Instrument of Slaughter

by Edward Marston

  His hackles rose. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘We’d still be friends.’

  ‘What about my …visits?’

  ‘They’ll have to stop.’

  ‘But I don’t want them to stop, Maud.’

  ‘It’s starting to get too dangerous.’

  ‘Thought you liked danger,’ he said, looming over her. ‘It was all part of the fun.’ When she tried to move away, he grabbed her wrist. ‘You won’t get rid of me as easily as that,’ he warned. ‘I’ll be there at the usual time on the usual day. Is that clear?’

  ‘You’re hurting my wrist.’

  ‘Is that clear?’ he demanded, tightening his grip.

  ‘I don’t want you any more, Horrie,’ she said, angrily.

  His eyes flashed. ‘Got no choice, have you?’

  They got back to Scotland Yard to find a pile of putative witness statements awaiting them on Marmion’s desk. They related to both crimes. One purported to come from the killer, taunting them with their inability to identify him. A second ‘confession’ came in the form of a crude cartoon with images of two victims being clubbed from behind. Other people did make a stab at naming the culprit. Among the suspects put forward was a gravedigger from Abney Park cemetery. The information about the second attack seemed more reliable. Three separate people claimed to have seen someone running out of the lane and down the street around the time when the curate had been bludgeoned to the ground. A woman who looked out of her bedroom window caught a glimpse of him as well. All they could see was a tall figure with long strides. He’d vanished into the night.

  Marmion and Keedy were still discussing the dubious evidence when the superintendent breezed into the office. Chatfield demanded an instant report on how they’d spent their time. When he’d heard the details of their movements, he was disappointed by their apparent lack of progress.

  ‘This will only give more ammunition to the press,’ he grumbled.

  ‘You’ve given them far too much already, sir,’ said Marmion, reproachfully, ‘and they fired it straight back at us. Why tell them that we were looking for one man when you had no actual proof of that? You were working entirely on supposition.’

  ‘I was relying on my experience, Inspector.’

  ‘Well, I’d advise more caution in the future. According to you, the curate was Cyril Ablatt by another name yet that’s not what the vicar thinks.’

  ‘And he should know,’ Keedy interjected.

  ‘The two of them are on opposite sides when it comes to the subject of conscientious objection to military service. That NCF leaflet misled you completely.’

  Chatfield was unrepentant. ‘I don’t accept that.’

  ‘In future,’ said Marmion, ‘I’d be grateful if you let me handle any press conferences. I am, after all, supposed to be in charge of the two cases. Isn’t that why I was given the assignment – because I know how to handle reporters?’

  ‘You were chosen against my wishes,’ Chatfield reminded him, spitefully. ‘And for the record, I, too, know how to keep the press in its place.’

  ‘Then why did they launch that attack on us in the paper?’ asked Keedy. ‘It’s not helpful when we’re mocked like that. Thanks to you, the inspector came in for the heaviest criticism. We expect you to support us, sir, not offer us up as sacrifices.’

  ‘That’s enough, Sergeant!’

  ‘Very well,’ said the other, backing off, ‘but at least you know how we feel.’

  ‘I expect more deference from a junior officer.’

  ‘Then you ought to earn it,’ said Marmion under his breath. Aloud, he was placatory. ‘There’s no point in arguing about it. I’m sure it won’t happen again and I’m sorry if the sergeant and I overstepped the mark, sir.’

  ‘So you should be,’ said Chatfield. ‘What’s the next move?’

  ‘I think that we should probe a little deeper into Waldron’s private life.’

  ‘How will you do that, Inspector?’

  ‘By taking a look at his digs,’ said Marmion. ‘To do that, we’ll need you to get us a search warrant. I’ve got a strong feeling that Waldron is hiding something.’

  Stroking his chin, the superintendent looked first at Marmion then at Keedy.

