Marmion had even outstayed Claude Chatfield. When the superintendent found him still there, he urged him to go home. They both needed rest. Marmion waved him off, then worked for another twenty minutes before his neck started to ache and his eyelids began to droop. When he struggled to his feet, he felt twinges in his back and his legs. It made him feel grateful that he hadn’t stayed up all night in the front room of a house owned by two maiden ladies. Marmion recognised his limits. That sort of duty was for younger detectives. Putting on his coat and hat, he switched off the light and left the building.
Ellen had made a valiant effort to stay awake for him but she kept dozing off. It was the sound of a key in the front door lock that brought her out of her slumber. She sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. Though she strained her ears, she could hear nothing. Marmion had taught himself to move about the house with the stealth of a burglar. Ellen often teased him about it. When he finally put his head around the door, he was sad to see that she was still awake.
‘No need to apologise,’ she said. ‘It’s what any wife would do.’
He kissed her gently on the head. ‘But you’re not any wife, Ellen. You’re one in a thousand.’ He began to undress. ‘In any case, you’re wrong. When some of my colleagues get home late, there’s a torrent of abuse waiting for them. Not every wife has your tolerance.’
‘It’s not tolerance, Harvey. It’s fatigue. I’m too weary to complain.’
‘How was your day?’
‘It was rather lonely. What about you?’
‘Oh, I’m never short of company. I seem to have done a hell of a lot today but I don’t have much to show for it. However,’ he went on, ‘I won’t bore you with the details. I’m still trying to make sense of them myself.’
‘If you’d got that promotion to superintendent, you’d be home earlier.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said, undoing his laces before kicking off his shoes. ‘Claude Chatfield left just before I did. He works all hours.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘but he doesn’t use as much energy as you. He stays at Scotland Yard all day while you and Joe Keedy have to charge all over the place. Being a superintendent wouldn’t have been as dangerous as going to some of the rougher areas of London. There’d be no risks to take.’
‘That’s exactly why I didn’t want the job, Ellen,’ he confessed. ‘In fact, I made sure that I didn’t get it by giving the wrong answers at the interview. With all its headaches and frustrations, I love the job I do. There’s nothing to touch the sheer thrill of a hunt for a killer. You’re going to have to put up with a mere detective inspector for a little longer, I’m afraid. I hope you won’t be disappointed.’
Ellen patted the pillow beside her. ‘It suits me fine.’
The man was singing a hymn to himself as he strolled along the road. When he turned down a lane, he had to walk along a dark corridor between the gardens of the houses on either side. Having used the route so often, it never occurred to him that he might be in jeopardy. He was therefore completely off guard when someone leapt out from his hiding place, knocked off the man’s hat and clubbed him viciously to the ground. Blood was everywhere but that didn’t satisfy the attacker. He was there to kill. He managed to get in a few more heavy blows before he heard someone coming down the lane.
‘Hey!’ yelled a voice. ‘What’s going on?’
Abandoning his victim, the attacker ran off at speed into the night.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Attempted murder was Marmion’s alarm clock. It woke him up early and sent him off to Scotland Yard in the police car dispatched to collect him. It took him the whole journey to come fully awake. He expected the superintendent to be there before him but had not counted on Chatfield being quite so animated at that time of the morning. Almost as soon as he entered the building, Marmion was pounced on.
‘He’s struck again,’ announced Chatfield.
‘Who are you talking about, sir?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘The driver gave me no details.’
‘The man who killed Cyril Ablatt has a second victim.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s because the modus operandi is identical in both cases. He lurks in a dark lane in Shoreditch and uses a blunt instrument to smash someone’s head in. Amongst the things found on the victim was a leaflet advertising that fateful meeting of the NCF. In short, he’s Ablatt by another name. My first impulse was right,’ said Chatfield with a self-congratulatory smile. ‘The man we’re after has a grudge against conchies.’
‘It seems to me that you’re making hasty assumptions,’ said Marmion.
‘There’s too much similarity for it to be a coincidence, Inspector.’
‘Perhaps you’d let me make up my own mind about that.’
On the walk to his office, the superintendent gave him the relevant facts. A man in his late twenties was attacked in a dark lane the previous night. Before he could kill his victim, the attacker was interrupted and ran off. Help was summoned and the wounded man was rushed to hospital. He’d sustained serious head injuries and was in a coma but he was still alive. His condition was described as critical. From information in his wallet, he was identified as the Reverend James Howells, a curate at St Leonard’s in Shoreditch High Street. A letter from his father, found in his pocket, showed that his family lived in York. Chatfield had rung the police station in the city and asked them to inform Mr and Mrs Howells that their son was in hospital as the result of a murderous attack. The superintendent had also sent word to the vicar of St Leonard’s.
‘It all fits together,’ he said, almost gleefully.
‘I don’t find a violent attack a subject for celebration, sir.’
‘We’ll catch him this time. The victim has survived.’
‘Yes,’ said Marmion, guardedly, ‘but we don’t know how much he’ll remember if and when he recovers consciousness. If there’s been excessive brain damage, he may be able to tell us nothing at all. And even if he makes a good recovery, he may have no idea who tried to kill him.’
