Instrument of Slaughter

by Edward Marston

  ‘I give you my word that I’ll be as discreet as possible.’

  ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Go on, sir.’

  There was a considered pause. ‘It’s … not what you may think.’

  ‘I have no preconceptions about the attack, I assure you.’

  ‘There have been threats against me.’

  ‘Do you know who made them?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said the curate, sadly. ‘I know only too well. I didn’t take them seriously at first. In fact, I destroyed the letters.’

  ‘Who sent them?’

  ‘It was someone who was once a close friend. We studied together at theological college. He was always rather intense even then. I completed the course but he dropped out for some reason. But we always kept in touch. That’s to say,’ he added, ‘he always kept in touch with me.’

  ‘What you’re saying is that the friendship was rather one-sided,’ observed Marmion. ‘Is that a fair description?’

  ‘With regard to the last few weeks, I suppose that it is.’

  ‘It sounds as if he’s possessive.’

  ‘He’s very possessive and prone to jealousy.’

  ‘What’s his name, sir?’

  ‘Be gentle with him, Inspector,’ urged Father Howells. ‘Strange as it may seem, I bear him no ill will. Michael misread the situation. When he saw me talking to a new friend, he thought that he was being replaced in my affections. But that’s not true at all. I never entertained the kind of feelings for Michael that he had for me.’ He looked at Marmion. ‘Do I need to be more explicit?’

  ‘No, sir – and you don’t need to tell me who this new friend was.’

  ‘He, too, saw something that isn’t there, Inspector. I don’t know why I inspire such strong feelings in other men. It’s always worried me. I’ve learnt to tolerate it. In Michael’s case, I tolerated it far too much and almost died as a result.’

  ‘What’s his other name, sir?’

  ‘Michael Goodrich. By rights, it should be the Reverend Michael Goodrich because he’s a very gifted man. And if he had a parish to look after, he wouldn’t have had time for any intense friendship. He’d have been kept as busy as I am. That’s the irony of it,’ said the patient. ‘I’m not interested in another man … in that way. What made me drift apart from Michael was the sheer volume of work I have as a curate. In the course of that, curiously enough, I deal with far more women than men. Pastoral care is very time-consuming.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Marmion, taking out his notebook. ‘I appreciate the effort it must have cost for you to confide this information.’ He raised his pencil. ‘Could you please give me Mr Goodrich’s address?’

  It was no use. After a third attempt at writing a letter, Alice Marmion tore it up and threw it into the wastepaper basket. In her mind, she knew exactly what she wanted to say but the right words would simply not drop onto the page. She now realised why. What she had to tell him needed to be said to his face and not written down. It was too important to be consigned to a letter that might be misinterpreted. The only fair and proper way was to confront him. Joe Keedy would certainly not turn up outside the house for a third time so Alice had to go to him. Though he lived on the other side of London and she’d have to get there in the dark, she didn’t hesitate for a second. Reaching for her coat and hat, she put them on and let herself out of the room.

  Michael Goodrich lived alone in the cottage that he’d inherited from his parents. Since it was close to Epping Forest, it was a long drive for the detectives. Keedy was fascinated to hear the information that had been divulged.

  ‘I can see why he doesn’t want his parents to know everything,’ he said. ‘They didn’t strike me as a worldly couple.’

  ‘I agree, Joe. They wouldn’t understand how another man could actually fall in love with their son. It would distress them beyond measure, even though Father Howells didn’t have the same feelings for his friend – or for any other man, as it happens. He’s simply not of that persuasion.’

  ‘But we now know who is, Harv.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘It’s our librarian once again. Eric Fussell was the reason that the curate was attacked in a fit of jealousy. He’d befriended Father Howells and had hidden motives for doing so. Goodrich wrongly identified Fussell as the lover who’d usurped him.’

  Keedy grimaced. ‘I just can’t imagine Fussell as a lover somehow.’

  ‘Neither could Father Howells. As soon as he realised what was going on, he tried to distance himself from the librarian but he wasn’t easily shaken off.’

