Instrument of Slaughter

by Edward Marston

  Keedy had had enough of his prevarication. ‘Put your spade away, sir,’ he ordered. ‘You’re coming with me.’

  ‘I don’t finish work until this afternoon.’

  ‘You’re leaving right now.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘Would you rather that I arrested you first? I’ll be happy to do so.’

  ‘Look,’ said Waldron, seeing that Keedy was in earnest and trying to sound more reasonable. ‘I swear to God that I had nothing to do with any murder. I was in the Weavers most of the night.’

  ‘Mr Ablatt’s body was found less than forty yards away.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean that I put it there.’

  Keedy fixed him with a stare. ‘You had the chance to do so during the hour or two you were away from the pub.’

  ‘I told you – I was with someone.’

  ‘Yet she doesn’t appear to have a name and address.’

  ‘We got an arrangement, see?’

  ‘Yes, you dredge her out of your imagination whenever you want an alibi.’

  ‘She’s real,’ insisted Waldron. ‘She’s flesh and blood. I should know.’

  ‘Then tell me who she is,’ pressed Keedy. ‘And explain why you’re so anxious to conceal her name. Is it because she’s a married woman?’

  ‘No, she’s a widow.’

  ‘Then there’s no reason to hide the relationship, is there?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ said Waldron, sourly.

  ‘Why is that, sir?’

  Keedy reinforced the question by taking a step nearer to him and looking deep into his eyes. Waldron quailed inwardly. He usually got the better of policemen who tried to question him. Even after he’d been arrested for being involved in a pub brawl, he’d often managed to worm his way out of trouble. There was no escape this time. To get the details he was after, Keedy was prepared to drag him off to the nearest police station and subject him to an interrogation. If he survived that, he’d have to face awkward questions from his boss who’d want to know why he was a suspect in the investigation. Waldron weighed up the situation and capitulated.

  ‘You win,’ he admitted, head slumping to his chest.

  ‘Why can’t you tell me the woman’s name?’

  ‘It’s because of Stan at the Weavers.’

  ‘Do you mean the landlord?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant, and he’s got a real temper on him. The woman …’ He had to force the words out. ‘The woman … is his mother. If Stan ever found out, you’d have another bleeding murder on your hands.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alice Marmion had never regretted the decision to join the Women’s Emergency Corps and to move out of the family home. She was doing work that gave her great satisfaction and she enjoyed the challenge of having to fend for herself. Inevitably, there were drawbacks. While she was happy with the two small rooms she rented in a rambling Victorian house, they came with a landlady who imposed strict rules on her four tenants – all of them young and female – the main one being that no gentlemen were allowed into their respective rooms. Male visitors could only be entertained during specified hours in the drawing room, where they had to sit in one of the uncomfortable single chairs, the settee and the chaise longue having been carefully removed because they might encourage intimacy between couples seated together. It was also inconvenient to share the only bathroom with all the other people in the house, but Alice had circumvented that problem by getting up earlier than anyone else and being the first through the door.

  Notwithstanding the house rules, she liked living there and woke up every morning with a sense of control that she’d never felt at home. It was empowering. Never lacking in confidence, Alice now had a greater self-belief and an increased readiness to take on responsibility. It had earned her respect in the WEC. Her friend, Vera Dowling, had marvelled at the changes in her.

  ‘It’s amazing, Alice,’ she said. ‘You can do anything you set your mind to.’

  ‘I never thought I’d drive a lorry, I must admit.’

  ‘You took to it like a duck to water – whereas I was hopeless.’

  ‘That’s not true, Vera.’

  ‘As soon as I get behind the driving wheel, I lose my nerve.’

  ‘It’s only a question of practice.’

  ‘I tried and tried again but I still made a mess of it. That’s why they’ll never let me take charge of any vehicle. I start to panic.’

