Instrument of Slaughter (8 page)

‘Why did she choose Nethercott?’

‘I believe that Cyril Ablatt might have been involved in that. He told her where she could have a photo discreetly taken. Living where he does, Finsbury is the sort of place you’d expect him to know.’

‘So what do we do now – track the lady down?’

‘It doesn’t take two of us to do that. I’ll try to pick up Mrs Skene’s trail, starting at the library in Lambeth. The name is not all that common. If it’s listed there, I should be able to get the correct address.’

‘What about me?’

‘I suggest that you call in at the police station in Shoreditch to see if 
Mansel Price has made an appearance yet. Hambridge told you that he comes off duty this afternoon. I’ll need the car but I’ll drop you off on the way to Lambeth.’

‘You’re assuming that she actually lives there.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Well,’ said Keedy, ‘she may have lied about Lambeth and given a false name into the bargain. You could be on a wild goose chase, Harv.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Marmion, taking out the photograph again. ‘What I see here is an honest, self-respecting woman. When she’s embarrassed to go into a photographer’s studio, she must be troubled by guilt. She’s unlikely to be a seasoned liar. Mrs Skene gave her real name. You can bank on that. I’ll find her – and it will definitely be somewhere in Lambeth.’

He put the photograph back into his pocket. They walked towards the car.

‘How many more of them are there?’ asked Keedy.

‘I’m not with you, Joe.’

‘How many other mystery women will come out of the woodwork?’

Marmion grinned. ‘I’d have thought you liked mystery women.’

‘Oh, it’s not a complaint – just an observation. First, we have Ablatt’s secret lady, then up pops Waldron’s unlikely friend, Maud Crowther.’

‘Men and women are attracted to each other – nothing unusual about that.’

‘There is in both these cases,’ argued Keedy. ‘They’re highly dangerous friendships. Ablatt and Waldron had to hide what was going on because they were afraid of the consequences. Ablatt was deceiving Mrs Skene’s husband, who may yet turn out to be a suspect. For his part, Waldron was terrified that Maud’s son would find out what his mother had been up to.’

‘Danger can sometimes add spice to a relationship.’

‘Do you speak from experience, Harv?’

Marmion laughed. ‘No, I don’t and you should know it. Ellen and I already have enough spice in our marriage. Neither of us would ever look outside it.’

‘You’re an example to us all.’

‘Stop teasing.’

‘I was being serious – I swear it.’

‘Then why are you still single after all these years?’

Keedy’s smile was enigmatic. ‘That would be telling,’ he said.

The discussion on the park bench lasted for over an hour and the issue was never resolved. Leach took Ruby home and left her to explain to her mother why she was back so early. He knew that his suggestion about an almost immediate wedding ceremony would be passed on to Mrs Cosgrove and he feared that she would disapprove. Ruby’s own reaction had been ambiguous. She both liked the idea and found it disturbing. Something about it unsettled her and it was not just the fact that she’d be robbed of the joy of coming down the aisle beside him in the dress that her aunt had so patiently made for her. There was an element of suspicion in her manner that Leach had never seen before. It worried him.

On leaving Ruby’s house, he walked a couple of blocks to the street where Hambridge lived and was pleased to find the carpenter at home. Over a cup of tea, they bewailed the loss of their friend and speculated on who the killer might be.

‘Mansel is going to be as shocked as we are,’ said Leach.

‘He knows, Gordon. I was there when he found out. I waited for him at the station and showed him the
Evening News
. He was stunned.’

‘The three of us must stick together even more closely now.’

Hambridge’s brow crinkled. ‘Must we?’

‘It was a warning, Fred.’

‘Was it?’

‘What else could it be?’ reasoned Leach. ‘Because he worked at the library, Cyril was well known in Shoreditch. He made no bones about the fact that he was a conscientious objector. In a sense, he sort of gloried in it.’

‘Well, it’s nothing to be ashamed about,’ said Hambridge.

