Instrument of Slaughter (3 page)

‘The two of you lived alone, then?’ asked Keedy.

‘Yes, Sergeant, we did. Lots of people complain about sons being a nuisance when they get to a certain age but Cyril wasn’t like that. He was no trouble. All he wanted to do was to stay in his room and read his books.’ A smile flitted across his face. ‘He was a librarian, you know.’

‘Then he’d have no shortage of reading matter.’

‘You’ve seen the sort of area this is,’ continued Ablatt. ‘Most of the lads around here follow their fathers into the same trade. What else is there for them to do? Well,’ he said, holding back tears, ‘I wanted more for my son. I wasn’t having him working as a cobbler like me. It’s a good trade because everyone needs to have their shoes soled and heeled, but it’s a hard life bent double over a last all day. So I paid for Cyril to go to night school. He was educated, you see.’ His face clouded. ‘This war changed everything. Until it started, people looked up to Cyril. They admired him. Then the other lads started to join up and everyone began to wonder why my son didn’t go with them.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t agree with what he believed. Let me be honest about that. In his place, I’d have been down at the recruiting office like a shot. But Cyril
was entitled to his opinion. He had principles, you see. That’s why he went to that meeting yesterday.’ He slumped back into the chair. ‘Oh, I’m so grateful his mother didn’t live to hear this. It would’ve broken her heart.’

‘We’ll need someone to identify the body,’ said Marmion, softly.

Ablatt stiffened. ‘I’ll go,’ he volunteered. ‘He’s my son. It’s my duty.’

‘There’s no rush, sir. We’ll wait until you’re good and ready. Meanwhile, there’s something you might do for us. You’ll appreciate that we know very little about your son. Anything you can tell us would be valuable. Which library does he work at, for instance? We’ll need to speak to his employers. And what about his friends – did he go to that meeting alone or was he with someone else?’

‘Oh, all four of them went, Inspector – Gordon, Fred, Mansel and Cyril.’

‘Could you give me those names again, please?’ asked Keedy, taking out a notebook and pencil. ‘We’ll need the addresses as well.’

‘They all live in Shoreditch.’ As Ablatt reeled off the names, Keedy wrote them down. ‘Gordon Leach, Fred Hambridge and Mansel Price. Gordon works at the bakery two streets away. Fred is even closer.’

He provided the addresses and explained that the three of them often came to the house. Ablatt had no young lady in his life. Encouraged by the detectives, he then talked about his son with a kind of doomed affection, shuttling between pride in his achievements and despair at his murder. They let him ramble on, garnering an immense amount of information as he did so. The corpse in the police morgue began to take on life and definition. When the recitation finally came to an end, Marmion asked the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since he entered the house.

‘Did your son have any enemies, Mr Ablatt?’

The older man blinked. ‘No, he didn’t,’ he answered, resentfully. ‘Not
the way you mean, Inspector. People didn’t like it because he refused to join up and some of them called him names. Then there are those things painted on the side wall. They hurt us at the time but we got used to them. But there were never any real
enemies
. Nobody hated Cyril enough to kill him.’ The question had unnerved him somehow and he was trembling. ‘I know you want me to come with you but I’ll need to get dressed and I’d like a little time to myself first, if that’s all right.’

‘Take as much time as you like, sir,’ said Marmion, sympathetically. ‘And thank you for being so helpful. Oh, there is one more thing. We’ll need a recent photograph of your son.’

‘I’ll find one.’

‘Thank you. Could the sergeant and I take a look at your son’s room, please?’

Ablatt was defensive. ‘Why do you want to do that?’

‘We’re still trying to build up a picture of him.’

‘But I’ve told you all you need to know.’

‘His room might be able to add a few salient details.’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘You told us that he spent a lot of time in it.’

Ablatt gazed upwards. ‘He used to read up there – and practise his speeches.’

‘You didn’t mention any speeches, sir.’

‘Didn’t I?’

‘What sort of speeches were they?’

‘The kind he was going to make at the meeting yesterday. Cyril had studied public speaking, you see. It’s what gave him his confidence. He could talk the hind leg off a donkey.’ He looked suspiciously from one to the other. ‘All that you’ll find up there is a pile of books.’

‘Their titles might tell us something about him,’ said Marmion. Well?’

It took Gerald Ablatt a long time to reach his decision. Part of him
wanted to protect his son’s privacy while another part of him was eager to do anything that would help the police. In the end, realism won the battle against family sentiment. Ablatt pointed upstairs.

‘It’s the room at the back,’ he said.