  Alice tried to reassure her but it was in vain. The two of them were sitting in the lorry, waiting for the delayed train from Folkestone. On her way to the railway station, Alice had picked up her friend from her digs. Much as she liked Vera, she’d baulked at the idea of actually sharing accommodation with her. It would impose too many constraints. Vera Dowling was a short, shapeless young woman in khaki uniform with a plain, uninteresting face that accentuated Alice’s loveliness. Diligent and trustworthy, Vera had thrown herself into her new job with more commitment than skill and, as a result, tended to be given only a supportive role. Unlike Alice, she was not relishing her freedom. Living in digs, she missed the comforts of home and the joy of her mother’s cooking. And she’d always had difficulty in making new friends, forcing her to rely even more on the few she already had. As her closest friend, Alice sometimes found that irksome.

  ‘Are you glad you joined the WEC?’ she asked.

  ‘You know I am, Alice. As soon as you did, I followed suit.’

  ‘Then why does your mother think that you might give it up?’

  ‘I’d never do that,’ said Vera, ‘not while you’re still in it, anyway.’

  ‘She told Mummy that you were finding it a bit of a trial.’

  ‘Well, that’s true – but it doesn’t mean that I’m going to pack it in. I just grit my teeth and get on with it. Giving up would be such a selfish thing to do when people depend on me.’ She managed a brave smile. ‘What are a few aches and pains compared to being driven out of your own home and chased out of your own country? Refugees come first, Alice,’ she said. ‘They need us.’

  ‘I knew that you felt the same as me.’

  ‘Whatever happens, I’ll stay in the WEC until the war is over.’

  ‘That’s what I told Mummy.’

  She broke off as a fleet of trucks arrived and drew up beside each other. Troops clambered quickly out with their rifles and kit, falling into line when commands were barked at them. In their ill-fitting serge uniforms, they all looked so young and untried. Alice was reminded of her brother, who’d joined the army at the start of the war and whom they’d only seen once since then. He’d gone off with the same alacrity that these new recruits were showing but his letters from the front were hinting at disillusion. She wondered how long it would be before the brave smiles were wiped off the faces of the latest batch of infantry. As they were marched past the lorry in their hobnail boots, some of the men noticed them and waved cheerily. A few whistled in admiration. Alice waved back but Vera was too embarrassed to do so.

  ‘How many of them will come back alive?’ she asked, sadly.

  Alice hid her pessimism. ‘We must pray that they all do.’

  Vera waited until the last of them had gone past to join the others as they boarded the waiting train. They would soon be on their way to war in a country none of them had ever visited. In the minds of the recruits, there was a whiff of adventure about what they were doing. Having seen so many dead and wounded brought back from the trenches, the friends no longer believed that there was anything adventurous in the conflict. All that they saw were the accelerating losses and the sheer futility.

  Vera’s question came out of the blue. ‘What do you make of Mrs Billington?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wondered, that’s all.’

  ‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘I admire her a lot. I know that some people find her too bossy but that’s what she has to be to get things done. Hannah is a nice woman and she was one of the very first to join the WEC.’

  ‘There
you are,’ said Vera, wistfully. ‘You call her Hannah because you’re on first-name terms with her. She’s always Mrs Billington to me. I’d be afraid to call her anything else.’

  ‘She won’t bite, Vera.’

  ‘It’s the way she stares at me.’

  ‘Hannah does that to everyone,’ said Alice. ‘When you get to know her better, you’ll find out what a warm-hearted person she is.’

  Vera frowned. ‘I’m not sure that I want to know her better.’

  ‘She’s the one who really helped me to develop my talents.’

  ‘I don’t have any talents to develop.’ Vera made an effort to brighten. ‘Did you say that you saw your mother this morning?’

  ‘Yes, I called in for a quick cup of tea.’

  ‘Is she still missing you?’

  ‘Mummy would have me back at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘It must be so lonely being there alone.’

  ‘It is, Vera – though she does get out a lot.’

  ‘Did you see your father as well?’

  Alice gave a hollow laugh. ‘Fat chance of that!’

  ‘Had he already left for work?’

  ‘Daddy went off hours before breakfast. There was an emergency.

  That always means another case of murder. Until it’s over, all that Mummy will get of him is an occasional glimpse.’

