Instrument of Slaughter (2 page)

‘There’s a lot to talk about,’ Price reminded him.

‘I can’t come back tomorrow.’

‘You’ll have to, Gordon. We’ve got to see it through to the end.’

‘Ruby will kill me. She was really upset when I told her I was going to be here today. She burst into tears. I can’t let her down again.’

‘Would you rather let
us
down instead?’

‘You can tell me what happens.’

‘This is history, mun. Don’t you want to be part of it?’

‘I’m here today, aren’t I?’

‘It’s not enough. Imagine what Cyril will say.’

Leach shuddered. ‘I’m too busy thinking what Ruby will say.’

They’d arrived late and been forced to stand at the back of the room. Somewhere in the mass of bodies were Cyril Ablatt and Fred Hambridge, early birds who’d manage to secure seats near the front. Gordon Leach preferred to be on the periphery of an event to which he brought only half-hearted interest. Mansel Price, on the other hand, wished that they were with their two friends, forming a quartet of resistance against the demands of the state. Like his companion, he was surprised by the people who’d converged in such force on Devonshire House.

‘I thought they’d all be much the same as us,’ he said. ‘You know, ordinary lads with a bit of spunk in them. But some of these people look so … well, so damned respectable. I heard one man saying he was a bank manager, then there was that chemist we spoke to in the queue. I mean, they’ve got proper jobs.’

‘I’ve got a proper job as well,’ said Leach, tetchily. ‘I work in my father’s bakery. How is he going to manage if I get dragged off to war?’

‘You’re asking the wrong question.’

‘Am I?’

‘How is your father going to manage if you get dragged off to prison?’

Leach blenched. ‘Do you think it will come to that?’

‘It may do. And you agreed to stand firm with the rest of us.’

‘What about Ruby?’

Price sniggered. ‘I daresay you always stand firm with her.’

Leach’s blush turned his friend’s snigger into a guffaw.

The turnout was far larger than either of them had anticipated. Leach found the numbers overwhelming but Price was lifted by the thought that he wasn’t just an isolated dissident. He was part of a nationwide movement, albeit one that had a distinctly middle-class feeling to it in his eyes. There was no GWR cook like the Welshman on the platform, neither was there a baker’s assistant like Leach or a carpenter like Hambridge. Those about to address the assembly were well-dressed professional men with drooping moustaches and an air of propriety about them. Anyone less like potential lawbreakers was difficult to envisage, yet they were all going to preach the gospel of defiance. There were plenty of fur-collared coats and well-trimmed beards in the audience but there were also workmen in dungarees and skinny individuals in ill-fitting suits frayed at the edges. Lawyers rubbed shoulders with unkempt bricklayers and teachers sat beside those on whom education had had no visible effect. There was more than a smattering of women to offer moral support and gentlemen of the press were there to gloat, scorn, reinforce their prejudices or – in a few cases – treat the occasion with a degree of impartiality.

Leach was still thinking about Ruby Cosgrove when Price nudged him.

‘What’s a Muggletonian?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘A Muggletonian. I overheard someone in the queue saying that he was here because he was a Muggletonian. What the hell is that?’

‘I haven’t a clue, Mansel.’

‘Maybe he went to some posh school called Muggleton.’

‘Be quiet,’ whispered Leach.

‘But I’m interested. I want to
know
.’

‘We’re about to start. Shut up, will you?’

As the chairman rose to speak, the heavy murmur slowly died out. Hambridge waited with something approaching trepidation. It was a paradox. Though he was a Quaker in quintessential Quaker habitat, he was cowed and ill at ease. Hating crowds, he sat hunched up in his seat, profoundly aware of his insignificance. Ablatt, however, was in his element, relaxed and comfortable, already composing in his mind the speech he intended to deliver when he got the opportunity. Nothing would have made the nervous, watchful Hambridge stand up in front of such a huge audience and, by the same token, nothing would deter his friend from doing so.

The chairman was Clifford Allen, a slight, alert, youngish man with a spiritual quality about him and a deep, measured voice that compelled respect.

‘Fellow citizens,’ he began, ‘let me welcome you all to what promises to be a crucial meeting of the No-Conscription Fellowship. You all know the position we take. Conscription is now law in this country of free traditions. Our hard-won liberties have been violated. Conscription means the desecration of principles that we have long held dear; it involves the subordination of civil liberties to military dictation; it imperils the freedom of individual conscience and establishes in our midst that militarism which menaces all social graces and divides the people of all nations.’

He looked around the sea of upturned faces. ‘We must offer determined resistance to all that is established by the Act.’

A ripple of applause greeted the declaration of intent. It built and built until it reached the proportions of a tidal wave. The chairman was pleased with the response. The meeting had started on a positive note.