  ‘Are we sure that this so-called friend tried to kill Father Howells?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What if it was the other way round?’ asked Keedy, thoughtfully. ‘Eric Fussell could have been provoked into that savage attack because he was jealous of Goodrich. If he saw him and the curate together, he’d feel that something was going on.’

  ‘Let’s deal with Goodrich first,’ said Marmion. ‘He’s the more likely suspect and the one named by Father Howells himself. We’ll keep Fussell in reserve for the moment.’ An idea struck him. ‘The fact that he prefers the company of men gives us a new slant on Ablatt’s murder, of course. We know that he was a handsome young chap. Caroline Skene emphasized that. Was his boss’s hatred of him fuelled by the fact that Ablatt had once rejected his advances?’

  ‘It’s not impossible, I suppose.’

  ‘There could be wheels within wheels.’

  When they reached the cottage, they saw that it was small, thatched and fairly isolated. The curtains were drawn but there was a light on in the front room. There was no response to Marmion’s knock. He tried again, knocking even harder. When nobody came to the door, he and Keedy went around to the rear of the premises. They peered into the kitchen but it was empty. Marmion banged on the window with his knuckles. It was all to no avail. After one last attempt to rouse someone inside the cottage, he nodded to Keedy who used a gloved hand to punch a hole in the kitchen window. Lifting the latch, he opened the window and clambered through before letting Marmion in by means of the back door. They switched on the light and went through to the living room. Marmion crossed to the staircase and looked up.

  ‘Is anyone here?’ he yelled.

  There was dead silence. ‘I’ll take a look,’ said Keedy.

  He bounded up the stairs and switched on the lights in each of the bedrooms. When he came back down again, he shook his head. They looked around the living room with its low ceiling and shabby furniture. It reminded them of Cyril Ablatt’s bedroom. Filled with books and magazines pertaining to the Anglican church, it also contained some anthologies of poetry. A Bible stood on the table beside a half-written article about the significance of Easter. The cottage felt lived in yet there was no sign of its owner. Keedy remembered something.

  ‘Isn’t there a shed at the back?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe that there is.’

  ‘Let’s go and see it.’

  ‘Why should he be hiding out there?’

  Marmion had thought to bring a torch. When they went outside, he had to use it to guide them towards the large shed at the bottom of a garden that was clearly untended. The door of the shed was slightly ajar and the wind was making it tap against the jamb like a woodpecker. Opening the door wide, Marmion shone the torch inside and the beam illumined the body of Michael Goodrich, hanging from a rafter. They cut him down at once and tried to resuscitate him but he was already dead. In his pocket was a letter addressed to the Reverend James Howells. Marmion opened it and read the neat calligraphy.

  Dear James,

  If you can find it in your heart, please forgive me. I’m so sorry for what I did. I came to the hospital to apologise but there was a policeman outside your door. This is the only way I can make amends. Goodbye, dear friend.

  Michael.

  They looked down at the lifeless body. Goodrich was a short, slim young man with an almost boyish face twisted into an
expression of agony, eyes bulging and tongue sticking out. Marmion and Keedy felt a surge of compassion. The case had been solved but they were sorry that it had involved a gruesome suicide.

  ‘Are you going to show Father Howells that letter?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘I’ll wait until he recovers first,’ said Marmion. ‘And I certainly won’t release details of it to the press. Some things should remain private. Besides, there’s a war on. They’ve got plenty to write about.’

  As the night wore on, it got windier and colder. Alice was glad that she’d brought a scarf and gloves as well. Having established that Keedy wasn’t in the house, she waited beside a nearby tree. It gave her some protection against the wind and kept her hidden from the gaze of those passing by on the other side of the street. As another fruitless hour slipped by, it suddenly occurred to her that Keedy might, after all, have gone to her digs once more. It would be maddening if they were each waiting for the other one to put in an appearance. Alice couldn’t stay there for ever. She decided that another half an hour was all she could spare.

