemetery, the man was standing in a grave that was three feet deep. Surly and uncooperative, Waldron chewed on a pipe but there was no tobacco in it. He resumed his digging. Squatting down, Keedy put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

‘Let go of me,’ snarled Waldron.

‘I have to ask you some questions, sir.’

‘Bugger off!’

‘Or perhaps you’d rather answer them in the nearest police station?’

‘That explains the stink round here – you’re a copper.’

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy from Scotland Yard and I’m involved in a murder inquiry.’

‘Then why not leave me alone and get on with it.’

‘I
am
getting on with it, sir.’

As the gravedigger tried to carry on with his work, Keedy grabbed the spade and wrenched it from his grasp, throwing it down on the grass. Waldron bunched his fists and issued a string of expletives. After threatening to hit Keedy, he thought better of it. Assaulting a detective had serious consequences. Besides, the sergeant was much younger and looked muscular. Waldron folded his arms and scowled.

‘What’s this about a murder, then?’

Keedy stood up. ‘A man named Cyril Ablatt was brutally killed last night.’

‘Really?’ asked Waldron, before releasing a guffaw and slapping his knee in celebration. ‘Are you telling me that snivelling little coward is dead? That goes to prove it – there
is
a God, after all.’

‘I believe that you knew Mr Ablatt.’

‘Yes – I knew the cocky bastard and I despised him.’

‘Why was that?’

‘Cyril always knew best. No matter what the argument was about, he had to have the last bleeding word. Oh, he was clever, I’ll give him that. He read lots of books and suchlike. But he looked down on me, Sergeant Whatever-Your-Name-Is.’

‘It’s Keedy – Sergeant Keedy.’

‘Nobody does that to Horrie Waldron. I got my standards, see?’ Hauling himself out of the grave, he retrieved his spade and used it as a prop. After looking Keedy up and down, he shifted the pipe to the other side of his mouth. ‘Why have you come bothering me, then?’

‘Where were you yesterday evening?’

‘Where else would I be but in the pub?’

‘Would that be the Weavers Arms?’

‘Yes – they serve a good pint.’

‘Are there witnesses who’d confirm that you were there?’

Waldron eyed him warily. ‘Ask the landlord. He’ll tell you. Mind you,’ he went on, ‘I did slip out for an hour or two.’

‘Where did you go?’

‘That’s my business,’ said Waldron, belligerently.

‘It happens to be my business as well.’

‘It’s private.’

‘There’s no such thing as privacy in a murder investigation.’

Waldron was indignant. ‘I got nothing to do with that.’

‘We’ll see,’ said Keedy, meeting his gaze without flinching. ‘Let me remind you that withholding evidence is a crime. We can also add the charge that you’re impeding a police officer in the execution of his duties. If you don’t answer my questions properly, we can have this conversation through the bars of a cell in which you’ll be locked. Understood?’ The gravedigger glowered at him. ‘That’s better. Now then, let’s go back to what I asked. Where did you go last night?’

‘I went to see a friend – nothing wrong with that, is there?’

Keedy took out his notebook. ‘What’s the name of this friend?’

‘I’m not saying.’

‘In short, there
was
no friend. You invented him.’

‘That’s not true!’ howled Waldron.

‘Then why won’t you give me his name?’

‘It wasn’t a man, Sergeant – it was a woman.’

‘In that case, give me
her
name.’

‘I can’t. I got to protect her, haven’t I? It’s what I promised, see? Nobody else knows about her and me. Nobody else is going to know.’

‘And you were with this woman for an hour or two, is that it?’

‘Could be longer – I don’t have a watch.’

‘What did you do afterwards?’

‘I went back to the pub – ask, Stan. He’s the landlord.’

‘I’m more interested in the time when you have nobody who can account for your movements.’

Waldron cackled. ‘Oh, she accounted for my movements, I can tell you that!’

