Edward Marston - Instrument of Slaughter

In return for the books that Ablatt had loaned him, Hambridge had made the bookcase that stood in his friend’s bedroom. It had been a Christmas present. The carpenter was a slow reader but a quick worker. In the time it took him to read a book from cover to cover, he’d finished, varnished and delivered the gift to a grateful Ablatt. As he worked away at the sash window, he sifted through his memories of the meeting of the NCF. Chief among them was the sense of awe he’d felt when he saw his friend speak with such fire and cogency in front of a room of strangers. Ablatt seemed to grow in stature and importance. The effect on the audience was startling. He had every handkerchief there fluttering madly by way of an ovation. Ablatt’s testimony was at once personal and universal, something that came from his inner convictions yet embodying an ideal that all of them shared.

Time sped past in the cluttered workshop. Hambridge was still bent over the bench when his employer finally arrived. Charlie Redfern was a flabby man in his forties with a beard that never managed to come to fruition and, invariably, with a cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. He had a cheerful disposition and a ready supply of jokes. For once, however, he looked serious.

‘Hello, Fred.’

‘Good morning, Charlie.’

‘You’ve already started,’ said Redfern, noting the window. ‘How long have you been here?’

‘About an hour or so,’ said Hambridge. ‘And there’s a reason. Will it be all right if I leave earlier this afternoon?’

The request was ignored. ‘Which way did you come here?’

‘I came the usual way.’

‘Then you’ll have missed it. There’s a crowd up near Drysdale Street. I stopped to see what all the fuss was about — and guess what?’

‘Tell me.’

‘There’s been a murder. Policemen were guarding the place where it happened. The rumour is that someone was beaten to death there.’

Hambridge gulped. ‘Did they say who’d been killed?’

‘It was a young chap.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Sometime last night, I suppose. That’s all I know.’

Hambridge’s mind was an inferno of doubt and apprehension. On the previous evening, the route to the carpenter’s house would have taken Ablatt close to Drysdale Street. Was that the reason he’d failed to arrive? Hambridge was rocked. The thought that his friend and mentor had been killed was horrifying. He couldn’t imagine how he and his friends could manage without their leader. There was no proof that the murder victim was Cyril Ablatt but, in his fevered brain, the possibility that it might be swiftly grew into a likelihood before settling into a certainty. He had to know the truth. Reaching for his coat and hat, he put them on as fast as he could.

‘I’m sorry, Charlie,’ he said, ‘I’ve got to go.’

Redfern was nonplussed. ‘But I need you here.’

‘I’ll explain later.’

Running to the door, Hambridge let himself out.

When they’d driven Gerald Ablatt back home, he told them that his sister was a very nervous woman and that her husband needed to be present when they divulged the terrible news to her. Accordingly, Marmion and Keedy made their way to a forge in Bethnal Green. In central London, the detectives were used to seeing a large number of cars, vans, lorries and buses chugging along. Here, however, horse-drawn vehicles were in the majority and Jack Dalley’s livelihood was secure. As Marmion entered the forge, the blacksmith was hammering the last nail into a horseshoe. His customer paid the money owed and led the horse out. Dalley gave Marmion a smile of welcome. He was a brawny man with a gnarled face and dark-green eyes.

‘I don’t mend cars, sir,’ he said, politely.

‘Are you Jack Dalley?’ asked Marmion.

‘That’s me, sir — who wants to know?’

Marmion introduced himself and explained, as gently as he could, why he was there. When he heard that his nephew had been murdered, Dalley was shocked and sympathetic. He tore off his leather apron at once and hung it on a nail.

‘Perce!’ he called to his assistant.

‘Yes?’ replied the man.

‘Take over here. I’ve got to go.’

‘What’s the trouble, Jack?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’

Percy Fry looked mystified. He’d just fitted a rim to a cartwheel and was testing his handiwork. Fry was a sinewy man of middle height with receding hair and wrinkles that made him seem much older than his fifty years. As he watched his employer getting into the police car, he scratched his head.

On the journey to his house, Dalley pressed for details but there was little that the detectives could tell him. The blacksmith had fond memories of the victim.

‘Cyril was a good lad,’ he said. ‘When he was a boy, he loved to hang about the forge and hold horses while I shoed them. There was a time when I thought about taking him on as an apprentice but Gerald was against it. He wanted his son to have a job where he could look smart and not get dirty. But I’d have taught him a real trade. Handing out books all day was beneath him.’ His lip curled. ‘It’s the kind of work a woman could do.’

‘They’ve been doing most things since the war started,’ said Keedy, ‘and doing them as well as men. The inspector’s daughter is a case in point. She was a qualified teacher but she gave it up to learn to drive so that she could help with the war effort. And there are thousands like her.’

‘I’m not sure I hold with that.’

‘It’s one of the necessities of war.’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion, heading off a potential argument, ‘but that’s not the issue at stake at the moment. What I’d like to hear is what sort of a nephew Cyril Ablatt was. Did you see much of him, Mr Dalley?’

‘He called in from time to time,’ said the blacksmith, ‘and we had tea there on a Sunday every so often.’

‘Did he ever mention any enemies he had?’

‘No, Inspector, though he was never going to be popular, what with those strange ideas he had. I disagreed with Cyril but I tried not to have a row with him for my wife’s sake. Nancy hates family quarrels.’

‘His father said that he didn’t have a young lady.’

‘He always claimed that he didn’t have time,’ recalled Dalley, ‘but I think there was another reason. Cyril talked too much. Girls don’t like that. Nora — that’s my eldest — went out with him once. She said that she couldn’t shut him up. He didn’t want female company — just an audience.’

‘It seems that he spent all his time reading in his bedroom.’

‘That’s not right and it’s not healthy. If he’d been my son, I’d have burnt those books and told him to act normal. Mind you,’ he added, ruefully, ‘if I’d been his father, he’d be fighting for his country right now.’

‘Would you have forced him against his will?’ asked Keedy.

Dalley was blunt. ‘I’d have got him into army uniform somehow.’

When they reached the blacksmith’s house, they saw a more tender side of him. He asked them to wait outside while he told his wife what had happened. He felt that the blow would be slightly softer if it came from him. The detectives stayed in the car and looked at the small, squat, unpretentious house. Its one feature of note was a wrought-iron gate that gave access to the tiny front garden.

‘I reckon that Dalley made that,’ said Marmion.

‘Why doesn’t he live over the forge?’ asked Keedy. ‘It’s a fair old way for him to go every day. It’d be much easier if he lived on the premises. Apart from anything else, he’d be able to keep an eye on the place. There must be some expensive tools and equipment in the forge.’

‘There is, Joe. I’m sure he has a reason to live here.’