Instrument of Slaughter

by Edward Marston

  ‘Yes,’ said Keedy, reflectively. ‘That’s the trouble with murder. It wounds so many people. It reaches out to family, then friends, then mere acquaintances. Dalley won’t be allowed to forget it. When the story gets into the newspapers, every customer at his forge will want to ask about his nephew.’

  ‘Each time it will be as if someone is twisting the knife anew.’

  ‘Does anyone ever get over the violent death of a loved one?’

  ‘I doubt it, Joe.’

  The wait was much longer than anticipated. It was light now and there were more people around, setting off to work or coming out to wonder why a car was standing outside the Dalley house. It was half an hour before the couple appeared. The blacksmith was still in his working clothes but his wife, Nancy, was wrapped up in a thick coat with a tippet around her shoulders and a feathered hat. Dalley more or less carried her to the car and it was apparent that she was too grief-stricken to say anything. The detectives expressed their condolences then remained silent during the journey to the Ablatt house. When they got there,

  their passengers got out, went to the front door and knocked. Gerald Ablatt appeared and his sister flung herself into his arms. He ushered her inside. Dalley came briefly back to the car.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re grateful for the lift.’

  ‘We’ll be in touch, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Before we go, however, the sergeant has something to ask you.’

  Keedy took his cue. ‘I wondered why you didn’t live over the forge, sir, that’s all. It would save you going to and fro all the time.’

  ‘We used to live there,’ explained Dalley, ‘but it’s not the cleanest place to bring up a family. When my parents died, they left me the house where you took me earlier. We moved into it four or five years ago. As for the forge,’ he went on, ‘my assistant lives there. Percy and his missus look after the place for me. I take the rent out of his wages.’ He pursed his lips. ‘He’ll have to manage on his own for a long while now. I’m needed here.’

  Turning on his heel, he went into the house and shut the door behind him. The car set off and rounded the corner, giving them a clear view of the slogans and taunts painted crudely on the side wall. It was evident that the anonymous artist was burning with hatred for Cyril Ablatt.

  ‘Do you think someone will be back with a paintbrush?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Not as long as Dalley is here,’ replied Marmion. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

  Running the bakery involved the whole family. Gordon Leach’s mother worked in the shop with the help of his sister. Having done his stint of baking, Leach had to go off on the first of his delivery rounds. The horse stood patiently between the shafts while he loaded the bread into the back of the cart. Still warm, it was wrapped in tissue paper. When the job was complete, he clambered into the cart and was about to set off. Then he saw the animated figure of Fred Hambridge coming towards him. He climbed out immediately.

  ‘I was hoping to catch you,’ said Hambridge, panting for breath.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘You haven’t heard, then?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘It was my boss who told me about it. Charlie was coming past Drysdale Street when he saw this crowd. That’s how he knew.’

  ‘You’re not making much sense, Fred,’ said Leach. ‘Why don’t you get your breath back and tell me what’s actually happened?’

  ‘There’s been a murder.’

  Leach started. ‘A murder – where?’

  ‘I’ve just told you. It was near Drysdale Street.’

  ‘Who was the victim?’

  Even as he asked the question, Leach thought of a possible answer and it made his blood congeal. He shook his head in a frenzy of denial.

  ‘No, no,’ he protested. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I didn’t at first,’ said Hambridge.

  ‘It can’t have been Cyril.’

  ‘It was a young man, according to Charlie. That much is certain.’

  ‘But he had no idea what his name was.’

  ‘None at all,’ admitted the other, ‘but we have to face facts, Gordon. He was killed last night after dark. And it was near a place that Cyril would have walked past on his way to my house. It all fits. It explains why he never turned up.’

  Leach’s head was spinning. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t believe it.’

  ‘I went to the police station but they wouldn’t give me any details. They told me to wait until the newspapers come out this evening. There may be a name in that. When I told them that I was a friend of Cyril, they didn’t want to know and told me to stop being a nuisance.’

  ‘There must be some way to find out the truth.’

  ‘We can go to his house and ask his father.’

  Leach brought a hand to his throat. ‘Oh, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s why Mr Ablatt wasn’t there when Mansel called earlier this morning. He told me that he’d gone to find out if Cyril got back late last night.’

  ‘He didn’t get back,’ said Hambridge, woefully, ‘because he simply couldn’t. Someone had battered him to death. What are we going to do, Gordon?’

  ‘We try to find out the truth.’

  ‘We both know the truth. Cyril Ablatt is dead. Why argue about it? I was asking a different question. What the hell are we going to do now that we don’t have him here to guide us? What would Cyril want us to do?’

  Leach didn’t even hear him. His mind was running on another track altogether. If their friend really was the murder victim, there would be implications. Ablatt had given a brilliant speech at the meeting of the NCF. Had he been killed by way of punishment? Was someone determined to silence conscientious objectors? Leach was overcome by a sense of panic.

