Edward Marston: Instrument of Slaughter

‘Who the devil is this?’ wondered Keedy.

‘I think it’s Tolstoy. He’s the man who wrote War and Peace .’

‘Even I have heard of that. It doesn’t make sense, Harv. Why cut out a photo of someone who writes a book about war? Cyril Ablatt was agains t it.’

‘So was Tolstoy,’ said Marmion. ‘In later life, he had a kind of spiritual crisis and developed his own version of Christianity.’

Keedy was impressed. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Ablatt wasn’t the only one who enjoyed reading — not that I get much time for it nowadays. What I do remember is that Tolstoy drew a lot of inspiration from the Sermon on the Mount. He believed in renouncing violence, wealth and sexual pleasure.’

‘I agree with him about violence. Our job would be a hell of a lot easier if everyone turned his back on that. But I’m not so sure about wealth. And as for sexual pleasure …’

They shared a muted laugh. Marmion then took a closer look at the volumes in the bookcase. There were a few novels and some poetry anthologies but most were related to Christian teaching. There were also two books on public speaking and some political pamphlets. Keedy took down a book from the top of the wardrobe.

‘ The Water Babies ,’ he noted.

‘It’s by Charles Kingsley. He was a clergyman.’

‘I’ve never heard of him.’

‘We read bits of it to Alice when she was younger. She loved stories. You’d never get her to sleep unless you read something to her.’

Keedy bit back the comment he was about to make and replaced the book on the wardrobe. The room had light-green wallpaper with a floral pattern. He noticed how faded it had become and felt sad that a young man in his twenties had chosen to spend so much of his leisure time locked up in the depressing little room. Keedy’s mental scrapbook had much more colourful and exciting illustrations in it than anything found under the bed. In his opinion, Cyril Ablatt had missed so much.

‘We still haven’t found any real secrets, Harv,’ he said.

‘But we have a much clearer sense of his personality. There aren’t many young men who sleep in the middle of a miniature library.’

‘The only book I had in my bedroom at his age was one about embalming. That’s what comes of working in the family undertaking business. I was so glad to escape it and join the police force.’

‘Yet it’s brought you back where you started, Joe — dealing with dead bodies.’ He picked up the Bible and turned to the page with the bookmark in it. ‘I wonder what he was reading. Ah, it’s Matthew, chapter five,’ he said with a nod of recognition. ‘That’s no surprise, is it?’

‘Why not?’

‘It contains the Beatitudes, Joe. One of them had a special meaning for him — “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.” If only that were true! Ablatt was a peacemaker and you can imagine the names he must have been called. War puts poison into some people’s mouths.’ He was about to put the book down again when a photograph slipped out from between the pages and floated down to the carpet. Marmion picked it up. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘what do we have here?’

‘It’s not another picture of Tolstoy, is it?’

‘No, it’s a photo of a rather striking lady.’ After studying it, he showed it to Keedy. ‘It’s certainly not his mother, so who is it? Someone dear to his heart?’

Keedy snorted. ‘She must be fifteen or twenty years older than him.’

‘I think you’re being unkind, Joe. She’s in her thirties, at most — and she’s married. You can see her wedding ring. Well,’ he continued, ‘we may have stumbled on another motive for murder. What if the killer was a jealous husband?’

‘She might be a widow.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Marmion, turning the photo over so that he could read the writing on the back. ‘See for yourself.’

Taking it from him, Keedy read the message.

Until my husband is on night shift again — think of me .

In place of a signature were several kisses.

‘You were right,’ said Keedy. ‘He was a secretive little so-and-so, wasn’t he?’

The day started early for Gordon Leach. While most of Shoreditch was slumbering quietly, he was helping his father to bake the daily assortment of bread. The one saving grace of a job that rousted him out of bed in the small hours was that it kept him warm on a viciously cold day. The pervasive aroma of bread was always pleasing and a world away from the industrial stink that so many Londoners had to endure at their places of work. Leach’s father was a big, taciturn man with a walrus moustache who left him to get on with his work in silence. He’d inherited the bakery from his own father and expected his son to take it over in time. Franklin Leach was no pacifist. Indeed, he was a man with few opinions on any subject and was content to live his life in an intellectual vacuum. He simply wanted to keep his trained assistant beside him throughout the war. When they heard a loud knock on the shop door, he looked up and spoke for the first time in an hour.

‘Tell them we’re closed,’ he said.

Leach wiped his flour-covered hands in a cloth and opened the door to the shop. Through the glass, he could see the familiar outline of Mansel Price. On his way to work, his friend had come in search of information rather than bread. Leach unlocked the shop door and opened it so that Price could step inside.

‘Is there any news?’ asked the Welshman.

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘Something must have happened to him.’

‘That’s my worry,’ admitted Leach. ‘I mean, Cyril is always so reliable. If he said he’d be somewhere, he’d never let you down. When I called at the house last thing at night, his father said he wasn’t at home.’

‘And he still isn’t, Gordon.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I’ve just been there,’ said Price. ‘Nobody is in. I banged on the door for ages but got no answer. In the end, someone in the house next door opened the bedroom window and told me to clear off.’

They were deeply concerned. Ablatt was not merely their leader. He was their focus, their moral support and their communal voice. The meeting they’d held without him the previous evening had been a shambles. They’d been too busy trying to imagine what Ablatt would have said to formulate any views of their own about what they’d seen and heard. At first, Leach had been grateful when he didn’t turn up at Fred Hambridge’s house. The young baker was spared the verbal whipping he’d have received from Ablatt for not attending the second session of the No-Conscription Fellowship. As the evening slipped into night, however, Leach became increasingly alarmed. They’d expected Ablatt hours ago. If he’d been unable to come, he would have sent an apology by some means or other.

‘There’s only one explanation,’ decided Leach.

‘I can’t think of one.’

‘They must have talked Cyril into going off with them. After all, he made the best speech by far at the meeting. They’d be mad not to use him again. Yes, that’s it,’ he went on, vainly trying to reassure himself. ‘Cyril’s been taken on to the committee or something. They want him on the platform. See it from his point of view, Mansel. He’s got what he always wanted — a chance to make a name for himself.’

Price was unconvinced. ‘So he forgot all about us. Is that what you think?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘That’s rubbish and you know it. He’d never forget his friends.’

‘It’s unlikely, I know.’

‘It’s bloody impossible, mun.’

‘Then where is he and where’s his father? Mr Ablatt should have been at home at this time. He doesn’t open his shop until nine. Talking of which,’ he added, glancing over his shoulder, ‘I’d better get back to the oven or Dad will be after me.’