of Cyril’s friends had called in the shop today. He was touched by that.’
‘It must be terrible for him — living on his own, I mean.’
‘He’d rather be on his own than have his sister there.’ She brought up a hand to cover a yawn. ‘Nancy is very tiring to be with.’
‘You’ve done your share, love. Have a rest.’
Traffic was thickening so he needed all his concentration to drive the cart, making sure that the wheels didn’t get caught in any of the tramlines. They drove on through the dark until they finally reached the forge. Fry tugged on the reins and the horse slowed to a halt. A gust of cold wind made him shiver. Jumping down from the cart, he walked around to the other side to help his wife get off but she ignored his outspread arms. When he looked closely at her, he saw that she was so fatigued that she’d fallen asleep. He had to carry her up to the living quarters above the forge.
On the drive to Eric Fussell’s house, Marmion was reflecting on his fractured conversation with the curate. The man was clearly bewildered and in pain. When he talked to him, Marmion had suffered pangs of guilt at having to disturb him. What the patient most needed was rest. Being questioned about what had happened to him had obviously upset Father Howells. Yet it had to be done. While he was full of compassion for him, Marmion was simultaneously suspicious. He had the feeling that the curate hadn’t been entirely honest with him and he couldn’t understand why. Was it possible that he was shielding someone out of misguided loyalty? If so, who was it? And why had Father Howells denied a close association with the librarian when he’d taken the trouble to make a note of his home address? What really puzzled Marmion was the way in which the patient had conveniently dozed off again when put under slight pressure. Was he genuinely asleep or only pretending to be so?
When he confided his suspicions to Keedy, the sergeant took them seriously. Marmion had a sixth sense with regard to honesty. He always seemed to know when he was being told the truth, a half-truth or a downright lie. It was a skill that Keedy hadn’t yet mastered. He hoped that it would come with more experience. The car turned into the street where the Fussells lived. They owned a small end-of-terrace house in a good state of repair. The car grunted to a halt outside and the detectives got out. They walked to the front door.
‘What are we going to do, Harv?’ asked Keedy.
‘Get him to do most of the talking.’
Marmion used the knocker and got an instant response. The door was opened by Fussell who’d been checking his appearance in a mirror before leaving the house. When he saw the detectives, he removed his hat and, after trading civilities, he invited them in. His wife was in the living room but a nod from Fussell sent her off into the kitchen. He didn’t offer his visitors a seat. The room was small but cosy, with a settee and two armchairs occupying most of the space. The wallpaper had a floral pattern and there was a collection of china animals on the mantelpiece.
‘We’ve just come from the hospital, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that Father Howells has regained consciousness.’
‘That’s good news,’ said Fussell, stiffly, ‘but did you really have to come here to tell me that when you’ve got much more important things to do?’
‘I thought you’d be interested, Mr Fussell.’
‘I am.’
‘After all, you went to the hospital yourself earlier today.’
Fussell concealed his shock well. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You were seen there, sir.’
‘Yes,’ said the other, airily, ‘I went to visit a friend of mine who contracted pneumonia. He was so poorly that I wasn’t allowed to see him.’
‘Our information is that you asked after Father Howells.’
‘He was the friend you went to see,’ said Keedy, ‘and, as you well know, it’s not pneumonia that he’s suffering from.’
‘What drove you to go there, sir?’
‘And why do you need to lie about it?’
Fussell realised what had happened and turned defence into attack.
‘Did you have me followed?’ he demanded. ‘By what possible right did you do that, Inspector? It’s outrageous.’
‘We felt that you were not telling us the truth, sir,’ said Marmion.
‘I had nothing whatsoever to do with Cyril’s murder yet you keep pestering me about it. I did not — let me repeat that — I did
‘As a result, you were exposed as a liar.’
‘I simply went there to see how an acquaintance was doing.’
‘He’s an acquaintance now, is he?’ noted Keedy. ‘A moment ago, he was a friend with pneumonia.’
‘I’ll be complaining about this to your superior.’
‘I shouldn’t bother, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Superintendent Chatfield was happy to sanction the surveillance and it proved something that we believed from the start — namely, that you and Father Howells are closer friends than either of you will admit. Why is that, Mr Fussell? Is it pure accident that your name found its way into his address book?’
‘I refuse to answer that question, Inspector. First thing tomorrow, I’ll be in touch with my solicitor to complain about police harassment of an innocent man.’ He glared at Marmion. ‘Do you have any concrete evidence pointing to my involvement either in the murder or in the assault on Father Howells?’
‘No, sir, we don’t.’
‘Then please leave me alone.’
‘We’re sorry to intrude, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘The sergeant and I just wanted to pass on some good news. Do excuse us.’ He and Keedy left the house and got into the car. ‘I think you can safely say that we rattled his cage.’
‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘and so much for his claim that he and his wife spent every evening alone. He was on his way out.’
‘Did you notice anything about the living room?’
‘It was spotless.’
‘It was also noticeably short of family photographs, Joe. If they had children, there’d surely be some sign of them. Mr Fussell must be one of the few married Roman Catholics who didn’t become a father. Look at the superintendent,’ Marmion went on. ‘He’s a more typical Catholic. He has lots of children.’
Mansel Price stared at the letter then tore it up and threw it into the fire. He’d called at his friend’s house to tell him that, like Hambridge, he’d been notified about an appearance before a tribunal. Having shown him the letter, Price had destroyed it and thereby declared his refusal to turn up at the appointed time.
‘I wouldn’t go that far, Mansel,’ said Hambridge. ‘I’m looking forward to pleading my case. I’ll remind them about Pitt the Younger.’
‘He’s no bloody use to me, Fred.’
‘You’ll have to face them sooner or later.’
‘I’ll tell them that the letter never arrived.’
‘They may send a policeman next time.’
Price was defiant. ‘They’ll have to send more than one to get me there.’
‘There’s no point in asking for trouble,’ said Hambridge. ‘Listen, on my way home, I popped in to see Mr Ablatt. He’s gone back to work.’
‘How is he?’
‘Well, he’s trying to put on a brave face but he must be in agony. Anyway, he seemed pleased to see me and he showed me something that’s really cheered him up. When he took me round the corner of the house, I saw that someone had painted out all those things on it. I wonder who it can be.’
‘It was me, actually,’ said Price, exhibiting hands that had traces of white paint over the fingernails. ‘I can’t get the damn stuff off.’
‘You should have told me. I’d have helped.’
‘I managed.’
