Edward Marston - Instrument of Slaughter

‘I’d be interested to know what it is.’

‘Then you’ll have to ask him.’

‘What did you make of Dalley?’

‘He’s something of a gentle giant.’

‘I don’t think he’d be all that gentle if you got on the wrong side of him.’

‘We met him at a vulnerable time,’ Marmion reminded him. ‘His emotions are bound to be a bit raw. He was really shaken when I told him the news.’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy, reflectively. ‘That’s the trouble with murder. It wounds so many people. It reaches out to family, then friends, then mere acquaintances. Dalley won’t be allowed to forget it. When the story gets into the newspapers, every customer at his forge will want to ask about his nephew.’

‘Each time it will be as if someone is twisting the knife anew.’

‘Does anyone ever get over the violent death of a loved one?’

‘I doubt it, Joe.’

The wait was much longer than anticipated. It was light now and there were more people around, setting off to work or coming out to wonder why a car was standing outside the Dalley house. It was half an hour before the couple appeared. The blacksmith was still in his working clothes but his wife, Nancy, was wrapped up in a thick coat with a tippet around her shoulders and a feathered hat. Dalley more or less carried her to the car and it was apparent that she was too grief-stricken to say anything. The detectives expressed their condolences then remained silent during the journey to the Ablatt house. When they got there,their passengers got out, went to the front door and knocked. Gerald Ablatt appeared and his sister flung herself into his arms. He ushered her inside. Dalley came briefly back to the car.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’re grateful for the lift.’

‘We’ll be in touch, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Before we go, however, the sergeant has something to ask you.’

Keedy took his cue. ‘I wondered why you didn’t live over the forge, sir, that’s all. It would save you going to and fro all the time.’

‘We used to live there,’ explained Dalley, ‘but it’s not the cleanest place to bring up a family. When my parents died, they left me the house where you took me earlier. We moved into it four or five years ago. As for the forge,’ he went on, ‘my assistant lives there. Percy and his missus look after the place for me. I take the rent out of his wages.’ He pursed his lips. ‘He’ll have to manage on his own for a long while now. I’m needed here.’

Turning on his heel, he went into the house and shut the door behind him. The car set off and rounded the corner, giving them a clear view of the slogans and taunts painted crudely on the side wall. It was evident that the anonymous artist was burning with hatred for Cyril Ablatt.

‘Do you think someone will be back with a paintbrush?’ asked Keedy.

‘Not as long as Dalley is here,’ replied Marmion. ‘They wouldn’t dare.’

Running the bakery involved the whole family. Gordon Leach’s mother worked in the shop with the help of his sister. Having done his stint of baking, Leach had to go off on the first of his delivery rounds. The horse stood patiently between the shafts while he loaded the bread into the back of the cart. Still warm, it was wrapped in tissue paper. When the job was complete, he clambered into the cart and was about to set off. Then he saw the animated figure of Fred Hambridge coming towards him. He climbed out immediately.

‘I was hoping to catch you,’ said Hambridge, panting for breath.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘You haven’t heard, then?’

‘Heard what?’

‘It was my boss who told me about it. Charlie was coming past Drysdale Street when he saw this crowd. That’s how he knew.’

‘You’re not making much sense, Fred,’ said Leach. ‘Why don’t you get your breath back and tell me what’s actually happened?’

‘There’s been a murder.’

Leach started. ‘A murder — where?’

‘I’ve just told you. It was near Drysdale Street.’

‘Who was the victim?’

Even as he asked the question, Leach thought of a possible answer and it made his blood congeal. He shook his head in a frenzy of denial.

‘No, no,’ he protested. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I didn’t at first,’ said Hambridge.

‘It can’t have been Cyril.’

‘It was a young man, according to Charlie. That much is certain.’

‘But he had no idea what his name was.’

‘None at all,’ admitted the other, ‘but we have to face facts, Gordon. He was killed last night after dark. And it was near a place that Cyril would have walked past on his way to my house. It all fits. It explains why he never turned up.’

Leach’s head was spinning. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t believe it.’

‘I went to the police station but they wouldn’t give me any details. They told me to wait until the newspapers come out this evening. There may be a name in that. When I told them that I was a friend of Cyril, they didn’t want to know and told me to stop being a nuisance.’

‘There must be some way to find out the truth.’

‘We can go to his house and ask his father.’

Leach brought a hand to his throat. ‘Oh, no!’ he exclaimed. ‘ That’s why Mr Ablatt wasn’t there when Mansel called earlier this morning. He told me that he’d gone to find out if Cyril got back late last night.’

‘He didn’t get back,’ said Hambridge, woefully, ‘because he simply couldn’t. Someone had battered him to death. What are we going to do, Gordon?’

‘We try to find out the truth.’

‘We both know the truth. Cyril Ablatt is dead. Why argue about it? I was asking a different question. What the hell are we going to do now that we don’t have him here to guide us? What would Cyril want us to do?’

Leach didn’t even hear him. His mind was running on another track altogether. If their friend really was the murder victim, there would be implications. Ablatt had given a brilliant speech at the meeting of the NCF. Had he been killed by way of punishment? Was someone determined to silence conscientious objectors? Leach was overcome by a sense of panic.

‘Cyril may just be the first one,’ he cried. ‘Which one of us is next?’

The lane connected two streets in Shoreditch. It was narrow, twisting and unlit at night. When the detectives arrived there by car, policemen were on duty at either end of the little thoroughfare, stopping anyone from using it and trying to move on people who just came to stand and stare. Marmion identified himself to one of the policemen and asked to be taken to the exact spot where the body was found. He and Keedy were escorted to a point near the middle of the lane. The policeman indicated a rickety garden gate set into a recess.

‘It was right here, Inspector,’ he said.

‘Who found him?’ asked Keedy.

‘I’m told it was a courting couple, sir. You’ve got to feel sorry for them. They sneak down here for a kiss and a cuddle and they trip over a dead body.’

‘That must have cooled their ardour.’

‘It was well after midnight — must have been pitch-dark.’

‘How did they know it was a corpse?’

‘They didn’t, sir,’ replied the policeman. ‘In fact, they thought it might have been a drunk who passed out as he tottered home from the Weavers Arms.’

‘That’s the pub on the corner, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Afraid it might be more serious, they reported it.’

‘I’m glad they had the sense to do that.’

‘So am I, sir. By all accounts, it was a hideous sight. It’s just as well they moved the body away before the public got to see it.’

Marmion was only half-listening. Crouching down, he examined the ground with great care. When he eventually stood up, he stroked his chin meditatively.