Instrument of Slaughter

by Edward Marston

He then gave the prisoner his most radiant smile.

  ‘Now that I’ve loosened your tongue,’ he said, ‘we’ll start again.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As he delivered bread on his daily round, Gordon Leach contemplated a grim future. Any decision that he made involved substantial loss. There was no escape from it. If he sided with Ruby Cosgrove, he would lose his two closest friends and for ever be despised by them. Yet if he stood shoulder to shoulder with Mansel Price and Fred Hambridge, he risked losing his fiancée. There would also be a loss of liberty. The government’s position was unequivocal. Those who defied the call to arms would be sent to prison. It was conceivable that Hambridge’s long association with the Quakers might be accepted as a legitimate excuse but it wasn’t one that Leach could offer. He would be incarcerated in a military detention centre such as Wandsworth and be subjected to a punitive regime. It was a bleak prospect.

  He reminded himself of the reassuring words that Cyril Ablatt had often used. They would not be common criminals. They would be prisoners of conscience, martyrs to a just cause and an inspiration to others. Leach was young, fit and able to withstand the rigours of imprisonment. What he did not know was whether Ruby would be waiting for him when he was released. If she were, he could cope with anything. If not, his time behind bars would be continuous torture. His conscience might be salved but his hopes of a happy marriage would be dashed. A life without Ruby, he felt, was quite meaningless.

  Unable to make up his mind, he tried to recall the days when he and his three friends had their regular meetings and committed themselves to an agreed cause of action. It had all seemed so clear then. Though she had misgivings, Ruby had supported his decision. The right path had been chosen. Ablatt’s death had introduced an element of panic into the situation. Leach had been convinced that he was also in jeopardy. A second brutal attack had intensified his fears but at least it had brought Ruby back to him. Her love, however, might be conditional on his accepting her father’s advice about joining a non-combatant corps. How could he keep her without losing the respect of his two friends?

  When he’d had problems in the past, he’d always been able to turn to Ablatt, whose clarity of thought was a godsend to Leach. Since he could no longer rely on him, he decided to call on Ablatt’s father instead to see if he could draw strength from another source. After completing his round, therefore, he drove to the cobbler’s shop and pulled the horse to a halt outside. He could see Gerald Ablatt through the window, bent over a last as he mended a shoe. Leach let himself into the little shop and was met by a strong aroma of leather and polish.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Ablatt,’ he said.

  ‘Oh hello, Gordon,’ said the cobbler, looking up.

  ‘I saw that the shop was open when I drove past yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, it’s business as usual.’

  ‘How are you?’

  Ablatt’s head rocked from side to side. ‘I’m as well as can be expected,’ he said. ‘Everybody has been very kind. Cyril’s aunt spent a lot of time with me, then my cousin, Mrs Skene, popped in yesterday. I’m never alone.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Leach, ‘I’m all right, I suppose. Well, no,’ he corrected, ‘to be honest with you, I’m not. I don’t really know what to do. Cyril would have guided me in the right direction. Without him, I’m a bit lost.’

  ‘I feel the same,’ said Ablatt with a wan smile. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘I can’t bother you with my problems, Mr Ablatt.’

  ‘But I’d like to help. Pretend that I’m Cyril.’

  The cobbler was so calm, friendly and steadfast that Leach was persuaded to confide in him. He explained the quandary he was in and how he could see no compromise that would satisfy all parties. Ablatt listened to arguments that his son had put to him many times and he felt a nostalgic glow.

  ‘Well,’ he said when Leach had finished his recital, ‘we both know what Cyril would have told you. He’d have said you must be true to your conscience. Nothing could be simpler than that.’

  ‘What if I lose Ruby?’

  ‘I think she’s more likely to admire you for your principles.’

  Leach was unsure about that but he felt oddly comforted by the visit. His difficulties paled beside those of Gerald Ablatt, who, having lost his son in a foul murder, would have to endure an inquest and a family funeral before going back to live alone in an empty house. Leach thought about the slogans there.

