Instrument of Slaughter

by Edward Marston

  ‘I followed him one evening.’

  ‘And is that all you did, Mr Gill?’

  ‘You know it isn’t. I let everyone know what sort of person he was.’

  ‘Forget your antics with the paintbrush,’ said Keedy. ‘I’m wondering if you followed him when he came back from a meeting in Bishopsgate. I’m wondering if you decided that calling him names on a brick wall wasn’t enough so you killed him out of hatred for his beliefs.’

  ‘No!’ exclaimed Gill. ‘I never touched him. I swear it.’

  ‘What were you doing on the evening before last?’

  ‘I was at home with my wife and my son. You can ask them.’

  ‘I’ll make a point of doing that.’

  ‘I never went anywhere near Ablatt,’ said Gill, squirming.

  ‘Did you go out at any stage during the evening?’

  ‘Only for an hour – I went out for a drink.’

  ‘Which pub would that be?’

  ‘The Weavers.’

  ‘That’s very close to where the body was found.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Are you sure that you didn’t go into the pub to get some Dutch courage to commit murder?’ asked Keedy. ‘You don’t look like the sort of person who’d have the nerve to do it otherwise.’

  Gill was desperate. ‘All I did was to have a pint of beer,’ he said, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘Talk to Stan Crowther, the landlord at the Weavers. He’ll tell you how long I was there. I had a drink, played a game of darts with Horrie Waldron, then left. I was back home by nine. My wife will confirm that.’

  Keedy could see that he was telling the truth. Robbie Gill was not the killer. Since the body was dumped in the lane much later than nine o’clock, he could not have put it there. On the other hand, the fact that he knew the gravedigger raised the possibility that he might somehow have been party to the murder. Gill could not be removed entirely from the list of suspects.

  They were in a cold, featureless room at Shoreditch police station. Gill sat on the opposite side of the table from Keedy. When he greeted the sergeant at his front door, he was almost pugnacious, but the arrest had sobered him. A plumber by trade, Gill had the shifty look of someone who never expected to be caught. He saw what he was doing as a public duty, exposing a conscientious objector who had the gall to try to justify his position. Every time he heard about Ablatt pontificating at the library, he felt a simmering disgust and felt impelled to strike at him somehow.

  ‘What were you going to paint?’ asked Keedy.

  Gill glared at him. ‘Does it matter now?’

  ‘I’d like to know.’

  ‘I was going to add two words – “good riddance”.’

  ‘Was that a kind thing to do, Mr Gill?’

  ‘That yellow-bellied conchie deserved it!’

  ‘Did his father deserve it?’ asked Keedy. ‘He didn’t agree with what his son was doing. Did his aunt deserve it? She’s not a conscientious objector. Mrs Dalley is simply a heartbroken woman who’s lost someone she loved. Then there’s Cyril Ablatt’s uncle. When we picked him up at his forge yesterday, he told us quite openly that his nephew should have gone into the army. All three of them were in that house yesterday, mourning the death of a murder victim. Did you think it would help them in their bereavement if you taunted them with your jibe?’

  ‘If you’re trying to make me feel sorry,’ said Gill, recovering something of his confidence, ‘then you’re wasting your time. I’d do the same thing again.’

  ‘You won’t get the chance.’

  ‘Everyone in the Weavers thinks the same as me – conchies are scum.’

  ‘But they don’t all sneak out at night and deface someone else’s property, do they? That’s a criminal offence, Mr Gill.’ Keedy sat back and appraised him. ‘Do you know what I think?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think that I’ll send a policeman to your house to check your alibi. We’ll find out if you really were there, as you claim, at the time in question. We’ll also discover if your wife approves of what you do with a tin of paint in the middle of the night.’ He saw the sweat break out on the other man’s brow. ‘I can’t believe that Mrs Gill would be proud of a husband who did what you did.’

  ‘Keep my wife out of this!’

  ‘It was you who wanted to call her as a witness.’

  ‘I acted on my own. Mabel wasn’t involved in any way.’