An ovation which delighted those on the platform had a very different effect on those outside. When they heard the sustained clapping, they were enraged. The sound was like a red flag to a herd of bulls. Everyone wanted to break into the building but it was the sailors who acted on their behalf. Pushing their way to the front, they ignored the warnings from the police and clambered over the locked gates, earning cheers of encouragement from the crowd. When stewards tried to persuade them not to interrupt the meeting, they were pushed aside by the drunken sailors. Without quite knowing what they were going to do, the naval boarding party threw open the doors and stormed inside, set on causing some sort of commotion. But it never materialised. The sailors were so surprised with what they found that they came to a halt. The room was filled – it seemed to their blurred eyes – with quiet, pale-faced, mild-mannered men, several of whom were too thin, boyish and puny to offer any kind of fight. Instead of disturbing a group of rabid conchies, it was as if they’d stumbled into a church social. The shock took the wind out of their sails completely.

Nobody came to challenge them and there was no hint of danger. They were instead invited to stay and take part in the meeting. The sailors engaged in some good-humoured badinage and then, shepherded by the stewards, they withdrew in an orderly fashion, ridding themselves of a few valedictory jibes as they did so. Their attack had been effectively stifled. Physical confrontation had been averted.

The chairman was quick to seize on the cause of the interruption.

‘It was nice to see such genial visitors,’ he observed, dryly, ‘but it might be safer if we don’t provoke any more disruption. In future, when you approve of something that is said, don’t applaud. The crowd outside will hear you. Simply take out a handkerchief and wave it in approval. Do you all agree?’

Hundreds of handkerchiefs fluttered in the air. The suggestion met with unanimous endorsement. Whenever a speech delighted the
audience, it was acclaimed in silence. Everyone on the platform said his piece, then it was the turn of people from the floor. Ablatt was among the first. Leaping to his feet, he caught the eye of the chairman and was given permission to speak. He made his way to the aisle so that he could turn to the audience before addressing it. It was as if he’d been waiting for this moment for years and he made the best of it.

‘Friends,’ he said with a sweeping gesture that took in the entire room, ‘I wish to offer my personal testimony. I am a devout Christian. I refuse to act as an instrument of slaughter …’

It was his favourite phrase and he’d used it ever since he first saw it in an article. Somehow he’d made the phrase his own. Price, Leach and Hambridge had heard him dozens of times but only in the close confines of a garden shed or a room in one of their houses. They’d never seen him in front of a large audience before and it was a revelation. Ablatt was a natural orator. His voice was clear, his argument coherent and his assurance remarkable. His speech had far more bite and sheer fervour than those of earlier speakers. The spectators were held spellbound by his eloquence. It made his friends proud of him and they lost any vestigial reservations they might have about defying the Military Service Act. While Ablatt was in full flow, Leach even managed to forget about Ruby Cosgrove.

The magic eventually wore off. By the time the meeting came to an end, Leach was full of apprehension again. He not only had to run the gauntlet of protesters outside, he had to face biting criticism from his fiancée and withstand Ablatt’s inevitable ire when he told him that he’d be unable to attend on the following day. Price had no such worries. He’d been roused by everything he’d seen and heard. Whatever the consequences, he was ready to withstand the power of the state. As the two of them came out with the rest of the crowd, they were met with jeers and ridicule but there was no longer any sense of menace. They
stood aside to let others pass so that they could wait for their friends. In the event, Fred Hambridge came out alone.

‘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.’

‘That may be difficult.’

‘Why is that, sir?’

‘From what I hear, the skull has been smashed to a pulp. I don’t think anyone will be able to identify what’s left of him.’ Chatfield drew himself up to his full height. ‘The killer must be caught and caught quickly,’ he emphasized. ‘The public needs to be reassured that a murderer will not be allowed to roam free in the streets of London. However,’ he said with a thin-lipped smile, ‘there will doubtless be those who have no cause to mourn Ablatt. His death means that there’ll be one conchie less to worry about. I can understand that feeling.’

‘That’s more than I can do,’ said Marmion under his breath.

Concealing his disgust, he went out and closed the door firmly behind him.

Since the outbreak of war, Joe Keedy’s work days had been longer and his nights under constant threat. Policing the capital was a twenty-
four-hour
operation. It meant that, while his social life was curtailed, he was amply rewarded with the action on which he thrived. In case he was roused in the small hours, he always had a shave immediately before retiring to bed so that he looked presentable when awakened at short notice and needed simply to put on his suit before being ready to leave. As it happened, when the police car arrived outside his digs, Keedy was already up and dressed. One glance through the window told him that he and Marmion had a new investigation to lead. Chewing a last piece of toast, he swallowed it with a gulp and washed it down with a mouthful of tea. Then he reached for his overcoat and hat before heading for the door.

Standing at over six feet, Keedy was a handsome, wiry man in his thirties who took far more care with his appearance than the average detective. His hat was set at a rakish angle, there was a sharp crease in his trousers and his black shoes gleamed. He bounded down the stairs
and let himself out into the cold. A moment later, he climbed into the car beside Marmion.

‘Good morning, Harv,’ he said.

‘You were quick. Were you expecting me?’

‘It’s a case of intuition.’

‘I thought that was something only women are supposed to have.’

