Dance of Death

by Edward Marston

  ‘I’m not a coward,’ he declared, stiffening.

  ‘Nobody says that you are, Paul. You’re a wounded hero and you must accept that. You’ve done more than your bit. You’re entitled to stay out of the war.’

  ‘I could never do that. I think of nothing else.’

  ‘You mustn’t let it prey on your mind.’

  ‘I can’t just forget it,’ he said with mounting anger. ‘You saw what the Germans did to me. I was lucky to survive. I feel that I was kept alive for a purpose and I know what that purpose is. When I can see perfectly well, I’m going back to get my revenge on those bastards.’

  Ellen flinched. ‘Mind your language, please!’

  ‘Well, that’s what they are.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s what you call them when you’re with your friends,’ she said, raising her voice, ‘but you’re not in the trenches now, so we don’t want words like that in the house, thank you very much.’

  Paul looked bemused. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You know full well what you said. Your father is dealing with criminals all the time so he probably hears foul language every day but he never brings that language home. If you must swear, do it somewhere else.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

  ‘We’ve had to make a lot of allowances since you came back but there are some things we just won’t put up with. Do you understand?’

  While Paul was surprised at the admonition in her voice, Ellen was even more so. She hadn’t realised how much anger had been bottled up inside her. Before she could stop herself, it had come gushing out. She was a motherly woman of middle years with a spreading midriff and greying hair. Ellen was not sure if she should apologise for her outburst or wait to see its effect on her son. As it was, Paul seemed too stunned to speak. His mother had been so amazingly tolerant since his return that he’d been taken unawares by her sharpness.

  Each of them was still wondering what to do or say when they heard the letter box click open and shut. Ellen was glad of the excuse to leave the kitchen.

  ‘There’s the post,’ she said.

  She rushed to the front door, picked up the mail and brought it back into the room. There were only two letters. One was addressed to her husband and the other one was for Paul.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said, holding it out.

  He snatched it from her. ‘It must be from my regiment.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Paul. That looks like a woman’s handwriting.’

  He tore the letter open and peered at it through narrowed lids. After struggling to make out the words, he eventually gave up and slapped it down on the table. Ellen was sympathetic. She sat down beside him and picked up the letter.

  ‘Shall I read it to you?’

  Paul was frustrated. ‘My eyesight should be better by now!’

  ‘It will be – in due course.’

  ‘I ought to be able to read properly.’ He took a deep breath to compose himself, then gave a nod. ‘Yes, please – if you would.’

  ‘It’s from someone called Mavis Tandy.’

  ‘Why is she writing to me?’

  ‘I daresay that she’ll tell you in the letter.’

  ‘How did Mavis know that I’d be here?’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll explain. You know who she is, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I heard about Mavis.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned her before, Paul.’

  ‘Why should I? I haven’t even met her. Mavis was his friend.’

  It was Marmion’s turn to take the lead. Whenever they viewed a body at the morgue, he drew strength from the sergeant’s experience of dealing with death. The breaking of bad news was a different matter. The inspector was infinitely better at dealing with bereaved families, more sensitive, more soothing and less likely to say anything out of place. As they stood outside the house in Chingford, Keedy was glad to hand over the task of passing on the sad tidings to the victim’s wife. After ringing the bell, they were kept waiting for a full minute and wondered if nobody was at home. The door was then opened by a short, skinny woman in her fifties with spectacles perched on her nose. After the detectives had introduced themselves, she explained that she was Grace Chambers, next-door neighbour of the Wilders.

  ‘It’s bad news, isn’t it?’ she whispered.

  Marmion’s expression was blank. ‘Is Mrs Wilder at home?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been sitting with her since she got back from the police station.’ She stood aside to admit them. ‘You’d better come in.’

  They entered the house and were conducted to the living room, a large, well-furnished and well-proportioned space. They had no chance to notice the plethora of framed photographs and the collection of silver cups in the glass-fronted cabinet because Catherine Wilder leapt up from the sofa in alarm. After performing introductions, Marmion spoke softly.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to sit down again, Mrs Wilder.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, taking her cue and easing the other woman back down on the sofa. ‘I’ll sit with you, Catherine.’

  Holding their hats in their hands, the detectives sat in the armchairs opposite. Marmion made a swift assessment of the victim’s widow. She had the frightened eyes of someone expecting to hear something terrible. For his part, Keedy was looking at Grace Chambers, clearly nervous but exuding sympathy. He was grateful that the neighbour was there.

  ‘When you reported that your husband was missing,’ said Marmion, ‘the information was passed on to Scotland Yard. As it happens, we had an unidentified body …’ He paused as Catherine tensed and Grace put a consoling arm around her. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that the photograph you sent has convinced us that the deceased is almost certainly Mr Wilder.’

  ‘Simon is dead?’ gasped Catherine.

  ‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Wilder.’

  ‘But how did he die – and where did it happen? Was he knocked over by a car or a bus? It couldn’t have been a heart attack or anything like that. Simon was in the best of health. How was he killed?’

  Marmion traded a glance with Keedy then lowered his voice even more.

