A Bespoke Murder

by Edward Marston

  ‘I know it,’ said Marmion. ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade – it’s about the battle of Balaclava.’

  ‘They didn’t stand a chance against the Russian cannon. No wonder it was called the “Valley of Death”. I would have thought the days of a cavalry charge were over after that.’

  ‘Apparently, they’re not.’

  ‘You wouldn’t get me galloping at the enemy on a horse. I could be blown to pieces by a shell before I got anywhere near them.’

  ‘The same goes for the infantry,’ observed Marmion. ‘That’s why there’s so little movement in the war zone now. Soldiers on both sides are hiding in trenches for protection. Paul hates it.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘He joined up to see some action, not to be stuck in a hole in the ground with rats for company. Paul enlisted after the retreat from Mons. I was glad he missed that bloodbath.’

  ‘What about the rest of his soccer team? They all joined up together, didn’t they? How many of them are still alive?’

  ‘Seven,’ said Marmion, grimly, ‘though two had to be invalided home when they were badly injured in a mortar attack. According to Paul, neither of them will be able to kick a football again.’

  War had suddenly become more of a reality for Harvey Marmion. Momentous events were taking place on the Continent but – while he was in London – they seemed to be a long way away. He’d had to rely on letters from his son and newspaper reports to give him some idea of what was actually going on. He was now travelling on a troopship with men who would be flung into action against a German army that had already made territorial advances on a number of fronts. Because of its strategic value, Ypres was being staunchly defended against German attack. If it fell, the enemy could move on to capture the vital Channel ports of Calais and Boulogne. Marmion realised what a catastrophe that would be. Latest reports indicated that British and French soldiers were putting up strong resistance in the second battle of Ypres. They were holding their own. Marmion was interested to see exactly how they were getting on.

  It was left to Keedy to point out one possibility.

  ‘What if we get there too late, Harv?’ he asked.

  ‘Too late?’

  ‘Cochran and Gatliffe are soldiers. By the time we reach them, they could be fighting in the front line. What if they’re already dead?’

  ‘Then I’ll feel terribly cheated,’ said Marmion, bristling with anger. ‘They committed a heinous crime and must be punished for it. Getting themselves killed in action would help them to escape justice and I’d hate that to happen. I want these men, Joe,’ he emphasised. ‘I want the pair of them behind bars where the bastards belong.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  War had profound social effects in Britain. When it first broke out in August 1914, the general assumption was that it would all be over by Christmas. The carnage of Mons shattered that illusion and the prime minister was soon calling for 500,000 soldiers. Women had at first confined themselves to urging men to enlist or – in some cases – sending them white feathers if they failed to do so. As more and more men joined up and went overseas, there was a crisis in the labour market. It was met by enterprising women who took over work that had hitherto been essentially a male preserve. For many of them, it was a liberating experience, allowing them to travel to places they would not otherwise have visited and to take up occupations that gave them both an income and the satisfaction of helping in the war effort.

  In the course of a day, Irene Bayard found an endless sequence of jobs on offer. The problem lay in choosing the one that most attracted her. Calm and methodical, she made no instant decisions. Going from place to place, she made a mental note of over a dozen potential jobs that covered everything from nursing to operating a lathe in a factory. It was all a far cry from being a stewardess on the Lusitania and that was its appeal.

  She took the opportunity to call at the shop managed by her sister and was given a cup of tea in a small room stacked high with shoeboxes. Irene had lunch alone in a café. Sitting in the window, she watched a number of women going past, many of them in uniforms of one kind or another. London streets had changed visibly. With recruitment at its height, there was a comparative dearth of young men counterbalanced by an increase in the number of working women. Things were different now.

  It was late afternoon when she returned to the house and she planned to put her feet up for an hour. After so much walking, she was quite fatigued. The moment she let herself in, however, she heard the tinkle of Miss James’s bell. Tapping on the lodger’s door, she opened it tentatively.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss James.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the old lady from the comfort of her armchair. ‘This is the first chance I’ve had of speaking to you, Mrs Bayard.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have plenty of chance from now on,’ Irene told her. ‘I’ll be living under the same roof.’

  ‘So I understand, dear, and I’m very happy to hear it. Your sister gets very lonely at times. Having you here will be a tonic.’

  Miss James seemed smaller and frailer than when Irene had last seen her. Her face still had a faded prettiness and her white hair was as well groomed as ever, but she’d lost weight and colour. She was not idle. As she talked, the knitting needles in her hand clicked away.

  ‘What are you knitting?’ asked Irene.

  ‘That depends on whether or not you can keep a secret.’

  Irene understood. ‘Oh, it’s something for Dorothy, is it?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a new scarf – but please don’t tell her.’

  ‘I won’t breathe a word, Miss James.’ She smiled invitingly. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘No, thank you, dear.’

  ‘I just wondered why you’d rung your bell.’

  ‘Well, I wanted to tell you how pleased I am to see you back,’ said Miss James, ‘but I also needed to pass on a message. While you were out, a gentleman called.’

  Irene was surprised. ‘Was he looking for me?’