‘Inspector Marmion told me that
we
weren’t under threat, but I’m not so sure. I don’t
feel
safe. Someone is coming to get us.’

‘I’ll be ready for him. I hate violence but I’ll be carrying a chisel wherever I go. Cyril was killed because he wasn’t expecting an attack. I’ll be more careful.’

‘So will I.’

‘But I don’t think there’s any real danger now,’ said Hambridge. ‘Not while the police are looking for the killer. He’ll lie low until everything blows over – or until he’s caught, of course.’

‘The inspector said they’d leave no stone unturned.’

‘The detective who came here was a Sergeant Keedy. I liked him. He had his wits about him. According to the sergeant, this Inspector Marmion has got a good record for solving murders. He never gives up. He’ll be working around the clock to find the person who did this to Cyril.’

‘I won’t be able to relax until he’s behind bars.’ Leach finished his tea and put the cup down. ‘Can I ask you something, Fred?’

Hambridge gave a silly grin. ‘There’s nobody else here.’

‘What would you think if I got married?’

‘I’d be happy for you but you’ve months to wait.’

‘No,’ said Leach, ‘it could be a lot less than that. There’s such a thing as a three-day licence, you see. It’s for couples who … just can’t wait.’

‘But you
can
wait – and so can Ruby.’

‘I want to get married as soon as possible.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘The murder has scared me to death. What if someone has got his eye on
me
? I’m a conchie, just like Cyril. I’ve had my warning. There’s only one way out.’

‘Sorry – I don’t see where marriage comes into it.’

‘I’d be safe, Fred. I wouldn’t be a conchie, fighting off conscription. I’d be a married man who wasn’t liable to be called up. There’d be no need to pick on me. I could carry on as I am.’ Hambridge was studying him with mingled curiosity and disgust. ‘Do you see what I mean?’

‘You’re only thinking of yourself, Gordon.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m thinking of Ruby as well.’

‘She’s in no danger.’

‘She is, if I get killed. Ruby will lose everything she’s ever dreamt about.’

Hambridge was unhappy. ‘I don’t like the idea.’

‘But it will solve a problem.’

‘I still don’t like it.’

Leach was hurt. ‘Why not? I thought I could count on you.’

‘You wanted my opinion. You’ve got it.’

‘Things are different now that Cyril is dead.’

‘Yes,’ said Hambridge with uncharacteristic passion, ‘you wouldn’t have dared to mention this when he was alive. You’d have done what you pledged to do. You’d have stood beside us, Gordon.’

‘It’s not as if I’m deserting you.’

The carpenter had said his piece. He sipped his tea morosely, leaving his friend to regret having brought the subject up. His idea had had a lukewarm reception from Ruby and a hostile one from Hambridge. Given the latter’s response, he wondered if it would be wise to broach the topic with Price.

‘Where’s Mansel now?’ he asked.

‘He’s gone to the police station.’

‘I’ll speak to him later.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t tell him what you just told me,’ warned the other, ‘or he’ll go mad. Mansel will think you’re running out on us.’

The message that Keedy had left for him had asked Price to report to the local police station where he would be told how to get in touch with Scotland Yard. In the event, the Welshman was actually in the building when Keedy was dropped off there by Marmion. Introduced to Price, he borrowed a room where he could interview him in private. As they sat down either side of a table, he noticed the other’s expression. Price looked grim and resentful. His muscles were taut.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ said Keedy.

‘I don’t like police stations.’

‘Is there any particular reason?’

‘They’re always full of people telling me what to do.’

‘I’m not here to tell you anything – except that we need all the help we can get in this investigation. I would have thought you’d be eager to do anything that might lead to an arrest.’

‘I am,’ said Price, ‘but there’s nothing I can add to what Fred told you.’

‘Mr Hambridge was much more cooperative than you. He tells me that you work on the railway.’ Price nodded. ‘Do you like your job?’

‘It bores me to tears.’

‘Then why don’t you do something else?’

‘It’s not easy to find a job if you’re my age. Every time I’ve applied for one, I was told to join the army instead. So I’m stuck with the GWR.’

