Instrument of Slaughter

by Edward Marston

  ‘That makes my blood boil!’ he said, tossing the newspaper aside.

  Keedy picked it up. ‘What does it say, Harv?’

  ‘They think we’re idiots.’

  ‘If they’ve been talking to Chat, I’m not surprised. He’s the idiot-in-chief.’ Keedy read the article. ‘This is so unfair,’ he said, hotly. ‘Anyone would think we’ve been sitting on our hands for the last few days. It’s especially unfair to you. They ought to show more respect.’

  ‘They have newspapers to sell, Joe.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean they can print lies.’

  ‘They’d call it “informed opinion”.’

  ‘Well, if you want my informed opinion,’ said Keedy with spirit, ‘the man who wrote this drivel ought to be kicked the length of Piccadilly. I’ll volunteer to do the kicking and to wear some hobnail boots.’

  ‘Never get into a fight with a reporter. They always have more ink.’

  ‘We can’t let him get away with this, Harv.’

  ‘We won’t,’ Marmion promised him. ‘We’ll solve both crimes and show him just how maliciously wide of the mark this article is.’

  During a morning of ceaseless activity, they paid a visit to Gerald Ablatt’s shop where the cobbler had been working quietly away. Aghast at the news of an attack on James Howells, he’d confirmed that his son had been friends with the curate and talked of him visiting the house once or twice. Ablatt was honest. While he appreciated the curate’s many fine qualities, he still preferred the vicar’s sermons. They offered more comfort and far less challenge. After a series of other calls, the detectives had ended up in the room where Howells had lived. It presented a sharp contrast to Cyril Ablatt’s bedroom. Where the latter was small, untidy and filled with books, this one was large, scrupulously organised and devoid of ornament. There was an austere feel to the place. Hidden behind a curtain, a single bed stood in the corner. The furniture comprised a table, a chair and a wardrobe. A neat pile of books stood on the table. Inevitably, the Bible was one of them.

  Keedy whistled in surprise. ‘This room makes mine look like Aladdin’s cave.’

  ‘It is rather bare,’ agreed Marmion.

  ‘Where are the paintings, the knick-knacks, the personal items?’

  ‘He didn’t need those, Joe.’

  ‘Most of us have something to look at.’

  ‘Perhaps he chose to look inwards.’

  Marmion sifted through the books on the table. When he picked up the Bible, nothing fell out of it. The Reverend James Howells was patently not a man who spent much money on himself. They opened the wardrobe to find very little inside apart from some shirts, socks, underclothes and a pair of trousers.

  ‘He seems to have lived like a monk,’ said Keedy. ‘This whole room reeks of self-denial.’

  Marmion grinned. ‘I’m surprised you know what self-denial is, Joe.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘They tell me it’s good for the soul.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’ Keedy drew back the curtain to look at the bed. On a shelf supported by a wall bracket were shaving equipment, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Getting down onto his knees, he peered underneath the bed then reached for something. ‘This might be interesting.’

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘Can you manage, Joe?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Keedy stood up with a small cardboard box in his hands. When he set it on the table, they examined the contents. There were letters from Howells’s father and from fellow clergymen with whom he’d studied. There were some family photographs, and a pile of sermons written in a neat hand with various words underlined. Of most interest to Marmion was a small address book. As he leafed through it, he saw that most of the people listed in it lived in Shoreditch and were, presumably, the curate’s parishioners. His parents’ address was there, as were those of relatives and friends in York. One name jumped out of the address book at Marmion.

  ‘Eric Fussell is in here,’ he said, curiosity stirring. ‘Yet he doesn’t live in Shoreditch, so he’s unlikely to attend services at St Leonard’s.’

  Keedy looked over his shoulder. ‘I see what you mean. He lives in Lambeth.’

  ‘That raises a question, Joe.’

  ‘Yes – how did your favourite librarian make his way into the book?’