  ‘I sometimes get that feeling about you two,’ he said, darkly. ‘It’s bad enough when the public deliberately withholds evidence. When it’s my own officers doing it, I resent it bitterly.’ He regarded each of them in turn once more. His voice contained an unspecified threat. ‘What are the two of you keeping from me?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Marmion, straight-faced.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ added Keedy. ‘We wouldn’t dare, Superintendent.’

  Horrie Waldron ended his working day by rolling himself a cigarette and locking up his spade in the shed. As he trudged toward the main gate, he reflected on the visit of Maud Crowther. He’d been pleased to see her at first, knowing that she’d taken the trouble to seek him out. But her decision to end his visits to her house had been like a slap in the face. He’d retaliated in the only way that he knew. He regretted doing that now. Maud deserved better of him. She’d taken great risks on his behalf. If the truth came out, he’d escape with a few broken bones, but she’d never be able to look her son in the eye again. That was far worse than a beating. Waldron saw now that his menacing behaviour had been both ill-judged and unfair. A spirited woman like Maud Crowther couldn’t be threatened. She had to be wooed and coaxed and stroked like a cat. Waldron needed a change of approach.

  On the long walk home, he had plenty to think about. The first thing he had to do was to apologise and he could only do that in person. Barely literate, he’d never trust himself to find the right words for a letter. They’d need to speak but only after a lapse of time. When she walked away from the cemetery, Maud had been puce with anger and indignation. She needed time to calm down. Only then could Waldron even hope to wheedle himself back into her affections. To achieve the best result, the apology should be accompanied by a gift of some sort. That would absorb some of her ill feeling towards him. He spent the rest of the journey trying to choose a gift that would buy back her interest in him. While he accepted that he was only a diversion for her, Maud Crowther meant a great deal to Waldron. Only now that he’d lost her did he realise what she meant to him.

  On his way home from work, he habitually called in at the Weavers Arms for the first pint of the evening. Stan Crowther served the beer then appraised him.

  ‘You’ve spruced up a bit, Horrie,’ he said.

  ‘My other working clothes were starting to hoot a bit.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  Waldron looked around the empty bar. ‘It’s very quiet, Stan.’

  ‘We won’t see many people in here tonight,’ complained the landlord. ‘That bugger has scared them off. As long as he goes on cracking heads open, people will be too frightened to leave their houses in the dark.’ The gravedigger made no comment. He took a long sip of his beer. ‘Had a good day?’

  ‘It was neither good nor bad.’

  ‘My mother was going to the cemetery today to put flowers on Dad’s grave. I don’t suppose you bumped into her, did you?’

  ‘No, Stan, I never laid eyes on her.’

  ‘I think it’s morbid myself – going back to a grave all the time.’

  ‘It helps some people,’ said Waldron, absently. ‘I got nothing against it.’

  ‘I’ve only been there once since Dad died.’ When another customer came in, Crowther served him before turning back to the gravedigger. ‘My mother should have got over it by now. That’s what I keep telling her.’

  ‘Women have got minds of their own, Stan.’

  The landlord chuckled. ‘You can say that again! I’ve been married for fifteen years now and I still can’t guess what my wife is going to do and say. She never does what I expect her to. Is that your experience of women as well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Waldron, ruefully. ‘It certainly is.’

>   After finishing his pint, he put the tankard down and walked off to his digs. For some reason, spending the whole evening at the pub had lost its appeal. He felt the need to be alone. Waldron rented a small, dank, low-ceilinged basement room with a scullery attached to it, enabling him to make fairly basic meals. The scullery was also the place where he did his infrequent washing. He’d rigged up a line from one side of the room to the other. Hanging from it was the shirt, vest and pair of trousers he normally wore at work. Taking the trousers off the line, he held them up close to the light bulb so that he could examine them. Waldron let out a snarl of disappointment.