  In the event, it was just long enough. At a point when she was just about to give up, she saw a figure coming out of the gloom and recognised his familiar gait. Running towards him, she was overjoyed that he’d come at last and hugged him tight. Keedy was as delighted as he was amazed.

  ‘I never expected this kind of welcome,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘I had to see you, Joe.’

  He kissed her on the forehead. ‘Am I complaining?’

  ‘Something happened today.’

  ‘Tell me about it on the way back to your place,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘You shouldn’t be out alone this late, Alice.’

  By the time they reached the bus stop, she’d told him about the worrying encounter with Hannah Billington and how it had made her review the situation she was in. Alice felt that it couldn’t go on. The secrecy which gave their friendship an extra edge had now begun to pall. Guilt was gnawing away at her.

  ‘I needed you, Joe,’ she explained. ‘When Hannah asked me if I was courting, I should have been able to say that, in fact, I was. It would have prevented a lot of embarrassment at her house.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘It’s made me think long and hard about us.’

  ‘And what conclusion did you reach?’

  ‘We have to make a decision together,’ she said, before blurting out the sentence she’d rehearsed. ‘Either we’re serious enough about each other to tell everyone what’s going on or …we go our separate ways.’

  He grinned. ‘Does that mean you’d run off with Hannah Billington?’

  ‘This is not funny, Joe,’ she scolded, punching him in the chest.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. It’s time to make up our minds.’

  ‘I’m just not sure I can go on like this.’

  ‘How disappointing – I love these trysts in the dark.’ Keedy pulled her close and looked into her eyes. ‘Are you giving me an ultimatum?’

  ‘I just want to know where I stand.’

  ‘That’s the very question I was going to put to you. I still don’t know if I’m a pleasant diversion for you or … something more important.’

  ‘Then I can answer that straight away,’ she said with passion. ‘Outside of my family, you’re the most important person in my whole life. I thought you’d realised that by now. I’ve got all this happiness bubbling away inside me yet I have to keep it bottled up. It’s unnatural.’

  ‘But we had no choice at first, Alice. You agreed.’

  ‘That was then – this is now.’

  ‘I feel as if you’re putting a gun to my head,’ he said.

  She was hurt. ‘In that case,’ she conceded, ‘there’s no point in going on with this. It’s time to make a complete break.’

  ‘It wasn’t a criticism, Alice. I’m grateful to feel a weapon against my temple. It helps me to think more clearly. You should have used the gun earlier.’

  She pulled away. ‘You’ve got me completely confused now.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’ve got rid of my confusion.’

  Alice was nonplussed. ‘What are you saying, Joe?’

  ‘Let me spell it out. I want you, I need you and …’ he kissed her full on the lips, ‘I love you. Is that clear enough?’

  Tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, Alice buried her head in his chest. His declaration was more than she dared to hope for. All her anxieties faded away. When the bus finally arrived, she and Keedy jumped happily on to it.

  Though he gave the superintendent a fuller version of events, Marmion was very economical with regard to the press. Chatfield approved of his wish to release only a minimum of information. All that appeared in the later editions of the morning papers next day was a paragraph to the effect that the police had solved the mystery of who had attacked Father Howells and that they were not looking for anyone else in connection with the case. Not wanting the press to turn the story into a sensation, Marmion suggested that the suicide of Michael Goodrich could, in due course, be presented as the desperate act of a failed Anglican priest who’d tried to kill someone out of envy at his success. Chatfield was quick to agree that they should suppress all mention of any homosexual strands in the case. The notion of intercourse between two men was anathema to him. Professional jealousy was a more acceptable motive to bring before the public and not without an element of truth.

  After going through the newspapers with his superior, Marmion adjourned to his office and found a pile of messages awaiting his attention. Some were letters from putative witnesses, claiming that they had reliable information about the attack on the curate and that they were ready to part with it for a substantial reward. Now that the case was solved, Marmion was able to ignore them. The most important message had come from Caroline Skene who’d rung from Lambeth police station. Marmion didn’t keep her waiting this time. Her cry for help was given priority. Within minutes, he was being driven to her house.