  ‘I’d hate that. I could never marry a policeman.’

  ‘There are compensations,’ said Alice, loyally.

  ‘Not enough of them for me.’

  ‘Wait until you meet Mr Right. You won’t care what he does for a living.’

  ‘I would if he was a policeman,’ said Vera. ‘What about you?’

  Alice heard the sound of an approaching train and opened her door.

  ‘That’ll be them,’ she said, getting out of the lorry. ‘Come on, Vera – and don’t forget to speak in your very best French.’

  When it was opened twenty years earlier, the main library in the Metropolitan Borough of Shoreditch had impressed everyone with its Victorian solidity and with the grandeur of its facade. It was less striking now, its novelty gone, its brickwork soiled and the early signs of wear and tear apparent. The first thing that Harvey Marmion noticed was that some slates were missing from the roof. He stood on the pavement opposite for some time, studying the building in which Cyril Ablatt had spent so much of his life. People were streaming in and out, mostly women or older men. The library was obviously popular and well used. Marmion crossed the road and went in through the main entrance. Shelves of books stood everywhere. He could see that it was the ideal habitat for Ablatt.

  Having established who was in charge, Marmion introduced himself to Eric Fussell, an exceptionally tall, middle-aged man who kept his back straight and who peered down at people through wire-framed spectacles that seemed to double the size of his eyeballs. Fussell was quick to appreciate the need for privacy. He ushered the inspector into his office and closed the door. As they exchanged niceties, they sat down. Marmion glanced around the room. It was large, high-ceilinged, lined with books and spectacularly tidy. Everything on the desk was in neat piles, making him feel self-conscious about the clutter in his own office. Fussell exuded intelligence. His manner was polite and confiding.

  ‘What seems to be the problem, Inspector?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe that Cyril Ablatt works here.’

  ‘That’s correct. He’s not here at the moment, alas. If you wish to speak to him, you’ll have to go to his home.’ His eyelids narrowed. ‘Is Cyril in any kind of trouble? Is that the reason he didn’t turn up for work this morning?’

  ‘No,’ said Marmion, solemnly. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that he won’t be turning up at the library ever again. Mr Ablatt’s body was discovered during the night. He’d been bludgeoned to death.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Fussell. ‘That’s appalling!’ Doubt clouded his eyes. ‘Are you quite sure that it was Cyril?’

  ‘No question about it, sir. His father has identified the body.’

  ‘My heart goes out to him. This is dreadful news. Cyril was a fixture here. He used the library regularly for many years before he joined the staff.’

  ‘Mr Ablatt was very proud that his son became a librarian.’

  ‘Technically,’ said the other with more than a hint of pedantry, ‘he was only a library assistant. I’m the librarian. We’re an odd species. Librarians are rather like concert pianists – nobody needs two.’

  ‘I sit corrected, sir. What kind of an assistant was Cyril Ablatt?’

  ‘I couldn’t fault him. This was his true métier. Large numbers of people go through life either hating their job or regretting the one they failed to get. Cyril wasn’t like that. I’ve never met anyone so happy in his work. It was a labour of love to him.’

  ‘Tell me a bit more about him.’

  ‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’

  ‘Everything you can remember,’ said Marmion. ‘My mental picture of him is still incomplete. I need more detail.’

  ‘Well, I can certainly give you that.’

  As Fussell removed his spectacles, his eyes contracted to a more normal size. Taking out a handkerchief, he blew on the lenses before cleaning them methodically. He kept Marmion waiting a full minute before he spoke.

  ‘Cyril Ablatt is the best library assistant I’ve ever had the good fortune to have under me,’ he began, ‘and that includes my dear wife, whom you probably saw at the desk when you first arrived. According to the last census, this borough has a population of over 111,000 inhabitants. Not one of them could hold a candle to Cyril. He was tireless. When someone made a request, nothing was too much trouble for him. He built up a reputation for efficiency and amiability. Then, I fear,’ he went on, ‘the war broke out and people looked at him differently. His hard-earned reputation slowly began to crumble.’

  ‘How did he react to that?’

