Dance of Death

by Edward Marston

  Keedy had often complained to her about the frustration of being at the beck and call of an overbearing superintendent and she understood his predicament only too well because she had her own version of Claude Chatfield to endure. Inspector Thelma Gale was a stout woman in her forties, with short hair brushed back from her forehead and held in a tight bun and defiantly plain features routinely distorted by a frown of disapproval. She seemed to take offence at the fact that Alice was slim, lithe, above average height and decidedly pretty. The inspector made no attempt to hide her resentment at the younger woman’s privileged position with regard to Scotland Yard. While the duties of the Women’s Police Force were strictly limited in scope, Alice had easy access to two detectives engaged in major investigations. It was a sore point with Thelma Gale.

  ‘What’s your father working on at the moment?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Inspector. I haven’t seen him for days.’

  ‘Sergeant Keedy will have kept you abreast of developments, surely.’

  ‘You’re quite wrong,’ said Alice, firmly. ‘We spend so little time together that we never waste it talking about a case he may be working on. Apart from anything else, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘That’s certainly true.’

  ‘I never ask and I’m never told.’

  ‘Come, come,’ teased the other, ‘you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?’

  ‘You can believe what you wish, Inspector,’ said Alice, anxious to get off a subject that cropped up so regularly. ‘I concentrate on my own duties. They keep me fully occupied.’

  ‘And so they should.’

  It was strange. The inspector was seated behind the desk in her office yet Alice had the feeling that the other woman was somehow looming over her. Such was the force of her personality that Thelma Gale seemed to fill the room. Alice was eager to get well out of her reach.

  ‘With whom will I be working today, Inspector?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve assigned a new recruit to you.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Though I have grave reservations about your abilities,’ said the other, getting in one of her customary digs at Alice, ‘I have no choice but to put you in charge of her. Show her the ropes and make sure that you don’t pass on any of your bad habits.’

  Alice bit back a reply. It was her usual response to the inspector’s goading. There was, in any case, no time for her to defend herself against the undeserved criticism because there was a timid knock on the door and it opened to reveal a chubby young woman with a hopeful smile.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll be on duty with Constable Marmion,’ Gale told her, indicating Alice. ‘If she can manage to remember it, she’ll tell you all you need to know.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The newcomer turned to Alice. ‘Hello, I’m Iris Goodliffe.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ said Alice, pleasantly.

  ‘I’ve heard about you.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ ordered the inspector with a flick of a hand. ‘Get out and start doing something useful.’

  Grateful to be dismissed, the two women made a quick exit. Outside in the corridor, they were able to introduce themselves properly. While Alice contrived to look poised and comfortable in the unbecoming uniform, Iris Goodliffe had been given an ill-fitting jacket that only accentuated her bulging anatomy. She kept tugging at it self-consciously. When she saw the slight angle at which Alice wore her hat, Iris adjusted her own into a similar position then gave the nervous giggle that was to become her trademark. She stared at Alice through eyes brimming with admiration.

  ‘They say that your father is a famous detective inspector.’

  ‘He’d never think of himself as famous.’

  ‘Police work must be in your blood.’

  ‘Not exactly, Iris,’ said Alice. ‘What we do is very mundane but nonetheless important for that, mark you. We leave serious crime to Scotland Yard. That’s their territory. I could never follow in my father’s footsteps.’

  ‘You must have picked up some tips from him.’

  ‘I preferred to find my own feet in this job. I was a teacher before I came here. I suppose that involves asserting a certain amount of authority. That’s what we have to do when we put on these uniforms.’ She appraised the other woman. ‘Where have you come from Iris?’

  ‘I used to work in the family shop. It was a pharmacy. One day was much like every other one. I wanted some real excitement.’ She pulled down her jacket again. ‘And I’m hoping that exercise will help me lose weight.’

  Alice warmed to her. Iris seemed keen to learn and would be agreeable company on the long trudge around the streets of London. The new recruit had an air of innocence about her that was offset by a quiet determination to succeed in her new role. In Iris Goodliffe, Alice sensed, she had acquired a new friend.

  ‘What’s the trick, Joe?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘There isn’t one.’

  ‘Then why is it that, as soon as we get anywhere near the morgue, my stomach starts to heave like the North Sea while you stay as cool as a cucumber?’

  ‘It’s a simple case of self-control.’

  ‘Yes, but how did you get that self-control?’

  ‘I got paid for looking at dead bodies,’ said Keedy with a grin. ‘When it comes down to money, you very quickly learn to be detached.’

  ‘Even you can’t be that cynical.’

  ‘I was only joking. The truth is that … well, I just got used to it.’

  Keedy came from a family of undertakers and worked in the family business for some years before joining the police force. Marmion always argued that looking at a murder victim was very different from studying the corpse of someone who died a natural death, but all dead bodies were the same to Keedy. He could look at the most grotesque injuries without turning a hair whereas Marmion’s heart began to pound the moment they entered the morgue. It was doing so all over again. When they walked into the room, he began to perspire slightly even though the atmosphere was chill. The abiding aroma of disinfectant unsettled him even more.