  ‘Yes. I can’t really describe him because my eyesight is all but gone. But he had a nice voice and I could tell from his manner that he was fond of you.’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the old lady. ‘I made a point of asking. His name was Mr Gill – Mr Ernest Gill.’

  Irene’s heart sank.

  They were miles from their destination when they first heard the continuous thunder of artillery. As they got closer, the sound grew steadily in volume. The British Expeditionary Force was undergoing a constant bombardment and retaliating accordingly. Stopping well short of Ypres itself, they established that the regiment they sought had its headquarters in an old farmhouse. The first person they encountered was a peremptory captain who treated their request with barely concealed hostility, arguing that Scotland Yard detectives had no jurisdiction over members of the BEF and that their journey had therefore been futile. Refusing to be turned away, Marmion waved the letter from the War Office under his nose and the man eventually gave them some grudging cooperation. He introduced them to Major Nicholas Birchfield, a portly man with a neat moustache, bulging blue eyes and a peppery disposition. When he’d heard them out, Birchfield clasped his hands behind his back and spoke with clipped politeness.

  ‘That’s all very well, Inspector,’ he began, ‘but your arrival is deuced awkward. As I’m sure you appreciate, we need every man we have. We can’t release two of our soldiers on the basis of what may turn out to be a wholly false accusation.’

  ‘There’s nothing false about it, Major,’ said Marmion. ‘The young lady in question was raped. A doctor confirmed it.’

  ‘He may have confirmed that she had intercourse but that’s hardly proof of rape. We are all men of the world, are we not?’ he went on with a ripe chuckle. ‘This situation is as old as the hills. A young woman drinks too much then gives herself willingly to a chance acquaintance. Later, when she comes to her senses, the only way that she can account for the
loss of her virginity is to cry rape. It’s happened before a hundred times.’

  ‘Well, it’s not the case with Miss Stein.’

  ‘How do you know? Have you spoken to her about it?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Marmion, ‘but I talked with her mother. She was able to pass on the relevant details.’

  ‘Oh, so this is the mother’s doing, is it?’ said Birchfield, amused. ‘That settles it in my mind. What mother believes that her darling daughter would sacrifice herself before marriage? She simply has to claim that rape took place. It’s maternal instinct.’

  ‘We’re not only concerned with the charge of rape,’ said Keedy, annoyed by the man’s tone. ‘Murder, arson and theft are among the related crimes. In all probability, Gatliffe and Cochran may be guilty on other counts as well.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence to that effect, Sergeant?’

  ‘We know that they were at the rear of the premises at the time, Major. That’s evidence enough to make them suspects.’

  ‘And who provided that evidence?’

  ‘The young lady,’ said Marmion. ‘Miss Ruth Stein.’

  ‘Doing so by proxy, I gather.’

  ‘She was under immense stress. You have clearly never dealt with rape victims before, Major. Sergeant Keedy and I have, and we know how hard it is to get them to come forward. In all my years in the police force,’ he went on, ‘I’ve never heard one false accusation, because women know the kind of punitive cross-examination they’ll face in court, not to mention the cruel and unfair assumptions that people like you will invariably make.’

  Biting back a reply, Birchfield walked behind the table that was serving as his desk. The room he was using as his office was small and low-ceilinged. It had undulating paving slabs on the floor and peeling walls. Judging by the pungent aroma, it had once been used to store cheese and other dairy products. Weighing his words, the major returned to the attack.

  ‘Do you know what is happening at the moment?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re fighting a fierce battle,’ replied Marmion.

  ‘It’s more than that, Inspector. This is the second time Ypres has been in the thick of the action and Brother Bosch has decided to assault us with a new weapon – poison gas. It’s already taken its toll.’

  ‘This is hardly relevant to the matter in hand.’

  ‘I think it’s extremely relevant, because it goes to the heart of the matter. Priorities – that’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it? What takes priority? Is it the word of some girl who let her emotions get the better of her, or is it two members of an overstretched army fighting against a deadly enemy? Private Cochran and Private Gatliffe are no use to us if they’re carted off to London. We need them here. They’ll be in the trenches very soon, where they’ll run the risk of being shot, shelled, forced to cough up their lungs by chlorine gas or made to cry their eyes out by a swinish German lachrymator, benzyl bromide. In short, they are brave soldiers acting out of patriotic impulse.’

  Marmion was scathing. ‘I don’t consider rape to be brave or patriotic, Major,’ he said with asperity, ‘nor do I find the idea of two drunken men setting upon a defenceless young woman anything but repulsive. You should be ashamed that Cochran and Gatliffe are wearing army uniforms. They are a disgrace to your regiment.’

  ‘That’s for us to judge,’ said Birchfield, stung by his words. ‘All that I’ve heard so far are unsubstantiated allegations.’

  ‘They are supported by two arrest warrants.’

  ‘What if it’s a case of mistaken identity?’

  ‘Then the two men will be released without charge.’

  ‘From the information that we have,’ said Keedy, ‘that seems unlikely. The victim was able to supply us with the names of the two men and the fact that they were leaving for France on the following day. That led us to your regiment, Major.’

  Birchfield scowled. He sat down behind his makeshift desk and weighed up the possibilities. Reluctant to hand the two men over, he searched for ways to send the detectives packing. Marmion seemed to read his mind and jumped in smartly.