  Mansel Price first heard about the attempted murder when he saw it emblazoned across the front of the newspaper stall at the railway station. Too mean to buy a copy, he instead went to a nearby wastepaper bin and retrieved one discarded earlier. He read it on the way to the bakery. Gordon Leach let him in by the side door.

  ‘Have you heard, Mansel?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been reading the details on the way here.’

  ‘It’s scared me rigid.’

  ‘Well,’ said Price, contemptuously, ‘it doesn’t take much to do that, does it?’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid you might be next?’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘We could be targets.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. But just in case anybody does come after me,’ said the Welshman, slipping a hand under his coat, ‘I’ll be ready for him.’

  He pulled out a knife and thrust it at Leach, making him jump back.

  ‘Steady on, Mansel! That’s dangerous.’

  ‘If anyone attacks me, I’ll cut his balls off.’

  ‘Put that thing away before someone gets hurt.’

  Price slipped the knife back into its sheath. ‘You knew this Father Howells, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Leach. ‘Some of us go to church.’

  ‘I’m a chapel man myself, though I haven’t seen the inside of one since I left Wales. Anyway, I’m usually working on a Sunday. Need the money.’

  ‘James Howells was a nice man. Thank heaven he survived!’

  ‘We don’t know that he did,’ said Price, realistically. ‘The paper says he’s still in a coma. He may never recover. That’d be two murders in less than a week.’

  Leach was unnerved. ‘We need police on patrol at night around here,’ he argued. ‘It’s the only way to make sure there isn’t a third victim.’

  ‘If you expect the police to protect you,’ said Price with rancour, ‘you’ll wait till the cows come home. They don’t have the men to spare and they couldn’t care about us, anyway. Sergeant Keedy couldn’t even catch a man about to paint a wall. What chance has he got of arresting a killer?’

  ‘Fred trusts him.’

  ‘Don’t listen to Fred. He thinks well of everybody.’

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. When Leach opened it, Ruby Cosgrove threw herself into his arms. After hugging her for a moment, he eased her inside and closed the door.

  ‘What’s brought you here, Ruby?’ he asked.

  ‘When I heard the news, I just had to come.’ Seeing Price for the first time, she broke away from Leach. ‘Hello, Mansel.’

  ‘How are you, Rube?’

  ‘I’m terribly upset by what I heard.’

  ‘It wasn’t Gordon he banged on the head – it was only Father What’s-is-name.’

  ‘We know him,’ she emphasized. ‘Gordon and I saw him in church last Sunday. He was so friendly. Father Howells was going to marry us.’

  Price sniggered. ‘I thought you were after this three-day licence.’

  ‘No,’ said Leach, firmly. ‘That’s out of the question now. We don’t need it any more.’

  ‘You mean that you and Gordon are not going to get married, after all?’ Price shook his head. ‘I wish the pair of you would make up your bleeding minds.’

  ‘Watch your language, Mansel,’ warned Leach. ‘I won’t have you swearing in front of Ruby. As for the wedding,’ he continued, shooting Ruby a nervous glance, ‘our plans are not definite at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ she said, decisively.

  Leach gaped. ‘Are they?’

  ‘That’s unless y
ou’ve changed your mind, Gordon.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, happily. ‘I’m dying to get married.’

  ‘Then we leave the date exactly as it was,’ she explained. ‘We’ll have to ask the vicar to take the service, of course, but I’m sure he’ll agree to that.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Rube,’ said Price, hands on hips, ‘there’s something you’re forgetting. Me and Gordon will be hauled up before a tribunal soon. Fred Hambridge has already had his summons. We’re the next in the queue. How can you walk down the aisle with Gordon when he’s likely to be locked up in prison with me? We’re conchies. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

  ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic with me, Mansel Price.’

  ‘Then don’t plan for something that can’t possibly happen.’

  ‘But it can,’ she insisted. ‘My father explained it to me. There’s a way for Gordon to stick to his principles without being imprisoned.’