  ‘Indirectly, she was,’ noted Keedy. ‘It was her visits to the library that drew your attention to Cyril Ablatt. My guess is that you probably asked her to find out as much about him as she could.’ Gill’s forehead was now glistening. ‘To some extent, Mrs Gill aided and abetted you.’

  The plumber winced. He had set out during the night to assuage his hatred of a conscientious objector by leaving a taunt in large letters on the side of his house. Gill had not only been violently attacked, he was now under arrest and being accused of murder. The thought that his wife would be questioned by the police when he was not there to control her answers made him quiver.

  ‘Do you know what you should do?’ asked Keedy. ‘If you have a shred of decency, you should apologise to Mr Ablatt then paint over those words on the wall of his house. But you’re not going to do that, are you?’

  Gill folded his arms in token defiance. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Mr Ablatt will be told about your arrest and he’ll see the report about you in the newspaper. If he needs a plumber, I don’t think he’ll be turning to you somehow.’

  Gerald Ablatt had slept only fitfully during the night and was up before dawn. After a breakfast of toast and tea, he went into his son’s bedroom and gazed at all the books. They symbolised the education that a caring father had provided by working overtime at his shop. Ablatt had grave misgivings about that education now. Had his son become a blacksmith or even taken up his father’s trade, he might well be alive now. He slammed the door shut and went downstairs. Joe Keedy had paid a surprise visit to the house but Ablatt was too preoccupied to take in everything he said. He thanked the detective without quite knowing what he’d achieved. Ablatt brooded on the news after Keedy left. It was still relatively early when Jack Dalley brought his wife. Nancy felt that she had to be with her brother so that they could share their sorrow. As soon as they met, they embraced warmly and she began to weep.

  ‘I’ll stay for a while,’ offered Dalley, ‘but I have to get over to the forge at some point. Perce can’t do everything on his own.’

  ‘Go when you need to, Jack,’ said Ablatt. ‘I’ll look after Nancy.’

  ‘The neighbours have been kind,’ she said through tears. ‘As soon as they found out, they came to see if they could do anything for me. And Jack told me that Percy Fry’s wife will come at any time if I need company. In time, I might do. At the moment, I need to be with family.’ She hugged her brother again. ‘The only place I want to be is here.’

  ‘Nance didn’t get a wink of sleep last night,’ said Dalley. ‘Neither did I.’

  Ablatt padded out to the kitchen and they followed him. After filling the kettle, he set it on the stove and lit the gas. He seemed to come out of a daze.

  ‘If you’d got here earlier, you’d have met Sergeant Keedy.’

  ‘What was he doing here?’ asked Dalley with interest. ‘Have they caught the killer?’

  ‘No, Jack, but they’ve arrested the man who painted those things on the wall. He tried to have another go last night but Cyril’s friend, Mansel, was lying in wait for him. So was the sergeant,’ explained Ablatt. ‘He was hiding in a house around the corner. The man got away in a scuffle but he was arrested later.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘His name is Robbie Gill and he’s a plumber.’

  Dalley was roused. ‘I know him,’ he said, angrily. ‘He did some work for us once. In fact, he botched it so I refused to pay him and had to get in someone else.’

  ‘I remember him,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Yes, he was a surly beggar.’<
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  ‘I know his wife,’ said Ablatt, dully. ‘Mrs Gill brings shoes to be soled and heeled. I doubt if she’ll be doing that again in a hurry.’

  ‘I bet you want to give him a good hiding,’ said Dalley.

  ‘No, Jack, I don’t.’

  ‘I would if he’d painted things on the side of my house.’

  ‘What does it matter now? Cyril is dead. It won’t bring him back.’

  ‘At the very least, I’d give him a piece of my mind.’

  Ablatt was lacklustre. ‘There’s no point.’

  They discussed the matter until the kettle began to boil. Ablatt made the tea and they took it into the front room on a tray with milk, sugar and three cups. He let the teapot stand in its cosy for a couple of minutes before pouring. As they sat in silence, gloom descended on them. Even the blacksmith lacked the will to move. Nobody drank the tea. They just held the saucers in their hands and stared into the cups. When there was a knock on the door, they were startled. It was a rude intrusion into their grief. The shock prompted another bout of tears from Nancy and her husband moved across to comfort her. Ablatt, meanwhile, went off to the front door, making an effort to shake off his torpor.