‘That’s a reserved occupation, isn’t it?’

‘Not if you’re a cook,’ said Price, bitterly. ‘We’re ten a penny. They
can even find women to do my job. Drivers and firemen and so on are different. They’re all needed, so they’re exempt – what’s left of them, anyway. Thousands from the GWR joined up when they had that first recruitment drive.’

‘The ones who are left do a vital job,’ said Keedy. ‘There’s no better way to move men and equipment around in large numbers. But let’s come back to Cyril Ablatt. Tell me about him.’

Price was hesitant, offering snippets of information between pauses. The longer he went on, however, the more relaxed he became. While he didn’t share Hambridge’s hero worship of their dead friend, he spoke warmly about Ablatt and added details that Keedy hadn’t heard before. The sergeant jotted them down in his notebook. When asked if he could suggest the name of anyone who should be considered a suspect, Price shook his head.

‘What about Horrie Waldron?’ asked Keedy.

‘I don’t know him.’

‘His name was given to us by Gordon Leach.’

‘Gordon may know him but I don’t. Who is he?’

‘Waldron is a man who crossed swords with your friend, Cyril. Not that that’s enough in itself to arouse suspicion. In any case, Waldron seems to have an alibi for the time when Cyril was murdered.’

‘Do you have any other suspects?’ asked Price.

‘We’re … considering a number of possibilities,’ said Keedy, evasively.

‘Well, I hope that one of them turns out to be the killer. He needs to be caught and caught soon. You must comb the whole of Shoreditch until you find him.’

‘Don’t try to tell us how to do our job, Mr Price.’

‘I want to make sure that you do it properly.’

‘We have procedures, based on long experience.’

‘Yes,’ said Price with asperity, ‘but that’s for ordinary victims, isn’t it?
Cyril was a conchie. You won’t make the same effort for him. I saw the police outside that meeting last night. Some of them looked as if they’d like to tear us to pieces. I thought they were there to keep the crowd back but one big bugger gave me a real shove.’

‘I’m sure that it was accidental.’

‘Conchies are scum to you.’

‘You deserve the full protection of the law in the same way that everyone else does. We make no distinctions based on class, colour, creed or anything else.’

Price was blunt. ‘I don’t believe you, Sergeant.’

‘Then we’ll have to
make
you believe us, won’t we? Scotland Yard has given this case priority. That’s why they put Inspector Marmion in charge. His name is well known in the criminal underworld of London. He’s had a long string of successes and they were achieved by a combination of instinct and unremitting hard work. So don’t you dare to suggest we’re not fully committed to this investigation,’ said Keedy with controlled anger. ‘We’ll do all we can to hunt down the killer and we won’t rest until he’s hauled up before a judge and jury.’

‘Can I go now?’ asked Price, cheekily.

‘You’ll go when I tell you.’

‘What did I say? Policemen always have to order you about.’

‘Don’t you like orders?’

‘No, Sergeant, I don’t – unless I’m getting paid to obey them, of course.’

‘I have to say that Mr Hambridge was much more pleasant to interview.’

‘Ah, well,’ said Price, smirking, ‘Fred is Fred. He’s nice to everyone whereas I speak as I find. And I told you at the start – I don’t like police stations.’

‘That means you’ve been inside a few,’ guessed Keedy. ‘I wonder
why. Have you been a naughty boy at work – putting poison in the soup or serving ground glass in the omelettes? Do you know what
I’m
beginning to wonder?’ he continued, leaning across the table. ‘I’m getting a very strong feeling that you might have a criminal record. Am I right, sir?’

The smirk disappeared from Mansel Price’s face. All of a sudden, he looked profoundly uncomfortable.