  ‘Cyril may just be the first one,’ he cried. ‘Which one of us is next?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The lane connected two streets in Shoreditch. It was narrow, twisting and unlit at night. When the detectives arrived there by car, policemen were on duty at either end of the little thoroughfare, stopping anyone from using it and trying to move on people who just came to stand and stare. Marmion identified himself to one of the policemen and asked to be taken to the exact spot where the body was found. He and Keedy were escorted to a point near the middle of the lane. The policeman indicated a rickety garden gate set into a recess.

  ‘It was right here, Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘Who found him?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘I’m told it was a courting couple, sir. You’ve got to feel sorry for them. They sneak down here for a kiss and a cuddle and they trip over a dead body.’

  ‘That must have cooled their ardour.’

  ‘It was well after midnight – must have been pitch-dark.’

  ‘How did they know it was a corpse?’

  ‘They didn’t, sir,’ replied the policeman. ‘In fact, they thought it might have been a drunk who passed out as he tottered home from the Weavers Arms.’

  ‘That’s the pub on the corner, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. Afraid it might be more serious, they reported it.’

  ‘I’m glad they had the sense to do that.’

  ‘So am I, sir. By all accounts, it was a hideous sight. It’s just as well they moved the body away before the public got to see it.’

  Marmion was only half-listening. Crouching down, he examined the ground with great care. When he eventually stood up, he stroked his chin meditatively.

  ‘This is not the scene of the crime,’ he concluded. ‘If it were, there’d be lots of bloodstains and there are hardly any. I think that the victim was killed elsewhere then dumped here. I also think that we’re after a local man.’

  Keedy was puzzled. ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Only someone who knew the area would be aware of this lane. It’s a good place to get rid of a dead body – but only after the pub closes and people stop using it to get home. The victim was brought here when there was nobody about.’

  ‘The killer mi
ght have needed an accomplice.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A dead body is easier to carry if there are two of you.’

  ‘It’s possible that someone else was involved, if only as a lookout. The killer was obviously a cautious man. He’d take no chances. Thank you, Constable,’ he said to the policeman. ‘You can get back on duty now. Keep everyone out of the lane for the time being – especially any press photographers.’ As the policeman went off to take up his position, Marmion turned to Keedy. ‘What’s your immediate reaction?’

  ‘It’s someone that Ablatt knows.’

  ‘That was my view.’

  ‘All that we’ve heard about him so far points to the fact that he’s a bright lad. In that photo we saw in his bedroom, he looked young and strong. He wouldn’t be easily overpowered unless he was taken unawares.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Marmion. ‘If he was approached by an acquaintance, he’d be off guard. The trouble is that he’d have a hell of a lot of acquaintances. Since he worked in a library, he must know any number of people.’

  ‘One of them might be the phantom artist.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m thinking of the man who painted those things on the side of Ablatt’s house. The father had no idea who he was but it must be a neighbour with a malicious streak in him. We need to find out who he is.’

  ‘Or who she is,’ corrected Marmion. ‘A woman can handle a paintbrush as well as a man. I know that Alice can. When I papered her room last year, she insisted on painting the door and the window frame. As soon as we’d done that, of course,’ he said, face puckered with regret, ‘our daughter decided to move out of the house. We could have saved ourselves all that trouble.’

  Keedy was sceptical. ‘You surely don’t think we’re looking for a female killer, do you?’

  ‘We need to consider every option. There’s no evidence to suggest that the artist and the killer are one and the same person but it’s a possibility we have to bear in mind. As for the murder itself,’ Marmion continued, ‘it’s highly unlikely that a woman committed it because of the brutality involved and the physical strength needed. On the other hand, there could be a female accomplice, someone who incited the crime in the first place. The fairer sex has become a lot more aggressive since the war started. Don’t forget that it’s women who hand out white feathers.’

  ‘Accusing someone of cowardice is a long way from plotting their death.’

  ‘I accept that.’

  ‘And what sort of man lets a woman talk him into committing a murder?’

  ‘The kind who are naturally inclined that way,’ said Marmion, levelly. ‘We’ve met quite a few of them in this job. They just need that final push.’

  ‘No,’ said Keedy, ‘I disagree with you there, Harv. I don’t believe a woman is involved in any way.’

  ‘What about the lady in that photograph we found?’

  ‘I was forgetting her.’

  ‘She could be indirectly culpable. If her husband discovered her friendship with Cyril Ablatt, he might have been enraged enough to kill him.’

  ‘We need to track the woman down.’

  ‘That’s what I intend to do – after we’ve interviewed the victim’s three friends. I’ll start with Gordon Leach. The family bakery is not far from the Ablatt house. I’ll find it. You can tackle Fred Hambridge. You’ve got his address. If you go there first, they might be able to tell you where he works.’

  ‘What about the third friend – Mansel Price?’

  ‘Try his address as well. Find out where he is. If you can’t reach him this morning, leave a message to the effect that we’d like to speak to him. By the time he gets it, he’ll know why.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘This will be on the front page of the evening’s paper. Everybody in London will know.’ An image of Superintendent Chatfield popped into his mind. ‘When he gave his statement to the press, I hope that Chat asked for any witnesses to come forward. Somebody may have seen something.’

  ‘It’s a long shot but you never know.’

  ‘I take it that you’ll have use of the car.’

