Instrument of Slaughter

by Edward Marston

  Keedy put a hand to his heart. ‘I treasure every word of wisdom.’

  Marmion chuckled. ‘Our first call is at the hospital,’ he said. ‘We can then go on to speak to Eric Fussell. I’ll be most interested to hear what he was doing there when he claimed that he wasn’t a particular friend of Father Howells.’

  Information about Fussell’s trip to the hospital had come from the detective who’d trailed him there. The librarian had asked after the curate at the reception desk, gone up to his room and been politely turned away. Even though he’d been told that they were there, he’d made no contact with the parents in the adjacent waiting room. Unable to see the patient, he’d left the building and returned to the library. When it had closed, he and his wife had gone home.

  ‘What do you think they say to each other?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Fussell?’

  ‘They don’t look as if they’re in the first, full flush of romance.’

  ‘Marriage is not a condition of endless bliss, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What do you say to your wife when you’re alone together?’

  ‘It’s usually something like “Goodbye and don’t wait up for me.” When duty calls, I never have time for real conversation at home.’

  ‘Ellen must be very understanding.’

  ‘She’s a saint, Joe. I can’t say the same about Alice, mind you,’ he went on. ‘She used to complain like mad that I wasn’t at home enough. And she was right, of course. Whatever happens, my daughter will never marry a policeman.’

  The remark silenced Keedy for the rest of the journey. He and Alice had never discussed marriage and hadn’t even skirted the subject. But if their friendship continued to deepen, then the question of a serious commitment would arise. He knew that it would be unfair to lock her indefinitely into a relationship that had no resolution. As long as she and Keedy were together, she was spurning male interest from other quarters. It troubled him that he might be spoiling her chances of marriage to someone else but he simply didn’t want to let her go. Once again, he tried to assess his feelings for her. At the same time, he wondered about the strength of Alice’s feelings for him.

  When they reached the hospital, they went straight up to the room occupied by Father Howells. The doctor was waiting for them.

  ‘He’s very tired and not all that coherent,’ he cautioned. ‘I can’t let you question him for long, Inspector. His parents have already been in there with him. When they left, he fell asleep at once.’

  ‘Has he said anything about the attack?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘Not a word.’

  Leaving Keedy outside, Marmion went into the room with the doctor. The nurse who was bending over the patient stood back so that the inspector could approach the bed. The Reverend James Howells was still swathed in bandages. His face was pallid and his eyes closed. Marmion lowered himself onto the chair beside the bed and leant in to whisper.

  ‘Father Howells,’ he began. ‘Can you hear me, Father Howells?’

  After a lengthy pause, the curate stirred slightly and one eye opened.

  ‘Who are you?’ he murmured.

  ‘I’m Inspector Marmion of Scotland Yard and I’m in charge of your case. I’m very anxious to find the person who attacked you.’

  ‘What person?’

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me that, sir.’

  ‘What attack?’

  ‘Do you know where you are?’

  ‘Yes – I’m in hospital.’

  ‘Do you know how you got here?’

  ‘No, Inspector, I don’t.’

  ‘Has nobody told you?’

  ‘My father said something to me,’ recalled the curate, dopily, ‘but I’ve forgotten what it was. I have this pain in my head. It’s like a drill.’

  ‘Someone attacked you and knocked you unconscious.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir. Do you have any idea?’

  Father Howells drifted off to sleep again and Marmion had to wait minutes before he came awake.

  ‘Have you ever been threatened?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘No … I haven’t.’

  ‘Do you know of any enemies?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Someone must have hated you to do this.’

  The curate winced. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘You’re the only one who can tell me that.’

  ‘I have no enemies.’

  ‘We all have people who don’t like us, sir.’

  ‘I’m a priest,’ said Father Howells, stumbling over his words. ‘I’m a man of God. Who’d want to hurt me?’