  When she let him in, Caroline was almost gibbering. He took her into the living room and made her sit down before asking her why she’d summoned him again. Her face was drawn and there were dark bags under her eyes. Her voice had the note of hysteria he’d heard before. She told him what had happened the previous evening and of her feeling that she was in jeopardy. Marmion was at first doubtful.

  ‘So you never actually saw this person,’ he said.

  ‘It was too dark, Inspector. I just know he was there.’

  ‘But you have no real proof.’

  She was wounded. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Skene. But it would have been so much more helpful to me if you’d actually caught sight of the man and could tell me at least something about him. How old was he, for instance? Was he tall or short? What was he wearing? Any detail would have been useful.’

  ‘He’s an evil man,’ she said, ‘and he’s stalking me.’ She reached for a piece of paper on the table and consulted it. ‘After you left the last time, I remembered a few other times when something odd happened. I’ve made a list of them in sequence. You were right about a pattern, Inspector.’ She handed the paper over. ‘It’s quite clear.’

  Marmion glanced at the list. ‘I’m not sure that I can see it.’

  ‘Four of those occasions are on club night.’

  ‘Do you mean that you went out to a club once a week?’

  ‘I don’t,’ she replied, ‘but my husband does. If he’s not working the evening shift, he never misses a night at the social club. That man knows it. Because he’s been watching the house, he knows that I’m here on my own on a particular night. That’s when he comes and … stays out there. Yesterday he turned up even though my husband was here. I was horrified. It’s the reason I begged you to call again, Inspector. Tonight is Wilf’s club night. That man will be back again.’

  ‘You can’t be certain about that, Mrs Skene.’

  �
��Yes, I can,’ she affirmed, hands trembling. ‘Do you ever lie awake at night when you have something troubling you?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he admitted. ‘It happens whenever I’m involved in a difficult case. I stay awake in the dark, wondering how on earth we can solve it.’

  ‘It was like that for me last night. Something kept going round and round in my mind. It just wouldn’t let me sleep. Eventually,’ she said, sitting forward in her chair, ‘I realised what it was. I’d forgotten the most important evidence of all.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘It was the day when Cyril was killed. I wasn’t expecting him to call but he knew that my husband wasn’t here so he took the risk of coming. It was wonderful to see him so excited about that meeting. I shared in his joy. That was my mistake,’ she went on, sorrowfully. ‘I should have kept my eyes open. Because it was dark outside, I thought it was safe to walk with Cyril to the end of the street. He’d only have a hundred yards or so to get to the bus stop. He gave me a kiss and left.’ There was a sharp intake of breath. ‘That was the last time I saw him alive.’

  ‘You said something about keeping your eyes open.’

  ‘He was there, Inspector. I half-noticed him at the time but I was too happy at having seen Cyril to look properly at anyone else. I went straight back to the house and thought about the unexpected treat I’d just had. It was only in the middle of the night that it finally came back to me,’ she recalled. ‘That man was there. He could have followed Cyril and murdered him.’

  ‘He could have, Mrs Skene, but we don’t know that he did.’

  ‘I know,’ she said with conviction. ‘I know he was there that day and I’m equally sure that he was outside this house yesterday even though it wasn’t Wilf’s club night. I’m not simply a nervous woman given to flights of fancy, Inspector. This man is real and he’s a killer.’

  Marmion looked down at the list again. The pattern was inescapable. On four separate occasions in the past month, Caroline had been convinced that the house was being watched. Each time coincided with her husband’s absence at the social club. Since she’d been left alone, her instincts had been heightened. The stalker did exist, Marmion accepted that. What he could not decide was what the man was after. On first hearing that she’d been followed, it had occurred to him that Eric Fussell might be involved, but the revelation about his sexuality eliminated him from any list of possible suspects. There was a secondary reason to omit the librarian. When she was out with Cyril Ablatt one time, Fussell had passed by on the other side of the street and Caroline had been pulled into a doorway. She’d actually seen the librarian. He was not the man she’d glimpsed following her on her way home.