  ‘I’m glad they caught the man who painted those words on your wall.’

  ‘Yes – so am I, Gordon.’

  ‘It was a rotten thing to do. At least you know he won’t be back.’

  ‘He might not be,’ said Ablatt, ‘but somebody else came in the night with a paintbrush. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw what he’d done.’

  Leach was aghast. ‘Was someone else mocking Cyril?’

  ‘Oh, no, it was nothing like that. He did us a favour. The whole wall had been painted white and those cruel words have disappeared. There are some good people here,’ said Ablatt, thankfully. ‘I’m sorry I had to lose Cyril to find that out.’

  Harvey Marmion returned to Scotland Yard to hear about the arrest and questioning of Horrie Waldron. He, in turn, told Joe Keedy about his visit to Lambeth to see Caroline Skene. They were both keenly aware that they possessed information relating to the murder that they hadn’t passed on to the superintendent. Chatfield knew nothing of Caroline’s existence and the relationship between Waldron and Maud Crowther had also been kept from him. The detectives hoped that they could solve the crime without having to reveal everything to their superior. Should he find out that they’d deceived him, they’d be hauled up before the commissioner.

  ‘It’s a chance we have to take,’ argued Marmion. ‘I gave my word to Mrs Skene that her friendship with Ablatt would not become common knowledge.’

  ‘And I did the same to Mrs Crowther,’ said Keedy, seriously. ‘Though I’d never break that trust, I did pretend to Waldron that I was going to, if only to provoke him. He went berserk. I charged him with resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. That gives us enough reason to hold him in custody while we dig deeper.’

  ‘I’d like to have a go at him myself.’

  ‘He’s not very cooperative, Harv.’

  ‘The Waldrons of this world never are.’ He winked at Keedy. ‘I’ll appeal to his finer instincts.’

  ‘Horrie doesn’t have any.’

  ‘Mrs Crowther obviously thinks that he does. I fancy that another visit to her might pay dividends, Joe. Acquaint her with the plight that her admirer is in.’

  ‘She’ll disown the old bugger on the spot.’

  ‘Only if she thinks he’s guilty of murder, and the evidence for that is far from conclusive. I’ve brought the trousers back with me, by the way. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’re spattered with blood – but did it get there during the murder of Cyril Ablatt?’

  ‘It’s possible. Chat, of course, thinks it’s highly probable.’

  ‘He’s eager to get the case wrapped up so that the press will say more nice things about him. But he’s enough of a detective to know that we need more evidence or – praise God that this happens – a confession out of Waldron.’

  Keedy chuckled. ‘You’re more likely to get a volcanic eruption.’

  ‘I’ll remember to wear a tin hat.’ Marmion seemed to drift off into a world of his own for a few minutes. When he emerged from his daydream, he was surprised that Keedy was there. ‘Off you go, then. Talk to Mrs Crowther first, then call at the pub. Her son told you that Waldron had returned there that evening with the same clothes he had on when he left. Ask him if he noticed any bloodstains on the trousers.’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  Marmion adopted a fighting pose. ‘I’ll be going three rounds with Horrie Waldron,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Want to place a bet on the outcome?’

 
; Alice Marmion pointed out that it was not too late to change her mind but Vera Dowling was adamant. She didn’t wish to go to tea at Hannah Billington’s house that afternoon, though she was looking forward to hearing every last detail about the visit when her friend came back. After loading the lorry, they were having a brief rest. Alice was excited at the thought of the visit to a grand home. It would be a one-sided treat. Alice would never dream of inviting Hannah to tea at her own house and especially not at her digs. She’d be too embarrassed to show the older woman the place where she lived. Hannah had seen it from the outside when she dropped Alice off there but she had no idea how poor the accommodation was. Vera, curiously enough, had a better room in a larger house and she’d pressed her friend to join her there, but it was an offer that Alice had politely turned down. Had she been sharing accommodation with Vera Dowling, there was no way that Keedy would have been able to make contact with her the previous night. Indeed, the evolving friendship with him would have been virtually impossible.

