Waldron was torn between pain and humiliation – deeply hurt that he’d been rejected, and embarrassed that he’d been caught out trying to pass off stolen flowers as some that he’d actually bought. Nothing could heal the breach with Maud. It was hopelessly beyond repair. What made it worse was that he had to hear about it from a detective while locked up in a cell. It made him feel both trapped and powerless. He turned his thoughts to survival.
‘You can’t keep me here for ever,’ he challenged.
‘That depends on whether or not we charge you with murder.’
‘You got no evidence.’
‘We have enough to go on,’ said Keedy, feigning confidence.
‘That means you’re going to invent some. I’ve heard of the police doing that before. When they got no cause to hold someone, they make up evidence against him. They tell lies in the witness box. Well, you won’t play that trick on me, Sergeant,’ he said, tapping his chest. ‘I’m no fool. I know my rights. I know the ropes and I know what to do in court.’
‘In fact, the only thing you don’t know is how to tell the truth.’
Waldron stamped his foot hard. ‘How many times must I say it?’ he bellowed. ‘I didn’t kill anybody.’
‘Let’s turn to Stan Crowther, shall we?’ said Keedy.
‘Hey, you haven’t told him about me and Maud, have you?’
‘I didn’t need to, Horrie. I upset him another way.’
‘Eh?’
‘I asked him about that blood on your trousers.’
Waldron became shifty. ‘What did he say?’
‘According to him, he never even noticed it.’
‘There you are, then,’ said the other, relieved.
‘So I put another question to him and that shook him for some reason.’ During a long pause, Keedy saw the prisoner’s apprehension intensify. ‘I asked him if he could think of any other way that blood could have got there. Why should he be so reluctant to tell me? Has he got something to hide?’
‘That’s his business.’
‘No, Horrie, it’s yours as well. You and Stan Crowther are linked in some way and it’s not only through his mother. I think you’ve burnt your boats with regard to both of them now.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Waldron, aggrieved.
‘Well, Mrs Crowther doesn’t want you and your best suit within a mile of her and,’ said Keedy, bluffing, ‘her son is not going to give you a welcome at the Weavers Arms. The likelihood is that Stan will ban you altogether. You really upset both mother and son.’
‘Stan’s got no reason to get on his high horse!’
‘He thinks he has.’
‘I’ll smooth things over with him.’
‘I wouldn’t advise you to try,’ said Keedy. ‘When I left the pub, there were flames coming out of his nostrils. You’re not wanted there, Horrie.’
‘But I done the bugger a favour!’
‘If you mean you had those secret rendezvous with his mother, I wouldn’t call those a favour – and neither would he.’
‘I’m not talking about that.’
‘Then what are you talking about?’
Waldron turned away and put both palms against the wall as he leant against it. Profoundly shaken by what Keedy had told him, he needed time to think. Maud Crowther and her son had summarily cut him out of their lives. That created a huge gap. He’d never find another woman who took such an interest in him and there were few pubs in Shoreditch that would want a customer with his reputation. Waldron had been cut adrift. The only way he could think of to appease his mounting fury was to inflict pain elsewhere. He swung round to confront Keedy.
‘I want to make a statement,’ he said.
Ruby Cosgrove was astonished when he called at her house that evening. Fred Hambridge had never been there before and it had taken an effort of will to visit her. Of Gordon’s friends, he was the one she liked most. Cyril Ablatt had been too prone to make speeches, while Mansel Price resorted to suggestive remarks that made her uneasy. She took Hambridge into the front room and apologised that there was no fire in there. Shy in the presence of women, it was minutes before he was able to explain the reason for his visit.
‘It’s about Gordon,’ he said.
She was annoyed. ‘Did he send you?’
‘No, Ruby. He doesn’t know I’m here. Please don’t tell him I came.’
‘I was rather hoping he’d turn up himself.’
‘I think he’s afraid to,’ said Hambridge, fishing a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘Would you read that, please?’
She took it from him. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s an article that Cyril wrote for the parish magazine. He gave me a copy. It wasn’t printed in the magazine. Father Howells said that it was unsuitable.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know but it upset Cyril.’
As she read the article, Ruby could hear Ablatt’s voice declaiming the words. His style was so distinctive. At the same time, his argument in favour of pacifism was cogent and sincere. She recognised phrases that Gordon had quoted to her from time to time. Now she knew from whom they came. She passed the article back to him and he slipped it into his pocket.
‘Why did you bring that, Fred?’
‘I wanted you to understand what Gordon believes in.’
‘He’s told me dozens of times.’
‘That article isn’t only what Cyril thought. It covers all four of us. He let us read it before he sent it off.’ He rubbed his hands nervously. ‘All I’m trying to say is that you put Gordon in an awkward position.’
‘I want to marry him,’ she said. ‘What’s so awkward about that?’
‘You’re trying to make him join a non-combatant corps.’
‘Well, yes, I think it’s a good idea.’
‘It’s a very bad idea for Gordon,’ he argued. ‘If he does that, he’ll feel rotten. He’s dying to marry you, Ruby. He talks of nothing else when I’m alone with him. But he doesn’t want to betray his ideals – the sort of thing you read about in that article. Gordon is a good Christian. He hates the very idea of war.’
