Edward Marston - Instrument of Slaughter

‘Who’s there?’ he asked, hoarsely. ‘Is it the inspector?’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘How are you?’

‘My head still hurts.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Could you …?’

He lifted a hand to indicate the glass of water on the bedside table. Marmion helped him to sit up, then held the glass while he took several sips from it. When he spoke again, the curate sounded a little clearer.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘My throat is very dry.’

Marmion sat beside the bed. ‘Why did you want to see me alone?’

‘I want to know if I can trust you, Inspector.’

‘Trust me to do what, sir?’

‘My parents must never know the full details,’ said the other, solemnly. ‘They would never understand and I don’t want them to be hurt unnecessarily.’

‘I give you my word that I’ll be as discreet as possible.’

‘That’s good enough for me.’

‘Go on, sir.’

There was a considered pause. ‘It’s … not what you may think.’

‘I have no preconceptions about the attack, I assure you.’

‘There have been threats against me.’

‘Do you know who made them?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the curate, sadly. ‘I know only too well. I didn’t take them seriously at first. In fact, I destroyed the letters.’

‘Who sent them?’

‘It was someone who was once a close friend. We studied together at theological college. He was always rather intense even then. I completed the course but he dropped out for some reason. But we always kept in touch. That’s to say,’ he added, ‘ he always kept in touch with me.’

‘What you’re saying is that the friendship was rather one-sided,’ observed Marmion. ‘Is that a fair description?’

‘With regard to the last few weeks, I suppose that it is.’

‘It sounds as if he’s possessive.’

‘He’s very possessive and prone to jealousy.’

‘What’s his name, sir?’

‘Be gentle with him, Inspector,’ urged Father Howells. ‘Strange as it may seem, I bear him no ill will. Michael misread the situation. When he saw me talking to a new friend, he thought that he was being replaced in my affections. But that’s not true at all. I never entertained the kind of feelings for Michael that he had for me.’ He looked at Marmion. ‘Do I need to be more explicit?’

‘No, sir — and you don’t need to tell me who this new friend was.’

‘He, too, saw something that isn’t there, Inspector. I don’t know why I inspire such strong feelings in other men. It’s always worried me. I’ve learnt to tolerate it. In Michael’s case, I tolerated it far too much and almost died as a result.’

‘What’s his other name, sir?’

‘Michael Goodrich. By rights, it should be the Reverend Michael Goodrich because he’s a very gifted man. And if he had a parish to look after, he wouldn’t have had time for any intense friendship. He’d have been kept as busy as I am. That’s the irony of it,’ said the patient. ‘I’m not interested in another man … in that way. What made me drift apart from Michael was the sheer volume of work I have as a curate. In the course of that, curiously enough, I deal with far more women than men. Pastoral care is very time-consuming.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Marmion, taking out his notebook. ‘I appreciate the effort it must have cost for you to confide this information.’ He raised his pencil. ‘Could you please give me Mr Goodrich’s address?’

It was no use. After a third attempt at writing a letter, Alice Marmion tore it up and threw it into the wastepaper basket. In her mind, she knew exactly what she wanted to say but the right words would simply not drop onto the page. She now realised why. What she had to tell him needed to be said to his face and not written down. It was too important to be consigned to a letter that might be misinterpreted. The only fair and proper way was to confront him. Joe Keedy would certainly not turn up outside the house for a third time so Alice had to go to him. Though he lived on the other side of London and she’d have to get there in the dark, she didn’t hesitate for a second. Reaching for her coat and hat, she put them on and let herself out of the room.

Michael Goodrich lived alone in the cottage that he’d inherited from his parents. Since it was close to Epping Forest, it was a long drive for the detectives. Keedy was fascinated to hear the information that had been divulged.

‘I can see why he doesn’t want his parents to know everything,’ he said. ‘They didn’t strike me as a worldly couple.’

‘I agree, Joe. They wouldn’t understand how another man could actually fall in love with their son. It would distress them beyond measure, even though Father Howells didn’t have the same feelings for his friend — or for any other man, as it happens. He’s simply not of that persuasion.’

‘But we now know who is, Harv.’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘It’s our librarian once again. Eric Fussell was the reason that the curate was attacked in a fit of jealousy. He’d befriended Father Howells and had hidden motives for doing so. Goodrich wrongly identified Fussell as the lover who’d usurped him.’

Keedy grimaced. ‘I just can’t imagine Fussell as a lover somehow.’

‘Neither could Father Howells. As soon as he realised what was going on, he tried to distance himself from the librarian but he wasn’t easily shaken off.’

‘Are we sure that this so-called friend tried to kill Father Howells?’

‘I think so.’

‘What if it was the other way round?’ asked Keedy, thoughtfully. ‘Eric Fussell could have been provoked into that savage attack because he was jealous of Goodrich. If he saw him and the curate together, he’d feel that something was going on.’

‘Let’s deal with Goodrich first,’ said Marmion. ‘He’s the more likely suspect and the one named by Father Howells himself. We’ll keep Fussell in reserve for the moment.’ An idea struck him. ‘The fact that he prefers the company of men gives us a new slant on Ablatt’s murder, of course. We know that he was a handsome young chap. Caroline Skene emphasized that. Was his boss’s hatred of him fuelled by the fact that Ablatt had once rejected his advances?’

‘It’s not impossible, I suppose.’

‘There could be wheels within wheels.’

When they reached the cottage, they saw that it was small, thatched and fairly isolated. The curtains were drawn but there was a light on in the front room. There was no response to Marmion’s knock. He tried again, knocking even harder. When nobody came to the door, he and Keedy went around to the rear of the premises. They peered into the kitchen but it was empty. Marmion banged on the window with his knuckles. It was all to no avail. After one last attempt to rouse someone inside the cottage, he nodded to Keedy who used a gloved hand to punch a hole in the kitchen window. Lifting the latch, he opened the window and clambered through before letting Marmion in by means of the back door. They switched on the light and went through to the living room. Marmion crossed to the staircase and looked up.

‘Is anyone here?’ he yelled.

There was dead silence. ‘I’ll take a look,’ said Keedy.

He bounded up the stairs and switched on the lights in each of the bedrooms. When he came back down again, he shook his head. They looked around the living room with its low ceiling and shabby furniture. It reminded them of Cyril Ablatt’s bedroom. Filled with books and magazines pertaining to the Anglican church, it also contained some anthologies of poetry. A Bible stood on the table beside a half-written article about the significance of Easter. The cottage felt lived in yet there was no sign of its owner. Keedy remembered something.