  Marmion pressed him as gently as he could to think of anyone with whom he’d had a disagreement in the past. The curate was too weary and confused to provide any names. The inspector thought of the man’s address book.

  ‘Let’s talk about your friends, then,’ he said.

  ‘My friends wouldn’t hurt me.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I have good friends.’

  ‘Tell me about one of them – Eric Fussell.’

  The patient’s face puckered. ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr Fussell is a librarian.’

  ‘Oh yes … I’ve met him.’

  ‘His name is in your address book, Father Howells.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Does that mean he’s a special friend of yours?’

  ‘No, no, I hardly …’

  The words died on his lips as he dozed off again. Marmion waited for over a quarter of an hour but the curate remained asleep. The interview was over. At the suggestion of the doctor, they withdrew into the corridor. Keedy came over to them.

  ‘Did you learn anything of interest, Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m not altogether sure,’ said Marmion.

  Percy Fry had been glad to note an improvement in Nancy Dalley. She was no longer weeping into a handkerchief over the death of her nephew. She looked much calmer and more composed. Fry’s wife, Elaine, had spent most of the day with her and he could see that it had taken its toll on her. Having driven his boss home on the cart, he took his wife back to the forge. Wearing a fur hat and with a thick shawl over her shoulders, she sat beside him as the cart rattled through the streets.

  ‘How do you feel?’ he asked her.

  ‘It was a bit of a trial.’

  ‘You didn’t have to go, love.’

  ‘She needed me.’

  ‘Well, it certainly helps us. Without you there, Jack would have to stay with Nancy and I’d have to run the forge on my own. Don’t enjoy that.’ He shouted at two boys who tried to get a lift by hanging on the back of the cart. ‘Little devils!’ he said, flapping the reins to make the horse go faster. His voice softened. ‘Shouldn’t blame them, really – I used to do that when I was their age.’

  Elaine’s mind was elsewhere. ‘I’m worried about her, Percy.’

  ‘I thought she looked better.’

  ‘It’s hurt her deep down. It’s as if Cyril was her son.’

  ‘Well, he might have been her son-in-law,’ said Fry. ‘According to Jack, he went out with their daughter but it didn’t last long. Nora met and married that nice chap we met at the wedding.’

  ‘Nora’s coming down to London by train tomorrow so I won’t have to be there. She’s going to stay with her mother until the funeral.’

  ‘Did anyone else turn up today?’

  ‘Only Mr Ablatt,’ she replied. ‘He’s as wounded as Nancy but he’s much better at hiding it. He told us that one of Cyril’s friends had called in the shop today. He was touched by that.’

  ‘It must be terrible for him – living on his own, I mean.’

  ‘He’d rather be on his own than have his sister there.’ She brought up a hand to cover a yawn. ‘Nancy is very tiring to be with.’

  ‘You’ve done your share, love. Have a rest.’

  Traffic was thickening so he needed all his concentration to drive the cart, making sure that the wheels didn’t ge
t caught in any of the tramlines. They drove on through the dark until they finally reached the forge. Fry tugged on the reins and the horse slowed to a halt. A gust of cold wind made him shiver. Jumping down from the cart, he walked around to the other side to help his wife get off but she ignored his outspread arms. When he looked closely at her, he saw that she was so fatigued that she’d fallen asleep. He had to carry her up to the living quarters above the forge.

  On the drive to Eric Fussell’s house, Marmion was reflecting on his fractured conversation with the curate. The man was clearly bewildered and in pain. When he talked to him, Marmion had suffered pangs of guilt at having to disturb him. What the patient most needed was rest. Being questioned about what had happened to him had obviously upset Father Howells. Yet it had to be done. While he was full of compassion for him, Marmion was simultaneously suspicious. He had the feeling that the curate hadn’t been entirely honest with him and he couldn’t understand why. Was it possible that he was shielding someone out of misguided loyalty? If so, who was it? And why had Father Howells denied a close association with the librarian when he’d taken the trouble to make a note of his home address? What really puzzled Marmion was the way in which the patient had conveniently dozed off again when put under slight pressure. Was he genuinely asleep or only pretending to be so?

