Alice Marmion was propped up in bed with a book in her hands. She was trying to read but the romantic novel that Vera Dowling had lent her was failing to hold her attention. Her mind kept wandering to Joe Keedy. The fact that he’d rescued her from an assault had served to strengthen her feelings for him. Alice had travelled home in some trepidation that evening, fearing that the same man might stalk her again. Glad to see that he was not on the bus, she was afraid that he might be lurking near her stop in order to follow her. But there was no sign of him and she was very grateful. Had there been a second attack, Keedy would not have been there to rescue her. At his suggestion, she kept a pair of nail scissors in her pocket but they were not needed.
She’d always been fond of him. When she first met him, she was a callow teenager and he was a young detective constable in his twenties. Her father had seen promise in him and advised him to push for promotion. As the two men began to work together on cases, Alice saw rather more of Keedy and her affection for him slowly intensified. It was matched by her mother’s fondness for him and – in spite of the age gap between them – Ellen had hinted that the sergeant and her daughter would be a good match. Because that opinion wasn’t shared by Marmion, it was never voiced in his presence. Alice knew he’d disapprove of it on a number of counts.
It had taken her by surprise. From the time that she first met him, Keedy had always had an attractive girlfriend. Some of them lasted for months and one even survived for over a year. Since he appeared to be spoken for, Alice had never seriously entertained the possibility of a relationship with him. They then discovered just how much they liked each other. In the nature of things, their jobs kept them apart but their occasional secret meetings were always more than pleasant and left her with an urge to see him again. Keeping the friendship from Vera Dowling wasn’t difficult. She wasn’t blessed with sharp instincts. Her mother, however, had had her suspicions aroused and Alice fancied that Hannah Billington was aware that her young protégée might have a man in her life. The maddening thing was that she was unable to tell anyone about Keedy. Until she could do that, the whole thing seemed faintly unreal.
Alice made an effort to dismiss him from her thoughts. On the following day, she was due to go to tea at Hannah’s house. That would be a treat, not merely because she liked the woman. She was curious to see where and how someone from a very different class lived. Vera had been shocked to hear that Hannah had released two of her servants to join the army, retaining only a cook-housekeeper. The idea that anyone could have domestic staff was beyond Vera’s comprehension. Until she’d joined the WEC, she’d never met a woman in a position to employ them. Now that she had, she was tongue-tied in her presence, whereas Alice found Hannah very engaging. She snatched at the opportunity to get an insight into the older woman’s private life. Alice smiled with anticipatory pleasure.
Her reverie was cut short by a sound she could not at first identify. It was a gentle tap but she couldn’t work out from where it came. When it happened again, however, she heard it more clearly and realised that something had just tapped on the window of her room. Jumping out of bed, she ran to pull back a curtain. Down below in the garden, Alice could just make out the figure of a man. Her heart began to pound. The only person who would try to contact her at that late hour was Joe Keedy. Leaving the curtain half-drawn to indicate that she knew he was there, she dressed as fast as she could then crept out onto the landing. Alice moved with great stealth. If her landlady realised what one of her tenants was doing, she’d accuse her of breaking one of the cardinal rules of the house. Alice would be lucky to retain the accommodation. She therefore needed to move with an absolute minimum of noise.
When she got to the front door, she paused to make sure that nobody had been roused. Alice then let herself out and walked furtively around to the garden. But Keedy was not there. Had it been a mirage? Or was he teasing her? Either way, she was overwhelmed with disappointment. She was just about to creep back to the front door when a hand shot out to pull her behind some bushes. Before she could speak, a palm was placed over her mouth. When she recognised Keedy in the gloom, her whole body ignited with joy. He moved his hand so that she could speak.
‘I didn’t dare to hope that you’d be here again,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘I just happened to be passing.’
Then he took her in his arms and kissed her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
For a man with crimes to solve and administrative problems to tax him, Claude Chatfield had a strangely contented air that morning. Harvey Marmion soon learnt why. Spread out on the superintendent’s desk was an array of national newspapers. Priority on the front pages had been given to the latest developments in the war but there was extensive coverage elsewhere of the murderous attack on the Reverend James Howells. To a man, reporters painted a more favourable picture of the activities of Scotland Yard with regard to the two investigations. Marmion was given credit for the tireless dedication he’d so far shown and the superintendent was also praised. As soon as the inspector walked into his office, Chatfield thrust the newspapers at him. Marmion was pleased to see that, after the censure in the Evening News on the previous day, he’d been largely exonerated. He was also amused that the superintendent was commended for putting him in charge of the investigation when Chatfield had, in reality, opposed the appointment.
‘What do you think of that?’ asked Chatfield, complacently.
‘Praise is better than condemnation, sir,’ replied Marmion, ‘but the fact remains that we haven’t actually solved either of the crimes. Only when that’s done should we receive any plaudits.’
‘It’s a question of appearance. This makes us look good.’
‘Looking good is not necessarily the same as being good.’
‘Don’t quibble, man.’
‘I don’t feel that we deserve these plaudits yet, sir.’