  ‘I can see that we are wasting each other’s time, Major,’ he said, briskly. ‘You clearly don’t have the authority to make a decision on the matter. We would therefore ask to speak to your commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Knox. Unlike you, he will doubtless understand the importance of arrest warrants and a letter from the War Office.’

  ‘I was assigned to deal with this,’ said Birchfield, haughtily.

  ‘Then please do so without prevarication. Yes,’ said Marmion, stifling a protest with a raised hand, ‘I know that there’s a war on. My own son is stationed south of here with his regiment. And in case you think Miss Stein would surrender herself to a drunken stranger in an alley, I should tell you that she comes from a respectable middle-class family and that her brother, Daniel, is fighting on the Mesopotamian Front under the command of Sir John Nixon. Now then,’ he added, crisply, ‘are you going to comply with our request or do we need to discuss your obstructive behaviour with your commanding officer?’

  Eyeing the inspector with distaste, Birchfield capitulated.

  ‘I’ll have these men sent for,’ he said, coldly.

  Alice Marmion got back from school to find her mother on her knees as she cleaned the grate in the living room. When she looked around, Alice saw that the whole place was spick and span. Her mother had even burnished the copper plates that stood on the mantelpiece. There was no need to clean the grate. It might be months before they needed to have another fire. And there was no call for vigorous housework in a room that was already spotless. Alice understood. Her mother was eager to keep herself busy so that she did not brood on Marmion’s visit to the Western Front. The worried look on Ellen’s face showed that the strategy had comprehensively failed.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she said, hauling herself to her feet. ‘I was just sprucing the place up a bit.’

  ‘It doesn’t need sprucing up, Mummy. Come here.’

  Alice took her by the arm, led her to the sofa and lowered her onto it. Putting her bag aside, she sat beside her and held her hand.

  ‘Daddy is fine,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in worrying.’

  ‘I’m bound to have some fears, Alice.’

  ‘Why? He’ll be nowhere near the actual fighting – much to Joe Keedy’s disappointment, I daresay. The person we need to worry about is Paul, not Daddy. Paul is in the trenches yet you don’t let anxiety about him weigh you down.’

  ‘I did when he first joined up,’ said Ellen. ‘I stayed awake for nights on end. As time passed, it somehow got easier to bear.’

  Alice squeezed her mother’s hand then rose to her feet.

  ‘I know what you need.’

  ‘I’ll make the tea, Alice.’

  ‘Oh no you won’t,’ said her daughter, easing her back down on the sofa as she tried to get up. ‘Stay here – that’s an order.’

  Ellen gave a grateful laugh. Going into the kitchen, Alice filled the kettle, set it on the stove and lit a gas ring. Evidently, her mother had spent a lot of time there because every surface gleamed and every item was in its rightful place. In the time that Alice had been at school, her mother had also done the washing and ironing. The windows had been cleaned on the outside and the inside. When she glanced into the back garden, Alice saw that a lot of effort had been expended on tidying that up as well.

  Having made the tea, she took it back into the living room on a tray and set it down on the low table beside the sofa. Alice perched on the edge of an armchair.

  ‘I’ve just seen how much work you’ve done today,’ she said. ‘If this is what being married involves, I’m going to stay single.’

  ‘I have to keep the place looking nice, Alice.’

  ‘Then clean it once a week at most.’

  ‘Believe it or not, I like housework.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. I find it soul-destroying.’

  After waiting a short while, Alice put milk into the two
cups then removed the tea cosy. As she poured from the teapot, she used the strainer to catch the leaves. Her mother added sugar and stirred her cup. Alice spurned the sugar. Grabbing one of the biscuits, she wolfed it down.

  ‘I didn’t have time for a proper lunch,’ she explained.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I still can’t make up my mind about whether or not to join the Women’s Emergency Corps. You and Daddy are against the idea so I decided to get some independent advice.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I went over to see Uncle Raymond.’

  ‘I told you to keep him out of this discussion.’

  ‘He’s family. His opinions count. So I walked over there.’

  ‘That was a long way to go.’

  ‘I didn’t mind. I felt that he’d listen without hectoring me. He’s so patient and he never makes you feel that you’re stupid.’

  Ellen frowned guiltily. ‘Is that what we do, Alice?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Alice, ‘but I don’t always feel that I get a fair hearing. I was able to talk at length to Uncle Raymond without any interruption.’

  ‘And what was his advice?’

  ‘He said that I should follow my instincts. After all, that’s what he did when he joined the Salvation Army against the wishes of just about everyone in the family.’

  ‘I’m surprised that he didn’t try to recruit you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, he did,’ said Alice, grinning, ‘though it was partly in fun. Anyway, he gave me food for thought but nothing that I could actually eat.’

  She munched a second biscuit. Looking at her daughter, Ellen could not believe that someone so attractive and patently intelligent had not met her partner in life yet. Ellen had been years younger when she’d met and married Harvey Marmion and she tended to use that fact as a yardstick. The thought that Alice might end up as a spinster was deeply unsettling. After a mouthful of tea, Ellen tried to sound casual.