As his cackle became a full-throated laugh, he opened his mouth to expose three blackened teeth in the middle of a gaping void. Even from a few yards away, Keedy could smell his foul breath. After his years as a detective, he could usually sense if someone was lying to him but Waldron was difficult to fathom. The woman friend might or might not exist. Looking at the gravedigger, Keedy thought it unlikely because of the man’s repulsive appearance, but then, he reminded himself, he’d seen even more hideous faces excite the love and devotion of a woman. Waldron might have hidden charms. His claim had a coarse plausibility.

‘You’re not helping yourself, sir,’ said Keedy.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If what you say is true, there’s someone who can clear your name. Until she does that, you’re bound to be viewed as a suspect.’

‘I didn’t kill Ablatt,’ protested the other. ‘I didn’t even know he was dead.’

‘But you’re obviously glad that he is.’

Waldron sniggered. ‘Best news I’ve heard in years!’

‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?’

‘I can think of lots of people. I’m one of them.’

Keedy lifted his pencil. ‘Can you give me some names?’

‘You’re the detective – find them.’

‘Stop being so obstructive.’

‘Ablatt was a conchie,’ said Waldron, derisively. ‘He was the lowest of the low in my book. Lots of people think the same. The little sod
deserved
to die. None of us would have actually murdered him, maybe, but we’d all like to shake the hand of the man who did.’

Keedy had had enough of his prevarication. ‘Put your spade away, sir,’ he ordered. ‘You’re coming with me.’

‘I don’t finish work until this afternoon.’

‘You’re leaving right now.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘Would you rather that I arrested you first? I’ll be happy to do so.’

‘Look,’ said Waldron, seeing that Keedy was in earnest and trying to sound more reasonable. ‘I swear to God that I had nothing to do with any murder. I was in the Weavers most of the night.’

‘Mr Ablatt’s body was found less than forty yards away.’

‘That doesn’t mean that I put it there.’

Keedy fixed him with a stare. ‘You had the chance to do so during the hour or two you were away from the pub.’

‘I told you – I was with someone.’

‘Yet she doesn’t appear to have a name and address.’

‘We got an arrangement, see?’

‘Yes, you dredge her out of your imagination whenever you want an alibi.’

‘She’s
real
,’ insisted Waldron. ‘She’s flesh and blood. I should know.’

‘Then tell me who she is,’ pressed Keedy. ‘And explain why you’re so anxious to conceal her name. Is it because she’s a married woman?’

‘No, she’s a widow.’

‘Then there’s no reason to hide the relationship, is there?’

‘Yes, there is,’ said Waldron, sourly.

‘Why is that, sir?’

Keedy reinforced the question by taking a step nearer to him and looking deep into his eyes. Waldron quailed inwardly. He usually got the better of policemen who tried to question him. Even after he’d been
arrested for being involved in a pub brawl, he’d often managed to worm his way out of trouble. There was no escape this time. To get the details he was after, Keedy was prepared to drag him off to the nearest police station and subject him to an interrogation. If he survived that, he’d have to face awkward questions from his boss who’d want to know why he was a suspect in the investigation. Waldron weighed up the situation and capitulated.

‘You win,’ he admitted, head slumping to his chest.

‘Why can’t you tell me the woman’s name?’

‘It’s because of Stan at the Weavers.’

‘Do you mean the landlord?’

‘Yes, Sergeant, and he’s got a real temper on him. The woman …’ He had to force the words out. ‘The woman … is his mother. If Stan ever found out, you’d have another bleeding murder on your hands.’

Alice Marmion had never regretted the decision to join the Women’s Emergency Corps and to move out of the family home. She was doing work that gave her great satisfaction and she enjoyed the challenge of having to fend for herself. Inevitably, there were drawbacks. While she was happy with the two small rooms she rented in a rambling Victorian house, they came with a landlady who imposed strict rules on her four tenants – all of them young and female – the main one being that no gentlemen were allowed into their respective rooms. Male visitors could only be entertained during specified hours in the drawing room, where they had to sit in one of the uncomfortable single chairs, the settee and the chaise longue having been carefully removed because they might encourage intimacy between couples seated together. It was also inconvenient to share the only bathroom with all the other people in the house, but Alice had circumvented that problem by getting up earlier than anyone else and being the first through the door.