  ‘I told Mummy about your idea,’ said Vera.

  ‘What idea?’

  ‘That plan of yours to go abroad.’

  ‘Hey, hold on a minute,’ said Alice. ‘Nothing’s been decided. It was only a possibility that I was considering.’

  ‘I mentioned it in my letter to Mummy. She’d die rather than let me do anything as adventurous as that. And, yes,’ she went on, anticipating her friend’s comment, ‘I know that I’m supposed to be old enough to make up my own mind, but I’d never defy my parents. What about you, Alice?’

  ‘If it meant that much to me, then I’d go – whatever the protests at home.’

  ‘You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, Vera. At the moment, there are too many things keeping me here. You’re one of them,’ said Alice, bringing a smile to her friend’s face. ‘And there are …other reasons why I’m not ready to charge off across the Channel just yet.’

  Vera’s eyes sparkled with interest. ‘What are those other reasons?’

  ‘They’re private.’

  ‘Can’t you even give me a hint?’

  ‘No,’ said Alice, firmly, ‘because it would be in your next letter to your mother. That means it would get passed on to my mother, who’d be very upset that she had to hear things about me second hand.’

  ‘I never thought of it like that.’

  ‘Please bear it in mind.’ She clambered into the lorry and sat behind the driving wheel. Vera got in beside her. ‘I’ll ask you one more time,’ said Alice. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like afternoon tea in a mansion?’

  ‘No, no, no,’ replied her friend. ‘I’d be like a fish out of water.’

  Marmion took him by surprise. Because Waldron was used to being interviewed in a room at a police station, the inspector chose to speak to him in the cell where he was being held. It was cramped, cold and austere. To show that he was not afraid of the prisoner, Marmion had the door locked behind him. He studied the gravedigger for some time before speaking.

  ‘I thought we’d have a little chat,’ he began.

  ‘I’ve said all I’m saying to those other two stupid fools.’

  ‘Superintendent Chatfield is not stupid, I can assure you, and neither is Sergeant Keedy. They’ve had years of experience of questioning suspects, and the kind of mindless abuse that comes out of your mouth just washes off them. For the record, they both believe that you’re a guilty man.’

  ‘I done nothing!’ wailed Waldron.

  ‘Making a run for it at the cemetery and trying to kill the sergeant – I wouldn’t call that nothing.’

  ‘The sergeant deserved it.’

  ‘Yet you came off worst,’ said Marmion, looking at the bruises on his face. ‘There’s not a scratch on him. You picked the wrong man to take on.’

  ‘I didn’t murder anybody,’ insisted Waldron.

  ‘Then how did that blood get on your trousers?’

  ‘Who knows? I pick up all sorts of things in my job.’

  ‘You seemed very anxious to wash those stains off.’

  ‘They’re my working trousers.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you wear them to work today?’

  Waldron refused to answer. Seated on the edge of the narrow bed, he turned his back on his visitor. Marmion took a step forward and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘What’s his name?’ he asked.

  ‘Who are you on about?’

  ‘You’re not clever enough to do this on your own, are you? Someone put you up to it. He probably paid you. Who is he, Mr Waldron?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘So you were acting on you own? Is that it?’

  Waldron spun round to face him. ‘Stop trying to put words into my mouth.’

  ‘Either you have an accomplice or you did it alone.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Then don’t accuse me.’

  ‘Where did that blood come from?’

  Waldron was contemptuous. ‘I couldn’t care less.’

  ‘How much were you paid to kill Cyril Ablatt?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why did you take your spade home with you that evening?’

  Waldron recoiled as if from a blow. Marmion had finally asked a question that shook him. Unable to find an answer, the gravedigger settled for a hurt silence. The inspector changed his tack. His tone was less harsh.

  ‘I’m not sure that I agree with my colleagues,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘I don’t think that you did kill Cyril Ablatt.’

  ‘Thank God somebody believes me!’