  Marmion grinned. ‘It’s a privilege of rank.’

  ‘When do I get my own transport?’

  ‘When Sir Edward retires and you succeed him as commissioner.’ He slapped Keedy playfully on the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift to Hambridge’s house. It’s on my way to the bakery. Then I’ll see you back at Scotland Yard. The superintendent will want a report on the progress we’ve made so far.’

  Keedy raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know we’d made any.’

  ‘Then you should remember just how much information we’ve gathered. Lots of it may be irrelevant but I fancy that we’ve already made one or two crucial discoveries.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘The trick is to work out which ones they are.’

  When she heard a vehicle drawing up outside the house, Ellen Marmion hoped that it might be her husband, returning for a late breakfast. In fact, it was her daughter who climbed down from the lorry she’d been driving and used her key to let herself into the house. Ellen was delighted to see her.

  ‘Alice!’ she cried, embracing her. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

  ‘I can’t stay long. I came to scrounge a cup of tea.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on at once.’

  Alice followed her into the kitchen and watched her fill the kettle under the tap before setting it on the stove and using a match to ignite the gas. Ellen turned to appraise her daughter with a mixture of pleasure and disapproval.

  ‘I can never get used to you in that uniform,’ she said, clicking her tongue. ‘Khaki is such an unflattering colour.’

  ‘It cost me two pounds,’ said Alice, defensively, ‘and I like it.’

  ‘I preferred it when you worked as a teacher and wore your own clothes.’

  ‘There’s a war on, Mummy. I’m far more use working for the WEC than I would be keeping a classroom of noisy children in order. Even you must realise that by now.’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t but I’m not going to argue about it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Alice Marmion was a comparatively tall, slim, lithe woman in her early twenties with attractive features and bright eyes. Against her mother’s wishes, she’d given up her job at a nearby school in order to join the Women’s Emergency Corps, one of the many women’s organisations dedicated to helping the war effort. It was interesting work that confronted her with a whole range of problems but it involved long hours and kept her at full stretch. Ellen noticed the signs of fatigue.

  ‘You look tired,’ she said, anxiously. ‘Are you getting enough sleep?’

  ‘Who cares about sleep when there are so many jobs to do?’

  ‘I do. It’s important.’

  ‘So is helping people in dire circumstances.’

  ‘Oh, I do wish you still lived at home so that I could take care of you.’

  ‘I can cope perfectly well on my own, Mummy.’

  ‘I worry that you don’t get enough food.’

  Alice laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve put on weight.’

  ‘Then you’re not getting the right kind of food.’

  ‘Stop worrying about me. I’ve been in the WEC for well over six months now and I’ve looked after myself all that time. Living on my own gives me the kind of freedom I could never enjoy here.’

  Ellen was hurt. ‘You make this house sound like a prison.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. I was very happy here – when I was younger, that is. I just felt too old to be living with my parents.’

  ‘We miss you dreadfully. At least,’ added Ellen, ‘I certainly do. Your father is hardly ever here so I miss him as well. They got him out of bed around five o’clock this morning for the latest crisis. I probably won’t see him again until it’s time to turn in.’ She pulled a face. ‘Who’d marry a policeman?’

  ‘Daddy must have warned you what it would be like.’

  ‘He was just a bobby on the beat in th
ose days. I didn’t like him working shifts but at least I knew when I’d see him again.’

  ‘Do you regret that you married him?’

  Ellen gasped. ‘What a terrible question to ask!’

  ‘Well – do you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I love your father. I’d just like to see more of him.’

  ‘It may be better when the war’s over.’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling myself,’ said Ellen. ‘We live in hope. But I can see why Joe Keedy never married. Working at Scotland Yard is much easier when you don’t have a family to worry about.’

  ‘Joe does have a family.’

  ‘Yes, but they’re up in the Midlands somewhere. He has very little to do with them. He can live a bachelor life and do as he pleases.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Alice. ‘He’s in the same boat as Daddy. They’re never off duty. The call can come at any time of day or night.’

  ‘Don’t remind me.’

  The kettle was starting to boil. Ellen turned to reach for the teapot before emptying its contents down the sink and rinsing it out. When steam began to billow out of the kettle, she switched off the gas then poured a little hot water into the pot to warm it up. Spoonfuls of tea followed, then she added the hot water, put the lid back on and slipped the cosy over the pot. When they were side by side, the resemblance between mother and daughter was very clear. The difference was that Ellen was twice Alice’s age and had greying hair, a lined face and a spreading midriff. She struggled hard to master her intense concern for her children. Her son had joined the army and was somewhere in France. Her daughter had left home, ostensibly to join the WEC but, in reality, to spread her wings as well. With her husband absent for long periods, Ellen was bound to feel sad and neglected.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve got to drive to the station to collect another batch of refugees. It’s some more Belgians this time. Just as well I’ve picked up so much French,’ said Alice, cheerfully. ‘Being in the WEC is a real education. I’ve learnt how to drive any kind of vehicle and can get by in French and German. More importantly, I’ve learnt how to look after myself so that I’m not a burden on you and Daddy.’