  After a second wash, the bloodstains were still there.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  London was never allowed to forget that there was a war on. Apart from the fact that uniformed soldiers and sailors were always visible on the streets, there was the accumulated bomb damage. Emergency services were kept at full stretch. They were on duty that evening as a fleet of Zeppelins came up the Thames, cruising at ten thousand feet like a flock of giant eagles in search of prey. Laden with bombs, they’d come to inflict another night of terror on the capital. They had, however, been spotted and aircraft from the Royal Flying Corps were dispatched to intercept them. London was treated to a thrilling exhibition of aerial combat, with the smaller, faster and more manoeuvrable British planes trying to fly above the airships in order to bomb them or to get within machine-gun range. The dark sky was a kaleidoscope of bright flashes and sudden explosions. The sound of bullets and destruction reverberated across the heavens. When a Zeppelin blew up with spectacular effect, it scattered debris over a wide area.

  The noise could be heard all over the capital. Percy Fry was holding the reins as the horse pulled the cart through Bethnal Green, reacting nervously to the clamour in the sky. At the end of the working day, he was giving Jack Dalley a lift home. The blacksmith looked upwards.

  ‘Listen to that, Perce,’ he said. ‘The Huns are back.’

  ‘Those bloody Zeppelins are a menace.’

  ‘They just keep on coming.’

  They’d taken the cart because they had to deliver a gate they’d repaired for a customer. Fry intended to pick his wife up at Dalley’s house to drive her back to the forge. He listened to the pandemonium with foreboding.

  ‘It sounds as if it’s getting closer.’

  ‘Keep the bombs away from us,’ said Dalley, staring upwards. ‘We already have enough misery to cope with in our family.’

  ‘I hope that Elaine has been able to help.’

  ‘I’m sure she has, Perce. All that Nancy needs is someone to be there with her. To be honest, I’m glad that my brother-in-law went back to work. Having Nancy in his house all day was dragging him down.’ He glanced across at Fry. ‘It’s very kind of your wife to take over, especially when she’s not in the best of health.’

  ‘She’s bearing up, Jack.’

  ‘What does the doctor say?’

  ‘There’s not much he can do, really,’ said Fry, resignedly, ‘and it’s far too expensive for us to keep going back to him and trying new medicine. Elaine never complains. She grits her teeth and gets on with it. Having to help someone else is good for her in a way. It takes her mind off her own troubles.’

  ‘When there’s a death in the family, you need all the help you can get.’

  ‘Count on us, Jack.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  As they picked their way through the streets, the distant commotion gradually diminished. The air raid seemed to be over and people were left to assess the damage, take the wounded off to hospital and douse any fires caused by incendiary bombs. The Zeppelins had retreated, still hounded by the British aircraft. Everyone knew that they’d soon be back. War now had an immediacy that was unthinkable in the early days of the conflict. Having invaded Belgium and penetrated into France, the enemy was now striking boldly at the very heart of Britain.

  ‘How many more of our soldiers will have to die before it’s all over?’ asked Fry, pulling the horse to a halt to let traffic go past at a junction. ‘It seems as if it could go on for ever.’

  ‘I blame the politicians,’ said Dalley, resentfully. ‘They didn’t put enough soldiers in the field at the very start. They were caught cold. Conscription should have been brought in a year ago. The only way to beat the Germans is with more men.’

  ‘It’d help if we had better weapons and equipment as well.’

  ‘What worries me is this poison gas they use. If it doesn’t kill our lads, it blinds them and sets their lungs on fire. What happens if the Germans find a way to drop it in canisters over London?’

  Fry pulled a face. ‘I’d hate to find out, Jack.’

  They continued to discuss the war until they eventually turned into the street where Dalley lived. Bringing the cart to a standstill, Fry got down onto the pavement and followed the blacksmith into the house. When they went into the front room, they saw Nancy Dalley on the settee with Fry’s wife beside her, one arm around the stricken woman. Elaine was a pale, gaunt, almost skeletal creature with frizzy grey hair and large, staring eyes. Yet she was putting someone else’s needs first. Both women were glad to see their respective husbands. Nancy got up and sought comfort in Dalley’s brawny arms. Before he could ask her how she felt, the door opened and Caroline Skene entered with a pot of tea on a tray.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, smiling at the newcomers. ‘You’re back.’ She put the tray on the table. ‘I went to Gerald’s house to see if I could be of any use but he wasn’t there. So I came here instead.’