Having spent so much time behind the driving wheel throughout the day, Alice Marmion was glad to return to the depot and park the lorry beside the others. As she and Vera Dowling got out and stretched their legs, they were spotted by their supervisor. Shoes clacking on the tarmac, Hannah Billington strode across to them. She was a striking woman of middle height and indeterminate age, shifting between her mid thirties and late forties, depending on how closely she was scrutinised and in what light. Her husband was a brigadier general, in France with his regiment, and there was a distinctly military air about Hannah as well. Her back was straight, her head erect, her voice crisp and peremptory. But it was the fierce beauty of her face that caught the attention, the high cheekbones thrown into prominence by the way that her hair was severely brushed back. While the other women looked incongruous in their baggy uniforms, Hannah seemed always to have worn a tailored version and it enhanced her sense of authority.

‘Did everything go well?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Alice. ‘Apart from one or two problems, that is.’

‘Oh – what sort of problems?’

‘They were mostly to do with language. Four of the refugees were Walloons who couldn’t make head or tail of my French and there was a group of Russian Jews from Antwerp in the group as well. But I think we got through to them in the end, didn’t we, Vera?’

‘Yes,’ said Vera, nervous in the presence of their superior.

‘Life would certainly be easier if we all spoke the same language,’ said the older woman, briskly. ‘It would have to be English, of course. Some of the regional dialects we get from Belgium are real tongue-twisters.’

‘How many more will there be?’ wondered Alice.

‘Oh, they’ll continue to dribble out, I suspect. It was far worse when the war first started. We had a quarter of a million Belgian refugees then. It was like an invasion. There was even talk of founding a New Flanders in Britain. Heaven forbid!’

‘I don’t know where we managed to put them all.’

‘Neither do I, Alice, but we did it somehow and we’ll have to go on doing it. All the hotels and boarding houses are full up and so are lots of barns, warehouses, pavilions, racecourses, exhibition halls and skating rinks. My husband’s golf club has just been commandeered for accommodation.’ She brayed happily. ‘Not entirely sure that he’d approve of that.’

‘The War Refugees Committee is doing a wonderful job,’ said Alice.

‘And so is the WEC. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘What about you, Vera?’

‘Yes, Mrs Billington,’ said Vera, meekly.

‘Can’t you sound a bit more positive?’

‘What we do is … very important.’

‘It’s absolutely vital and shows just what women can achieve when we all pull together. Unlike other wars, this one isn’t something that’s
happening in a distant country. It’s just across the English Channel and we have to cope with the after-effects. As the refugees flood in, we have to absorb them somehow.’

‘I’ll have to start learning more languages,’ said Alice.

‘Your French is really good,’ said Vera, ‘and far better than mine. When the war is over, you’ll be able to teach it.’

‘I may not go back to teaching.’

Vera was surprised. ‘What else will you do?’

‘Wait and see.’

‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s far too early to make plans for what we’ll all do when the war finally comes to an end. Our task is clear. We must concentrate on day-to-day priorities. And while we’re on the subject, Vera, I’ve got some more work lined up for you this evening.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Vera, uncomfortably.

‘I know that you prefer to be with Alice but she can’t always hold your hand. You must learn to be more independent. Alice has already warned me that she wouldn’t be available for an evening shift.’

‘Actually,’ said Alice, ‘that’s not true.’

‘Oh?’

‘Things have changed, Hannah.’

‘You said that you were doing something with your parents.’

‘That was the idea,’ said Alice, opening the door of the lorry to reach inside. ‘But there’s been a slight complication.’ She brought out a newspaper and passed it to Hannah. ‘We picked this up earlier.’ As the other woman read the headline in the
Evening News
, Alice was fatalistic. ‘My father has been put in charge of that investigation. Family life just doesn’t exist when he’s working on a murder case. In other words,’ she went on, concealing her disappointment, ‘I’m ready to work on into the evening. It may be weeks before I see my father again.’

