‘Yes,’ she murmured.
‘I’ll come back when I shut up the forge.’
‘I’ll still be here.’
Dalley put the teapot on the table and opened the biscuit barrel. He helped himself to a digestive them offered the selection to Ablatt who shook his head. His sister had started crying again and he was afraid to leave go of her. The blacksmith munched his biscuit and tempered his sorrow with a light-hearted remark.
‘One thing, anyway,’ he said. ‘Cyril won’t ever have to join the army now.’
The moment the words came out of his mouth, he realised how crass and hurtful they could be. However, he was spared any reproach from the others. Neither Ablatt nor Nancy heard what he said. They were miles away, trapped irretrievably in their private misery.
Notwithstanding his shortcomings, Claude Chatfield was an industrious man. By the time Marmion got back to Scotland Yard, the superintendent had immersed himself in the details of the murder, acquired a map of London and its inner suburbs, and set up a press conference. He’d also informed the commissioner about the progress of the investigation. Knowing how finicky Chatfield was about detail, Marmion had taken pains to rehearse what he was about to say. Accordingly, his report was full and lucid. He described his meeting with Eric Fussell and did his best to hide his aversion to the librarian. He went on to talk about Keedy’s questioning of Horrie Waldron. It led to the sergeant’s subsequent visit to a woman the gravedigger had claimed could supply him with an alibi for the time when he was away from the Weavers Arms the previous evening. Chatfield listened intently.
‘Who is this woman?’
‘Her name is Maud Crowther.’
‘Is that Miss or Mrs?’
‘It’s Mrs Crowther, sir.’
‘So this egregious gravedigger is dallying with a married woman.’
‘The lady is a widow, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘To gain her cooperation, Sergeant Keedy had to promise her that her name would be kept out of any newspaper reports. I think that we should honour that promise.’
‘What if she’s simply inventing an alibi for Waldron?’
‘The sergeant was convinced that Mrs Crowther was honest and reliable, sir. When it comes to women,’ he added with a smile, ‘I accept his judgements without question. He has an insight into the opposite sex that I lack.’
‘This is no time to discuss Keedy’s
‘I disagree, sir.’
‘As to this woman, we’ll hold her name back for the time being. If, however, she turns out to be an accomplice of sorts, both you and the sergeant will bear the weight of my displeasure.’
‘Neither of us wishes to incur that, Superintendent.’
‘I don’t blame you.’ He studied Marmion for a moment. ‘Is that all?’
‘I believe so.’
‘I’d hate to think that you’ve missed anything out.’
‘You’ve heard everything, sir.’
Marmion’s expression gave nothing away. Once again, he’d taken care to make no mention of the woman with whom Cyril Ablatt had enjoyed a secret romance. In addition to everything else, it would have unleashed a torrent of denunciation from the superintendent. Chatfield was a devout Roman Catholic who viewed extra-marital adventures of any kind with revulsion. Caroline Skene’s name would have prompted a fiery sermon from him. But that was not the only reason why Marmion kept back details of his meeting with her. He felt sorry for her in her bereavement and was not at all sure that she could endure it. To add public exposure of her friendship with Ablatt would be a crippling blow, leading to dire repercussions with her husband. While Chatfield would think that such punishment was well-deserved, Marmion wanted to protect her.
The danger was that the superintendent might learn that he was being deceived and that would have disastrous results. Official reprimand and demotion were the least that Marmion could expect. A vengeful man like Chatfield would undoubtedly find other means of blighting his career at Scotland Yard. It was a risk that had to be taken. When he gave his word to someone, Marmion strove to keep it. Caroline Skene had been assured of his discretion. He was not going to betray her.
‘Right,’ said Chatfield, leaning forward and pointing to the map on his desk. ‘Based on what we gathered from two of his friends, I’ve marked the route that Ablatt would have taken from Bishopsgate to the house in Shoreditch where they agreed to meet. Somewhere along that route, he was intercepted and killed.’ He looked up. ‘How and where did it happen?’
‘If only we knew, sir,’ said Marmion, bending over the map with interest. ‘There seem to be a number of dots here.’
‘I’ve marked the principal locations.’ Chatfield used his finger to point them out. ‘This is the Ablatt house and this is where Hambridge lives. Over here is the library and — since Waldron is implicated — I’ve also marked the cemetery.’
Marmion indicated another dot. ‘What’s this one, sir?’
‘It’s the pub close to the scene of the crime — the Weavers Arms.’
The Weavers Arms was the haunt of Horrie Waldron, still the only real suspect in the case. When he’d finished his shopping, Keedy decided to pay it a visit. In a large paper bag was the torch he’d just bought along with the razor, shaving brush and shaving soap he needed. The Haveron sisters had given him such a cordial welcome that he felt they deserved more, first thing on the following morning, than the sight of a bleary-eyed detective with dark whiskers. While he was out, Keedy had also availed himself of a snack. A glass of beer was now very tempting. He entered the bar to find that it was relatively empty so early in the evening. Standing behind the counter, the landlord gave him a grin of welcome.
‘What can I get you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I’ll have a pint of your best, please.’
‘It’s on its way.’
Reaching for a tankard, Stan Crowther filled it slowly with practised use of the pump. One mystery was solved for Keedy. When he’d heard Waldron express fear of the landlord, he couldn’t understand why such a sturdy man as the gravedigger would be afraid of anyone. The explanation was standing in front of him. Crowther was a beefy man with immense forearms and hands like shovels. But it was his face that gave the game away. Any trace of his mother had been pummelled away in a boxing ring. Crowther had a broken nose, a cauliflower ear and eyebrows that looked to be permanently swollen and misshapen. Hanging on the wall behind the landlord was a framed poster advertising a series of fights. Top of the bill was a heavyweight contest between Stan Crowther and Eli Montgomery.
‘In case you’re wondering,’ said Crowther, putting the full pint in front of him. ‘I knocked him out in the fourth round. Old Eli was a good fighter but he had a glass jaw.’ He chuckled. ‘He went down like a sack of spuds.’
After paying for the beer, Keedy sipped it and gave a nod of approval. There was no need to introduce himself. In the same way that he’d guessed the landlord’s former occupation, Crowther had worked out that he must be a detective.
‘I was expecting a visit from you sooner or later,’ he said.
‘Then you’ll know why I’m here.’
‘It’s a bad business, this murder. I mean, we have the odd fight in here and I got nothing against that, provided they don’t break the furniture. But murder is out of order — especially when it’s almost on our doorstep.’ He scratched his cauliflower ear. ‘What’s the name, sir?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy.’
‘Have you got any suspects yet?’
‘These are early days, Mr Crowther.’
‘Everyone calls me Stan — except Eli Montgomery, of course. He calls me a black-hearted bastard. Eli always was a bad loser.’
‘One man has come to our notice, Stan,’ admitted Keedy. ‘He’s not exactly a suspect but we believe that he and the victim had quarrelled. The man’s name is Horrie Waldron.’
Crowther grinned. ‘Horrie quarrels with everybody.’
