‘Before you arrest me for selling watered beer,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’m in the same boat as every other publican. It’s a wartime necessity.’
‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘it’s one more reason to hate the Germans.’
‘Have you found out who the killer is yet?’
‘No, but we’ve made an arrest. Horrie Waldron is in custody.’
Crowther gasped. ‘You’re not charging him with the murder, are you?’
‘He’s being held on lesser charges at the moment. Waldron was arrested because we found bloodstains on his trousers that we believe he was wearing on the night of the murder. In fact,’ said Keedy, ‘that’s what I wanted to ask you about. You told me that Waldron was away for a couple of hours that night and that he came back looking much cleaner than usual.’
‘Ha! That wouldn’t be difficult.’
‘Did you, by any chance, notice any blood on him?’
‘The pub was full, Sergeant. I didn’t look at Horrie’s trousers.’
‘But he was wearing the same clothes he had on when he left?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Crowther. ‘It’s more or less all he has. I don’t think he’s got a tailor in Savile Row somehow.’ His chortle was replaced by a frown. ‘But I don’t reckon that he’s your killer, I really don’t.’
‘Can you suggest any other way he got that blood on his trousers?’
An innocent question brought a look of guilt into Crowther’s eyes. He took a step backwards and licked his lips before mumbling an answer.
‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t.’
Claude Chatfield was interested to hear of the latest interview with Waldron but disappointed that it had yielded no definite result. He was desperate to have some positive news to release to the press. Marmion cautioned against an announcement that they had a murder suspect in custody. They needed much more proof that Waldron was involved in some way. Keedy had been sent off in search of it.
‘We need a breakthrough,’ said Chatfield, impatiently.
‘It’s bound to come in due course, Superintendent.’
‘I still think there’s a connection between the two crimes. I know that you don’t believe that, but there’s a similarity that can’t be ignored.’
‘I beg to differ,’ said Marmion. ‘And even if they are linked, Waldron is certainly not a common factor. He may be implicated in the murder but he has no reason to attack Father Howells. I doubt if Waldron’s ever been inside St Leonard’s church. Besides,’ he continued, ‘witnesses who saw the attacker run away from that lane say that he was moving at some speed. That rules out our gravedigger. He’s not fast enough. When he tried to outrun Sergeant Keedy at the cemetery, he was soon overhauled.’
‘What about your other suspect?’
‘Eric Fussell can be linked to both victims, sir.’
‘How did his name get into the curate’s address book?’
‘He declined to answer that.’
‘Do you think that he could run fast?’
‘He’d certainly outpace Waldron,’ said Marmion, ‘though I didn’t take him for a natural athlete. Also, of course, he’s a very careful man. He’d never take the risk of attacking someone at a time when he might be interrupted. And why would he be out late at night? According to Fussell, he and his wife prefer quiet evenings at home.’
‘Did you believe him when he told you that?’
‘Frankly, I treat everything he tells me with suspicion.’
Chatfield nodded and looked down at some notes about the librarian. The two men were in his office and the morning’s newspapers stood in a pile on his desk, each one open at the page on which the superintendent was mentioned by name. After he’d read through the information that Marmion had provided him, he looked up.
‘I think you’re placing too much emphasis on Waldron and not enough on Fussell,’ he decided. ‘You’re slipping up for once. The librarian is the man you should be putting under the microscope. Why aren’t you doing that, Inspector?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Marmion, deflecting the criticism, ‘I already am. As of yesterday, Mr Fussell has been placed under observation. A detective will be watching him throughout the day.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this?’ asked Chatfield, peevishly.
‘I acted on my initiative, sir. I knew that it was exactly the kind of thing that you would have done in my position.’ His smile was as broad as it was mischievous. ‘All that I did was to follow your example.’
Eric Fussell worked until late morning, then left his deputy in charge of the library. As he walked past her towards the exit, his wife looked up in surprise but he didn’t explain where he was going. He left the building, crossed the road and walked to the bus stop. Within minutes, he was climbing onto a bus. Absorbed in thought, he didn’t look out of the window or take note of any of the other passengers. He certainly was not aware of the detective who’d followed him onto the bus and taken a seat at the rear of the vehicle so that he could watch the librarian. After several stops, the bus eventually came to the one that Fussell wanted. Realising where he was, he got up and alighted with a handful of other passengers. All of them set off in the same direction. Making sure that he stayed well back, the detective strolled along in Fussell’s wake.
He followed him all the way to the main entrance of the hospital.
Joe Keedy returned to Scotland Yard in time to see Marmion walking along the corridor towards his office. After an exchange of greetings, the inspector explained that he’d just been summoned by the commissioner who wanted to be brought up to date with the two investigations.
‘And was Chat in there with you?’ asked Keedy.
‘Yes, Joe – he did most of the talking.’
‘And I daresay he took whatever credit was going.’
‘Well,’ said Marmion with amusement, ‘he did give the impression that it was his idea to have Eric Fussell shadowed and I didn’t contradict him.’