‘So do I.’
‘Then let him do what he’d planned to do all along.’
Her suspicion was aroused. ‘He did send you here, didn’t he?’
‘No, no, I swear it.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Fred.’
‘I came because I thought it might help. Gordon is suffering.’
‘How does he think I feel?’
‘He doesn’t know what to do.’
‘Then you can pass on this message,’ she said, angrily. ‘He can start by speaking for himself instead of sending you to speak for him. This is between me and Gordon. You shouldn’t be butting in, so I want you to leave now and not come back. If he hasn’t got the courage to talk this over, then he doesn’t deserve me.’ Close to tears, she opened the door to show him out. ‘You can tell him that as well.’
Hambridge was chastened. He left the house wishing that he’d never gone there in the first place. His intervention had only made matters worse.
The problem was that Alice Marmion might have been mistaken. The offer that Hannah Billington had made was ambiguous. It could well have been an example of the older woman’s kindness and had no other implications. As she thought it over in the safety of her digs, Alice began to feel guilty. Her abrupt departure must have seemed very rude to her hostess. Not that Hannah had complained. On the drive back, she was unfailingly polite to Alice and made no mention of her earlier invitation. To show that she hadn’t taken umbrage, she said that Alice was welcome to come back for tea on a future occasion.
‘You can bring Vera next time,’ she said. ‘The girl needs some kind of treat.’
Something had happened in the bedroom but Alice still didn’t know what it was. She might have had nothing to worry about. Had she stayed, she could have slept in a borrowed nightgown in one of the other bedrooms. She would have been driven to the depot next morning by Hanna
h and been very grateful. At the back of her mind, however, was the outside possibility that there’d have been an alternative sequence of events. While the other woman was married, she was happy in her husband’s absence and had stressed the importance of having plenty of elbow room for herself. She was clearly fond of Alice and had complimented her on her appearance a number of times since they first met. Hannah had also got her to admit that there was no man in her life. Such deliberate probing could have had a purpose.
The frustrating thing was that Alice would never know the truth. It would only have emerged if she’d had the courage to stay. Though she planned to tell Vera all about the house, she’d make no mention of the strained moment in the main bedroom. Vera was too innocent about the ways of the world. Yet Alice did feel in need of the support and protection of a close friendship. Alone in Hannah’s house, she’d been isolated and defenceless. Alice never wanted to be in that position again.
Sitting at the table, she began to write a letter to Joe Keedy.
Superintendent Chatfield was disappointed. They had a confession out of the prisoner but it wasn’t the one for which he’d hoped. Harvey Marmion was much more tolerant. A crime was involved but he was nevertheless amused.
‘It’s all to do with rabbits,’ explained Keedy.
‘Rabbits?’ echoed Chatfield, wrinkling his nose.
‘That’s how he got the blood on his trousers, sir. On the night in question, Waldron broke into the garden of a house and opened every hutch there. That’s why he had the spade with him, you see. He used it to kill them and some of the blood inevitably spattered his trousers. After putting the rabbits in a sack, he hid his spade near the Weavers Arms and went round to the back door.’
‘I can imagine why,’ said Marmion. ‘It’s to do with food rationing.’
‘It’s to do with a criminal act,’ insisted Chatfield.
‘The inspector is correct,’ resumed Keedy. ‘Waldron was clever enough to kill and steal over a dozen rabbits but he had no means of selling them. That’s where Stan Crowther came in. He knew which of his customers would be ready to pay up for a rabbit and ask no questions. Waldron got a share of the spoils.’
‘Why didn’t he tell you all this when you arrested him?’
‘He’s afraid of repercussions, sir. Stan Crowther terrifies him.’
Chatfield banged his desk. ‘Well, it’s about time we terrified the landlord of the Weavers Arms. I’m not having anyone running a black market during severe food restrictions.’
‘The matter is in hand, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘As soon as the sergeant told me what was afoot, I rang the police station in Shoreditch. Mr Crowther will soon be arrested and I fancy that we’ll discover he had far more than rabbits on offer.’ He indicated to Keedy. ‘I think that the sergeant should be congratulated on getting Waldron to spill the beans.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Chatfield, grudgingly. ‘Well done, Sergeant. It’s a pity you didn’t work your wonders on the librarian.’
‘Mr Fussell will be more difficult to crack, sir,’ said Keedy.
‘That’s a pity, a real pity. Well, I suppose we’ve had a success of sorts, but stopping the illegal sale of rabbits is small beer compared to a murder and an attempted murder.’
‘We’re closer to solving both crimes than you think,’ said Marmion.
‘I feel that, too,’ added Keedy. ‘We’re getting warm.’
Chatfield sniffed. ‘The trail looks pretty cold to me.’
‘We’ve made some advances, sir. Now that we know that Mr Fussell actually went to see Father Howells, we can connect him even more closely to both of the crimes we’re investigating.’
‘We also caught him out lying,’ said Marmion. ‘He clearly has a lot to hide.’