Notwithstanding the house rules, she liked living there and woke up
every morning with a sense of control that she’d never felt at home. It was empowering. Never lacking in confidence, Alice now had a greater
self-belief
and an increased readiness to take on responsibility. It had earned her respect in the WEC. Her friend, Vera Dowling, had marvelled at the changes in her.

‘It’s amazing, Alice,’ she said. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to.’

‘I never thought I’d drive a lorry, I must admit.’

‘You took to it like a duck to water – whereas I was hopeless.’

‘That’s not true, Vera.’

‘As soon as I get behind the driving wheel, I lose my nerve.’

‘It’s only a question of practice.’

‘I tried and tried again but I still made a mess of it. That’s why they’ll never let me take charge of any vehicle. I start to panic.’

Alice tried to reassure her but it was in vain. The two of them were sitting in the lorry, waiting for the delayed train from Folkestone. On her way to the railway station, Alice had picked up her friend from her digs. Much as she liked Vera, she’d baulked at the idea of actually sharing accommodation with her. It would impose too many constraints. Vera Dowling was a short, shapeless young woman in khaki uniform with a plain, uninteresting face that accentuated Alice’s loveliness. Diligent and trustworthy, Vera had thrown herself into her new job with more commitment than skill and, as a result, tended to be given only a supportive role. Unlike Alice, she was not relishing her freedom. Living in digs, she missed the comforts of home and the joy of her mother’s cooking. And she’d always had difficulty in making new friends, forcing her to rely even more on the few she already had. As her closest friend, Alice sometimes found that irksome.

‘Are you glad you joined the WEC?’ she asked.

‘You know I am, Alice. As soon as you did, I followed suit.’

‘Then why does your mother think that you might give it up?’

‘I’d never do that,’ said Vera, ‘not while you’re still in it, anyway.’

‘She told Mummy that you were finding it a bit of a trial.’

‘Well, that’s true – but it doesn’t mean that I’m going to pack it in. I just grit my teeth and get on with it. Giving up would be such a selfish thing to do when people depend on me.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘What are a few aches and pains compared to being driven out of your own home and chased out of your own country? Refugees come first, Alice,’ she said. ‘They need us.’

‘I knew that you felt the same as me.’

‘Whatever happens, I’ll stay in the WEC until the war is over.’

‘That’s what I told Mummy.’

She broke off as a fleet of trucks arrived and drew up beside each other. Troops clambered quickly out with their rifles and kit, falling into line when commands were barked at them. In their ill-fitting serge uniforms, they all looked so young and untried. Alice was reminded of her brother, who’d joined the army at the start of the war and whom they’d only seen once since then. He’d gone off with the same alacrity that these new recruits were showing but his letters from the front were hinting at disillusion. She wondered how long it would be before the brave smiles were wiped off the faces of the latest batch of infantry. As they were marched past the lorry in their hobnail boots, some of the men noticed them and waved cheerily. A few whistled in admiration. Alice waved back but Vera was too embarrassed to do so.

‘How many of them will come back alive?’ she asked, sadly.

Alice hid her pessimism. ‘We must pray that they
all
do.’

Vera waited until the last of them had gone past to join the others as they boarded the waiting train. They would soon be on their way to war in a country none of them had ever visited. In the minds of the recruits, there was a whiff of adventure about what they were doing. Having seen
so many dead and wounded brought back from the trenches, the friends no longer believed that there was anything adventurous in the conflict. All that they saw were the accelerating losses and the sheer futility.

Vera’s question came out of the blue. ‘What do you make of Mrs Billington?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I just wondered, that’s all.’

‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘I admire her a lot. I know that some people find her too bossy but that’s what she has to be to get things done. Hannah is a nice woman and she was one of the very first to join the WEC.’

‘There you are,’ said Vera, wistfully. ‘You call her Hannah because you’re on first-name terms with her. She’s always Mrs Billington to me. I’d be afraid to call her anything else.’

‘She won’t bite, Vera.’

‘It’s the way she stares at me.’

‘Hannah does that to everyone,’ said Alice. ‘When you get to know her better, you’ll find out what a warm-hearted person she is.’

Vera frowned. ‘I’m not sure that I
want
to know her better.’

‘She’s the one who really helped me to develop my talents.’

‘I don’t have any talents to develop.’ Vera made an effort to brighten. ‘Did you say that you saw your mother this morning?’

‘Yes, I called in for a quick cup of tea.’

‘Is she still missing you?’

‘Mummy would have me back at the drop of a hat.’

‘It must be so lonely being there alone.’

‘It is, Vera – though she does get out a lot.’

‘Did you see your father as well?’

Alice gave a hollow laugh. ‘Fat chance of that!’

‘Had he already left for work?’

‘Daddy went off hours before breakfast. There was an emergency.

That always means another case of murder. Until it’s over, all that Mummy will get of him is an occasional glimpse.’

‘I’d hate that. I could never marry a policeman.’

‘There are compensations,’ said Alice, loyally.

‘Not enough of them for me.’

‘Wait until you meet Mr Right. You won’t care what he does for a living.’

‘I would if he was a policeman,’ said Vera. ‘What about you?’

Alice heard the sound of an approaching train and opened her door.

‘That’ll be them,’ she said, getting out of the lorry. ‘Come on, Vera – and don’t forget to speak in your very best French.’

When it was opened twenty years earlier, the main library in the Metropolitan Borough of Shoreditch had impressed everyone with its Victorian solidity and with the grandeur of its facade. It was less striking now, its novelty gone, its brickwork soiled and the early signs of wear and tear apparent. The first thing that Harvey Marmion noticed was that some slates were missing from the roof. He stood on the pavement opposite for some time, studying the building in which Cyril Ablatt had spent so much of his life. People were streaming in and out, mostly women or older men. The library was obviously popular and well used. Marmion crossed the road and went in through the main entrance. Shelves of books stood everywhere. He could see that it was the ideal habitat for Ablatt.

Having established who was in charge, Marmion introduced himself to Eric Fussell, an exceptionally tall, middle-aged man who kept his back straight and who peered down at people through wire-framed spectacles that seemed to double the size of his eyeballs. Fussell was quick to appreciate the need for privacy. He ushered the inspector into his office and closed the door. As they exchanged niceties, they sat down.
Marmion glanced around the room. It was large, high-ceilinged, lined with books and spectacularly tidy. Everything on the desk was in neat piles, making him feel self-conscious about the clutter in his own office. Fussell exuded intelligence. His manner was polite and confiding.

‘What seems to be the problem, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘I believe that Cyril Ablatt works here.’

‘That’s correct. He’s not here at the moment, alas. If you wish to speak to him, you’ll have to go to his home.’ His eyelids narrowed. ‘Is Cyril in any kind of trouble? Is that the reason he didn’t turn up for work this morning?’

‘No,’ said Marmion, solemnly. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that he won’t be turning up at the library ever again. Mr Ablatt’s body was discovered during the night. He’d been bludgeoned to death.’

‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Fussell. ‘That’s appalling!’ Doubt clouded his eyes. ‘Are you quite sure that it was Cyril?’

‘No question about it, sir. His father has identified the body.’

‘My heart goes out to him. This is dreadful news. Cyril was a fixture here. He used the library regularly for many years before he joined the staff.’

‘Mr Ablatt was very proud that his son became a librarian.’