They went into Marmion’s office. Keedy heard what had happened during his absence and took particular note of the exchange in his cell with Horrie Waldron. It was the cue for him to relate his story. Marmion was diverted to hear of Maud Crowther’s explosive reaction to the news that her erstwhile beau had been arrested.
‘Did you bring the flowers back with you?’
‘No,’ said Keedy, ‘I threw them in the nearest bin. When I looked closely at them, I could see that one or two had started to wilt. They didn’t come from any shop,’ he reasoned. ‘How could they? Maud found them on her doorstep early this morning. What florist is open at that time? Horrie got them from somewhere else.’
Marmion nodded. ‘He pinched them from someone’s grave.’
‘That was my guess and I think Maud realised it as well. Until I got there, she was enjoying the flowers. I felt sorry I had to bring her down to earth with a bang. Anyway,’ Keedy went on, ‘when I left her, I had a word with her son.’
‘What did Mr Crowther have to say for himself?’
‘He’s like me, Harv. He thinks that watering the beer should be a criminal offence. I bet they’re drinking a stronger brew in Berlin.’
‘Did you tell him that Waldron had been arrested?’
‘Yes, and he was flabbergasted.’
‘What about those trousers?’
‘I asked him if he noticed any bloodstains on them when Waldron got back to the pub but he said he didn’t pay any attention to what he was wearing.’
‘He paid enough attention to observe that Waldron looked much cleaner.’
‘That’s true,’ said Keedy. ‘There’s not much that Stan Crowther misses – apart from the fact that his mother has a weird taste in men, that is. Then something very odd happened.’
‘And what was that, Joe?’
‘Well, I never thought that anything could throw him off balance. A landlord in that part of London must see some pretty strange behaviour. All sorts of rough-and-ready customers come in and out and Crowther doesn’t turn
a hair. When I asked him a simple question, however,’ Keedy recalled, ‘it upset him for some reason. All I wanted to know was whether or not he could think of another way that the blood could have ended up on Waldron’s trousers.’
It was late afternoon when they finally got away. Hannah Billington drove her car with Alice in the passenger seat. Both wore their uniforms but Alice had been told to bring a dress into which she could change at the house. They chatted amiably all the way to Hampstead then turned into the road where Hannah lived. As they swung into a drive, Alice looked up at the building with her mouth agape. It was even bigger than she’d expected, a house in the Regency style with startling symmetry, a balustrade along the edge of the roof and a marble portico. The facade was arresting. Alice thought of the little three-bedroomed, semi-detached house where she and her family had lived. Beside this mansion, it would look like a glorified shed.
Hannah used a key to let her in, then took her upstairs to show her where the bathroom was. Alice was amazed at its size and its facilities. She already had dozens of startling details about the house to pass on to Vera Dowling. After taking off her uniform, she washed with the perfumed soap then put on her dress, checking her appearance in the full-length mirror. When she heard the rattle of cups from downstairs, she went to investigate in what turned out to be the dining room, another place with generous proportions and a high ceiling with plaster moulding. Everything about the room was redolent of class, money and exquisite taste. The cook-housekeeper was a short, plump woman in her forties wearing a dark dress and a white apron. After giving the guest a warm smile, she went off to the kitchen.
Alice looked at the plates of food on the table. It was more like a banquet than an afternoon snack. Triangular sandwiches of different varieties were laid out on the three levels of a silver stand. On each of the three plates was an array of different cakes. A selection of biscuits had been artfully arranged on the largest plate of all. Other items of food were held in reserve at the far end of the table. Alice’s immediate thought was that the meal was in open defiance of rationing. She couldn’t imagine how the cook had got hold of the ingredients at a time when there were government restrictions on what could be bought in the shops.
Hannah sailed in, wearing a beautiful blue silk dress that showed off her figure and shimmered as she moved. Alice had very little make-up but Hannah had used cosmetics liberally. She looked more striking than ever.
‘I can see it in your face,’ said Hannah with a brittle laugh. ‘You’re wondering where we get all the eggs to make a meal like this. The answer is that we have them delivered on the premises. There’s a henhouse in the garden and we get a steady supply. What we don’t use ourselves, we pass on to deserving persons.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Hannah.’
‘It’s practical and, in times like these, practicality is our watchword.’
She indicated a chair and Alice sat down. Hannah took the seat opposite her and poured the tea into cups of the most delicate porcelain. They sampled a first sandwich apiece. Alice had noticed the array of portraits on the walls, all of men in uniform. She was told that they were ancestors of Hannah’s husband. Evidently, his family had military connections that went back over a hundred years. One of his forbears had fought against the French with the Duke of Wellington. Alice was most interested in the portrait of Hannah’s husband. In the uniform of a brigadier-general, he looked tall, straight-backed and resolute with greying hair and a curling moustache. Hannah gazed at him with affection.
‘I’m a typical army wife,’ she said, reaching for another sandwich. ‘It’s been an ideal arrangement. We may be married but we don’t live in each other’s pockets. It’s important for a wife to have a degree of freedom to pursue her own interests. Remember that when you come to choose your own husband.’
‘I haven’t got to that stage yet, Hannah.’