Keedy laughed. ‘That’s what they tell me.’

Marmion was glad to see him. They were good friends as well as colleagues and had developed a mutual understanding that helped to speed things up. As the car made its way through the deserted streets in the direction of Shoreditch, Marmion gave him a succinct report of events.

‘It doesn’t look as if we have much to go on,’ observed Keedy.

‘We soon will have, Joe.’

‘That meeting of the NCF could be significant.’

‘According to our dear superintendent,’ said Marmion, ‘it explains everything. He’s convinced that Ablatt was followed after the meeting, then attacked for daring to oppose the war. It never occurred to him that other factors might be involved.’

‘Ah, well, that’s old Chat for you. He always jumps to conclusions.’

‘It’s one of his many charms.’

‘I still can’t believe he was promoted over you,’ said Keedy. ‘Everyone knows that you can wipe the floor with Chat when it comes to catching villains. Yet it was that smarmy bastard who was appointed instead of you.’

‘He probably did better than me in the interview.’

‘He can’t do
anything
better than you, Harv.’

‘Yes, he can,’ said Marmion. ‘He can lose his temper much faster than me. He was frothing with anger when I got there and accused me of being late. If it was left to Claude Chatfield, I’d have to sleep in my office.’

‘I don’t think your wife would like that.’

‘She wouldn’t, Joe. The house seems empty now that Alice has moved out. If I start bedding down at Scotland Yard, I’m sure that Ellen would want to join me.’

Keedy rolled his eyes. ‘That would go down well with the top brass!’

‘As for the promotion, be thankful that I didn’t get it.’

‘But you
deserved
it, Harv.’

‘Think of the consequences.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If I was Superintendent Marmion, then you’d be travelling in this car with a certain Inspector Chatfield. How would you fancy that?’

Keedy grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t fancy it at all,’ he said. ‘I remember the way he used to treat his sergeants. They did the work and he took the credit. No wonder three in a row enlisted in the army to escape him.’

‘I hope that
you’re
not thinking of doing that, Joe.’

‘Of course not – I prefer to do my fighting on the home front.’

‘Then I can guarantee you’ll have your hands full. Cyril Ablatt is only the latest visitor to the police morgue,’ said Marmion, philosophically. ‘There’ll be plenty of others to keep us occupied and plenty of chances to explode the superintendent’s instant theories about each successive murder.’

‘Chat is a congenital idiot.’

It was Marmion’s turn to laugh. ‘And so say all of us!’

The house had a narrow frontage and stood at the end of a terrace in a grimy backstreet. On the side wall of the building, someone had painted patriotic slogans and outright abuse in large white capitals. They were illumined by the gas lamp nearby. Evidently, one of the neighbours objected to Cyril Ablatt’s pacifist leanings. Drawn curtains in the front bedrooms testified that most people were still asleep but there was a light
downstairs in the Ablatt house as the car drew up outside it. Marmion and Keedy got out and took a deep breath. Passing on grim news always upset them because they had to inflict intense pain. There was no easy way to do it. Marmion used the knocker to give a gentle tap. There was an immediate reaction. Footsteps came scuttling down the passageway, then a bolt was drawn back. When the door swung open, they were confronted by the hunched figure of a bald-headed man in his fifties. In pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers, he had the fatigued look of someone who’d been up all night. Sensing disaster, he let out a deep sigh of resignation.

‘It’s about Cyril, isn’t it?’ he asked, biting his lip.

‘I’m afraid that it is, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Are you his father?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘I’m Inspector Marmion and this is Sergeant Keedy. Would it be possible for us to step inside, please? I don’t think you’d want to hear this on the doorstep.’

‘Of course, of course …’

Gerald Ablatt stepped back so that they could step into the dank passageway. Closing the door behind him, he took the detectives into the front room and motioned them to the settee. Removing their hats, they sat down. Ablatt himself was directly opposite, perched on the edge of an armchair. The room was so small that his knees were fairly close to theirs.

‘I’ve been dreading this,’ he admitted.

‘It’s bad news, I’m afraid,’ warned Marmion, gently. ‘Do you think that your wife ought to hear it with you?’

‘My wife died three years ago, Inspector – diphtheria.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘It might be a blessing in disguise. Cyril was our only child. Mary doted on him. I’d hate her to have heard that he’s met with some kind of
accident.’ His eyes widened quizzically. ‘That
is
why you’re here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion, exchanging a glance with Keedy, ‘but it was rather more than an accident. A young man was attacked and killed last night. We’ve reason to believe that he may have been your son.’

For a few moments, Ablatt was stunned and looked as if he was about to fall over. Keedy sat forward in case he needed to catch the man, while Marmion felt guilty at having to administer the hammer blow. With a supreme effort, Ablatt steadied himself and managed to control his emotions. His hands were tightly clasped and his body tensed.

‘It must be Cyril,’ he said, sorrowfully. ‘He always let me know if he was staying the night somewhere. When he didn’t come home …’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘I knew that something terrible had happened.’