‘We’re in the public eye, Inspector. This kind of window dressing is always to our advantage. With a depleted force having to police a city the size of London, we need all the help we can get from the press.’ He took the papers back and put them on his desk. ‘When and if you ever rise to the level of superintendent,’ he went on, loftily, ‘you’ll come to appreciate that.’
Marmion ignored the jibe. ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir.’
‘What are your plans for today?’
‘I want to start with another visit to the hospital,’ said Marmion. ‘Father Howells’s parents were in too fragile a state to be interviewed yesterday. I’d like to ask them how much they knew about their son’s private life. It might yield some clues for us to pursue. After that, I hope, you’ll have secured that search warrant for us.’
‘It will be ready and waiting, Inspector.’
‘Then Sergeant Keedy and I will visit Waldron’s house.’
‘Let me know if you discover anything of significance.’
After explaining how he intended to spend the rest of the day, Marmion went off to his own office where he found Joe Keedy waiting. The sergeant was studying the map of London that lay on the desk.
‘One thing about this job,’ he said. ‘It certainly gives you plenty of geography lessons. I think I could find my way around Shoreditch blindfold.’
‘I’m waiting for the moment when we take the blindfolds off, Joe, because I feel that there’s something we’re simply not seeing as yet.’
‘Have you talked to Chat yet?’
‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘I left him basking in the praise he’s received in the morning papers. He got a pat on the back for assigning us to the case.’
‘But we were never his first choice.’
‘That doesn’t matter. He’s probably busy with the scissors right now, cutting out the articles for his scrapbook. He’s a walking paradox – a man who hates the press yet who hangs on every kind word they say about him.’
‘Well, he won’t get any kind words from me,’ said Keedy, forcefully. ‘I’ll never forgive him for gettin
g promotion ahead of you. You’re twice the detective he is.’
‘That’s water under the bridge.’
‘I’m not as forgiving as you, Harv.’
As Keedy folded up the map again, he noticed a slip of paper that had been hidden beneath it. He reached out to pick it up.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I forgot there was a message for you.’
Marmion took it from him. ‘Thank you,’ he said, reading the two short lines. ‘This could be important.’
‘Is it from the hospital?’
‘No, Joe, it’s from Mrs Skene. She rang from Lambeth police station half an hour ago. If she’s that keen to speak to me, it must be urgent.’
‘Do you want to go straight there?’
‘The hospital and the search come first,’ decided Marmion. ‘Mrs Skene will have to wait her turn in the queue. Let’s go.’
They left the office and walked side by side down the corridor.
‘I bet Ellen was pleased to see you home a bit earlier last night,’ said Keedy.
‘Yes, I got a warm welcome.’
‘How is she?’
‘I suppose that “long-suffering” is the best way to describe her. But that’s true of all police wives. She had one piece of good news for me – a letter from Paul. We hadn’t heard from him in ages and Ellen was starting to worry.’
He told Keedy about the contents of the letter and how it could be read in different ways. While his wife had been heartened by its apparently positive tone, Marmion had noticed the hints of despair between the lines. In his judgement, their son was bored, depressed and angered by the futility of war. Of the friends with whom he’d joined up so enthusiastically at the outbreak of hostilities, over half were either dead or wounded. It was a sobering statistic.
‘Luckily,’ said Marmion, ‘Ellen was simply happy that he’s alive and well. She was thrilled to hear that Paul was in line for a promotion. Like any other mother, she clings to good news like a limpet.’
Keedy was cynical. ‘Is there any good news about the war?’
‘That’s a fair point.’
‘Look how many policemen who joined up have been killed in action. What must their families think of the efforts we’re putting in on behalf of a conchie?’
‘You know the answer to that,’ said Marmion, not wishing to rehearse a familiar argument once more. ‘Oh, there was something else that Ellen had been saving up to tell me.’
‘What was that?’
‘She thinks that Alice has a new chap in her life.’
‘Is that surprising? She’s an attractive young woman.’
‘Yes, but she’s always confided in her mother in the past. When she was asked directly about it, Alice denied there was anyone this time.’
‘Then perhaps your wife is wrong,’ said Keedy.
He already knew about Ellen’s suspicions because Alice had told him about the exchange with her mother. Keedy was anxious to guide Marmion away from the subject because he found the subterfuge difficult. Besides, he still considered himself no more than a good friend of Alice Marmion. Though he’d recently seen her twice in succession, their meetings were too infrequent for anything more serious to develop. That, at least, was what he told himself.
‘When it comes to men,’ said Marmion with a grin, ‘Ellen is never wrong.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘She married me, didn’t she?’
Maud Crowther was a creature of habit. Having run the Weavers Arms with her husband for so many years, she was accustomed to working long hours in the public gaze. She took pride in her appearance and would never venture outside the house until she’d curled her hair, applied her make-up and put on smart clothing. As she examined herself in the mirror that morning, she could hear the cat crying to be let in but she made him wait until she was satisfied with the way she looked. When she did finally open the front door, the animal darted in through her legs and scurried off to the kitchen to eat the food she’d put in his bowl. Maud, meanwhile, was transfixed. On the doorstep in front of her was a large bunch of flowers. She had no idea who’d left them there or why. Scooping them up, she inhaled their fragrance and smiled. When she took them into the house to put in a vase, she realised that there was a card tucked in among the blooms. On it, in a rough scrawl, was a single word.