  When he felt ready, he opened the door. A smartly dressed woman lunged forward to put her arms around him. The feather on her hat brushed against his cheek.

  ‘Hello, Gerald,’ she said, sobbing. ‘I read about it in this morning’s paper. I just had to come.’

  He stood aside so that Caroline Skene could step into the house.

  Marmion was delighted to see Joe Keedy back at Scotland Yard and amazed how bright and breezy he seemed to be. A sleepless night in the front room of the Haveron household didn’t appear to have sapped his strength at all. Energised by the arrest he’d made that morning, Keedy gave a full account of what had happened. They were in Marmion’s office and the desk was littered with newspapers and correspondence. When he’d heard the report without interruption, Marmion sat back thoughtfully.

  ‘So this Robbie Gill is definitely not the killer.’

  ‘No,’ said Keedy. ‘He didn’t murder Cyril Ablatt.’

  ‘If he’s a plumber, he’d obviously have the strength needed. And his tool bag would provide him with a weapon. The post-mortem report came earlier.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘It is full of gory detail,’ said Marmion, ‘but, in essence, it said that he was battered to death with a blunt instrument that also had a sharp edge. There were gashes all over the body.’

  ‘They could have been put there by the edge of a spade.’

  ‘What about something out of a plumber’s tool bag?’

  ‘No – Gill’s alibi was sound. Both his wife and his son confirmed that he was at home when the body was – in all probability – moved to that lane.’ Keedy read the inspector’s mind. ‘And before you suggest that he might have murdered Ablatt earlier on and left an accomplice to transfer the corpse to the spot where it was found, let me shoot down that idea. Robbie Gill wouldn’t have the guts to do it. At heart, he’s a miserable coward. He didn’t have the courage to confront Ablatt in person about being a conchie. He could only work in the dark with a paintbrush.’

  ‘Did his wife know what he was doing?’

  ‘She knew,’ said Keedy, ‘but she certainly didn’t approve. That’s why he was so jumpy when I said that we’d speak to Mrs Gill. She was ashamed of what he did and horrified that he’d been arrested.’

  ‘What about the link with Waldron?’

  ‘It could be something or nothing, Harv.’

  ‘If they were in cahoots,’ said Marmion, ‘it’s unlikely that he’d produce Waldron’s name so readily.’

  ‘I think he was anxious to establish his alibi. He gave me Stan Crowther’s name as well in case I wanted to check at the Weavers Arms. By the way,’ said Keedy, ‘I called at the pub yesterday evening. Crowther is not a man to cross. He used to be a heavyweight boxer and looks as if he still packs a punch.’

  ‘You seem to have had an exciting time, Joe. A boxer, a plumber, a Welsh cook and two nice old ladies who probably fell madly in love with you – that’s not a bad haul for one night.’

  ‘What’s this about a haul?’ asked Chatfield, coming into the office. ‘Good morning, Sergeant. I gather there’s been a development.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Keedy.

  ‘What’s this about an arrest?’

  ‘The sergeant had a busy night,’ said Marmion.

  Keedy took his cue. He gave a carefully attenuated version of events to the superintendent who peppered him with questions throughout. Chatfield criticised him for not catching Gill at the first opportunity but he applauded his enterprise in arresting him at the second attempt. In the presence of their superior, Marmion and Keedy lapsed back into formality. Chatfield loathed over-familiarity between his officers. He felt that it was unprofessional. Nobody got close enough to him to treat him as a friend.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘So the name of Horrie Waldron crops up again.’

  ‘Only in relation to a game of darts, sir,’ said Keedy.

  ‘This fellow Gill may have given himself away.’

  ‘He’s not the man we’re after, superintendent. I’m certain of that.’

  ‘I question that certainty, Sergeant. Let’s keep an eye on him. When it comes to eyes,’ he went on with a feeble attempt at humour, ‘I daresay that you’d like to close yours and get some much needed sleep.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Keedy. ‘I feel as fresh as a daisy. I’ll carry on.’

