Instrument of Slaughter

shoulder.’

Alice was dismayed. The new case would not only entail additional work for her father. It would mean that Joe Keedy would be completely preoccupied as well. Given the extended hours he’d now have to work, there was no hope at all of seeing him soon. She would have to survive on memories.

When he read the same newspaper report, Marmion was pulsing with anger. The superintendent had given the press the impression that the inspector agreed with him that the two heinous crimes were the work of the same man. Normally so frugal with the amount of information he fed reporters, Chatfield had said too much too soon and reached a conclusion that — in Marmion’s opinion — they’d live to regret. The Evening News had turned it into a sensation. All of a sudden, London had a new monster stalking the streets. If he struck again, it was argued, he would be taking on the mantle of Jack the Ripper as an evil phantom who left the police utterly baffled. The article was very unflattering to Marmion, claiming that his hitherto untarnished reputation was slowly crumbling because he’d made no progress with the murder investigation, thereby leaving the killer to choose a second victim with impunity.

‘That makes my blood boil!’ he said, tossing the newspaper aside.

Keedy picked it up. ‘What does it say, Harv?’

‘They think we’re idiots.’

‘If they’ve been talking to Chat, I’m not surprised. He’s the idiot-in-chief.’ Keedy read the article. ‘This is so unfair,’ he said, hotly. ‘Anyone would think we’ve been sitting on our hands for the last few days. It’s especially unfair to you. They ought to show more respect.’

‘They have newspapers to sell, Joe.’

‘That doesn’t mean they can print lies.’

‘They’d call it “informed opinion”.’

‘Well, if you want my informed opinion,’ said Keedy with spirit, ‘the man who wrote this drivel ought to be kicked the length of Piccadilly. I’ll volunteer to do the kicking and to wear some hobnail boots.’

‘Never get into a fight with a reporter. They always have more ink.’

‘We can’t let him get away with this, Harv.’

‘We won’t,’ Marmion promised him. ‘We’ll solve both crimes and show him just how maliciously wide of the mark this article is.’

During a morning of ceaseless activity, they paid a visit to Gerald Ablatt’s shop where the cobbler had been working quietly away. Aghast at the news of an attack on James Howells, he’d confirmed that his son had been friends with the curate and talked of him visiting the house once or twice. Ablatt was honest. While he appreciated the curate’s many fine qualities, he still preferred the vicar’s sermons. They offered more comfort and far less challenge. After a series of other calls, the detectives had ended up in the room where Howells had lived. It presented a sharp contrast to Cyril Ablatt’s bedroom. Where the latter was small, untidy and filled with books, this one was large, scrupulously organised and devoid of ornament. There was an austere feel to the place. Hidden behind a curtain, a single bed stood in the corner. The furniture comprised a table, a chair and a wardrobe. A neat pile of books stood on the table. Inevitably, the Bible was one of them.

Keedy whistled in surprise. ‘This room makes mine look like Aladdin’s cave.’

‘It is rather bare,’ agreed Marmion.

‘Where are the paintings, the knick-knacks, the personal items?’

‘He didn’t need those, Joe.’

‘Most of us have something to look at.’

‘Perhaps he chose to look inwards.’

Marmion sifted through the books on the table. When he picked up the Bible, nothing fell out of it. The Reverend James Howells was patently not a man who spent much money on himself. They opened the wardrobe to find very little inside apart from some shirts, socks, underclothes and a pair of trousers.

‘He seems to have lived like a monk,’ said Keedy. ‘This whole room reeks of self-denial.’

Marmion grinned. ‘I’m surprised you know what self-denial is, Joe.’

‘I don’t.’

‘They tell me it’s good for the soul.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ Keedy drew back the curtain to look at the bed. On a shelf supported by a wall bracket were shaving equipment, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Getting down onto his knees, he peered underneath the bed then reached for something. ‘This might be interesting.’

‘What have you found?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘Can you manage, Joe?’

‘I think so.’

Keedy stood up with a small cardboard box in his hands. When he set it on the table, they examined the contents. There were letters from Howells’s father and from fellow clergymen with whom he’d studied. There were some family photographs, and a pile of sermons written in a neat hand with various words underlined. Of most interest to Marmion was a small address book. As he leafed through it, he saw that most of the people listed in it lived in Shoreditch and were, presumably, the curate’s parishioners. His parents’ address was there, as were those of relatives and friends in York. One name jumped out of the address book at Marmion.

‘Eric Fussell is in here,’ he said, curiosity stirring. ‘Yet he doesn’t live in Shoreditch, so he’s unlikely to attend services at St Leonard’s.’

Keedy looked over his shoulder. ‘I see what you mean. He lives in Lambeth.’

‘That raises a question, Joe.’

‘Yes — how did your favourite librarian make his way into the book?’

Mansel Price first heard about the attempted murder when he saw it emblazoned across the front of the newspaper stall at the railway station. Too mean to buy a copy, he instead went to a nearby wastepaper bin and retrieved one discarded earlier. He read it on the way to the bakery. Gordon Leach let him in by the side door.

‘Have you heard, Mansel?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been reading the details on the way here.’

‘It’s scared me rigid.’

‘Well,’ said Price, contemptuously, ‘it doesn’t take much to do that, does it?’

‘Aren’t you afraid you might be next?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘We could be targets.’

‘I don’t believe that. But just in case anybody does come after me,’ said the Welshman, slipping a hand under his coat, ‘I’ll be ready for him.’

He pulled out a knife and thrust it at Leach, making him jump back.

‘Steady on, Mansel! That’s dangerous.’

‘If anyone attacks me, I’ll cut his balls off.’

‘Put that thing away before someone gets hurt.’

Price slipped the knife back into its sheath. ‘You knew this Father Howells, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ replied Leach. ‘Some of us go to church.’

‘I’m a chapel man myself, though I haven’t seen the inside of one since I left Wales. Anyway, I’m usually working on a Sunday. Need the money.’

‘James Howells was a nice man. Thank heaven he survived!’

‘We don’t know that he did,’ said Price, realistically. ‘The paper says he’s still in a coma. He may never recover. That’d be two murders in less than a week.’

Leach was unnerved. ‘We need police on patrol at night around here,’ he argued. ‘It’s the only way to make sure there isn’t a third victim.’

‘If you expect the police to protect you,’ said Price with rancour, ‘you’ll wait till the cows come home. They don’t have the men to spare and they couldn’t care about us, anyway. Sergeant Keedy couldn’t even catch a man about to paint a wall. What chance has he got of arresting a killer?’

‘Fred trusts him.’

‘Don’t listen to Fred. He thinks well of everybody.’