  ‘He carried on in the same pleasant and dedicated way – even when some people began to voice their criticism. They couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t join the army and fight for his country. It reached a point where a few of them refused to let him stamp their books.’

  ‘Did you understand his position, sir?’

  ‘I understood it very well. We discussed it at length in this very office.’

  ‘And did you approve of what he did?’

  ‘To be quite candid with you, I didn’t,’ said Fussell, holding the spectacles up to the light so that he could examine the lenses. ‘In times of crisis, pacifism seems quite indefensible. Cyril thought differently, of course, arguing that it was only during a war that pacifism had any real meaning. He could be very persuasive. He’d have made a first-rate public speaker.’

  Marmion changed his tack. ‘Is the name Horrie Waldron familiar to you?’

  ‘It’s eerily familiar.’

  ‘Does he come in here often?’

  ‘Thankfully, he doesn’t. You can always tell when he is here by the smell. He never borrows books. He only drops in now and then to read a newspaper.’

  ‘Do you recall an argument he had with Mr Ablatt?’

  ‘I do indeed, Inspector. Waldron was obnoxious. If Cyril hadn’t sent him packing, I’d have called the police to remove him.’

  ‘Would you say that he’s a dangerous man?’

  ‘When drink is taken, he’s a very dangerous man.’

  ‘That confirms what I’ve heard,’ said Marmion. ‘By the way, did you know that your assistant went to a meeting of the No-Conscription Fellowship?’

  The librarian replaced his spectacles. ‘Yes,’ he said, adjusting them. ‘He showed me their leaflet and sought my opinion. I told him that I thought they were a lot of well-intentioned cranks and that he was better off keeping away from them.’

  ‘What was his reply?’

  Fussell quoted it in exact detail. He and his young assistant had evidently had some lively arguments. As the other man talked at length of Ablatt’s early days at the
library, Marmion wondered why he’d taken a dislike to him. The librarian was astute, well qualified and undeniably in command. Yet he somehow annoyed the inspector. It was partly the way that he shifted between a lordly authority and an ingratiating humility. One minute, he was basking in his importance, the next, he was trying to curry favour. Marmion decided that he wouldn’t have liked to work under the man. You never knew what he was thinking.

  ‘Had he lived,’ said Marmion, ‘we both know what would have happened.’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, he’d have been conscripted.’

  ‘The first stage would be an appearance before a tribunal.’

  ‘Cyril had already worked out what he was going to say.’

  ‘And what about you, sir?’

  Fussell was taken aback. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Surely, you’d speak up before the tribunal on his behalf.’

  ‘I hadn’t planned to do so.’

  ‘But you told me that he was your best assistant.’

  ‘He was,’ said Fussell, ‘I don’t dispute that. Unfortunately, libraries do not merit inclusion among reserved occupations. There’s nothing that I could say that would be of any help to Cyril.’

  ‘It’s not what you could say but what you could do, sir.’

  ‘Could you be more explicit?’

  ‘I’m thinking of it from Mr Ablatt’s viewpoint,’ said Marmion. ‘At the very least, you could make a gesture. Your very appearance on his behalf at the tribunal would have raised his morale. Did that never occur to you?’

  Fussell’s tone was icy. ‘In all honesty, it never did.’

  ‘Now that it has, what’s your feeling? Had your young assistant requested your help, how would you have responded?’

  There was a long pause, then Fussell enunciated the words crisply.

  ‘I’d have been obliged to disappoint him, Inspector.’

  ‘Was that because he could defeat you in argument?’ asked Marmion.

  He saw the librarian wince.

  Maud Crowther was a stout woman in her early sixties with sparkling blue eyes in a face more suited to laughter than sorrow. Age had obliged her to use a walking stick but she’d lost none of her zest. When she opened her front door to him, Keedy guessed that she’d spent much of her life behind a bar counter, serving drinks to all manner of customers with a welcoming smile that had been her trademark. Strangers never disconcerted her. They provided her income. Pleased to see such a good-looking man on her doorstep, she gave him a broad grin.