‘I believe that there is, Mr Fussell.’
‘What does it concern?’
‘It concerns an application made by Cyril Ablatt. Information has come into my hands suggesting that, when Mr Ablatt considered a job elsewhere, you refused to give him a reference.’
The librarian was indignant. ‘That’s not true at all.’
‘In view of the fulsome way you described him to me, I did find it rather odd. The only reason I could think of you blocking his chance of promotion was that he was too valuable a member of your staff to lose. Is that the case, sir?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘So why didn’t you support his application?’
‘There was no need for a written reference, Inspector,’ argued Fussell. ‘The job was in Lambeth and I happen to be friends with the librarian there. I made a point of telling him what an excellent choice Cyril would be. I praised him to the skies.’
‘Yet somehow he didn’t get the post.’
‘There was a very strong field, Inspector.’
‘Really? That rather contradicts my information.’
Fussell was annoyed. ‘May I ask from whom it was obtained?’
‘I wish I knew, sir. I received an anonymous letter.’
‘Then I should ignore every word in it, Inspector,’ said the other, scornfully. ‘If someone doesn’t even have the courage to sign his name, then he or she can’t be taken seriously. It’s obviously the work of someone trying to get me into hot water.’
‘And why should anyone do that, Mr Fussell?’
‘We all make enemies unwittingly — even you, I daresay.’
Marmion laughed. ‘I don’t have to make enemies unwittingly, sir. I already have them in their thousands. The moment you join the police force, you’re hated by every criminal in London. It’s an occupational hazard.’
‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’
‘We’re targets for mindless hatred.’
‘That must be a constant problem.’
‘You learn to ignore it.’
‘I’m not sure that I could, Inspector. As for that post in Lambeth,’ Fussell continued, ‘I fear that Cyril’s chances were imperilled by his circumstances. Now that conscription has been brought in, he’s more than liable to be called up. That must have been taken into account at the interview. Nobody wants to appoint someone then lose them to the army.’
‘But there was no such thing as conscription when he went after that job last year,’ Marmion reminded him. ‘It was all of eight months ago. Politicians were still fighting over whether or not to bring in compulsory service. This country has never needed it before. It was a huge break with tradition.’
‘Regrettably, it was a necessary one.’
‘That’s immaterial. The point is that it was not a factor in the interview at Lambeth. It shouldn’t have tipped the scales against him — whereas the lack of a glowing testimonial from you certainly would.’
‘I told you — I gave him strong verbal support.’
‘So you preferred to use your influence behind the scenes.’
‘Nobody could have done more.’
Marmion had grave doubts about that claim. He made a mental note to seek confirmation from the librarian in Lambeth. He could see why Ablatt had wanted to move from Shoreditch library. According to the anonymous letter, there was a lot of unresolved friction between him and Fussell. At his first encounter with the librarian, Marmion had sensed that that was the case. The primary reason for going to Lambeth, however, had been the fact that Caroline Skene lived there. Ablatt was ready to endure longer journeys to and from work in order to be closer to the woman he loved.
‘What did you think of the press coverage of the murder?’ asked Marmion.
‘I haven’t had time to look at it properly.’
‘Your staff clearly read some of it. There’s a sense of gloom out there.’
‘It doesn’t stop us from getting on with our jobs, Inspector.’
‘That’s very commendable.’
‘The real headache will come when it’s time for the funeral,’ said Fussell, composing his features into something faintly resembling grief. ‘We all feel duty-bound to go, of course, but someone has to run the library. There’s going to be a clash of loyalties.’
‘In which way will you be pulled, sir?’
‘Oh, I’m the captain of the ship. I have to remain on the bridge.’
The man’s pomposity grated on Marmion. Having said on two separate occasions that he revered Ablatt, the librarian couldn’t even make the effort to attend his funeral. It was difficult to know if — in staying away — he would be acting out of guilt or indifference.
‘You’ve got plenty of time to arrange cover,’ said Marmion. ‘The funeral won’t be for some time. As yet, we haven’t even had the inquest. I would have thought that you had an obligation to be there.’
‘I also have obligations to Shoreditch library,’ Fussell retaliated.
‘It’s your decision, naturally.’
‘Indeed, it is.’
The emphasis he put on his reply showed that he had no intention whatsoever of paying his respects to a junior colleague he professed to like and admire. It was further indication that the information in the anonymous letter was accurate. Marmion looked down at the wastepaper basket. It had been empty the previous day. It was now filled with newspapers. Yet the librarian had asserted that he’d had no time to study the press coverage of the crime. Marmion was riled by Fussell’s amalgam of complacency and spite. He probed more deeply.
‘You never really liked Cyril Ablatt, did you?’
‘I held him in the highest regard.’
‘Then why did you scupper his chances in Lambeth?’
‘Pay no attention to that letter. People will say anything to discredit me.’
‘I’m giving you the right to defend yourself, sir.’
‘I don’t need to do that,’ said Fussell, disdainfully. ‘My record speaks for itself. I’ve made this place the success that it is.’
‘That wasn’t what Ablatt thought, was it?’
‘He never fully understood library administration.’
‘Yet he had a diploma in the subject,’ said Marmion, ‘and he’s learnt a great deal under your tutelage. That being the case,’ he went on, measuring his words, ‘the critical report he compiled about this library deserves to be taken seriously. My first impression was that you ran this place extremely well. Ablatt didn’t think so, did he? You must have been hopping mad when you read it.’
Marmion had touched a raw nerve. Facial muscles tightening, Fussell was visibly wounded. Whoever had sent the letter to Scotland Yard had been well informed about what went on inside Shoreditch library.
Joe Keedy was still not showing any fatigue after his long night awake. With a new alibi to check, he called at the Weavers Arms when it was still closed and had to be let into the pub by the side door. Stan Crowther wagged a teasing finger.
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘we’re not open. I can’t even serve a copper.’
‘I’m not here for the beer, Mr Crowther.’
‘I daresay that my mother could rustle up a cup of tea.’
They went into the bar where Maud Crowther was seated at a table with a ledger opened out in front of her. When she saw Keedy enter she was alarmed, but his face was impassive. He gave no hint of the fact that he’d already met her and offered his hand when her son introduced them.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Crowther,’ he said.
She shook his hand. ‘Hello, Sergeant Keedy.’
‘My mother likes to check the books now and then,’ said the landlord with a grin. ‘She doesn’t trust me to get my sums right.’
