Edward Marston - Instrument of Slaughter

‘Cyril used to shrug those off.’

‘Well, his father didn’t. They really upset him at first.’

‘I know. He told us. But it didn’t scare Cyril because he was so brave. He always used to quote that saying. You know — “Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me.” That was typical of Cyril.’

Keedy was about to point out that someone had broken the victim’s bones but he decided against it. For all his bulk, Hambridge seemed quite fragile. It was better to steer him away from gory details of the crime. Keedy’s pencil was poised.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘We grew up together.’

‘What about Price and Leach?’

The four of us went to the same school.’

‘And you’re all conscientious objectors, I gather.’

‘I’m a Quaker,’ said Hambridge, simply. ‘We utterly deny all outward wars and strife. That’s what George Fox said and he preached the gospel of peace all his life, even though they put him in prison time and again.’

‘What about the others?’

‘I’m the only Quaker. Cyril was a true Christian. Mansel refuses to let the state bully him into uniform and Gordon just thinks that war is wrong. It was Cyril who sort of spoke for the rest of us. He made a wonderful speech at the meeting. That’s why he was asked to stay behind afterwards. He had a real gift, Sergeant,’ said Hambridge, eyes moistening. ‘None of us could touch him. Cyril had a way with words. I could listen to him all day.’

Gordon Leach had gone on his delivery round with the furtiveness of a man expecting to be attacked at any moment. Convinced that his friend had been murdered, he felt that his own life was also in jeopardy, even though it was now daylight and the streets were full of people. Customers who came to the door to pay him wondered why he thrust their loaves at them, took the money and fled. It was only towards the end of the round that he slowly regained his confidence and began to control his fears. When he found Inspector Harvey Marmion waiting for him at the bakery, however, his lurking desperation was rekindled. He was given official confirmation that Ablatt was indeed the murder victim and it made him turn the colour of flour.

They were alone in the back room that was still pulsing with warmth.

‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,’ said Marmion.

‘I knew it already,’ explained Leach. ‘Fred — that’s Fred Hambridge — came to warn me that he’d heard about someone being beaten to death not far from here. We both guessed it had to be Cyril. He didn’t turn up, you see.’

‘Turn up where?’

‘We agreed to meet at Fred’s house after the meeting of the NCF.’

‘Why didn’t he leave with you?’

Leach told him that Ablatt had been detained by the people who organised the meeting. He also gave details of the route they’d taken back to Shoreditch and an approximate time of their arrival at Hambridge’s house. Talking it all through seemed to instil even more trepidation in him. Marmion tried to soothe him.

‘I really don’t think that you are in imminent danger,’ he said, ‘and neither are your friends. It was Cyril Ablatt who was singled out. If someone had had designs on any of you, then they’d have lain in wait until they saw a moment to strike. Have you ever felt that you were being watched?’

‘No, Inspector, I haven’t.’

‘What about your friends?’

‘They’d have mentioned it if that was the case — and they didn’t.’

‘Then none of you need be alarmed. For some unknown reason, the killer’s target was your friend, Cyril. Do you know what that reason might be?’

‘They wanted to silence him.’

‘Who did?’

‘Someone who knew how good Cyril was at making speeches,’ said Leach, blurting out his answer. ‘You could never get the better of him in an argument. He’d tie you in knots. And he could hold a big audience as well. He proved that yesterday. They decided to shut him up.’

‘And who might “they” be?’

‘They’re people who demand that we volunteer for the army, so-called patriots who wave the Union Jack and send others off to die on the battlefield. It’s got to be one of them, Inspector.’

‘I’ll reserve my judgement on that.’

‘There’s so many of them about, you see. I should know. When I deliver the bread, there are three houses I can’t go to any more. They say that they won’t touch anything baked by a conchie — only their language is not as polite as that.’

‘Did Cyril get that kind of response at the library?’

‘All the time,’ replied Leach, ‘but he could always talk himself out of the situation. He even turned the tables on Horrie Waldron.’

‘And who might he be?’ enquired Marmion.

‘He’s an old codger me and Cyril knew in the George and Vulture when we used to meet for a drink there. It’s in Pitfield Street. Cyril had to pass it on his way home from the library. Anyway,’ Leach went on, ‘we sometimes saw Horrie in there, sitting drunk in a corner. You could share a joke with him until the war broke out. He turned nasty then. Every time we went in there, he’d have a dig at us for not joining up. It got so bad that we stopped going there altogether.’

‘What’s this about turning the tables on him?’

‘Horrie turned up at the library just before Christmas. He’d obviously been drinking. He tried to cause a scene by telling Cyril he was a coward but he got more than he bargained for. Cyril took him on in argument and made him look stupid. Everyone was laughing at Horrie. According to Cyril,’ said Leach, revelling in his friend’s triumph, ‘he slunk out of there with his tail between his legs.’

‘He must have felt humiliated.’

‘He was, Inspector — good and proper.’

‘And would you say that this Horrie Waldron was a vindictive man?’

‘Oh, yes, and he has a foul mouth on him.’

‘I wonder why Mr Ablatt didn’t mention the incident,’ said Marmion. ‘When I asked him if his son had any enemies, he denied it.’

‘Cyril didn’t tell his father everything that happened. In fact, I’m probably the only person who knows about Horrie being turned into a laughing stock at the library. Fred and Mansel have no idea who Horrie Waldron is.’ Leach scowled. ‘They’re lucky. He can be a menace.’

‘You described him as an old codger.’

‘That’s what he looks like, Inspector, but he’s probably not that old. He just never takes care of himself. Also, he smells. I bumped into him once when I was out with Ruby and she thought he was a tramp.’

‘Is Ruby your girlfriend?’

Leach’s back straightened. ‘She’s my fiancee.’

‘Congratulations! Have you set a date?’

‘It’s in July,’ said Leach. ‘Going back to Horrie, I heard that the landlord at the George and Vulture got fed up with him and threw him out. Last time I saw Horrie, he was going into the Weavers Arms.’

It was not far from where the body of Cyril Ablatt had been found. Marmion made a mental note of the fact. In his opinion, Leach was an interesting character, weak in many respects yet strong enough to hold to his principles in the face of daily hostility. Marmion had seen the way that people could bait conscientious objectors, making their lives a misery by taunting, abusing or sending them poison pen letters. More than one pacifist had been driven to suicide to escape the constant antagonism. Leach seemed unlikely to follow. For all his nervousness, there was a hard inner core that allowed him to withstand the jeers and the innuendo. And since a date for his wedding had been set, he didn’t wish to be somewhere in France or Belgium in the summer. Marmion’s own son, Paul, was very close in age to Leach and had volunteered readily with his father’s approval. Though he didn’t condone the stance that the young baker was taking, Marmion nevertheless admired him for his courage in doing so.