Sorry.
‘Horrie Waldron!’ she said to herself. ‘You old rogue.’
News at the hospital was better than expected. The Reverend James Howells had shown the first signs of regaining consciousness. His eyelids had flickered and his lips had started to move as if he was trying to say something. It was still too early for the detectives to talk to him but they were pleased with the improvement in his condition. Marmion asked the doctor in charge of the case to contact Scotland Yard the moment that the patient was able to speak. Though no interlopers had so far been spotted, the policeman was kept on duty outside the room. Marmion always put safety first.
He and Keedy talked to the curate’s parents but learnt nothing from them that they hadn’t already gleaned from the vicar. Their son kept in regular contact with them by letter but his private life was largely a mystery to them. They, too, were bolstered by the news from the doctor and were eager to be allowed to see the patient again. The detectives left them in the waiting room and drove back to Scotland Yard where Chatfield – true to his word – had a search warrant for them. In the event, it proved unnecessary. When they got to Waldron’s address, the landlord admitted them without even asking to see the warrant.
A big, shambling, flat-faced man, he was clearly used to his tenant’s uneasy relationship with the police and was prepared to tolerate it. Indeed, he had the look of someone who’d had his own brushes with the law and who therefore took any visits from detectives in his stride. After warning them about the smell they’d encounter, he unlocked the basement door and left them to it. They were met by the stink of leftover food, unwashed dishes and rising damp. Keedy opened a window to let in fresh air, noting that the glass hadn’t been cleaned in ages.
‘This is more of a lair than anything else,’ he complained.
‘It’s probably all that he can afford, Joe.’
‘How can anyone live in conditions like these?’
‘Thousands of people do,’ said Marmion, ‘all over London.’
Their search did not take long because Waldron owned little in the way of clothing and nothing in the way of luxuries. His room contained a low bed, a chest of drawers, an upright chair and a wardrobe with scratches on the doors. Tucked away in a drawer they found a couple of shirts, some detached collars, two pairs of socks in need of darning, threadbare underwear, a pack of cards and some tobacco. The only real surprise was in the wardrobe where a new suit hung beside an old coat and a pair of corduroy trousers, shiny through overuse. Also in there was a pair of black shoes and a lone tie. To their amazement, the shoes had been polished to a high sheen.
‘I’ll bet he doesn’t wear those at the cemetery,’ opined Keedy.
‘No,’ agreed Marmion, ‘he saves them for a special occasion and I think we both know what it might be.’
Keedy laughed in astonishment. ‘He wears that suit when he goes calling on Maud Crowther. That’s why it’s here.’ He felt the material. ‘It’s good quality.’
‘Then the probability is that she bought it for him. Waldron could never pay for a bespoke tailor. The rest of his clothing looks like hand-me-downs.’
They turned their attention to the scullery. The larder was almost bare and the drawer beside the sink had only a few items of cutlery. Unwashed plates lay on the table. Potato peelings and other kitchen waste stood in an enamel bowl. It was the trousers that made their visit worthwhile. Taken down from the line, they were now draped over the back of a chair. When he picked them up, Marmion could feel that they were still damp. He held them up to the window and saw the marks on the knees and the shins.
‘What do you think these are, Joe?’ he asked.
/>
‘Bloodstains.’
‘Ask him how they got there.’
The first customer was waiting outside the forge for them. While Jack Dalley unlocked the door and dealt with the man, Percy Fry unharnessed the horse and led him into the stable. He then started work beside his boss. Having driven his wife across to Dalley’s house, Fry had brought him back to Bethnal Green on the cart, a journey that took longer than usual because of heavy traffic. They were both kept busy for hours. Since Elaine Fry was not there, they missed the mid-morning cup of tea that she always brought them. Instead, it was Fry himself who had to make it. When he came back downstairs with the tea, the two men took a break.
‘It was considerate of Elaine to come again,’ said Dalley, ‘and I know that Nancy will appreciate it, but I’m not sure that it was wise. Your wife looked as if she ought to have stayed in bed, Perce.’
‘Elaine will perk up as the day wears on.’
‘We don’t want to impose on her.’
‘She was keen to go, Jack. She felt that she was able to help yesterday.’
‘Oh, she did – no question about that.’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Fry. ‘Elaine had plenty of rest last night. In fact, she went to bed almost as soon as we got back yesterday. She sleeps like a baby for ten or eleven hours at a stretch.’
Dalley sipped his tea. ‘I wish that Nancy could do that,’ he said, soulfully. ‘She’s exhausted. She hasn’t had a proper sleep since we heard the news. And that means I have to stay awake most of the night with her. It’s wearing me out.’
‘You could always take another day off.’
‘No thanks, Perce. I’m like my brother-in-law. I’m only happy when I’m doing something. If I stay at home, I have to listen to Nancy saying the same thing over and over again. That’s why I’m so grateful to your wife.’
‘What about that other lady?’ asked Fry, before draining his cup with a loud slurping noise. ‘Is Mrs Skene going to be there today?’
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