the trenches, the friends no longer believed that there was anything adventurous in the conflict. All that they saw were the accelerating losses and the sheer futility.
Vera’s question came out of the blue. ‘What do you make of Mrs Billington?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered, that’s all.’
‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘I admire her a lot. I know that some people find her too bossy but that’s what she has to be to get things done. Hannah is a nice woman and she was one of the very first to join the WEC.’
‘There you are,’ said Vera, wistfully. ‘You call her Hannah because you’re on first-name terms with her. She’s always Mrs Billington to me. I’d be afraid to call her anything else.’
‘She won’t bite, Vera.’
‘It’s the way she stares at me.’
‘Hannah does that to everyone,’ said Alice. ‘When you get to know her better, you’ll find out what a warm- hearted person she is.’
Vera frowned. ‘I’m not sure that I
‘She’s the one who really helped me to develop my talents.’
‘I don’t have any talents to develop.’ Vera made an effort to brighten. ‘Did you say that you saw your mother this morning?’
‘Yes, I called in for a quick cup of tea.’
‘Is she still missing you?’
‘Mummy would have me back at the drop of a hat.’
‘It must be so lonely being there alone.’
‘It is, Vera — though she does get out a lot.’
‘Did you see your father as well?’
Alice gave a hollow laugh. ‘Fat chance of that!’
‘Had he already left for work?’
‘Daddy went off hours before breakfast. There was an emergency.
That always means another case of murder. Until it’s over, all that Mummy will get of him is an occasional glimpse.’
‘I’d hate that. I could never marry a policeman.’
‘There are compensations,’ said Alice, loyally.
‘Not enough of them for me.’
‘Wait until you meet Mr Right. You won’t care what he does for a living.’
‘I would if he was a policeman,’ said Vera. ‘What about you?’
Alice heard the sound of an approaching train and opened her door.
‘That’ll be them,’ she said, getting out of the lorry. ‘Come on, Vera — and don’t forget to speak in your very best French.’
When it was opened twenty years earlier, the main library in the Metropolitan Borough of Shoreditch had impressed everyone with its Victorian solidity and with the grandeur of its facade. It was less striking now, its novelty gone, its brickwork soiled and the early signs of wear and tear apparent. The first thing that Harvey Marmion noticed was that some slates were missing from the roof. He stood on the pavement opposite for some time, studying the building in which Cyril Ablatt had spent so much of his life. People were streaming in and out, mostly women or older men. The library was obviously popular and well used. Marmion crossed the road and went in through the main entrance. Shelves of books stood everywhere. He could see that it was the ideal habitat for Ablatt.
Having established who was in charge, Marmion introduced himself to Eric Fussell, an exceptionally tall, middle-aged man who kept his back straight and who peered down at people through wire-framed spectacles that seemed to double the size of his eyeballs. Fussell was quick to appreciate the need for privacy. He ushered the inspector into his office and closed the door. As they exchanged niceties, they sat down. Marmion glanced around the room. It was large, high-ceilinged, lined with books and spectacularly tidy. Everything on the desk was in neat piles, making him feel self-conscious about the clutter in his own office. Fussell exuded intelligence. His manner was polite and confiding.
‘What seems to be the problem, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘I believe that Cyril Ablatt works here.’
‘That’s correct. He’s not here at the moment, alas. If you wish to speak to him, you’ll have to go to his home.’ His eyelids narrowed. ‘Is Cyril in any kind of trouble? Is that the reason he didn’t turn up for work this morning?’
‘No,’ said Marmion, solemnly. ‘It’s my sad duty to tell you that he won’t be turning up at the library ever again. Mr Ablatt’s body was discovered during the night. He’d been bludgeoned to death.’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Fussell. ‘That’s appalling!’ Doubt clouded his eyes. ‘Are you quite sure that it was Cyril?’
‘No question about it, sir. His father has identified the body.’
‘My heart goes out to him. This is dreadful news. Cyril was a fixture here. He used the library regularly for many years before he joined the staff.’
‘Mr Ablatt was very proud that his son became a librarian.’
‘Technically,’ said the other with more than a hint of pedantry, ‘he was only a library assistant. I’m the librarian. We’re an odd species. Librarians are rather like concert pianists — nobody needs two.’
‘I sit corrected, sir. What kind of an assistant was Cyril Ablatt?’
‘I couldn’t fault him. This was his true
‘Tell me a bit more about him.’
‘What would you like to know, Inspector?’
‘Everything you can remember,’ said Marmion. ‘My mental picture of him is still incomplete. I need more detail.’
‘Well, I can certainly give you that.’
As Fussell removed his spectacles, his eyes contracted to a more normal size. Taking out a handkerchief, he blew on the lenses before cleaning them methodically. He kept Marmion waiting a full minute before he spoke.
‘Cyril Ablatt is the best library assistant I’ve ever had the good fortune to have under me,’ he began, ‘and that includes my dear wife, whom you probably saw at the desk when you first arrived. According to the last census, this borough has a population of over 111,000 inhabitants. Not one of them could hold a candle to Cyril. He was tireless. When someone made a request, nothing was too much trouble for him. He built up a reputation for efficiency and amiability. Then, I fear,’ he went on, ‘the war broke out and people looked at him differently. His hard-earned reputation slowly began to crumble.’
‘How did he react to that?’
‘He carried on in the same pleasant and dedicated way — even when some people began to voice their criticism. They couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t join the army and fight for his country. It reached a point where a few of them refused to let him stamp their books.’
‘Did
‘I understood it very well. We discussed it at length in this very office.’
‘And did you approve of what he did?’
‘To be quite candid with you, I didn’t,’ said Fussell, holding the spectacles up to the light so that he could examine the lenses. ‘In times of crisis, pacifism seems quite indefensible. Cyril thought differently, of course, arguing that it was only during a war that pacifism had any real meaning. He could be very persuasive. He’d have made a first-rate public speaker.’
Marmion changed his tack. ‘Is the name Horrie Waldron familiar to you?’
‘It’s eerily familiar.’
‘Does he come in here often?’
‘Thankfully, he doesn’t. You can always tell when he is here by the smell. He never borrows books. He only drops in now and then to read a newspaper.’