‘He must have. I’m counting on it.’
‘Then there’s a question of motive, sir. Just because he had that NCF leaflet in his pocket, it doesn’t mean that he supports their cause.’
‘There’s no other conceivable reason why he should have it.’
‘I can think of one,’ said Marmion. ‘He wanted to use it as the basis of a sermon. That’s what the vicar of our church did. He stood in the pulpit a couple of Sundays ago and denounced those who refused to take part in what he called a holy crusade against the Germans. The Reverend Howells may be of the same view.’
‘That’s nonsense.’
‘You’re resorting to guesswork, Superintendent.’
‘The facts speak for themselves.’
‘Well, they don’t convince me,’ said Marmion, as they turned into the office. ‘The two incidents could be entirely unrelated.’
‘But the second is a mirror image of the first.’
‘I dispute that, sir. What we have now is an ambush in a dark lane. Whereas, in the first instance, we had someone killed elsewhere then dumped during the night. That’s a critical difference.’
‘You may be forced to eat your words, Inspector.’
‘Then I’ll do so in all humility – but only if I get concrete proof.’
Chatfield was peevish. He hated it when anyone challenged his theories. He had a particular aversion to being contradicted by Marmion. Walking around his desk, he lowered himself into his chair.
‘Do you recall the visit you made to Ablatt’s father?’ he asked.
‘I recall it very well, sir.’
‘He talked about his son’s passion for religion and you saw all those books about Christianity in his room. It was in the first report you gave me.’
‘I tried to be as comprehensive as possible.’
‘Did you ever ask which church Ablatt and his father attended?’
‘No,
sir, I didn’t. Sergeant Keedy and I just let Mr Ablatt talk.’
‘Take a look at a map of Shoreditch, Inspector. The most likely church would have been the closest to the house. Do you agree?’
‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘That would be logical.’
‘Then he was a member of the congregation at St Leonard’s,’ said Chatfield with the deep satisfaction of someone who’d just made a decisive point in a debate. ‘It therefore follows that Ablatt must have known the curate very well. My feeling is that they were birds of a feather.’ He bared his teeth at Marmion. ‘Do you still think there’s no connection between the two crimes?’
Ellen was thrilled to see her daughter for the second time in a week. She liked to think that Alice had come specifically to see her, even though her daughter went straight upstairs to her bedroom to retrieve various items she needed. Alice didn’t even have time for a cup of tea. She bundled the things into a bag.
‘Have you ever thought about having a lodger?’ she asked.
‘I feel as if I already have one, Alice – it’s your father.’
‘I’m serious. We’re always looking for accommodation for refugees. Most of them come with families or friends but we do get the occasional person on their own. All they want is a roof over their head.’
Ellen was upset. ‘I’d never let anyone have your room.’
‘But I don’t need it any more.’
‘You may want it back one day when the war is over.’
‘No,’ said Alice, firmly. ‘I’ve moved out for good, Mummy. That’s no reflection on you and Daddy. I loved it when I lived at home. But everything has changed now and you’ll have to get used to it.’
‘It’s too early to be so certain about that.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Ellen refused to accept the inevitable. She still nurtured the hope that her daughter would, in time, begin to yearn for the comforts of home and return to live in the family house. She put a maternal hand on Alice’s shoulder.
‘Let’s talk about it properly when you’re not in such a rush.’
‘There’s no point. My mind is made up.’
‘Where will you live after the war?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll find somewhere. For the moment, I’m happy enough with the place I’ve got, even though the landlady is very strict. However,’ she said with a laugh, ‘I’m much better off than Vera. Her landlady is a real dragon.’ She gave her mother a peck on the cheek. ‘I must be off. Goodbye.’
Ellen eyed her shrewdly. ‘Has something happened, Alice?’
‘The war has happened. Our lives can never be the same again.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ said her mother. ‘Ever since you’ve been in the house, you’ve been smiling to yourself as if you have some sort of secret. It reminds me of the time when you were at school and had your first boyfriend. You came home with a grin on your face but you wouldn’t tell us why.’
‘That was years ago,’ said Alice, ‘and it never lasted, anyway. I soon lost interest in him. As for boyfriends, the only young men I get to see are terrified refugees from Belgium. I just don’t have time for a social life.’ Picking up her bag, she went to the front door. ‘Give my love to Daddy.’
Ellen went to wave her off. ‘Take care, darling. Bye.’
She stood and watched as Alice got into the lorry and drove off. Ellen was both hurt and curious. She wondered why her daughter had just lied to her.
The first person Marmion spoke to at the hospital was the doctor in charge of the case. James Howells had had an emergency operation but was still in a coma. All that the medical staff could do was to wait and watch. The doctor promised that he would get in touch with Scotland Yard the moment that the patient was conscious again, though he warned that Howells might not be able to remember what had happened. In cases of brain damage, it was impossible to predict the outcome. Marmion thanked him and went into the waiting room where the Reverend Simon Ellway was sitting with his eyes closed as if in prayer. The old man’s shoulders sagged wearily. Marmion waited until the vicar’s eyes opened before introducing himself. Ellway was distraught.