It was a case of third time lucky for Marmion. A study of the electoral roll told him that there were three families by the name of Skene living in Lambeth. At the first two addresses he drew a blank, but the last one finally introduced him to the woman in the sepia photograph. Caroline Skene was in the front room as the car drew up outside her house. When she saw him get out of the vehicle, she went to the door and opened it. He raised his hat courteously, showed her his warrant card and asked if he might have a private word with her. Though she was mystified, she admitted him and they went into the front room. At his suggestion, she sat down and he took the chair opposite her. The photograph had not done her justice. She was an attractive woman in her mid thirties with pale, delicate skin and she was well dressed, as if expecting to go out somewhere. Marmion sensed that they were alone in the house and he was relieved. In the presence of her husband, it would have been impossible to question her properly.

‘What’s this all about, Inspector?’ she asked, apprehensively.

‘I’m afraid that I have some bad news to pass on.’

She sat forward. ‘It’s not my husband, is it?’

‘No, Mrs Skene.’

‘There have been so many accidents at his factory. A man had his hand cut off last week. I’m terrified that it will be Wilf’s turn next.’

‘This is not about your husband,’ said Marmion.

‘So why have you come?’

‘I believe that you know a young man by the name of Cyril Ablatt.’

Her cheeks coloured. ‘I think you’re mistaken, Inspector.’

‘Let me ask you again,’ he said, patiently. ‘I appreciate why you’re so reticent but it’s important that you tell the truth.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Does the name of Cyril Ablatt mean anything at all to you?’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

He reached into his pocket for the photograph. ‘This is getting a little embarrassing, Mrs Skene. If you’ve never heard of him, how can you
explain the fact that we found this photograph of you in his bedroom?’ He held it up for her to see. ‘I don’t need to read out the message on the back, do I?’

Caroline Skene was dumbstruck. She’d been caught. A friendship that was very precious to her had been discovered by a detective. When kept secret, it was a source of constant pleasure. Now that it had been exposed, however, it suddenly seemed to be morally wrong and faintly ridiculous. There was no point in trying to brazen it out when he held the evidence in his hand. All that she could hope to do was to limit the damage.

‘Cyril and I were friends,’ she confessed, head down. After a few seconds, she raised her eyes to him imploringly. ‘Please don’t tell my husband.’ she said. ‘It would hurt him beyond bearing. It would be cruel. Is that why you came, Inspector? Are you here to speak to Wilf?’

‘No, Mrs Skene,’ he replied. ‘I’ve no need to see him at all.’

‘Thank God for that!’

‘What happened between you and Cyril Ablatt is none of my business. The main reason I came is to tell you that … a dreadful crime has been committed.’

She shuddered. ‘What sort of crime?’

‘Mr Ablatt was murdered.’

For a moment, he thought that she was about to collapse. Her mouth fell open and she emitted a strange, muted cry of agony. With an effort, she somehow managed to regain her composure. Taking out the handkerchief tucked under her sleeve, she held it in readiness. Marmion gave her time to adjust to the horror. As a husband with a belief in the sanctity of marriage, he couldn’t approve of what she’d apparently done but neither could he condemn it. Caroline Skene was patently a woman in despair. Moral judgements were irrelevant. He just wanted to alleviate her pain. For her part, she was pathetically grateful for his discretion and forbearance. She’d never had dealings with a Scotland Yard detective
before and found him unexpectedly considerate. His soothing presence helped her to recover enough to speak.

‘What happened?’

‘I’ll spare you the full details,’ he said. ‘Suffice it to say that the body of a young man was found in Shoreditch last night. Items found on his person identified him as Cyril Ablatt. His father has confirmed the identification.’ A hand shot to her heart. ‘I offer you my condolences, Mrs Skene. I suggest that you don’t read the newspapers for a while.’

‘Is it that bad?’

‘The killer used unnecessary violence.’

She shuddered again. ‘How did you find that photograph?’

‘We had to break the news to his father,’ he explained. ‘While we were at the house, we asked if we might look at his room so that we might learn a little more about him.’ He held up the photo. ‘This fell out of the Bible.’ He offered it to her. ‘Would you like it back?’

‘No, no,’ she cried, recoiling from it. ‘I should never have had it taken.’

‘Mr Ablatt clearly treasured it.’ He slipped the photo into his pocket. ‘Would you like me to destroy it, Mrs Skene?’