  ‘I regret to say that your husband was … murdered.’

  ‘Murdered!’ exclaimed Catherine, one hand to her throat. ‘There must be some mistake, Inspector. Who could possibly want to murder Simon?’

  ‘It will be our job to find out, Mrs Wilder.’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure that it was my husband?’

  ‘All the evidence points that way, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Did you find the business cards he carried in his wallet or see his name on the watch I had engraved for him?’ He shook his head. ‘Then it can’t have been him,’ she decided. ‘Simon had documents with him. Each one of them bore his name.’

  ‘They were deliberately stolen by the killer, Mrs Wilder. There was no form of identification on him. Even his wedding ring had been removed.’

  The spark of hope that had momentarily ignited her face was cruelly snuffed out. As she sagged back on the sofa, Catherine didn’t even feel her neighbour’s arm tighten around her. She was still reeling from the impact of the news. The detectives waited in silence. It gave them the opportunity to look around the room and see how many of the photographs featured Simon Wilder and his wife on a dance floor. After a couple of minutes, Catherine gathered up enough strength to speak.

  ‘I want to see him,’ she said. ‘I want to be certain that it’s Simon.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that, Mrs Wilder,’ said Marmion.

  ‘Why not? He’s my husband. I have a right.’

  ‘Indeed, you do, and a positive identification from a family member would be very helpful to us. But there are distressing circumstances here. I would hate you to see your husband in that condition.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He suffered appalling injuries, Mrs Wilder.’

  Grace was curious. ‘What sort of injuries, Inspector?’

  ‘He was not simply stabbed to death �
��’

  There was a long and very awkward pause. Keedy broke the silence.

  ‘He was not simply stabbed to death,’ he said, quietly. ‘Mr Wilder was badly mutilated.’

  Catherine heard no more. Mouth agape, she fainted.

  ‘Why do they call her Gale Force?’ asked Iris Goodliffe.

  ‘You’ll soon find that out.’

  ‘She was very nice to me when I first met her.’

  ‘Wait until you step out of line,’ warned Alice Marmion. ‘Then you’ll find yourself in the middle of a howling gale. When the inspector loses her temper, we all run for cover.’

  ‘Oh dear, is she that much of a tyrant?’

  ‘Not really, Iris. She’s a good-hearted woman who does a difficult job very well but she doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Watch your step. That’s my advice.’

  ‘Thank you, Alice.’

  Out on patrol, they were walking side by side down a long street. It was Alice who collected the few curious glances from passing men. A window cleaner even winked at her and lifted his cap. To her dismay, Iris didn’t attract any attention. She was there to learn from her companion and found her a mine of information. After being plied with dozens of questions, Alice asked one of her own.

  ‘Why did you choose the police?’ she asked. ‘With your background in pharmacy, the obvious place for you to go was into nursing.’

  ‘I was tempted.’

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘It was what happened to my father,’ explained the other. ‘We lived above the shop, you see. Someone broke in one night and tried to steal drugs of some kind. My father went down to confront him. Instead of just running away, the thief gave my father a terrible beating. He was off work for a month. I had this terrible sense of helplessness, Alice,’ she went on. ‘I should have been able to go to my father’s aid but I was just cowering upstairs. That’s the real reason I joined the police. I want to learn how to cope with situations like that. To put it more bluntly, I suppose I want to be toughened up.’ She turned to Alice. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘It makes a lot of sense – and it reminds me of my own father.’

  ‘Oh – why is that?’

  ‘Daddy never intended to become a policeman,’ said Alice. ‘He was happy working in the civil service. He and Mummy had a very different life in those days. But my grandfather was in the Metropolitan Police. Then he was murdered on duty one night and it changed Daddy’s life. He wouldn’t rest until the man was caught. When the police were unable to find the killer, my father pursued him across the Channel and caught up with him in France. He dragged him back here to face justice and he’s been a copper ever since.’

  ‘You must be very proud of him, Alice.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What did your mother think when he joined the force?’

  ‘I think she preferred living with a civil servant.’

  ‘But that would be so dull and uneventful.’

  ‘Mummy always says that it would be better than having a husband who’s on call twenty-four hours of the day and who has to court danger every time he goes in pursuit of a killer. Daddy makes light of the dangers. It’s all part of the job to him and he accepts that without complaint.’

  ‘Are you an only child?’

  ‘No, I have a brother. Paul is at home at the moment.’

  ‘Hasn’t he been conscripted?’

  ‘He and his friends were among the first to sign up when the war broke out. Unfortunately, my brother was injured at the Battle of the Somme and invalided out. He keeps talking about going back to the front again one day,’ said Alice with a sigh, ‘but that’s another story …’

  Holding the letter to catch the best of the light, Paul tried to make out the words again. The handwriting was neat and, by screwing up his eyes, he could read most of the letter. Replying to it, however, was a more taxing assignment. Crouched over the kitchen table, he worked slowly and laboriously. His first two attempts were so bad that he scrunched up the pieces of paper and threw them hard into the bin. Paul gave up all hope of writing properly. Through his blurred vision, the words looked like childish squiggles. As a last resort, he began to use large, decisive capital letters, explaining the problem with his eyesight. The words came much more easily.