  ‘No, there isn’t.’

  ‘He can join a non-combatant corps. They never have to take part in a battle and sometimes they don’t even leave this country. You’d be safe, Gordon, and I’m sure we’d get permission from your commanding officer to go ahead with the wedding in the summer.’ Squeezing his hands, she smiled lovingly at him. ‘Isn’t that the perfect solution?’

  Leach could sense that Price was simmering with rage. He played for time.

  ‘Let me think it over, Ruby,’ he said, tactfully.

  On his third visit to Shoreditch library, Marmion took Joe Keedy with him so that he could get the sergeant’s opinion of the librarian. When they arrived, Eric Fussell was in a meeting with his deputy so they had to wait. It gave them the opportunity to scour the shelves. Keedy was fascinated by an illustrated guide to angling.

  ‘It must be years since I got my fishing rod out,’ he moaned. ‘I used to love sitting in the sun on a riverbank when the fish were nibbling.’

  ‘You go fishing every day in this job,’ said Marmion with a grin. ‘If you use the right bait and remain patient, you always catch something in the end.’

  ‘The trouble is that it’s usually small fry, Harv – petty thieves and so on. I’d rather just toss them back into the water.’

  ‘We’re after more than small fry now.’

  ‘Then we need a big hook and a large net.’ Keedy replaced the book on the shelf and looked towards the librarian’s office. ‘I think he’s deliberately keeping us waiting. What’s he doing in there?’

  ‘He’s probably still trying to find out who supplied us with all that information about his feud with Cyril Ablatt. It riled him to think that one of his assistants had dared to betray him.’ He saw someone behind the desk. ‘It certainly wasn’t that lady.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s his wife, Mrs Fussell.’

  Keedy looked at the portly woman writing something in a pad. She wore spectacles and had her hair pinned up at the back. Putting the pad aside, she reached out some books from under the counter and took them to a shelf nearby. As she stacked them wearily in position, she looked as if she was doing a tedious chore. Clearly, she didn’t share her husband’s zeal for the working at the library.

  Marmion saw the door of the office open. The deputy librarian came out, followed by Fussell who beckoned the detectives over with a lordly crook of the finger. All three of them went into the office. After Keedy had been introduced to the librarian, they took a seat. A copy of the Evening News lay on the desk.

  ‘I hope that you’ve brought me some glad tidings,’ said Fussell.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Marmion.

  ‘You must have made some progress.’

  ‘We’re still gathering evidence.’

  ‘That takes time,’ said Keedy.

  ‘We have to sort out the wheat from the chaff, you see. The strange thing is that people don’t always tell us the truth,’ said Marmion. ‘Well, you’re a good example, sir. You told me what an outstanding assistant Cyril Ablatt was even though you’d done your level best to unload him onto another library.’

  ‘I explained that,’ snapped Fussell.

  ‘Indeed, you did – but only when someone had provided me with the facts.’

  The librarian was tetchy. ‘Why are you bothering me again, Inspector? I would have thought you had plenty to keep you busy.’ He indicated the newspaper. ‘You have another case on your hands now and someone doesn’t like the way you’re handling the first one. You and the sergeant are more or less ridiculed in that article.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, sir,’ said Keedy.

  ‘The impression given is that you’re both floundering.’

  ‘Appearances are deceptive,’ said Marmion, easily. ‘But let’s leave the press to its own peculiar ways. We came here to ask you about Father Howells. I believe that you know him, Mr Fussell.’

  ‘Yes – I’ve seen him here a number of times.’

  ‘He’s also a friend of yours, isn’t he?’

  ‘Everyone who comes into the library is a friend of mine. I make a point of fraternising with the readers. It’s important to understand their needs and to be aware of their likes and dislikes.’

  ‘You’re avoiding the question, sir.’

  Fussell looked blank. ‘Am I?’

  ‘You knew James Howells as a friend, didn’t you?’

