Time was rolling on and there were decisions to be made. It would take Keedy far too long to go all the way to and from his digs so he resigned himself to remaining in Shoreditch. He first walked to the recommended house and made the acquaintance of Rose and Martha Haveron, two anxious ladies in their late sixties who confused their recent burglary with an attempt of their long-preserved virginity. Reassured by his status and by his easy charm, they were at the same time appalled to hear about the murder. They had nothing but good to say about Ablatt and his father and had been friendly with his mother until she died some years earlier. Even though it would be the first time that a man had spent a night under their roof, the sisters willingly offered up their front room as an observation post, ready to break with tradition if it would help the police. Indeed, they both revealed a hitherto hidden maternal instinct, offering Keedy food, providing him with blankets and generally trying to make his stay there as comfortable as it could be. He had difficulty escaping their urgent hospitality in order to go shopping.
As he left his two temporary landladies, he looked up at the side of the house on the corner. Nobody was left in any doubt as to who lived there. Amongst other things, Cyril Ablatt was described as a coward, a rat, a rotten conchie and a traitor to his country. The lettering was large but hastily done. Keedy decided that it must have taken the artist a number of visits to complete the work. His sympathy for the dead man welled up. Much kinder words would be etched on Ablatt’s gravestone. While the exterior of the house had been defaced, the real damage had been caused inside it. Keedy wondered how the family was coping with it.
‘Shall I make some more tea?’ asked Gerald Ablatt, getting to his feet.
He’d done little else from the time that his sister and brother-in-law had arrived. They come to offer him comfort but it was Nancy Dalley who most needed it. Between bouts of tears, she kept dredging up fond memories of her nephew and asking her brother to endorse their accuracy. Ablatt readily agreed with everything that she said, trying to ease her pain as a means of relieving his own. Dalley was forced into the position of an onlooker, watching them suffer and listening to the endless repetition of the same empty phrases.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said, reaching for the tea pot.
Ablatt came out of his reverie. ‘You don’t know where the tea is, Jack.’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘There are biscuits in the larder.’
‘I couldn’t touch food,’ said Nancy. ‘Even a biscuit would make me sick.’
‘You haven’t eaten anything since we got here, love,’ said her husband, solicitously. ‘There’s no need to starve.’
‘All I want is some tea.’
‘But we’ve been here for hours.’
‘Tea, Jack – nothing else.’
‘I’ll get it.’
As soon as Dalley left the room, Ablatt sat beside his sister and they embraced impulsively, letting the tears gush yet again. The murder had completely disoriented them. They’d lost all sense of time, place and purpose. All that they could do was to sit there and offer each other a degree of succour. When the blacksmith returned from the kitchen with the teapot and biscuits, he found them still locked together.
‘I’ll have to go soon,’ he warned. ‘It’s unfair to leave Perce on his own all day. He’ll wonder what’s happened.’
‘Go when you want to, Jack,’ said Ablatt.
‘Will you stay here, Nance?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘I’ll come back when I shut up the forge.’
‘I’ll still be here.’
Dalley put the teapot on the table and opened the biscuit barrel. He helped himself to a digestive them offered the selection to Ablatt who shook his head. His sister had started crying again and he was afraid to leave go of her. The blacksmith munched his biscuit and tempered his sorrow with a light-hearted remark.
‘One thing, anyway,’ he said. ‘Cyril won’t ever have to join the army now.’
The moment the words came out of his mouth, he realised how crass and hurtful they could be. However, he was spared any reproach from the others. Neither Ablatt nor Nancy heard what he said. They were miles away, trapped irretrievably in their private misery.
Notwithstanding his shortcomings, Claude Chatfield was an industrious man. By the time Marmion got back to Scotland Yard, the superintendent had immersed himself in the details of the murder, acquired a map of London and its inner suburbs, and set up a press conference. He’d also informed the commissioner about the progress of the investigation. Knowing how finicky Chatfield was about detail, Marmion had taken pains to rehearse what he was about to say. Accordingly, his report was full and lucid. He described his meeting with Eric Fussell and did his best to hide his aversion to the librarian. He went on to talk about Keedy’s questioning of Horrie Waldron. It led to the sergeant’s subsequent visit to a woman the gravedigger had claimed could supply him with an alibi for the time when he was away from the Weavers Arms the previous evening. Chatfield listened intently.
‘Who is this woman?’
‘Her name is Maud Crowther.’
‘Is that Miss or Mrs?’
‘It’s Mrs Crowther, sir.’
‘So this egregious gravedigger is dallying with a married woman.’
‘The lady is a widow, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘To gain her cooperation, Sergeant Keedy had to promise her that her name would be kept out of any newspaper reports. I think that we should honour that promise.’
‘What if she’s simply inventing an alibi for Waldron?’
‘The sergeant was convinced that Mrs Crowther was honest and reliable, sir. When it comes to women,’ he added with a smile, ‘I accept his judgements without question. He has an insight into the opposite sex that I lack.’
‘This is no time to discuss Keedy’s amours, Inspector,’ said Chatfield with a note of reprimand. ‘I know that they are the stuff of canteen gossip but they have no bearing on this case.’