‘Where will it end, Inspector?’ he asked in despair. ‘Only yesterday, I had to comfort the family of a parishioner of mine, Cyril Ablatt, who was murdered. Last night, someone tried to kill my curate.’
‘It’s not impossible that the two cases are related,’ said Marmion. ‘I’m here because I’m in charge of the investigation into the murder as well. Cyril Ablatt worshipped at St Leonard’s, then?’
‘Oh, yes. He and his father attended services regularly.’
‘Tell me a little about your curate.’
The vicar spoke warmly. ‘James is a delightful young man. The moment he arrived, he seemed to fit in perfectly. He is indefatigable. Nothing is too much trouble for him. He took a huge load off my back. We had our differences, naturally,’ admitted Ellway. ‘He didn’t entirely share my passion for the Old Testament and, by the same token, I was rather resistant to some of the modern ideas he tried to press upon me. In truth, I suppose, I’m a hopeless traditionalist. But none of our differences get in the way of our friendship. James is like a son to us.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘We offered him a room at the vicarage but he preferred to be out in the community he served. He has digs within walking distance of the church.’ He smiled fondly. ‘James is single but I don’t think he’ll remain a bachelor for long. He’s very handsome and sets many a female heart aflutter. My wife used to tease me about it. When James took a service, she said, there are always more young ladies in the congregation than when I’m on duty.’
‘Given his popularity, why should anyone wish to attack him?’
‘It was more than just an attack, Inspector. It was a case of attempted murder. If someone hadn’t, mercifully, come along when he did, James would be dead.’
‘Did he ever talk about enemies that he had?’
‘No,’ replied Ellway, ‘because there weren’t any. Everyone liked him.’
‘People said the same thing about Cyril Ablatt, yet he was murdered.’
‘I know. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘There is one possible motive.’
‘You’re talking about him being a conscientious objector, aren’t you?’
‘Yes – that makes him an object of disgust to some people.’
‘You could never be disgusted by Cyril. He was a splendid young fellow.’
‘What about your curate?’ asked Marmion.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Did he agree with the stand that Cyril was taking?’
‘He did and he didn’t,’ said the old man. ‘He agreed that everyone had the right to take a stand on an issue of moral principle and he admired him for doing so. At the same time, however, James couldn’t support him. He felt that the needs of a national emergency should come first. On the subject of war, the Bible is rather ambiguous. They had long theological arguments, quoting bits of the Old and New Testaments at each other.’
‘Who won the argument?’
‘The issue was unresolved. Cyril tried to persuade James to go to a meeting of something called the No-Conscription Fellowship. My curate showed me the leaflet he’d been given.’
‘Did he attend the meeting?’
‘No, Inspector. He felt that he’d be there under false pretences.’
Marmion was interested to hear how the leaflet had come into the curate’s possession and would take pleasure in passing on the information to Chatfield. It would puncture the superintendent’s theory about the second attack being an exact copy of the first. Howells and Ablatt were not interchangeable victims. They were on opposite sides of the argument. The vicar provided a link between the two men.
‘You mentioned that you visited Mr Ablatt,’ recalled Marmion.
‘That’s right,’ said Ellway with a sigh. ‘As you can imagine, I’ve had rather too much experience of visiting a house of mourning but
it’s usually because someone has died a natural death. There have also been families here whose sons have been killed during the war, of course, and there have been rather too many of them. What I’ve never had to do before is to offer consolation to the father of a murder victim.’
‘How did Mr Ablatt seem?’
‘He seemed totally baffled. He just couldn’t understand what was going on. His sister, however, was beyond my reach. She was so consumed by anguish that I don’t think she heard a word of what I said. There was another member of the family there,’ he went on, ‘a Mrs Skene, a cousin of Gerald Ablatt. She struck me as one of those practical women who subdue their own grief in order to help those unable to do so. Yes, Mrs Skene was very capable.’
Marmion did not disclose her ulterior motive in visiting the house. He didn’t wish to betray a confidence or to shatter the fond image of Cyril Ablatt that the vicar had. Unlike his young parishioner, Simon Ellway would never have been able to reconcile religious conviction and an intimate relationship with a married woman. After thanking him for his help, Marmion took his leave and headed for the exit. Before he reached it, he saw Keedy coming down the corridor towards him.
‘Good morning, Joe.’
‘Good morning. The superintendent told me I’d find you here.’
‘Did he tell you why?’
‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘The killer went after a second victim.’
Marmion took a deep breath. ‘That’s not quite what happened …’
Against all advice, Gerald Ablatt opened his shop that morning. He felt that he’d been writhing in pain for long enough and he sought the anaesthetic of work. It gave him a sense of purpose and showed him that not everyone in Shoreditch disapproved of the fact that someone hadn’t volunteered for military service. Customers were uniformly sympathetic. They made the cobbler feel both proud of his son and comforted in his loss. As a result of his decision to resume work, his sister was forced to stay at home. Promising to come back early, Dalley went off to work. He met the postman on the way and stopped for a chat. When the blacksmith reached the forge, his assistant was dealing with a customer whose horse he’d just shoed. After the bill had been paid, Percy Fry came over to his boss.
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