‘It won’t be long before you do. You’re far too attractive to remain single for long. I’ve seen the way that men look at you.’ Her smile revealed a wicked streak. ‘They don’t look that way at Vera Dowling, poor girl. She’s as plain as a pikestaff.’
‘Vera has her virtues,’ said Alice in defence of her friend.
‘I’ll take your word for it. I’ve yet to detect any.’
‘She’s honest, hard-working and very loyal.’
‘Yes,’ said Hannah, becoming serious. ‘They’re estimable qualities and you’re right to point them out. I place great value on loyalty.’ She ate her sandwich then sipped her tea. ‘I can’t believe that you haven’t had at least one proposal of marriage.’
‘It’s true, I’m afraid.’
‘But you must have a sweetheart somewhere.’
Alice stopped herself just in time from admitting that there was a man in her life. If she’d done so, she knew that Hannah would keep probing until she had the details and Alice had promised Joe Keedy to tell nobody about their friendship.
‘No,’ she lied. ‘There’s nobody at the moment.’
Hannah changed the subject. ‘What do you think of the sandwiches?’
‘They’re delicious.’
‘Molly is wonderful at rustling up a spread like this. By way of thanks, perhaps you can do something for her.’
‘I don’t understand – unless she’d like me to help her with the washing-up.’
‘Heavens, no!’ said Hannah with a laugh. ‘I’d never let a guest do anything like that. It’s to do with your father. Molly’s been reading about those dreadful cases in the paper. When I told her that Inspector Marmion was in charge of them – and that his daughter was coming to tea here – she wanted to know if you could tell her anything about the two investigations.’
‘All I can tell her is that my father will solve both crimes in the end.’
‘You can say it to her yourself when she comes in to clear everything away.’
Over a second cup of tea, they discussed activities in the Women’s Emergency Corps. Hannah sounded her guest out about how she would feel if offered a promotion. Since it would entail a complete break from Vera and, in effect, cast her friend adrift, Alice was in two minds about it. Hannah suggested that she thought it over. When Molly came in to clear the table, Alice apologised for not being able to pass on any inside information about the crimes but she assured the cook that the investigations were in the best possible hands.
Adjourning to the living room, the two women sat either end of a long settee. Alice was impressed by the room’s sheer size, its elegant furniture and its tasteful decorations. There was a batch of framed photographs to be identified by Hannah, who had both a husband and two sons at the front. Her wedding photograph stood in the centre of the mantelpiece. She and her husband made a handsome couple. Time passed slowly and pleasantly by. Alice was enjoying herself so much that she didn’t realise that she’d been there for almost two hours. After quizzing her about her home life, Hannah rose to her feet and indicated the door with a gracious gesture.
‘Come on,’ she said, smiling to herself, ‘I’m sure you’ll want to tell Vera all about the house. Let me show you around.’
Alice got up from the settee. ‘Oh, thank you. That would be nice.’
‘We’ll start upstairs.’
Hannah led the way up the carpeted staircase and along the landing. There were five bedrooms on the first floor. Molly occupied one of the attic rooms. Alice was shown those used by the family. They finished in the main bedroom and she was amazed to see that it had an adjoining dressing room bigger than her own bedroom in the family house. Space and luxury were the defining features. The only time Alice had seen anything remotely like it was on a visit with her mother to Harrods when she simply gawped at the display in the bedding department.
Alice felt privileged to be shown around the house. Though it was the sort of place in which she could never aspire to live, she was grateful for the chance of a glimpse into the domain of the wealthy. Since she’d arrived there, she’d been happy and relaxed. The mood
changed instantly.
‘You don’t have to go back to those squalid digs, you know,’ said Hannah, casually.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You’re very welcome to stay the night.’
Alice was all of six feet away from the other woman but she suddenly felt threatened. It was a disturbing sensation. Something was happening that was outside her experience and over which she had no control. It unsettled her. She’d arrived there as a guest but had the sense that she was now being wooed. Biting her lip, she did her best to hide her embarrassment.
‘I think I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind,’ she said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The telephone call from the hospital prompted Harvey Marmion and Joe Keedy to leave Scotland Yard immediately. News had come that the patient had finally regained consciousness and was able to talk to a certain degree. On the drive there, Marmion schooled the sergeant not to expect too much.
‘This could be a wasted journey,’ he warned. ‘I doubt if he remembers anything at all about being knocked unconscious.’
‘You don’t need to tell me that, Harv. I was once knocked out while policing a riot, but, to this day, I can’t recall the moment someone hit me from behind with a scaffolding pole. All I remember is waking up with a splitting headache.’
‘The superintendent has ridiculously high hopes. He seems to think that Father Howells will be able to identify his attacker then provide enough information to unravel the murder for us as well.’
‘If only it was that easy,’ said Keedy with a hollow laugh. ‘When it comes to solving a crime, Chat is always looking for shortcuts. The only way to sort out these two cases is by hard work and patience.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It was a sage by the name of Inspector Marmion.’
‘I didn’t realise that you actually listened to me.’
Instrument of Slaughter Page 28