‘I disagree, sir.’
‘As to this woman, we’ll hold her name back for the time being. If, however, she turns out to be an accomplice of sorts, both you and the sergeant will bear the weight of my displeasure.’
‘Neither of us wishes to incur that, Superintendent.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ He studied Marmion for a moment. ‘Is that all?’
‘I believe so.’
‘I’d hate to think that you’ve missed anything out.’
‘You’ve heard everything, sir.’
Marmion’s expression gave nothing away. Once again, he’d taken care to make no mention of the woman with whom Cyril Ablatt had enjoyed a secret romance. In addition to everything else, it would have unleashed a torrent of denunciation from the superintendent. Chatfield was a devout Roman Catholic who viewed extra-marital adventures of any kind with revulsion. Caroline Skene’s name would have prompted a fiery sermon from him. But that was not the only reason why Marmion kept back details of his meeting with her. He felt sorry for her in her bereavement and was not at all sure that she could endure it. To add public exposure of her friendship with Ablatt would be a crippling blow, leading to dire repercussions with her husband. While Chatfield would think that such punishment was well-deserved, Marmion wanted to protect her.
The danger was that the superintendent might learn that he was being deceived and that would have disastrous results. Official reprimand and demotion were the least that Marmion could expect. A vengeful man like Chatfield would undoubtedly find other means of blighting his career at Scotland Yard. It was a risk that had to be taken. When he gave his word to someone, Marmion strove to keep it. Caroline Skene had been assured of his discretion. He was not going to betray her.
‘Right,’ said Chatfield, leaning forward and pointing to the map on his desk. ‘Based on what we gathered from two of his friends, I’ve marked the route that Ablatt would have taken from Bishopsgate to the house in Shoreditch where they agreed to meet. Somewhere along that route, he was i
ntercepted and killed.’ He looked up. ‘How and where did it happen?’
‘If only we knew, sir,’ said Marmion, bending over the map with interest. ‘There seem to be a number of dots here.’
‘I’ve marked the principal locations.’ Chatfield used his finger to point them out. ‘This is the Ablatt house and this is where Hambridge lives. Over here is the library and – since Waldron is implicated – I’ve also marked the cemetery.’
Marmion indicated another dot. ‘What’s this one, sir?’
‘It’s the pub close to the scene of the crime – the Weavers Arms.’
The Weavers Arms was the haunt of Horrie Waldron, still the only real suspect in the case. When he’d finished his shopping, Keedy decided to pay it a visit. In a large paper bag was the torch he’d just bought along with the razor, shaving brush and shaving soap he needed. The Haveron sisters had given him such a cordial welcome that he felt they deserved more, first thing on the following morning, than the sight of a bleary-eyed detective with dark whiskers. While he was out, Keedy had also availed himself of a snack. A glass of beer was now very tempting. He entered the bar to find that it was relatively empty so early in the evening. Standing behind the counter, the landlord gave him a grin of welcome.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’ll have a pint of your best, please.’
‘It’s on its way.’
Reaching for a tankard, Stan Crowther filled it slowly with practised use of the pump. One mystery was solved for Keedy. When he’d heard Waldron express fear of the landlord, he couldn’t understand why such a sturdy man as the gravedigger would be afraid of anyone. The explanation was standing in front of him. Crowther was a beefy man with immense forearms and hands like shovels. But it was his face that gave the game away. Any trace of his mother had been pummelled away in a boxing ring. Crowther had a broken nose, a cauliflower ear and eyebrows that looked to be permanently swollen and misshapen. Hanging on the wall behind the landlord was a framed poster advertising a series of fights. Top of the bill was a heavyweight contest between Stan Crowther and Eli Montgomery.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ said Crowther, putting the full pint in front of him. ‘I knocked him out in the fourth round. Old Eli was a good fighter but he had a glass jaw.’ He chuckled. ‘He went down like a sack of spuds.’
After paying for the beer, Keedy sipped it and gave a nod of approval. There was no need to introduce himself. In the same way that he’d guessed the landlord’s former occupation, Crowther had worked out that he must be a detective.
‘I was expecting a visit from you sooner or later,’ he said.
‘Then you’ll know why I’m here.’
‘It’s a bad business, this murder. I mean, we have the odd fight in here and I got nothing against that, provided they don’t break the furniture. But murder is out of order – especially when it’s almost on our doorstep.’ He scratched his cauliflower ear. ‘What’s the name, sir?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy.’
‘Have you got any suspects yet?’
‘These are early days, Mr Crowther.’
‘Everyone calls me Stan – except Eli Montgomery, of course. He calls me a black-hearted bastard. Eli always was a bad loser.’
‘One man has come to our notice, Stan,’ admitted Keedy. ‘He’s not exactly a suspect but we believe that he and the victim had quarrelled. The man’s name is Horrie Waldron.’
Crowther grinned. ‘Horrie quarrels with everybody.’
‘He’d have more sense than to quarrel with you, I fancy.’
