‘What word was that, sir?’
‘Cyril Ablatt was a disruptive influence. Nobody wants that.’
The portrait was changing even more. When Marmion took charge of the case, Ablatt was a murder victim with a steadfast belief in the tenets of Christianity and with a job in which he excelled. Darker elements had intruded. He’d not only had an intimate relationship with a married woman, he’d had the gall to challenge the librarian’s authority by producing a critique of him. Marmion scratched out the mental note to visit Lambeth. Fussell was being honest for once. He’d tried to shift a burdensome assistant to another library and had failed.
‘I can see why you won’t be attending the funeral,’ said Marmion, ‘but, when all is said and done, he did work under you for some while. I daresay that you’ll be sending your condolences to his father.’
Fussell was brusque. ‘No, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ll send no card. I’ve washed my hands of the entire Ablatt family.’
There was a steady stream of customers at the forge on Bethnal Green and, because Percy Fry was there by himself, they either had to wait in the queue or be turned away. Things had eased by mid morning and Fry was able to snatch a few minutes’ rest. He was relieved to see Dalley striding in.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Jack,’ he said.
‘I came as soon as I could.’
‘No need to come at all. I can cope.’
‘If truth be told, I was glad to escape, Perce. All that misery was getting me down. Not that I’m hard- hearted,’ said Dalley, keen to correct any misunderstanding. ‘I’m very upset at what happened to Cyril, but I’m a practical man. I’ve a job to do and a forge to run.’
‘How’s the wife?’
‘Nancy is worse than ever this morning.’
‘Don’t forget that offer we made.’
‘Later on — when the worst is over — Nancy might be glad of Elaine’s company. But that time may be weeks away.’
‘Where is she at the moment?’
‘I took her over to her brother’s. She can’t bear to be apart from him.’ He took off his hat and coat and tossed them onto a stool. ‘Everyone knows now.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s in all the papers, Perce. The one I saw even had a photo of Cyril. As we walked to my brother-in-law’s house, people were already pointing and whispering. I’m not a blacksmith any more,’ complained Dalley. ‘I’m the uncle of the lad who was battered to death.’
‘That will pass,’ said Fry.
‘Not for a long while. If he’d been killed in the war, everyone would have showered us with sympathy for a day or two. This is different. Cyril is a murder victim. That makes him a sort of freak. People won’t forget that,’ said Dalley, sourly. ‘As long as the hunt for the killer goes on, the event stays fresh in the mind.’
‘They’ll catch the bastard eventually.’
‘London’s got millions of inhabitants. Where do the police start looking?’
‘That’s up to them, Jack. Let them get on with it, I say. The only thing you need to worry about is Nancy. She’s the one who needs help.’
‘Too true — she was awake for most of the night again.’
‘Might not be so bad when the funeral is over and done with,’ said Fry.
‘I’m not looking forward to that,’ confessed Dalley. ‘It’ll be harrowing. Nancy and her brother are bad enough now. They both look ten years older. What are they going to be like when they actually bury Cyril?’
From the time that she got there, Caroline Skene had endeavoured to be useful. She made tea, passed round biscuits and offered what solace she could. Her presence was so comforting to Gerald Ablatt and his sister that Dalley had felt able to leave them and return to work. Caroline was in charge. She was tirelessly helpful and full of compassion. When they wept, so did she. Neither of them realised that she had as much cause for anguish as they did.
‘It was good of you to come, Caroline,’ said Ablatt.
‘I felt I might be needed.’
‘You are — and we’re grateful.’
‘Yes,’ said Nancy with a woeful smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘How is Wilf?’ asked Ablatt.
‘He’s fine,’ replied Caroline. ‘He sends his love.’
‘Is he still having that back trouble?’
‘Oh, let’s not talk about him, Gerald. What are a few back pains compared to what you have to suffer? You can forget Wilf. Think of yourself for once.’
‘He can’t do that,’ said Nancy. ‘Gerald always puts other people first. His son has been killed yet he still worries about his customers.’
‘I hate to let anyone down,’ said Ablatt.
‘Do you know what he did last night?’
He was embarrassed. ‘There’s no need to mention that, Nancy.’
‘I think there is. Caroline deserves to know.’
‘Know what?’ asked Caroline.
‘When Jack took me back home last night,’ said Nancy, glancing at her brother, ‘Gerald should have gone straight to bed. He was as exhausted as we were. Instead of that, he went to the shop and started mending shoes.’
‘Never!’
‘I simply had to
‘Yes,’ soothed Caroline, ‘I think I can. It seems ridiculous but what you did was right. It fulfilled an urge.’ When there was a knock at the door, she got up at once. ‘You stay here. I’ll see who it is.’
She went to the front door and opened it. The vicar was standing on the doorstep and he asked if he might come in. Caroline would have turned anyone else away but both Cyril and his father had worshipped regularly at the nearby church. She’d heard them speak well of the vicar, an elderly man with a kind face and wisps of white hair curling down from under his hat. In the hope that he might be able to alleviate grief and provide some spiritual sustenance, Caroline stood aside to let him in. When she took him into the front room, Ablatt and his sister looked up with gratitude, pleased to see the old man. Removing his hat, he set it aside and offered a consoling hand to each of them. Caroline put the hat outside on a peg and went into the kitchen to make yet another pot of tea. When she returned, she saw that the vicar had already lifted the morale of the mourners.
It was the chance for which she’d been waiting. After pouring the tea and handing the cups around, she excused herself to go to the bathroom, making sure that she shut the door of the front room behind her. She then scampered upstairs and went straight to Cyril Ablatt’s room, opening the door and gazing around with a mixture of sadness and nostalgia. She needed minutes to recover.
Caroline then began a frantic search.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After a hectic morning in the lorry, Alice Marmion drove it back to the depot and brought it to a juddering halt. She looked across at Vera Dowling.
‘I don’t like the sound of the engine.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Vera. ‘Something is wrong.’
‘Let’s see if we can find out what it is.’
Alice switched off the engine and got out of the lorry. Vera went to fetch the toolbox in the back of the vehicle. By the time she brought it to her friend, Alice had lifted the bonnet and was peering underneath it.
‘Don’t touch anything,’ warned Vera. ‘It will be piping hot.’
