some more work lined up for you this evening.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Vera, uncomfortably.
‘I know that you prefer to be with Alice but she can’t always hold your hand. You must learn to be more independent. Alice has already warned me that she wouldn’t be available for an evening shift.’
‘Actually,’ said Alice, ‘that’s not true.’
‘Oh?’
‘Things have changed, Hannah.’
‘You said that you were doing something with your parents.’
‘That was the idea,’ said Alice, opening the door of the lorry to reach inside. ‘But there’s been a slight complication.’ She brought out a newspaper and passed it to Hannah. ‘We picked this up earlier.’ As the other woman read the headline in the
It was a case of third time lucky for Marmion. A study of the electoral roll told him that there were three families by the name of Skene living in Lambeth. At the first two addresses he drew a blank, but the last one finally introduced him to the woman in the sepia photograph. Caroline Skene was in the front room as the car drew up outside her house. When she saw him get out of the vehicle, she went to the door and opened it. He raised his hat courteously, showed her his warrant card and asked if he might have a private word with her. Though she was mystified, she admitted him and they went into the front room. At his suggestion, she sat down and he took the chair opposite her. The photograph had not done her justice. She was an attractive woman in her mid thirties with pale, delicate skin and she was well dressed, as if expecting to go out somewhere. Marmion sensed that they were alone in the house and he was relieved. In the presence of her husband, it would have been impossible to question her properly.
‘What’s this all about, Inspector?’ she asked, apprehensively.
‘I’m afraid that I have some bad news to pass on.’
She sat forward. ‘It’s not my husband, is it?’
‘No, Mrs Skene.’
‘There have been so many accidents at his factory. A man had his hand cut off last week. I’m terrified that it will be Wilf’s turn next.’
‘This is not about your husband,’ said Marmion.
‘So why have you come?’
‘I believe that you know a young man by the name of Cyril Ablatt.’
Her cheeks coloured. ‘I think you’re mistaken, Inspector.’
‘Let me ask you again,’ he said, patiently. ‘I appreciate why you’re so reticent but it’s important that you tell the truth.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Does the name of Cyril Ablatt mean anything at all to you?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
He reached into his pocket for the photograph. ‘This is getting a little embarrassing, Mrs Skene. If you’ve never heard of him, how can you explain the fact that we found this photograph of you in his bedroom?’ He held it up for her to see. ‘I don’t need to read out the message on the back, do I?’
Caroline Skene was dumbstruck. She’d been caught. A friendship that was very precious to her had been discovered by a detective. When kept secret, it was a source of constant pleasure. Now that it had been exposed, however, it suddenly seemed to be morally wrong and faintly ridiculous. There was no point in trying to brazen it out when he held the evidence in his hand. All that she could hope to do was to limit the damage.
‘Cyril and I were friends,’ she confessed, head down. After a few seconds, she raised her eyes to him imploringly. ‘Please don’t tell my husband.’ she said. ‘It would hurt him beyond bearing. It would be cruel. Is that why you came, Inspector? Are you here to speak to Wilf?’
‘No, Mrs Skene,’ he replied. ‘I’ve no need to see him at all.’
‘Thank God for that!’
‘What happened between you and Cyril Ablatt is none of my business. The main reason I came is to tell you that … a dreadful crime has been committed.’
She shuddered. ‘What sort of crime?’
‘Mr Ablatt was murdered.’
For a moment, he thought that she was about to collapse. Her mouth fell open and she emitted a strange, muted cry of agony. With an effort, she somehow managed to regain her composure. Taking out the handkerchief tucked under her sleeve, she held it in readiness. Marmion gave her time to adjust to the horror. As a husband with a belief in the sanctity of marriage, he couldn’t approve of what she’d apparently done but neither could he condemn it. Caroline Skene was patently a woman in despair. Moral judgements were irrelevant. He just wanted to alleviate her pain. For her part, she was pathetically grateful for his discretion and forbearance. She’d never had dealings with a Scotland Yard detective before and found him unexpectedly considerate. His soothing presence helped her to recover enough to speak.
‘What happened?’
‘I’ll spare you the full details,’ he said. ‘Suffice it to say that the body of a young man was found in Shoreditch last night. Items found on his person identified him as Cyril Ablatt. His father has confirmed the identification.’ A hand shot to her heart. ‘I offer you my condolences, Mrs Skene. I suggest that you don’t read the newspapers for a while.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘The killer used unnecessary violence.’
She shuddered again. ‘How did you find that photograph?’
‘We had to break the news to his father,’ he explained. ‘While we were at the house, we asked if we might look at his room so that we might learn a little more about him.’ He held up the photo. ‘This fell out of the Bible.’ He offered it to her. ‘Would you like it back?’
‘No, no,’ she cried, recoiling from it. ‘I should never have had it taken.’
‘Mr Ablatt clearly treasured it.’ He slipped the photo into his pocket. ‘Would you like me to destroy it, Mrs Skene?’
She was overwhelmed by his kindness. ‘Would you?’
‘There’s no reason for anyone else to see it.’
‘Thank you!’
The problem of discovery might have been solved but the far greater one of her intense grief remained. She could feel it already biting away at her like a greedy animal. Her lips began to tremble and tears formed. Having delivered his message, Marmion felt that he should withdraw quietly but there was an investigation in hand and Caroline Skene had information about the deceased that nobody else could give him.
‘When did you last see him?’ he asked, softly.
‘It was … weeks ago.’
‘Did you know he was involved with the No-Conscription Fellowship?’
‘Yes, Inspector — he mentioned that he might join it.’
‘What else did he tell you?’
‘He said very little about things like that. We just … enjoyed being together.’
‘I understand.’
She gave him a shrewd look. ‘I don’t think that you do.’
‘That may be true, Mrs Skene.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve no wish to intrude into your privacy but there are some questions I must ask.’
She braced herself. ‘Go on.’
‘Did your husband harbour any suspicions about the two of you?’
‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed.
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Wilf is not a suspicious man. If you met him, you’d realise that it would never even cross his mind.’
Marmion glanced at the framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed the couple arm-in-arm on their wedding day. At the time, Wilfred Skene had been a tall, angular young man with a neat moustache and dark, wavy