  ‘You may have been involved but you didn’t actually batter him. To tell you the truth, Mr Waldron, I don’t think you’d have the nerve to do that.’ Angered by the remark, Waldron was on his feet immediately, glowering at Marmion. ‘So what did you do, I wonder? Did you help to transport the body? Did you act as a lookout while someone else dumped it in that lane? Or did you simply tell your accomplice where and how he could find his victim that night?’

  ‘You’re making all this up!’ sneered Waldron.

  ‘I’m just trying to work out if there’s something you’re actually capable of, you see; something simple you could be paid to do. No matter how minor it might be, of course, it would make you an accessory and you know what the penalty would be.’

  Waldron attempted bravado. ‘You don’t scare me, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll leave it to the public executioner to do that.’

  The gravedigger stumbled slightly as if he’d just been hit by something. His bluster vanished. He was in police custody and they were determined to make him face serious charges. There’d be no fine to pay this time, nor even a short sentence. The shadow of the noose had suddenly fallen upon him.

  ‘I want to be alone,’ he said, sitting down again.

  ‘Very well,’ said Marmion, ‘but I’ll be back.’

  ‘Don’t hurry. I got thinking to do.’

  Maud Crowther went from one extreme to another. When she found the flowers on her doorstep, she was touched. The bouquet was both an apology and a romantic gesture. Having put them in a vase, she kept looking at them every time she came into the living room. She’d decided that she’d been too hard on Waldron. Perhaps he deserved a second chance, after all. Joe Keedy then arrived at the house. Invited in, he told her that the man who had tried to woo her with a bunch of flowers was now in police custody and was suspected of having some involvement in the murder of Cyril Ablatt. In the short term, he was being detained on lesser charges. If she was expecting to see him, she would be disappointed.

  Her revived affection for Waldron changed in a flash to hatred. He’d promised her that he’d put his criminal past behind him. Thanks to her, he’d solemnly sworn, he’d turned over a new leaf. For a time, Maud had believed him but Keedy’s visit splintered her illusions. When she gazed at the flowers now, it was not with a fond smile. Seen in t
he cold light of reality, they looked as if they’d been stolen from a grave in the cemetery. They’d be much more appropriate there. Waldron had cheated her. His romantic gesture was nothing more than an act of theft. She grabbed the flowers, yanked them out of the vase and thrust them at Keedy.

  ‘Give these back to him,’ she said, tartly, ‘and tell him that I never want to lay eyes on that ugly face of his.’

  ‘I need to ask you about some bloodstains on his trousers, Mrs Crowther.’

  One glance at her told Keedy that the question was redundant. Horrie Waldron was no longer part of her life and she refused to have anything more to do with him. It was pointless to stay. Keedy thought it unlikely that she’d know anything about the bloodstains. Waldron had been compelled to wear a suit whenever he called on her. She set standards. He lived up to them for a while. But it was all over. Maud Crowther didn’t wish to be linked with a criminal in any way. Their romance had crumbled into oblivion. How it had actually begun in the first place, Keedy could only guess. It still seemed bizarre to him. As he left the house, he took away more than a bunch of dripping flowers. He knew for certain that Horrie Waldron had no claim whatsoever on Maud now. It was something he could use to apply pressure on the prisoner.

  From her point of view, Keedy saw, there was an element of relief in the decisive break from Waldron. Their secret meetings would no longer be in danger of discovery. While Maud would regret ever getting involved with him, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that they’d never be caught together now. It prompted Keedy to think of his friendship with Alice Marmion. That, too, was fraught with danger. If it ever came to light, her father would be deeply hurt. It might severely damage Keedy’s professional relationship with him. Yet that situation could not continue indefinitely. He and Alice would reach a point where they either decided to go their separate ways or were ready to make a proper commitment to each other. If the latter were the case, they would have to be honest with her parents.

  Keedy reflected on his personal problems all the way to the Weavers Arms. It was not yet open for business but Stan Crowther was outside on the pavement, supervising the men who were unloading a delivery of beer from their dray. The landlord gave Keedy a cheerful welcome and took him inside the pub.