‘Then find out what it is!’ snapped Chatfield. ‘I want progress. I need an arrest.’ The phone rang on his desk. He snatched it up with obvious irritation. ‘Superintendent Chatfield here.’ His brow furrowed as he listened to the message. After nodding a few times, he replaced the receiver. The whisper of a smile touched his lips. ‘It’s the hospital again,’ he said. ‘Father Howells wants to speak to Inspector Marmion.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
She knew that he was out there somewhere. When she peeped through the curtains in the front bedroom, Caroline Skene could see nobody in the street outside yet she was convinced that the house was being watched. Her stomach was knotted with fear and she could find no relief. Lacking the courage to go outside and investigate, she was also unable to ask her husband to do so. He knew nothing of her life beyond the marriage and she was certain that the surveillance was somehow connected with it. She was therefore compelled to suffer in silence. During the morning and afternoon, there’d been no problem. She’d been out shopping and been able to move about freely without any sense of being menaced. Now, however, he was back. What made her writhe in terror was that she had no idea of what he wanted.
Covering her trepidation as best she could, she went downstairs to the living room, ready to engage in conversation with her husband. There was, however, no call for her to do so. Wilf Skene was asleep in an armchair with a newspaper across his lap. Having worked the early morning shift at the factory, he’d come home tired. He managed to stay awake long enough to eat an evening meal with her then dozed off in the chair. Caroline looked at him with an affection shadowed by discontent. He’d been a good, loyal, hard-working husband but he was an increasingly dull companion. An industrial accident had left him with a limp and he was now having a problem with his hearing. He was starting to look like an old man. The couple hadn’t had sexual relations for years. Distressed about it at first, she’d come to see it as a blessing. It gave her a sense of freedom and allowed her to give her thoughts full rein. Only because of what she felt was a sham marriage was she able to respond to the interest shown in her by Cyril Ablatt. He’d been her redemption.
While he was still alive – and their romance had blossomed – Caroline had been happier than at any other time in her life. When they were alone, the age difference vanished. They complemented each other. He’d educated her and she, in turn, had taught him about sensual pleasure. The rare nights they’d spent together had given her a satisfaction she’d never known before. It pained her to deceive her husband and, by extension, Gerald Ablatt, but she couldn’t help herself. She was swept along on a torrent of love seasoned with a lust she’d never realised she had. It left her at once ashamed and exhilarated, guilty at what she was doing yet thrilled that she’d got away with it. She knew that the situation would soon change. Her young lover’s refusal to accept conscription would land him in prison and keep him there for some time. Caroline had promised to stand by him. No matter how long he was incarcerated, she would be waiting for him on his release.
The one possibility she’d never even considered was his murder. It had ruined her life, leaving her bereft and vulnerable. Gone was the excitement of a young lover. All that was left behind was the awful predictability of an existence with a tedious husband. At least he would never know about her adultery. She’d managed to establish that all the letters she’d written to Cyril had gone from his bedroom and she knew that the telltale photograph of her had been taken away by Inspector Marmion. She relied heavily on his discretion and understanding and wished that she could seek help from him at that very moment. But it would entail a walk to the police station to use the telephone and she was too frightened to venture outside. He was still lurking out there somewhere. If she was foolish enough to present a target, there was no telling what he might do.
It would all be different in the morning. Her husband would have gone to work and it would be safe for her to leave the house. Caroline wouldn’t just tell Marmion about the latest incident. She’d plead for protection. She couldn’t spend another evening in such a state. It was unendurable. The police had to rescue her from torment by catching the man who was stalking her. If they didn’t do so, he might tire of simply watching and move in for the kill.
/>
It was different this time. Father Howells had actually asked to speak to Marmion. During their first conversation at the hospital, the curate had been both weary and befuddled. Marmion felt that he might also have been evasive. As he and Keedy drove to the hospital again, they allowed themselves a guarded optimism.
‘He’s had time to think things over,’ said Marmion. ‘With luck, he’s going to be more honest this time.’
Keedy smiled. ‘Are you accusing a priest of telling lies?’
‘No, he didn’t do that, Joe. He just refrained from telling the truth.’
‘Isn’t that the same thing?’
‘It depends how you look at it.’
There was another difference. When they went up to the room where Father Howells was being kept, Marmion learnt that the patient had asked to see him on his own. No nurse or doctor would be in attendance. It was promising. Marmion went into the room alone and was met with an immediate setback. The curate was asleep and there was clearly no pretence involved. Not daring to wake him, all that he could do was to watch and wait. His patience was eventually rewarded. Father Howells stirred, rolled onto his side and half-opened his eyes.
‘Who’s there?’ he asked, hoarsely. ‘Is it the inspector?’
‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘How are you?’
‘My head still hurts.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Could you …?’
He lifted a hand to indicate the glass of water on the bedside table. Marmion helped him to sit up, then held the glass while he took several sips from it. When he spoke again, the curate sounded a little clearer.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘My throat is very dry.’
Marmion sat beside the bed. ‘Why did you want to see me alone?’
‘I want to know if I can trust you, Inspector.’
‘Trust me to do what, sir?’
‘My parents must never know the full details,’ said the other, solemnly. ‘They would never understand and I don’t want them to be hurt unnecessarily.’
Instrument of Slaughter Page 30