  ‘We often had a chat when he came in here, Inspector.’

  ‘And was the friendship no closer than that?’

  ‘Why should it be?’ asked Fussell.

  ‘When we visited the house where he lives,’ said Marmion, ‘we found his address book. Your name was in it.’

  ‘There’s nothing unusual in that,’ said Fussell, smoothly. ‘James – Father Howells, that is – was a regular visitor here. It’s not surprising that he kept the address of the library.’

  ‘But that’s not what he did,’ said Keedy. ‘He kept your home address.’

  The librarian’s face was impassive but his eyes flicked to and fro.

  ‘Why did he do that, sir?’ asked Marmion, watching him intently. ‘Do you worship at St Leonard’s, by any chance?’

  ‘No, I do not,’ said Fussell, stiffly. ‘My wife and I are Roman Catholics.’

  ‘Did you ever meet him socially?’

  ‘What has this got to do with a violent attack in the night?’

  ‘You’re avoiding the question again, sir.’

  ‘No,’ retorted Fussell, ‘I did not meet Father Howells socially. I have, by choice, a very limited social life. After a long day here, all that my wife and I wish to do is to have a quiet evening at home.’

  ‘So you can’t explain how your name got into that address book?’

  ‘I don’t have the foggiest idea.’

  The reply was assertive and bolstered by a defiant glare. Marmion thanked him for his time and rose to his feet. Keedy got up to follow him out. As they strolled towards the door, they walked past Mrs Fussell and saw her avert her gaze from them. When they came out into the fresh air, Marmion turned enquiringly to Keedy.

  ‘You were right,’ said the other. ‘I disliked him on sight as well.’

  ‘Why did he lie about having his name in that address book?’

  ‘That wasn’t the only lie he told us, Harv. When we walked out, you must have noticed his wife.’

  ‘Yes, she looked rather bored and unhappy.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be unkind,’ said Keedy, ‘but she’s not the most attractive woman. She looks as if she’d be very dull company. For all his arrogance, Fussell has got a real spark in him. Could you really imagine him spending all his spare time at home with a wife like that?’

  Maud Crowther placed the flowers in front of the headstone then stood back to gaze down at the inscription. She had made her weekly pilgrimage to the cemetery and was weighed down by sad thoughts of her late husband. After all this time, she missed him as much as ever. They’d been happily married for a long time. Lost in her memori
es, she stood there in silence for almost twenty minutes. When she finally turned away, she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back. Having paid her respects to her husband, she went in search of a friend.

  Horrie Waldron was waist-deep in a grave. He was aware that Maud would pay her customary visit to the cemetery but he knew better than to interrupt her. If she wanted to talk, she’d come to him. As a rule, she simply went straight home without even seeing him. Today, it was different. She was anxious to find him. When he saw her walking along the gravel path, he clambered out of the grave and used his arms to semaphore. Maud spotted him and went across the grass.

  ‘Good afternoon, Horrie,’ she said.

  He gave a sly grin. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘I’ve done more than that, Maud. I’ve had the coppers out here after me.’

  She was shocked. ‘They surely don’t think that you had something to do with it, do they?’

  ‘They’d pin every crime on me, if they could,’ he said, sourly. ‘Just because I had a spot of bother with them once or twice, they blame me for every damn thing.’

  ‘Did you mention me this time?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Good – I don’t want them sniffing around my house again. It could get back to Stan,’ she said, worriedly, ‘and you know what would happen then. You’d need someone to dig your grave.’

  Waldron cackled. ‘It’d be worth it, Maud.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. I’d lose my son’s respect for ever.’

  ‘Then we make sure Stan never finds out.’

  ‘There’s one simple way to do that,’ she said, moving closer and clearing her throat. ‘Look, Horrie, I’ve been thinking about this for some time. Maybe we should stop taking all these risks. It’s silly at my age. I’m fed up with having to creep round and tell lies to everyone. The game is not worth the candle.’