  Chatfield had warned him that the victim had been badly mutilated but that was in the nature of an understatement. When the shroud was drawn back to expose the naked man to view, Marmion had to turn away for a moment in disgust. Keedy, however, looked with professional calm at the multiple wounds, starting with the head and working his way along the body. Both eyes had been removed, leaving two ugly craters, and both cheeks had been slashed open. The whole torso bore the marks of repeated stabbing. There was a final indignity. When Marmion found the courage to look again, he saw that the victim had been castrated.

  ‘Dear God!’ he exclaimed. ‘It must have been a frenzied attack.’

  ‘Why go to all that trouble?’ wondered Keedy. ‘One thrust through the heart would have killed him.’

  ‘Someone wanted to do more than simply end his life.’

  ‘His face is unrecognisable. Nobody would be able to identify him.’

  ‘We can only hazard a guess at his age.’

  ‘Before it was attacked, his body was in good condition,’ observed Keedy. ‘The musculature is good and there’s not an ounce of superfluous weight.’

  ‘Yes – until today, he was fit and healthy.’

  ‘Who on earth is he?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out, I suspect.’

  ‘I can’t, for the life of me, see how.’

  ‘I can.’

  Keedy had shown great interest in the injuries but Marmion’s queasiness wouldn’t allow him to do that. He had instead been looking at the man’s left hand. On the third finger was the telltale mark of a missing ring.

  ‘I think he was married. His wife will probably be searching for him.’

  The woman was tall and slender with a fading beauty. Even though concern was etched into her face, she looked a decade younger than her forty-five years. The duty sergeant notice
d how elegant she was. Pen in hand, he was ready to take down all the details of her missing husband.

  ‘Let’s start with his name, shall we?’ he suggested.

  ‘Simon Wilder,’ she replied.

  He wrote it down with care, then looked up as a memory stirred.

  ‘I’ve seen that name somewhere before, Mrs Wilder.’

  ‘It’s on the poster outside our dance studio.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I remember now. There’s a photograph of him, isn’t there?’

  ‘It’s a photograph of both of us, actually, holding the cup we won at a national competition. It was one of many triumphs we shared. I was my husband’s dancing partner until …’

  Her voice died away. The sergeant waited for an explanation that never came. At length, he broke the silence.

  ‘What’s your address?’

  ‘We live around the corner from the hall.’

  She gave him the address, then explained why she was so worried. Her husband had been away all evening the previous day but had assured her that he would return home. Catherine Wilder didn’t know exactly where he’d been or with whom. He had commitments in the West End. He was often out late. The one thing on which she could count, however, was that – if he’d promised to do so – he always came home.

  ‘Where could he possibly be?’ she asked, worriedly.

  ‘Let’s not jump to conclusions, Mrs Wilder,’ he said in an attempt to soothe her. ‘There may be a perfectly reasonable explanation why he didn’t turn up. In fact, he may be sitting at home this very minute.’

  ‘He’s not there, I tell you. If he was anywhere, he’d be at the studio. He had an early appointment. I went there on the way here. The place was locked and the woman expecting an hour’s private tuition from my husband was standing outside.’

  Rubbing his chin meditatively, the sergeant changed his tack.

  ‘What time did you go to bed last night?’

  She was affronted. ‘I can’t see that that has anything to do with it.’

  ‘Answer my question, please, and you’ll understand.’

  ‘As it happened, I went to bed early – around ten o’clock.’

  ‘Are you a heavy sleeper, Mrs Wilder?’ Seeing the protest hovering on her lips, he carried on quickly before she could voice it. ‘If you were, you’ll have missed the air raid. London was attacked by a whole fleet of Zeppelins. It brought the city to a standstill. If your husband was on a train or a bus, he might have been held up for hours somewhere.’

  ‘He would have been back by now,’ she said, speaking very slowly and emphasising each word. ‘Can you hear me, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, I can, Mrs Wilder.’

  ‘Then please accept the fact that my husband is definitely missing.’

  The sergeant manufactured a conciliatory smile that only served to irritate her. Torn between impatience and anxiety, Catherine Wilder stared at him as if demanding action. He gestured an apology.

  ‘Before I raise the alarm,’ he said, pen poised, ‘I need a few more details about the gentleman …’

  Superintendent Claude Chatfield was a tall, thin, angular man with a centre parting separating what little remained of his hair. As Marmion delivered his report, his superior looked at him through bulging eyes. But for a change of heart on the part of the inspector, their positions could have been reversed. Both had applied for the vacant post of superintendent and Marmion had been the slight favourite. When he realised that he would spend most of his time behind a desk, however, he had second thoughts about promotion and deliberately failed the interview, allowing Chatfield to believe that he had become superintendent purely on merit. There was an underlying tension between the two men that would never be resolved.

  ‘You seem to have done everything needful,’ said Chatfield, grudgingly.

  ‘The victim’s injuries were horrendous.’