  When he confided his suspicions to Keedy, the sergeant took them seriously. Marmion had a sixth sense with regard to honesty. He always seemed to know when he was being told the truth, a half-truth or a downright lie. It was a skill that Keedy hadn’t yet mastered. He hoped that it would come with more experience. The car turned into the street where the Fussells lived. They owned a small end-of-terrace house in a good state of repair. The car grunted to a halt outside and the detectives got out. They walked to the front door.

  ‘What are we going to do, Harv?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Get him to do most of the talking.’

  Marmion used the knocker and got an instant response. The door was opened by Fussell who’d been checking his appearance in a mirror before leaving the house. When he saw the detectives, he removed his hat and, after trading civilities, he invited them in. His wife was in the living room but a nod from Fussell sent her off into the kitchen. He didn’t offer his visitors a seat. The room was small but cosy, with a settee and two armchairs occupying most of the space. The wallpaper had a floral pattern and there was a collection of china animals on the mantelpiece.

  ‘We’ve just come from the hospital, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that Father Howells has regained consciousness.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Fussell, stiffly, ‘but did you really have to come here to tell me that when you’ve got much more important things to do?’

  ‘I thought you’d be interested, Mr Fussell.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘After all, you went to the hospital yourself earlier today.’

  Fussell concealed his shock well. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You were seen there, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other, airily, ‘I went to visit a friend of mine who contracted pneumonia. He was so poorly that I wasn’t allowed to see him.’

  ‘Our information is that you asked after Father Howells.’

  ‘He was the friend you went to see,’ said Keedy, ‘and, as you well know, it’s not pneumonia that he’s suffering from.’

  ‘What drove you to go there, sir?’

  ‘And why do you need to lie about it?’

  Fussell realised what had happened and turned defence into attack.

  ‘Did you have me followed?’ he demanded. ‘By what possible right did you do that, Inspector? It’s outrageous.’

  ‘We felt that you were not telling us the truth, sir,’ said Marmion.

  ‘I had nothing whatsoever to do with Cyril’s murder yet you keep pestering me about it. I did not – let me repeat that – I did not attack Father Howells the other night, yet you feel that you have grounds to deploy someone to follow me.’

  ‘As a result, you were exposed as a liar.’

  ‘I simply went there to see how an acquaintance was doing.’

  ‘He’s an acquaintance now, is he?’ noted Keedy. ‘A moment ago, he was a friend with pneumonia.’

  ‘I’ll be complaining about this to your superior.’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Superintendent Chatfield was happy to sanction the surveillance and it proved something that we believed from the start – namely, that you and Father Howells are closer friends than either of you will admit. Why is that, Mr Fussell? Is it pure accident that your name found its way into his address book?’

  ‘I refuse to answer that question, Inspector. First thing tomorrow, I’ll be in touch with my solicitor to complain about police harassment of an innocent man.’ He glared at Marmion. ‘Do you have any concrete evidence pointing to my involvement either in the murder or in the assault on Father Howells?’

  ‘No, sir, we don’t.’

  ‘Then please leave me alone.’

  ‘We’re sorry to intrude, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘The sergeant and I just wanted to pass on some good news. Do excuse us.’ He and Keedy left the house and got into the car. ‘I think you can safely say that we rattled his cage.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘and so much for his claim that he and his wife spent every evening alone. He was on his way out.’

  ‘Did you notice anything about the living room?’

  ‘It was spotless.’

  ‘It was also noticeably short of family photographs, Joe. If they had children, there’d surely be some sign of them. Mr Fussell must be one of the few married Roman Catholics who didn’t become a father. Look at the superintendent,’ Marmion went on. ‘He’s a more typical Catholic. He has lots of children.’