Without another word, he went slowly upstairs, grief visibly weighing him down. In the short time they’d been with him, he seemed to have aged ten years.

‘I felt so rotten having to tell him the news,’ confessed Marmion. ‘It was like sticking a knife into him.’

‘He bore up very well – better than most people do.’

‘Did you believe everything he told us about his son?’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘He’d have no reason to lie, would he?’

‘Let’s go and find out.’

Having given the father time to get to his bedroom, they ascended the stairs. As they did so, they could hear the sound of sobbing coming from behind the first door they reached. They walked along the landing to the room at the rear. Marmion led the way in and put on the light. There was barely enough space for the two of them to get inside. Crammed into the room was a single bed, a bedside table, a wardrobe and a bookcase filled to overflowing. Books also stood on the window sill, the top of the wardrobe and the floor. Many of them were dog-eared and had tattered covers. On the bedside table was a large Bible.

Marmion’s eye went to the framed photograph on the wall. It showed Cyril Ablatt and what he assumed was his mother, both smiling at the camera. He knew that it must have been taken at least three years ago when Mrs Ablatt was still alive.

‘Nice-looking lad,’ he said. ‘I wish
I’d
looked like that at his age. It would have made me more popular among the ladies.’

‘Yet his father said he didn’t have one,’ recalled Keedy. ‘What does that make him – a mother’s boy?’

‘I don’t know. How would you describe someone who spends most of his time alone in his bedroom?’

‘I’d say he was a silly fool. He’s missing all the fun.’

‘This
was
fun to him, Joe. He loved his books.’

‘All work and no play …’

‘Why did he stay up here when he could have been reading downstairs? It would have been far more comfortable to sit in an armchair. There has to be a reason why he preferred being up here.’

‘Tell me what it is.’

‘He was secretive,’ said Marmion. ‘That’s what this bedroom says to me. There are things in here that he didn’t want anyone else to know.’

‘What sort of things?’

They conducted a quick search, opening the wardrobe to check its contents, examining the items on the little mantelpiece and even looking under the bed. Keedy reached out a long arm to retrieve a scrapbook. He flicked it open and saw newspaper cuttings pasted neatly inside it. Most related to the war and to those who campaigned to bring it to an immediate end. Ablatt had also kept photographs of people he admired. One of them showed an old, bearded man in the garb of a Russian peasant.

‘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.’

‘Yes,’ said Price, ‘and I’ve got to feed the travelling public. Not that I can cook them much of a breakfast since they brought in food rationing. They’ve even watered the beer. There’s just no pleasure left in this country.’

Leach gave a half-smile. ‘There is if you find yourself a girlfriend.’

‘Wish I could, Gordon. But girlfriends cost money I just haven’t got. In any case, what girl wants to go out with a conchie? They’d run a mile.’

‘Ruby didn’t.’

‘She’s different.’ Price saw the clock on the wall. ‘Got to go, I’m afraid. Changed your mind about today’s meeting?’

‘No,’ said Leach. ‘I promised to see Ruby this evening.’

‘But Cyril might turn up there.’

‘I hope he does.’

‘So do I,’ said Price, brightening. ‘He’s probably the one person who can tell me what a Muggletonian is.’

In spite of the countless times he’d been there, Harvey Marmion had never become sufficiently accustomed to the morgue to feel at ease inside it. He was therefore grateful when Joe Keedy volunteered to take Gerald Ablatt in to identify the body of his son. Marmion remained outside in the corridor. He was not squeamish. Unnatural death created some grotesque corpses and he could look on them without a tremor when they lay at the scene of the crime. Once they were naked on a slab, it was a very different matter. They were dehumanised, robbed of their dignity, at the mercy of the pathologist’s sharp and unforgiving instruments. Marmion hated to see someone who was so utterly defenceless.

While he was waiting, he took out the photograph they’d found at the Ablatt house and wondered who the attractive woman was. She wore a pretty dress and her hair was swept up at the back so that her facial features were completely exposed. There was a bewitching dimple in both cheeks. Could she be a lover or simply a close friend? The message on the back suggested the former but the age gap between Cyril Ablatt and her might have been a deterrent. There was also the obstacle posed by what appeared to be his devout Christianity. Acquainted with the Beatitudes, he would also be very much aware of the Ten Commandments. One of them expressly forbade adultery. Yet the telltale photo had been concealed in the Bible rather than in any of the other books. Marmion saw it as a case of the sacred harbouring the profane.