  ‘Now you see the wisdom of my decision to move the body from the scene of the crime. One woman fainted when she saw what had been done to his face.’

  ‘You are – as always – right, sir,’ said Marmion, feigning deference.

  ‘What is your immediate reaction?’

  ‘I think that the victim was known to the killer. This was no random attack. There was something very specific about the mutilation. The killer was making a statement of sorts. When we’ve identified the victim, we should start looking within his social circle.’

  ‘That could prove difficult, Inspector.’

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  ‘He may turn out to have an extremely large social circle,’ said Chatfield, reaching for a sheet of paper and glancing at it. ‘We’ve had three reports of missing persons but this is far and away the most likely. A lady walked into the police station in Chingford – a quarter of a mile from the scene of the crime, please note – and reported the disappearance of her husband. He was due back home in the early hours but never arrived.’

  ‘What’s the gentleman’s name, sir?’

  ‘Mr Simon Wilder.’

  ‘Is there a description of him?’

  ‘We’ve got something better than that.’ Chatfield picked up a photograph. ‘It could well be the man on a slab in our morgue. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that it certainly is. Mr Wilder was a handsome devil, no question about that.’ He handed the photograph to the inspector. ‘What puzzles me is the name on the back.’

  Marmion turned the photograph over and read out the inscription.

  ‘The new Vernon Castle.’

  ‘That means nothing to me.’

  ‘Then you obviously have no interest in ballroom dancing, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Vernon and Irene Castle are American dancers – the best in the world, in fact, or so it is claimed. They’ve created all kinds of new dances, including the Castle Walk. Their book on modern dance is a bible for anyone interested in the subject.’

  Chatfield sniffed. ‘That excludes me, I can assure you. Mrs Chatfield and I have no predilection for dancing of any kind. I’m surprised to find that you do.’

  ‘My wife and I are very fond of dancing,’ said Marmion, wistfully. ‘The problem is that I chose a job that leaves us very little time to enjoy it. There’s an irony in that, isn’t there?’ He studied the photograph then turned it over again. ‘But you’re right about the extent of his social circle. This was taken at the Wilder Dance Studio. If he’s good enough to be compared to Vernon Castle, he’s going to have a vast number of pupils. But that shouldn’t deter us, Superintendent.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The overwhelming majority of them will be female.’ He gave the photograph back to Chatfield. ‘And we’re looking for a man.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ellen Marmion never knew what time her son would get out of bed in the morning. Sometimes he didn’t come downstairs until well into the afternoon, yet, on other occasions, she’d heard him get up in the middle of the night and raid the kitchen in search of food. Paul’s unpredictability was only one of the problems she faced. Chief among the many others was his sudden change of moods. He would shuttle freely between hope and despair, making ambitious plans for his future before deciding that he might not actually have one. It was dispiriting. Glad to have him home again, with no serious wounds to his body, Ellen struggled to cope with his capriciousness. When he’d joined the army with the rest of his football team, Paul had been a bright, lively, determined, extrovert character with unassailable buoyancy. That was the young man his mother had sent off to France. What she got back from the battle of the Somme was a blinded soldier obsessed with war and tortured by guilt that he’d survived when so many of his friends had perished. His liveliness had given way to inertia and his optimism had, more often than not, been replaced by a sense of desolation.

  As he chewed his way through breakfast that morning, he was in a world of his own. Ellen knew better than to interrupt him. She waited until he was ready to initiate conversation.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said, looking up as if aware of
her for the first time. ‘I heard the phone go off in the night.’

  ‘It was for your father.’

  ‘That means only one thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ellen resignedly, ‘there’s been another murder.’

  Paul was bitter. ‘One person gets killed over here,’ he argued, ‘and the whole of the Metropolitan Police are after the person responsible. Thousands of British soldiers are murdered every day in France yet all we can do is to send thousands more to their deaths. It’s not fair.’

  ‘No, Paul, it isn’t.’

  ‘Somebody ought to do something about it.’

  Ellen nodded in agreement because it was the safest thing to do. On the previous day, convinced that he would regain his sight completely, Paul had talked about going back to the front to join his regiment. He was pursuing a different theme now. As he ranted on about the folly of war, his mother gave him free rein, trying to humour him, afraid to contradict. It was only when he finally came to the end of his tirade that she dared to speak again.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked.

  ‘I feel fine in myself, Mummy.’

  ‘What about your eyes?’

  ‘If anything,’ he replied, producing a semblance of a smile, ‘there’s been a slight improvement. I can shave without cutting myself now. The doctors did say that I might recover full sight one day. I’m sure they’re right. I’m counting on it. I’ll be able to go back, after all.’

  ‘No, Paul,’ she said in alarm, ‘you mustn’t do that.’

  ‘It’s my duty.’

  ‘You’ve already done that by volunteering.’

  ‘I can’t let my friends down, Mummy. They’d expect it of me.’

  ‘Remember what they told you at the hospital. Shell shock can stay almost indefinitely. You’re in no state even to think about going back to France.’