‘I think that I’ll send a policeman to your house to check your alibi. We’ll find out if you really were there, as you claim, at the time in question. We’ll also discover if your wife approves of what you do with a tin of paint in the middle of the night.’ He saw the sweat break out on the other man’s brow. ‘I can’t believe that Mrs Gill would be proud of a husband who did what you did.’
‘Keep my wife out of this!’
‘It was you who wanted to call her as a witness.’
‘I acted on my own. Mabel wasn’t involved in any way.’
‘Indirectly, she was,’ noted Keedy. ‘It was her visits to the library that drew your attention to Cyril Ablatt. My guess is that you probably asked her to find out as much about him as she could.’ Gill’s forehead was now glistening. ‘To some extent, Mrs Gill aided and abetted you.’
The plumber winced. He had set out during the night to assuage his hatred of a conscientious objector by leaving a taunt in large letters on the side of his house. Gill had not only been violently attacked, he was now under arrest and being accused of murder. The thought that his wife would be questioned by the police when he was not there to control her answers made him quiver.
‘Do you know what you should do?’ asked Keedy. ‘If you have a shred of decency, you should apologise to Mr Ablatt then paint over those words on the wall of his house. But you’re not going to do that, are you?’
Gill folded his arms in token defiance. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Mr Ablatt will be told about your arrest and he’ll see the report about you in the newspaper. If he needs a plumber, I don’t think he’ll be turning to you somehow.’
Gerald Ablatt had slept only fitfully during the night and was up before dawn. After a breakfast of toast and tea, he went into his son’s bedroom and gazed at all the books. They symbolised the education that a caring father had provided by working overtime at his shop. Ablatt had grave misgivings about that education now. Had his son become a blacksmith or even taken up his father’s trade, he might well be alive now. He slammed the door shut and went downstairs. Joe Keedy had paid a surprise visit to the house but Ablatt was too preoccupied to take in everything he said. He thanked the detective without quite knowing what he’d achieved. Ablatt brooded on the news after Keedy left. It was still relatively early when Jack Dalley brought his wife. Nancy felt that she had to be with her brother so that they could share their sorrow. As soon as they met, they embraced warmly and she began to weep.
‘I’ll stay for a while,’ offered Dalley, ‘but I have to get over to the forge at some point. Perce can’t do everything on his own.’
‘Go when you need to, Jack,’ said Ablatt. ‘I’ll look after Nancy.’
‘The neighbours have been kind,’ she said through tears. ‘As soon as they found out, they came to see if they could do anything for me. And Jack told me that Percy Fry’s wife will come at any time if I need company. In time, I might do. At the moment, I need to be with family.’ She hugged her brother again. ‘The only place I want to be is here.’
‘Nance didn’t get a wink of sleep last night,’ said Dalley. ‘Neither did I.’
Ablatt padded out to the kitchen and they followed him. After filling the kettle, he set it on the stove and lit the gas. He seemed to come out of a daze.
‘If you’d got here earlier, you’d have met Sergeant Keedy.’
‘What was he doing here?’ asked Dalley with interest. ‘Have they caught the killer?’
‘No, Jack, but they’ve arrested the man who painted those things on the wall. He tried to have another go last night but Cyril’s friend, Mansel, was lying in wait for him. So was the sergeant,’ explained Ablatt. ‘He was hiding in a house around the corner. The man got away in a scuffle but he was arrested later.’
‘Who was he?’
‘His name is Robbie Gill and he’s a plumber.’
Dalley was roused. ‘I know him,’ he said, angrily. ‘He did some work for us once. In fact, he botched it so I refused to pay him and had to get in someone else.’
‘I remember him,’ said Nancy.
‘Yes, he was a surly beggar.’
‘I know his wife,’ said Ablatt, dully. ‘Mrs Gill brings shoes to be soled and heeled. I doubt if she’ll be doing that again in a hurry.’
‘I bet you want to give him a good hiding,’ said Dalley.
‘No, Jack, I don’t.’
‘
‘What does it matter now? Cyril is dead. It won’t bring him back.’
‘At the very least, I’d give him a piece of my mind.’
Ablatt was lacklustre. ‘There’s no point.’
They discussed the matter until the kettle began to boil. Ablatt made the tea and they took it into the front room on a tray with milk, sugar and three cups. He let the teapot stand in its cosy for a couple of minutes before pouring. As they sat in silence, gloom descended on them. Even the blacksmith lacked the will to move. Nobody drank the tea. They just held the saucers in their hands and stared into the cups. When there was a knock on the door, they were startled. It was a rude intrusion into their grief. The shock prompted another bout of tears from Nancy and her husband moved across to comfort her. Ablatt, meanwhile, went off to the front door, making an effort to shake off his torpor.
When he felt ready, he opened the door. A smartly dressed woman lunged forward to put her arms around him. The feather on her hat brushed against his cheek.
‘Hello, Gerald,’ she said, sobbing. ‘I read about it in this morning’s paper. I just had to come.’
He stood aside so that Caroline Skene could step into the house.
Marmion was delighted to see Joe Keedy back at Scotland Yard and amazed how bright and breezy he seemed to be. A sleepless night in the front room of the Haveron household didn’t appear to have sapped his strength at all. Energised by the arrest he’d made that morning, Keedy gave a full account of what had happened. They were in Marmion’s office and the desk was littered with newspapers and correspondence. When he’d heard the report without interruption, Marmion sat back thoughtfully.
‘So this Robbie Gill is definitely not the killer.’
‘No,’ said Keedy. ‘He didn’t murder Cyril Ablatt.’
‘If he’s a plumber, he’d obviously have the strength needed. And his tool bag would provide him with a weapon. The post-mortem report came earlier.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It is full of gory detail,’ said Marmion, ‘but, in essence, it said that he was battered to death with a blunt instrument that also had a sharp edge. There were gashes all over the body.’
‘They could have been put there by the edge of a spade.’
‘What about something out of a plumber’s tool bag?’
‘No — Gill’s alibi was sound. Both his wife and his son confirmed that he was at home when the body was — in all probability — moved to that lane.’ Keedy read the inspector’s mind. ‘And before you suggest that he might have murdered Ablatt earlier on and left an accomplice to transfer the corpse to the spot where it was found, let me shoot down that idea. Robbie Gill wouldn’t have the guts to do it. At heart, he’s a miserable coward. He didn’t have the courage to confront Ablatt in person about being a conchie. He could only work in the dark with a paintbrush.’
‘Did his wife know what he was doing?’
‘She knew,’ said Keedy, ‘but she certainly didn’t approve. That’s why he was so jumpy when I said that we’d speak to Mrs Gill. She was ashamed of what he did and horrified that he’d been arrested.’
‘What about the link with Waldron?’
‘It could be something or nothing, Harv.’
‘If they were in cahoots,’ said Marmion, ‘it’s unlikely that he’d produce Waldron’s name so readily.’
‘I think he was anxious to establish his alibi. He gave me Stan Crowther’s name as well in case I wanted to check at the Weavers Arms. By the way,’ said Keedy, ‘I called at the pub yesterday evening. Crowther is not a man to cross. He used to be a heavyweight boxer and looks as if he still packs a punch.’
‘You seem to have had an exciting time, Joe. A boxer, a plumber, a Welsh cook and two nice old ladies who probably fell madly in love with you — that’s not a bad haul for one night.’