She was overwhelmed by his kindness. ‘Would you?’

‘There’s no reason for anyone else to see it.’

‘Thank you!’

The problem of discovery might have been solved but the far greater one of her intense grief remained. She could feel it already biting away at her like a greedy animal. Her lips began to tremble and tears formed. Having delivered his message, Marmion felt that he should withdraw quietly but there was an investigation in hand and Caroline Skene had information about the deceased that nobody else could give him.

‘When did you last see him?’ he asked, softly.

‘It was … weeks ago.’

‘Did you know he was involved with the No-Conscription Fellowship?’

‘Yes, Inspector – he mentioned that he might join it.’

‘What else did he tell you?’

‘He said very little about things like that. We just … enjoyed being together.’

‘I understand.’

She gave him a shrewd look. ‘I don’t think that you do.’

‘That may be true, Mrs Skene.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve no wish to intrude into your privacy but there are some questions I must ask.’

She braced herself. ‘Go on.’

‘Did your husband harbour any suspicions about the two of you?’

‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed.

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Wilf is not a suspicious man. If you met him, you’d realise that it would never even cross his mind.’

Marmion glanced at the framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed the couple arm-in-arm on their wedding day. At the time, Wilfred Skene had been a tall, angular young man with a neat moustache and dark, wavy hair. His wife seemed as blissfully happy as he did. Though a dozen or more years had passed since the event, she had not aged significantly.

She was adamant. ‘He doesn’t know and he must never find out.’

‘I’ve no intention of telling him,’ said Marmion. ‘Let’s turn to Cyril Ablatt. Did he ever mention any enemies to you?’

‘Cyril had no enemies,’ she replied with a sad smile. ‘He was a lovely young man and he got on well with everybody.’

‘That’s hardly borne out by the facts, I fear. Anyone who declares himself to be a conscientious objector is bound to attract criticism. As you may know, someone painted abusive words on the wall of his house.’

‘He told me about that. He said he’d simply turn the other cheek.’

‘You have to admire his bravery.’

‘He was brave and good and honest,’ she said, effusively. ‘He didn’t deserve this. It’s wicked, Inspector. Cyril wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘So what reason could there be to kill him?’

Her face was a study in hopelessness. ‘I don’t know.’

She was still trying to absorb the impact of the devastating news. Marmion felt that it would be harsh to put any more pressure on her. At the same time, however, he sensed that she knew things about Ablatt that might be relevant to the inquiry. This was not the moment to search for them. She needed a breathing space. After dabbing at her eyes, she put the handkerchief away.

He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll see myself out, Mrs Skene.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And thank you for being so … well, you know.’

‘I told you. I didn’t come to pry. However,’ he went on, ‘I believe that you may later think of things that might be of use to the investigation. Anything we can learn about his character and movements will be helpful.’ He took out his wallet and extracted a business card. ‘This has my number at Scotland Yard,’ he said, slipping it into her hand.

‘We don’t have a telephone,’ she bleated.

‘There’ll be one at your local police station. If you tell them that you wish to contact Inspector Marmion with regard to the inquiry, they’ll put you in touch with me.
Anything
– anything at all that you tell me,’ he emphasized, ‘will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

She didn’t seem to have heard him. ‘I’d like to be alone.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Skene,’ he said, moving to the door. ‘I’m sorry to bring such bad tidings but, on reflection, you may find that hearing them from me is preferable to reading them for the first time in the newspaper.’

Leaving the room, he opened the front door and let himself out. On the drive back to Scotland Yard, he found himself wondering about the true nature of the relationship between a mature woman and a young
man. How had they first met? What had attracted them to each other? When had they moved on to a degree of intimacy? Was their friendship a pleasant diversion or did they hope for a future together? What had impelled her to take such dangerous risks? Why was nobody else aware of the romance? As the questions multiplied in his mind, there was one that dominated all the others.

What other secrets had Cyril Ablatt kept so carefully hidden?