  ‘We don’t want you falling asleep on us.’

  ‘Sergeant Keedy is unlikely to do that, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘He’s one of the fittest men at Scotland Yard. If he wishes to press on, I think you should allow him.’

  Chatfield gave a nod. ‘Very well – you have my blessing, Sergeant.’ He handed an envelope to Marmion. ‘This has just arrived for you, Inspector. I told you that the newspapers would flush out some witnesses.’ He waited until Marmion had opened and read the letter. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir. It’s an anonymous note but it does contain some interesting information.’ He passed it back to Chatfield. ‘It looks as if I should have another chat with a certain librarian.’

  Eric Fussell sat in his office with the door firmly closed. Using a pair of scissors, he cut out an article from a newspaper and read it through with a broad smile. He put the cutting aside and reached for another newspaper. There was a pile of them on his desk. He wanted a complete collection of reports about the murder.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Charlie Redfern arrived at the workshop to discover his assistant using a plane on the edge of the door he was making. Hambridge broke off immediately and went quickly across to him.

  ‘Morning, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Sorry about what happened yesterday.’

  ‘No need to explain,’ Redfern told him. ‘I’d have done the same in your shoes, Fred. When I mentioned a murder, you thought it might be your friend.’

  ‘And it was, unfortunately.’

  ‘I know. I saw it in the paper.’

  ‘But I shouldn’t have left you in the lurch like that. It was wrong of me. I’ll make up for it by working much longer this evening.’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  ‘Fancy a brew?’

  Redfern laughed. ‘Ever known me refuse?’

  Hambridge filled the kettle. His boss, meanwhile, took off his coat and hat, hung them up, then looked at himself in the cracked mirror on the wall. He smoothed his hair back with a flabby hand and stroked his chin, disappointed that his beard refused to grow beyond a certain point. When he turned back to Hambridge, the latter took an envelope from his pocket and held it out.

  ‘You’re not handing in your notice, are you?’ joked Redfern.

  ‘I might be, Charlie.’

  ‘I thought you liked working here.’

  ‘I love it.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’


  ‘Read it for yourself and you’ll find out.’

  Redfern took the envelope from him and extracted a letter. His brow crinkled as he read it. Hambridge was a good carpenter and a loyal employee. Redfern didn’t want to lose him. He tried to sound cheerful.

  ‘This may come to nothing, Fred.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  ‘I’ll tell them my business will collapse without you.’

  ‘That’s what I was going to ask you, Charlie. I need a favour. Will you speak up for me at the tribunal? It might help.’

  ‘Try stopping me.’

  Redfern put the letter into the envelope and gave it back to him. It was a summons to appear before a military tribunal. Like thousands of other men of a certain age, Hambridge would have to seek exemption from conscription. If he failed to do so, he would either be forced to join the army or face imprisonment.

  ‘I’ve heard about these bloody tribunals,’ said Redfern, airily. ‘They’re made up of ordinary men and women so it should be easy to pull the wool over their eyes. You’re a skilled worker, Fred. You’re needed here.’

  ‘I’m not going to fight,’ said Hambridge, reaching for an arresting phrase. ‘I refuse to be an instrument of slaughter in khaki uniform. It’s morally repugnant to me and an infringement of my individual liberty.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed his boss. ‘It’s too early in the morning for big words like that. Where the hell did you get them?’

  ‘To be honest, I borrowed them from Cyril.’

  Redfern suppressed a smirk. ‘Well, they’re no use to him now, are they?’

  ‘He taught me another thing to say as well.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I’ve got to remind the tribunal about William Pitt.’

  ‘Who, in God’s name, is he?’

  ‘He was the prime minister donkey’s, years ago,’ explained Hambridge. ‘They called him Pitt the Younger because his father had run the country before him. He was known as Pitt the Elder.’

  ‘You’re confusing me already, Fred.’

  ‘Even you must have heard of Napoleon.’

  ‘Oh, yes – what about him?’