  ‘And you’re very welcome, Caroline,’ said Dalley, turning to indicate Fry. ‘You remember Percy, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we met at your daughter’s wedding. Nancy has been showing me the photos of it.’ She gave a nod. ‘Hello, Mr Fry.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you again, Mrs Skene,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘And if there’s another cup of tea going, I’ll be happy to drink it.’

  Harvey Marmion took control of the press conference that evening. Though he sat beside the inspector, Claude Chatfield was content to take on the role of an observer. Joe Keedy was seated on the other side of Marmion, always willing to learn from him the art of keeping reporters at bay. The trio of detectives had a lively audience. Hot on the heels of a murder there’d been a vicious attack on a clergyman. Everyone assumed that one man committed two crimes. Marmion disillusioned them.

  ‘It’s both foolish and misleading to link the two incidents as a certain newspaper has already done,’ he warned, looking around the upturned faces. ‘Granted, there are surface similarities. Both victims were young men who suffered bad head injuries, but there the resemblance ends. Cyril Ablatt was killed and mutilated at some unknown spot then brought to the place where his body was later found. In short, gentleman, we are looking for a killer who is both cautious and calculating.’

  ‘And who has so far run rings around you, Inspector,’ said a voice.

  Marmion smiled. ‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’ There was general laughter. ‘The second attacker is very different. He takes chances. He struck when other people were still about – one of them actually interrupted him – so he failed in his purpose. That suggests to me that he’s impulsive. Unlike Cyril Ablatt’s killer, he doesn’t plan carefully and bide his time. If you still think that we should be hunting one and the same man, ask yourselves this. If you had murdered someone and had the police in full cry after you, would you be reckless enough to commit a second crime in a place, and at a time, when you couldn’t guarantee escaping unseen? People who get away with a murder tend to cover their tracks. They don’t come back within days to take foolish risks.’

  ‘Why was James Howells the target, Inspector?’ asked a reporter.

  ‘I was coming to that. Look closely at the two victims. If they were both the targets of the same man, you’d expect them to have a lot in common, but that’s not true at all. They knew each other, of course. But they are a world away from being twins. In
fact,’ said Marmion with emphasis, ‘the differences between them are far greater in number and in scope than any similarities.’

  He gave a character sketch of both men, comparing the lives they led and the values they held. Keedy watched the reporters, slowly revising their reflex opinions about the second attack and recording the inspector’s phrases in their notebooks. Marmion had won them back. He not only convinced them that the first investigation had made some significant advances, he persuaded them that important steps had already been taken to apprehend the man who attacked Howells. In the space of fifteen minutes, he’d ensured that Scotland Yard would have kinder headlines in the morning papers.

  Questions came from all sides and they were asked with a degree of respect.

  ‘Is it true that Father Howells is under police guard?’

  ‘It is,’ said Marmion. ‘His attacker has unfinished business. I can’t rule out the possibility that he might strike again.’

  ‘Have any suspects been identified?’

  ‘We have certain people in mind but I’m afraid that I’m unable to release names at this stage. We continue to seek the assistance of the public, however, and ask you to appeal for any information relating to the crimes.’

  ‘What has the hospital said about Father Howells’s condition?’

  ‘The patient remains in a coma,’ said Marmion. ‘The latest bulletin describes his condition as stable. It appears that he’s now out of danger. Naturally, I must bow to medical advice. When he recovers, I’ll only be allowed to question him if the doctor deems it sensible.’

  On the questions went for the best part of half an hour before Marmion called an end to the conference. The reporters rushed off to file their stories, each of them clutching a photograph of James Howells for publication. Marmion was left alone with Chatfield and Keedy.