‘Mr and Mrs Fussell?’
‘They don’t look as if they’re in the first, full flush of romance.’
‘Marriage is not a condition of endless bliss, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you say to
‘It’s usually something like “Goodbye and don’t wait up for me.” When duty calls, I never have time for real conversation at home.’
‘Ellen must be very understanding.’
‘She’s a saint, Joe. I can’t say the same about Alice, mind you,’ he went on. ‘She used to complain like mad that I wasn’t at home enough. And she was right, of course. Whatever happens, my daughter will never marry a policeman.’
The remark silenced Keedy for the rest of the journey. He and Alice had never discussed marriage and hadn’t even skirted the subject. But if their friendship continued to deepen, then the question of a serious commitment would arise. He knew that it would be unfair to lock her indefinitely into a relationship that had no resolution. As long as she and Keedy were together, she was spurning male interest from other quarters. It troubled him that he might be spoiling her chances of marriage to someone else but he simply didn’t want to let her go. Once again, he tried to assess his feelings for her. At the same time, he wondered about the strength of Alice’s feelings for him.
When they reached the hospital, they went straight up to the room occupied by Father Howells. The doctor was waiting for them.
‘He’s very tired and not all that coherent,’ he cautioned. ‘I can’t let you question him for long, Inspector. His parents have already been in there with him. When they left, he fell asleep at once.’
‘Has he said anything about the attack?’ asked Marmion.
‘Not a word.’
Leaving Keedy outside, Marmion went into the room with the doctor. The nurse who was bending over the patient stood back so that the inspector could approach the bed. The Reverend James Howells was still swathed in bandages. His face was pallid and his eyes closed. Marmion lowered himself onto the chair beside the bed and leant in to whisper.
‘Father Howells,’ he began. ‘Can you hear me, Father Howells?’
After a lengthy pause, the curate stirred slightly and one eye opened.
‘Who are you?’ he murmured.
‘I’m Inspector Marmion of Scotland Yard and I’m in charge of your case. I’m very anxious to find the person who attacked you.’
‘What person?’
‘I was hoping you could tell me that, sir.’
‘What attack?’
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Yes — I’m in hospital.’
‘Do you know how you got here?’
‘No, Inspector, I don’t.’
‘Has nobody told you?’
‘My father said something to me,’ recalled the curate, dopily, ‘but I’ve forgotten what it was. I have this pain in my head. It’s like a drill.’
‘Someone attacked you and knocked you unconscious.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t know, sir. Do
Father Howells drifted off to sleep again and Marmion had to wait minutes before he came awake.
‘Have you ever been threatened?’ asked Marmion.
‘No … I haven’t.’
‘Do you know of any enemies?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Someone must have hated you to do this.’
The curate winced. ‘Who was it?’
‘You’re the only one who can tell me that.’
‘I have no enemies.’
‘We all have people who don’t like us, sir.’
‘I’m a priest,’ said Father Howells, stumbling over his words. ‘I’m a man of God. Who’d want to hurt me?’
Marmion pressed him as gently as he could to think of anyone with whom he’d had a disagreement in the past. The curate was too weary and confused to provide any names. The inspector thought of the man’s address book.
‘Let’s talk about your friends, then,’ he said.
‘My friends wouldn’t hurt me.’
‘I know that.’
‘I have good friends.’
‘Tell me about one of them — Eric Fussell.’
The patient’s face puckered. ‘Who?’
‘Mr Fussell is a librarian.’
‘Oh yes … I’ve met him.’
‘His name is in your address book, Father Howells.’
‘Is it?’
‘Does that mean he’s a special friend of yours?’
‘No, no, I hardly …’
The words died on his lips as he dozed off again. Marmion waited for over a quarter of an hour but the curate remained asleep. The interview was over. At the suggestion of the doctor, they withdrew into the corridor. Keedy came over to them.
‘Did you learn anything of interest, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘I’m not altogether sure,’ said Marmion.
Percy Fry had been glad to note an improvement in Nancy Dalley. She was no longer weeping into a handkerchief over the death of her nephew. She looked much calmer and more composed. Fry’s wife, Elaine, had spent most of the day with her and he could see that it had taken its toll on her. Having driven his boss home on the cart, he took his wife back to the forge. Wearing a fur hat and with a thick shawl over her shoulders, she sat beside him as the cart rattled through the streets.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked her.
‘It was a bit of a trial.’
‘You didn’t
‘She needed me.’
‘Well, it certainly helps us. Without you there, Jack would have to stay with Nancy and I’d have to run the forge on my own. Don’t enjoy that.’ He shouted at two boys who tried to get a lift by hanging on the back of the cart. ‘Little devils!’ he said, flapping the reins to make the horse go faster. His voice softened. ‘Shouldn’t blame them, really — I used to do that when I was their age.’
Elaine’s mind was elsewhere. ‘I’m worried about her, Percy.’
‘I thought she looked better.’
‘It’s hurt her deep down. It’s as if Cyril was her son.’
‘Well, he might have been her son-in-law,’ said Fry. ‘According to Jack, he went out with their daughter but it didn’t last long. Nora met and married that nice chap we met at the wedding.’
‘Nora’s coming down to London by train tomorrow so I won’t have to be there. She’s going to stay with her mother until the funeral.’
‘Did anyone else turn up today?’
‘Only Mr Ablatt,’ she replied. ‘He’s as wounded as Nancy but he’s much better at hiding it. He told us that one