‘Even he is not stupid enough to do that, Sergeant.’
‘I spoke to him earlier at the cemetery. He tells me that he was in here all evening apart from an hour or two when he popped out.’
‘Then he’s told the truth for once.’
‘You’ll vouch for that, Stan?’
‘I will,’ said Crowther. ‘Horrie was in here the moment we opened. For some reason, he was carrying his spade. God knows why. Anyway, he has a pint, looks at the clock and goes out. We didn’t see him until a couple of hours later.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘For once in his life, he looked fairly clean even though he had his working clothes on. He must have sneaked off and had a bath somewhere.’
‘What about the spade?’
‘Oh, he took that with him but came back without it. The spade is like a fifth limb,’ said Crowther. ‘I’ve seen him using it at work. He’s amazing. You should see what Horrie can do with it.’
Keedy thought of the corpse on the slab at the police morgue.
CHAPTER NINE
Harvey Marmion understood the importance of being prepared. Before he and the superintendent went off to face the press conference, therefore, they agreed on just how much information about the crime they would release. Because of his reluctance to give them all the available facts, Claude Chatfield had always had a somewhat spiky relationship with reporters. He tended to hoard evidence and, to their utter frustration, hand it out in dribs and drabs. Marmion was more accommodating. He accepted that the press had certain rights and was alive to their needs. Over the years, he’d developed the technique of appearing to tell them everything they wanted to know while cleverly suppressing certain crucial facts. It was the reason why he’d been chosen by the commissioner to head the investigation. Whereas Chatfield was almost hostile to the press, Marmion had built up a rapport with them over the years.
They all knew his story. Marmion’s father had been a policeman. Largely because the job entailed shift work and low pay, it never appealed to his son. Marmion instead joined the civil service as a clerk. Fate intervened to change his mind. In the course of his duties, his father was murdered and the killer fled abroad. Maddened by the inability of the Metropolitan Police Force to catch the man, Marmion had taken action himself, launching a fund dedicated to the search for his father’s killer. When he had enough cash, he’d crossed the Channel by ferry and begun his own private investigation. With no experience of detection and with all the language difficulties to handicap him, he nevertheless picked up a trail that had eluded British police. Showing the tenacity that was to become his hallmark, Marmion pursued, caught and arrested the killer by force. By selling the story of how he did it, he earned enough from a national newspaper to repay everyone who’d contributed so generously to the fund.
His escapade had a significant result. It turned him into a policeman. After the heady excitement of the chase, he could never return to the tedium of the civil service. Marmion started like his father, walking the beat in uniform in all weathers. By dint of hard work, he earned successive promotions and eventually became a detective inspector at Scotland Yard. There were many people who believed that he should hold a higher rank. One of them was among the clutch of reporters at the press conference. When the police statement containing the basic facts of the case had been read out, it fell to him to put the first question.
‘Given your remarkable record of success, Inspector Marmion,’ he asked, ‘can you explain why you were not appointed to the rank of superintendent recently?’
There was muted laughter at the pained expression on Chatfield’s face.
‘That question is not relevant to the investigation,’ said Marmion, smoothly, ‘and, in any case, I believe that the right man got the job.’
Chatfield was mollified. ‘Who’s next?’ he asked, looking round.
They were in the large room reserved for meetings and press conferences. Marmion and Chatfield sat behind a desk and submitted to interrogation. The questions came thick and fast and, for the most part, Marmion was left to answer them. While he named no suspects, he repeated his belief that the killer was a local man who knew both the victim and the area. It was important for press coverage to stress that fact and to ask the inhabitants of Shoreditch if they’d seen anything suspicious on the night in question or if anyone they knew had been behaving strangely in its aftermath. After givi
ng them a description of the life and character of the victim, he asked them to respect the privacy of the Ablatt family and to refrain from harassing them during a time of mourning.
When the questions dried to a trickle, a ginger-haired man with spectacles spoke for the first time. As he learnt more about the murder victim, his sympathy for Cyril Ablatt had waned. There was a note of outrage in his voice.
‘This man is a self-declared conchie,’ he said with vehemence. ‘At a time when police resources are stretched to the limit, why are you devoting so much manpower and effort to a miserable coward who refused to fight for his country?’
‘Cyril Ablatt is the victim of a brutal murder,’ said Marmion, firmly. ‘His death will be investigated with the same vigour as the murder of anybody else.’
‘Many people will find that scandalous.’
‘They’re entitled to their opinion.’
‘Wouldn’t the time and money spent on this investigation be better used in the fight against crime in the capital?’
‘I refute that suggestion,’ said Marmion. ‘Besides, as a man in your job ought to know, the latest statistics show that adult crime in the capital has actually gone down during the war. It’s not difficult to see why. The young men largely responsible for committing it have joined the army in droves. The pattern of crime has changed so dramatically that we have prisons standing half-empty.’
‘Then they should be filled with conchies like Cyril Ablatt.’
Marmion’s response was tinged with irritation. ‘When he became a murder victim,’ he said, ‘he ceased to be a conscientious objector. I think you should bear that in mind.’
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