He and Keedy had agreed that they wouldn’t show the photograph to the father. Since it was hidden, it was clearly not meant for his eyes. Besides, he had enough to cope with as it was. He was still mourning the violent murder of his son. It would be cruel to introduce proof that his own flesh and blood had kept something from him. The important thing was to identify the woman and that would be fairly straightforward. The name of the photographer was franked into the corner of the photo. They would be able to find out who she was, when the photo was taken
and, possibly, where she lived. She would need to be approached with discretion. Marmion didn’t want to cause a violent domestic upset with her husband but the woman obviously meant a great deal to Ablatt. She could be an important witness.

When he heard the door open, he quickly put the photo away in his pocket. Keedy emerged with an ashen Gerald Ablatt by his side. The detectives had both been touched to see that the father had taken the trouble to put on his best suit to visit the corpse of his son. The experience had patently had a profound effect on him. His eyes were glazed, his mouth agape and his movements uncertain. Keedy had to help him along with a hand under his elbow. They walked past Marmion in silence, went down the corridor and turned a corner. A minute later, Keedy came back to the inspector.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Marmion. ‘He wanted the nearest lavatory.’

‘When he saw the body, he very nearly threw up.’

‘Was it that bad?’

‘Somebody didn’t like Cyril Ablatt. They not only smashed in his skull, they battered his body as well.’

‘What about Mr Ablatt?’

‘He almost keeled over when the shroud was drawn back.’

‘Was he able to identify the body as that of his son?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Keedy. ‘There was a birthmark on his shoulder and a long scar on his arm that he’d picked up as a boy. Besides, I think he knew in his heart that it had to be his son. We didn’t even have to show him the deceased’s effects.’

‘Poor man!’ sighed Marmion. ‘He’ll need support.’

‘His only close relative is a sister. She lives not far away.’

‘Then we’ll call on her after we’ve taken him home. We can visit the scene of the crime afterwards.’

‘What about the press?’

‘The superintendent is going to issue a statement and say that we’ve been assigned to the case. That means they’ll be dogging our heels from now on.’

‘A dead conchie won’t arouse much compassion, I fear.’

‘He’s a murder victim, Joe – nothing else matters.’

‘It does to the press.’

‘Then we may have to educate them.’

They chatted on for several minutes, reviewing the information they’d so far gathered and discussing the form that the investigation would take. Eventually, they saw Cyril Ablatt coming slowly along the corridor towards them with his eyes on the floor. When he reached the detectives, he gazed up at them.

‘I’m very sorry about that,’ he murmured.

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Marmion told him with a consoling hand on his arm. ‘It’s a perfectly natural reaction. Your son’s effects belong to you now. When we’ve collected them, we’ll give you a lift home. Then we’ll make contact with your sister. At a time like this, you’ll need family around you.’

Ablatt looked surprised. ‘But I have to open the shop.’

‘Nobody will expect you to do that, sir.’

‘I hate to let customers down.’

‘People will understand,’ said Keedy. ‘In the circumstances, they’ll respect your right to mourn in private.’

‘There are so many things to do – funeral arrangements and that.’

‘The body won’t be released until after the post-mortem.’

Ablatt shuddered. ‘They’re going to cut him open?’ he said, aghast. ‘Hasn’t Cyril suffered enough already?’

‘It’s normal procedure in cases like this, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘A
postmortem
might yield some valuable clues – what the murder weapon was likely to be, for instance. We’ll let you know as soon as your son’s body is ready for collection. And there’s something else we’d advise.’

‘What’s that, Inspector?’

‘Don’t talk to the press. Newspapers have no right to hound you but that won’t stop them trying to do so. If they pester you, we can always put a constable outside your house to keep them at bay.’

‘It’s not the newspapers that worry me,’ said Ablatt, grimly. ‘It’s them.’

‘Who do you mean, sir?’

‘I’m talking about the people who painted those things on our wall. When they hear what’s happened, they’ll be back again.’ His face crumpled. ‘What kind of cruel things will they say about Cyril this time?’

Of the three friends, Fred Hambridge was the one who relied most heavily on the young librarian. Price had a more independent mind and Leach’s main emotional commitment was to Ruby Cosgrove. It was Hambridge who hung on every word that Cyril Ablatt uttered. He was in awe of his friend’s superior education and assurance. In their discussions of religion, Ablatt had even made the carpenter look afresh at his Quaker upbringing. Because he wanted to attend the second session of the NCF, Hambridge got to the workshop an hour earlier than usual to compensate for the time he intended to take off in the afternoon. There was plenty to do. He was making a sash window for a customer in Stepney and had a variety of other tasks awaiting his attention. Unlike Price and Leach, he actually enjoyed his job. He’d always been good with his hands and soon learnt the mysteries of working with different woods.

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.