Edward Marston: Instrument of Slaughter

‘Where’s Cyril?’ asked Price.

‘They asked him to stay behind,’ said Hambridge. ‘They were so impressed with his speech that they want him on the platform at future meetings.’

‘I’m not surprised. He was wonderful. Isn’t that right, Gordon?’

‘Yes,’ replied Leach, one eye on the baying crowd.

‘I was going to take my turn,’ said the Welshman, ‘but I never got the chance. It may be different tomorrow. Not that I’ll be anywhere near as good as Cyril, mind you. Talk about the gift of the bloody gab.’

‘There’s no point in waiting,’ said Hambridge. ‘He could be a long time. Cyril said we were to go on ahead. He’ll join us later at my house. We can talk over what we heard today.’

‘Are you sure we should leave him?’ asked Leach as the crowd became more vocal. ‘I think the four of us should stick together for safety.’

‘Cyril can manage on his own, Gordon.’

‘What if this crowd turns nasty?’

‘That won’t worry him.’

‘No,’ said Price with an affectionate laugh. ‘The one thing you can say about Cyril is that he can look after himself.’

The body lay motionless on the ground. Cyril Ablatt would never deliver a speech of any kind again. Someone clearly had none of his qualms about being an instrument of slaughter.

Detective Superintendent Claude Chatfield was a tall, lean individual in his forties with protruding eyes and thinning hair bisected by a centre parting. He was a man of uncertain temper and could, by turns, be loquacious, withdrawn, peppery, emollient, condescending or passably friendly. As he stood behind the desk in his office at Scotland Yard that morning, he was at his most overbearing, determined to assert his authority over anyone of inferior rank. When Harvey Marmion came into the room, Chatfield welcomed him with a sharp rebuke.

‘You’re late, Inspector.’

‘I came as soon as I could, sir,’ said Marmion.

‘You should have been here earlier. My message was explicit.’

‘I responded to it immediately.’

‘If there’s anything I hate, it’s tardiness. You should know that by now.’

Marmion knew all there was to know about Chatfield and none of it endeared him to the man but, since the latter was higher up in the chain of command, all that the inspector could do was to tolerate his multiple shortcomings and obey him. In fact, Marmion had been quite prompt. Hauled out of bed at five o’clock, he’d thanked the constable who’d brought the message, quickly shaved and dressed, given his wife a farewell kiss, then spurned food in the interests of urgency. When he finally arrived at Scotland Yard, his stomach was rumbling and his eyes were still only half-open.

He was a solid, broad-shouldered man with a full head of hair and the kind of nondescript features that made him invisible in a crowd. Studious by nature, Marmion nevertheless had the physique of a dock labourer. Beside him, Chatfield looked spare and insubstantial. It was one cause of the underlying tension between them. There were several others.

‘What seems to be the trouble, Superintendent?’ asked Marmion.

‘Inefficiency among my detectives,’ said Chatfield, meaningfully. ‘Anyway, now that you’re here, you might as well sit down.’ Marmion lowered himself onto an upright chair but the other man remained on his feet so that he held a position of dominance. ‘I might as well tell you that you would not be my first choice,’ he went on, ‘but the commissioner has this strange faith in you and felt that you should take charge of any case that has a degree of sensitivity attached to it, as this one certainly does. You’ll need to handle the press with great care.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘We both suspected that this sort of thing would happen sooner or later.’

Marmion was interested. ‘Go on, sir.’

‘The body of a young man was found in a dark alley in Shoreditch. He’d been bludgeoned to death. Since he still had his wallet, we can rule out robbery as a motive. The victim’s name is Cyril Ablatt. This was in his pocket.’

Picking up a leaflet, he handed it to Marmion who gave it a glance.

‘It’s that meeting of the No-Conscription Fellowship.’

Chatfield was scathing. ‘They’re a bunch of lily-livered layabouts.’

‘I disagree, sir. Most of them are sincere in their beliefs. Their consciences simply won’t allow them to take up arms against their fellow men.’

‘Where would we be if everyone had that attitude?’

‘The vast majority of people don’t.’

‘Thank heaven for that! We can’t fight a war without soldiers. Conchies like this Ablatt fellow are nothing but abject cowards.’

‘With respect, sir,’ said Marmion, quietly, ‘you’re making hasty assumptions about the murder victim. Perhaps you should wait until we know more details.’

‘The NCF is a hiding place for worthless British citizens too scared to fight.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting that Cyril Ablatt deserved what happened to him. That would be monstrously unjust.’

‘Damn it, man! You’re supposed to solve a crime, not take sides.’

‘You’re the one who’s taking sides,’ argued Marmion, ‘and it’s distorting your view of the situation. To begin with, the murder may be wholly unconnected to the fact that the victim may hold pacifist views. It could have been a random attack.’

‘It was deliberate and calculated,’ insisted Chatfield, smarting at the reproof. ‘What could be clearer? That meeting of the NCF stirred up passions. There was a big crowd outside and, at one point, I’m told, it looked as if there’d be a full-scale riot. A gang of drunken sailors actually stormed the building but the attack petered out for some reason. When the conchies eventually left the building, there would have been scuffles. My guess is that Ablatt was trailed by someone who waited for the opportunity to pounce.’

‘That’s idle speculation, Superintendent.’

‘It’s an informed opinion.’

‘I prefer to keep an open mind. May I ask what action has been taken?’

‘I’ve had the body transferred to the morgue.’

Marmion was disappointed. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said. ‘If at all possible, I prefer to see a murder victim at the scene of the crime. It gives me a fuller picture.’

‘Are you criticising me?’ asked Chatfield, eyes blazing.

‘It’s not my place to do so, sir.’

‘Make sure you remember that in future. As for my decision, I was being practical. If that body had still been there at daylight, there’d be hundreds of ghouls impeding us as they tried to get a look at it. The scene is at present being guarded. You can view it for yourself.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Marmion. ‘The first priority is to inform the family of their son’s death. Has someone already done that?’

‘No,’ replied the other. ‘I was leaving that to you.’

‘If I can have the address, I’ll get over there at once.’

Chatfield gave him the sheet of paper that lay on the desk. ‘Luckily, his address was sewn into the lining of his coat. He must have a caring mother. That’s all we know about him, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s a start, sir. And thank you for assigning the case to us,’ he added without irony. ‘Sergeant Keedy and I are grateful that you’ve shown confidence in us.’

‘The person to thank is the commissioner. It was his idea, not mine.’

‘Then I’ll be sure to express my gratitude to Sir Edward.’

‘The commissioner is like me. He expects results.’

‘We won’t let him down. If you’ll excuse me,’ said Marmion, getting up and moving to the door, ‘I’ll be off to pass on the sad news. And I’ll try to arrange for the victim’s next of kin to identify the body.’