  It never occurred to him that he would live to regret writing them.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Because he was tetchy at the best of times, it took very little to provoke Claude Chatfield’s ire. He was always simmering. When he found something that really annoyed him, he became uncomfortably loud and extremely animated. All that Marmion could do was to stand there and listen.

  ‘It’s disgraceful!’ cried the superintendent, pacing his office to work up a head of steam. ‘As if the police don’t have enough to do, we’ve had to rush men over to a village near Enfield to guard the remains of that Zeppelin. Sightseers have descended on the place in thousands by bus, train and car, and they all want souvenirs from the wreck. It’s repulsive. Human beings died in that crash but people show no respect. According to one report I’ve had, they tried to lift the tarpaulin to gloat over the charred bodies. Can you imagine that?’ he howled. ‘In the end, soldiers had to remove the corpses to a tiny corrugated iron church and stand guard over them. If they hadn’t been stopped, I dare swear that some of the vultures would have hacked off parts of the bodies and carried those away as souvenirs.’

  ‘To some extent, sir,’ ventured Marmion, ‘it’s understandable.’

  Chatfield rounded on him. ‘Don’t tell me that you approve.’

  ‘Far from it – but you have to look at the circumstances. We’ve suffered any number of air raids in London but this is the first time we’ve been able to strike back. The Zeppelin is no longer invincible. That’s something to celebrate. No wonder people want to get their hands on a piece of the wreckage.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s deplorable.’

  ‘It’s an enemy aircraft, sir. They feel entitled to revel in its destruction.’

  ‘They shouldn’t revel in the death of the crew.’

  ‘That’s human nature, I’m afraid,’ said Marmion. ‘War has coarsened all of us. The public loves to hear about German casualties. Suddenly, they have a chance to see some of them. It’s dreadful, I know. Like you, I deplore what’s happening near Enfield,’ he went on, ‘but, with respect, the fate of the Zeppelin crew is not really our concern. The murder of Simon Wilder should be our priority.’

  Chatfield came to a halt. ‘Don’t presume to lecture me, Inspector.’

  ‘I was just giving you a gentle reminder, sir.’

  ‘Well, it’s a totally unnecessary one.’

  ‘Then I take it back.’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’

  After shooting him a look of displeasure, Chatfield walked behind his desk and lifted up the report that Marmion had brought. As he read through it, his anger slowly abated and he even managed a grunt of admiration. At length, he put the paper aside and turned his gaze on his visitor.

  ‘You always did know how to dress up a report,’ he said.

  ‘I wanted you to have enough detail for the press conference, sir.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain that the victim is Simon Wilder?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘When he was butchered in that alleyway, he was less than half a mile from his home. What was he doing there?’

  ‘That’s something of great interest to us, sir. Even as we speak, our men are calling on every house in a wide circle around the scene of the crime. Somebody must know why he happened to be in that part of Chingford at that late hour.’

  Chatfield glanced at the report again then fired an unexpected question.

  ‘How would your son react?’

  Marmion was taken aback. ‘Paul? What do you mean, sir?’

  ‘He’s a soldier. He’ll have been coarsened more than any of us. What will be his response to the shooting down of the Zeppelin?’

  �
�He’ll be very glad.’

  ‘Won’t he be rushing over to Cuffley? That’s the place where it actually came down. Doesn’t he want to be part of the grisly crowd that’s keen to wash their hands in the blood of the enemy?’

  ‘My son has seen enough dead bodies already, Superintendent, and he’s watched how degraded men can become by war. The hordes over at Cuffley are not the only souvenir-hunters. German soldiers have collected the most macabre trophies from fallen British soldiers.’

  ‘I know. I’ve heard the stories.’

  ‘They’re horribly true.’

  ‘How is Paul?’

  Marmion was surprised by the considerate tone in which he spoke. Ordinarily, Chatfield only mentioned the inspector’s family in order to discomfit him. There was genuine interest in his question this time and Marmion was touched. He was reminded that the superintendent was a family man himself and had four children, though he had no son of an age that made him liable to conscription.

  ‘He’s … getting better, sir,’ said Marmion, guardedly.

  ‘One reads terrible things about shell shock.’

  ‘Paul is learning to cope.’

  ‘I wish him well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  After a brief foray into Marmion’s private life, Chatfield reverted to being the peppery superintendent who was always respected but never liked by those of lower rank. The return to normality pleased Marmion. He always felt uneasy when Chatfield talked to him as a human being rather than as a colleague who needed to be kept firmly in his place. They discussed the report line by line and the superintendent made a few small adjustments.

  ‘I like to face the press well prepared,’ he said.

  ‘That’s to your credit, sir.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I don’t expect to get the publicity we need. We have sixteen newspapers in London alone and details of this murder should be on the front pages of every one of them. But it’s not going to happen, is it?’

  ‘No, sir, the shooting-down of that Zeppelin will be the main news.’