  Mansel Price stared at the letter then tore it up and threw it into the fire. He’d called at his friend’s house to tell him that, like Hambridge, he’d been notified about an appearance before a tribunal. Having shown him the letter, Price had destroyed it and thereby declared his refusal to turn up at the appointed time.

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, Mansel,’ said Hambridge. ‘I’m looking forward to pleading my case. I’ll remind them about Pitt the Younger.’

  ‘He’s no bloody use to me, Fred.’

  ‘You’ll have to face them sooner or later.’

  ‘I’ll tell them that the letter never arrived.’

  ‘They may send a policeman next time.’

  Price was defiant. ‘They’ll have to send more than one to get me there.’

  ‘There’s no point in asking for trouble,’ said Hambridge. ‘Listen, on my way home, I popped in to see Mr Ablatt. He’s gone back to work.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Well, he’s trying to put on a brave face but he must be in agony. Anyway, he seemed pleased to see me and he showed me something that’s really cheered him up. When he took me round the corner of the house, I saw that someone had painted out all those things on it. I wonder who it can be.’

  ‘It was me, actually,’ said Price, exhibiting hands that had traces of white paint over the fingernails. ‘I can’t get the damn stuff off.’

  ‘You should have told me. I’d have helped.’

  ‘I managed.’

  ‘That was good of you, Mansel.’

  ‘It was about time someone did it.’

  ‘Mr Ablatt was very grateful,’ said Hambridge, ‘and there was something else he was pleased about. Gordon called in at the shop. He wanted Mr Ablatt’s advice.’

  ‘Why does he want advice about mending shoes?’

  ‘It wasn’t about that. It was …well, the position Gordon’s in. He just doesn’t know what to do and wanted to talk to someone.’

  ‘Then he should have talked to us.’

  ‘He’s already done that.’

  ‘Well, I think we should have another go at him,’ said Price. ‘In fact, that’s why I called, Fred. We should kick some sense into
him, if need be.’

  ‘That’s not the answer.’

  ‘We can’t rely on Mr Ablatt to make Gordon do the right thing.’

  ‘There may be another way.’

  ‘I can’t bloody well see it.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Hambridge, quietly. ‘It’s no use trying to bully Gordon. The person we have to persuade is not him – it’s Ruby.’

  On their return to Scotland Yard, the first thing that Marmion did was to report to the superintendent and explain where they’d been. Once that duty was out of the way, he and Keedy could concentrate on Horrie Waldron. They knew that they could not hold him for long on the two charges. He’d have to be granted bail. Marmion felt that he’d softened the prisoner up by threatening him with the gallows. Having had time to brood, he hoped, Waldron might be more forthcoming now. Keedy asked to speak to him alone and Marmion gave his consent. The interview took place in the cell where Waldron was being held. Like the inspector before him, Keedy had the door locked behind him so that he and the prisoner were alone.

  Waldron looked as surly as ever but there was no danger of a second attack on the sergeant. Aware of Keedy’s strength, the prisoner was subdued. He’d accepted that he was in serious trouble and needed to rein in his temper.

  ‘Well,’ said Keedy, ‘do you wish to change your fairy story?’

  ‘It wasn’t a fairy story – it was the truth.’

  ‘So you still can’t tell us how that blood got onto your trousers?’

  ‘It wasn’t from any murder,’ affirmed Waldron.

  ‘In that case, it came from somewhere else.’

  ‘I can’t remember, Sergeant.’

  ‘Perhaps I should ask Mrs Crowther,’ said Keedy, trying to needle him. ‘She seems to have an interest in what you wear.’

  Waldron jabbed a finger. ‘Keep her out of this.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Horrie, because she’s indirectly involved. By the way, I have a message from her. She never wants to see you again. Mrs Crowther also wanted me to give back those flowers you left on the doorstep, but you’re not allowed flowers in here.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘That was very naughty of you, stealing them from the cemetery and pretending you’d actually bought them. A nice lady like Maud Crowther deserves better than that.’