‘Technically,’ said the other with more than a hint of pedantry, ‘he was only a library assistant. I’m the librarian. We’re an odd species. Librarians are rather like concert pianists – nobody needs two.’

‘I sit corrected, sir. What kind of an assistant was Cyril Ablatt?’

‘I couldn’t fault him. This was his true
métier
. Large numbers of people go through life either hating their job or regretting the one they failed to get. Cyril wasn’t like that. I’ve never met anyone so happy in his work. It was a labour of love to him.’

‘Tell me a bit more about him.’

‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’

‘Everything you can remember,’ said Marmion. ‘My mental picture of him is still incomplete. I need more detail.’

‘Well, I can certainly give you that.’

As Fussell removed his spectacles, his eyes contracted to a more normal size. Taking out a handkerchief, he blew on the lenses before cleaning them methodically. He kept Marmion waiting a full minute before he spoke.

‘Cyril Ablatt is the best library assistant I’ve ever had the good fortune to have under me,’ he began, ‘and that includes my dear wife, whom you probably saw at the desk when you first arrived. According to the last census, this borough has a population of over 111,000 inhabitants. Not one of them could hold a candle to Cyril. He was tireless. When someone made a request, nothing was too much trouble for him. He built up a reputation for efficiency and amiability. Then, I fear,’ he went on, ‘the war broke out and people looked at him differently. His
hard-earned
reputation slowly began to crumble.’

‘How did he react to that?’

‘He carried on in the same pleasant and dedicated way – even when some people began to voice their criticism. They couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t join the army and fight for his country. It reached a point where a few of them refused to let him stamp their books.’

‘Did
you
understand his position, sir?’

‘I understood it very well. We discussed it at length in this very office.’

‘And did you approve of what he did?’

‘To be quite candid with you, I didn’t,’ said Fussell, holding the spectacles up to the light so that he could examine the lenses. ‘In times of crisis, pacifism seems quite indefensible. Cyril thought differently, of course, arguing that it was only during a war that pacifism had any real meaning. He could be very persuasive. He’d have made a first-rate public speaker.’

Marmion changed his tack. ‘Is the name Horrie Waldron familiar to you?’

‘It’s eerily familiar.’

‘Does he come in here often?’

‘Thankfully, he doesn’t. You can always tell when he is here by the smell. He never borrows books. He only drops in now and then to read a newspaper.’

‘Do you recall an argument he had with Mr Ablatt?’

‘I do indeed, Inspector. Waldron was obnoxious. If Cyril hadn’t sent him packing, I’d have called the police to remove him.’

‘Would you say that he’s a dangerous man?’

‘When drink is taken, he’s a very dangerous man.’

‘That confirms what I’ve heard,’ said Marmion. ‘By the way, did you know that your assistant went to a meeting of the No-Conscription Fellowship?’

The librarian replaced his spectacles. ‘Yes,’ he said, adjusting them. ‘He showed me their leaflet and sought my opinion. I told him that I thought they were a lot of well-intentioned cranks and that he was better off keeping away from them.’

‘What was his reply?’

Fussell quoted it in exact detail. He and his young assistant had evidently had some lively arguments. As the other man talked at length of Ablatt’s early days at the library, Marmion wondered why he’d taken a dislike to him. The librarian was astute, well qualified and undeniably in command. Yet he somehow annoyed the inspector. It was partly the way that he shifted between a lordly authority and an ingratiating humility. One minute, he was basking in his importance, the next, he was trying to curry favour. Marmion decided that he wouldn’t have liked to work under the man. You never knew what he was thinking.

‘Had he lived,’ said Marmion, ‘we both know what would have happened.’

‘Yes, Inspector, he’d have been conscripted.’

‘The first stage would be an appearance before a tribunal.’

‘Cyril had already worked out what he was going to say.’

‘And what about you, sir?’

Fussell was taken aback. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Surely, you’d speak up before the tribunal on his behalf.’

‘I hadn’t planned to do so.’

‘But you told me that he was your best assistant.’