‘What’s this about a haul?’ asked Chatfield, coming into the office. ‘Good morning, Sergeant. I gather there’s been a development.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Keedy.
‘What’s this about an arrest?’
‘The sergeant had a busy night,’ said Marmion.
Keedy took his cue. He gave a carefully attenuated version of events to the superintendent who peppered him with questions throughout. Chatfield criticised him for not catching Gill at the first opportunity but he applauded his enterprise in arresting him at the second attempt. In the presence of their superior, Marmion and Keedy lapsed back into formality. Chatfield loathed over-familiarity between his officers. He felt that it was unprofessional. Nobody got close enough to him to treat him as a friend.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘So the name of Horrie Waldron crops up again.’
‘Only in relation to a game of darts, sir,’ said Keedy.
‘This fellow Gill may have given himself away.’
‘He’s not the man we’re after, superintendent. I’m certain of that.’
‘I question that certainty, Sergeant. Let’s keep an eye on him. When it comes to eyes,’ he went on with a feeble attempt at humour, ‘I daresay that you’d like to close yours and get some much needed sleep.’
‘Not at all,’ said Keedy. ‘I feel as fresh as a daisy. I’ll carry on.’
‘We don’t want you falling asleep on us.’
‘Sergeant Keedy is unlikely to do that, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘He’s one of the fittest men at Scotland Yard. If he wishes to press on, I think you should allow him.’
Chatfield gave a nod. ‘Very well — you have my blessing, Sergeant.’ He handed an envelope to Marmion. ‘This has just arrived for you, Inspector. I told you that the newspapers would flush out some witnesses.’ He waited until Marmion had opened and read the letter. ‘Am I right?’
‘Not exactly, sir. It’s an anonymous note but it does contain some interesting information.’ He passed it back to Chatfield. ‘It looks as if I should have another chat with a certain librarian.’
Eric Fussell sat in his office with the door firmly closed. Using a pair of scissors, he cut out an article from a newspaper and read it through with a broad smile. He put the cutting aside and reached for another newspaper. There was a pile of them on his desk. He wanted a complete collection of reports about the murder.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charlie Redfern arrived at the workshop to discover his assistant using a plane on the edge of the door he was making. Hambridge broke off immediately and went quickly across to him.
‘Morning, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Sorry about what happened yesterday.’
‘No need to explain,’ Redfern told him. ‘I’d have done the same in your shoes, Fred. When I mentioned a murder, you thought it might be your friend.’
‘And it was, unfortunately.’
‘I know. I saw it in the paper.’
‘But I shouldn’t have left you in the lurch like that. It was wrong of me. I’ll make up for it by working much longer this evening.’
‘Please yourself.’
‘Fancy a brew?’
Redfern laughed. ‘Ever known me refuse?’
Hambridge filled the kettle. His boss, meanwhile, took off his coat and hat, hung them up, then looked at himself in the cracked mirror on the wall. He smoothed his hair back with a flabby hand and stroked his chin, disappointed that his beard refused to grow beyond a certain point. When he turned back to Hambridge, the latter took an envelope from his pocket and held it out.
‘You’re not handing in your notice, are you?’ joked Redfern.
‘I might be, Charlie.’
‘I thought you liked working here.’
‘I love it.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Read it for yourself and you’ll find out.’
Redfern took the envelope from him and extracted a letter. His brow crinkled as he read it. Hambridge was a good carpenter and a loyal employee. Redfern didn’t want to lose him. He tried to sound cheerful.
‘This may come to nothing, Fred.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘I’ll tell them my business will collapse without you.’
‘That’s what I was going to ask you, Charlie. I need a favour. Will you speak up for me at the tribunal? It might help.’
‘Try stopping me.’
Redfern put the letter into the envelope and gave it back to him. It was a summons to appear before a military tribunal. Like thousands of other men of a certain age, Hambridge would have to seek exemption from conscription. If he failed to do so, he would either be forced to join the army or face imprisonment.
‘I’ve heard about these bloody tribunals,’ said Redfern, airily. ‘They’re made up of ordinary men and women so it should be easy to pull the wool over their eyes. You’re a skilled worker, Fred. You’re needed here.’
‘I’m not going to fight,’ said Hambridge, reaching for an arresting phrase. ‘I refuse to be an instrument of slaughter in khaki uniform. It’s morally repugnant to me and an infringement of my individual liberty.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed his boss. ‘It’s too early in the morning for big words like that. Where the hell did you get them?’
‘To be honest, I borrowed them from Cyril.’
Redfern suppressed a smirk. ‘Well, they’re no use to him now, are they?’
‘He taught me another thing to say as well.’
‘What was that?’
‘I’ve got to remind the tribunal about William Pitt.’
‘Who, in God’s name, is he?’
‘He was the prime minister donkey’s, years ago,’ explained Hambridge. ‘They called him Pitt the Younger because his father had run the country before him. He was known as Pitt the Elder.’
‘You’re confusing me already, Fred.’
‘Even you must have heard of Napoleon.’
‘Oh, yes — what about him?’
‘Well, when we were trying to raise an army to fight against him, Pitt said that Quakers were exempt. He respected our beliefs. Thanks to Cyril, I’m going to make that point at the tribunal.’
‘What if they still say you’ve got to go in the army?’
Hambridge stuck out his jaw. ‘Then they’ll be wasting their breath.’
Harvey Marmion walked into Shoreditch library and doffed his hat. The atmosphere was sombre. All the staff had heard about the murder of their colleague and so had the majority of their readers. They moved about quietly and conversed in subdued voices, and not only because loud noise was forbidden. Marmion had the feeling that one of the assistants had been crying. Her eyes were pools of sorrow and she kept sniffing. Surprised to see him, Eric Fussell hid his displeasure behind a token smile. He invited the inspector into his office and the two of them sat down. Marmion noticed the pile of newspapers in the wastepaper basket and the pair of scissors on the desk but he made no comment.
‘I hope that you’ve brought good news,’ said Fussell, hands clasped.
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Oh dear — that’s disappointing!’
‘I’m here to clarify a few details,’ said Marmion.
‘I’ve already told you anything that’s relevant. There’s nothing else that I can add, Inspector.’
