she’d still be alive and so would your wife.’
Beresford reacted as if from a pinprick. ‘There’s no way of knowing that,’ he said. ‘This man, Wylie, pursued her because she rebuffed him. Telling you about him wouldn’t have stopped him doing that.’
‘Yes, it would. I’d have warned him off.’
‘He doesn’t sound like a man who’d pay attention to warnings. From what the inspector told us, Wylie was in the grip of an obsession. You couldn’t have frightened him off with a few stern words.’
As he battled with unpleasant memories, Jenks looked even more anguished.
‘Do you have any children?’ he asked.
‘No, Mr Jenks.’
‘Then you can’t really understand what it feels like.’
‘That’s probably true,’ said Beresford with irritation. ‘But, if that’s all you came to tell me, I’m afraid that I have work to get on with.’
‘Don’t send me off,’ pleaded Jenks. ‘What I really came for was information. I know it will be very painful but I’d like to hear it all the same. You told me that Enid confided in your wife that this man was hounding her at work and elsewhere. I know that my daughter was friendly with Shirley. What exactly did your wife tell you?’
Marmion took pity on his chauffeur. Having subjected the man to two marathon drives, he elected to go to Rochester by train instead. In the event, it was a quicker mode of travel. Having returned to London, he and Keedy changed trains and headed down into Kent. The sergeant was optimistic. Since he’d decided that Herbert Wylie was the man who’d caused the explosion, he was delighted that they were finally about to meet him. Marmion, as always, was more cautious.
‘It sounds too good to be true, Joe,’ he said.
‘The only thing that sounds too good to be true is hearing Chat giving us three cheers for our excellent work,’ said Keedy. ‘Getting praise out of him is like getting blood out of a stone.’
‘It’s the confession that worries me.’
‘Criminals are not all hard-hearted monsters. Some have a conscience.’
‘Then why didn’t it prompt Wylie to hand himself in earlier? If he was sorry for what he’d done, he could have come straight to Scotland Yard.’
‘You’ve got to remember the state he must have been in,’ argued Keedy. ‘He planted that bomb in order to kill Enid Jenks. Once the explosion was over, he’d done what he set out to do and fled the scene. That makes sense, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes — up to a point.’
‘It was only when he’d had time to reflect on it that he realised there’d been other victims. Beforehand, that wouldn’t have troubled him. They were simply incidental casualties. Afterwards, however,’ said Keedy, ‘he came to see them as real human beings whose lives he’d ended needlessly.’
‘You could be right,’ conceded Marmion, ‘but I reserve my judgement.’
‘Can’t you enjoy a bit of luck when you see it, Harv?’
‘All that I see is a possibility — and it’s no more than that — of an arrest. Even if it is Wylie, there’s no guarantee that he was actually the bomber.’
‘Why else should he confess to the crime?’
‘We’ll soon find out, Joe.’
Having been to Rochester before, Marmion made sure that they sat on the right-hand side of the compartment so that they had a good view of the River Medway as it curved in a graceful arc towards the town. On the other side of the river were the ruins of the Norman castle with its tower soaring up into the sky. Beyond it was the cathedral, a structure notable for its solidity rather than for any architectural majesty. Rochester was a quaint little town with a number of half-timbered old houses and with close associations with Charles Dickens. It was Keedy’s first visit but he saw none of its abundant attractions. As soon as they left the train, they went straight to the police station and introduced themselves.
The detectives were shown the signed statement made by the claiming to be Wylie. It was short and explicit, naming all five of the victims. Marmion and Keedy were conducted along a passageway to an interview room. The door was unlocked for them and they were left alone with the prisoner. He was sitting with his arms resting on the table in front of him and barely lifted his eyes to them. He looked slightly broader than he had been in the photograph of him but there was a definite resemblance to the man on the works outing. There was the same grim expression and the same strange intensity about him.
They sat in the two vacant chairs and appraised him. He remained motionless. Marmion performed the introductions and warned him that everything he said would be taken down. Keedy produced a notebook and pencil. The interrogation began on a relatively calm note.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Marmion.
‘Herbert Wylie,’ replied the man.
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Why should I lie to you?’
‘Do you have any form of identification on you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I threw everything away when I left Hayes,’ said the other. ‘I wanted to start a new life with a different name. That’s why I came here.’
His northern accent was faint but unmistakable, his voice heavy with remorse.
‘Did you plant a bomb in the outhouse of the Golden Goose?’
‘Yes, I did, Inspector.’
‘Why did you do it?’
‘I wanted to kill someone.’
‘The bomb killed five young women. Was that your intention?’
‘I can’t remember. It’s all scrambled in my mind now. When I placed that bomb there, I knew what I wanted. Afterwards, it was different.’
‘Where were you born?’
‘Sheffield.’
‘Where did you work?’
‘At the Hayes munition factory — I was in the Cartridge Section.’
‘How long had you been there?’
‘I got a job there soon after it opened.’
‘Where did you live?’
‘I rented a room from an old lady.’
‘What was her name?’
‘It was Mrs Armadale.’
‘Right,’ said Marmion, raising his voice. ‘Almost everything you’ve told me so far could have been found in the newspapers. Let’s see how well informed you are about people and events that have
‘I’m Herbert Wylie,’ insisted the other. ‘What more do you need to know?’
‘Did your landlady wear spectacles?’
‘Yes, she did.’
‘How did you get into that outhouse?’
‘That would be telling.’
‘What’s the name of the works manager?’
‘The only thing that matters is
‘What you did,’ said Marmion with utter disgust, ‘is to waste our time and distract us from the search for the real killer. You’re not Wylie,’ he added, rising to his feet. ‘You’re just a pathetic little creature who wants the perverse thrill of being regarded as a mass murderer.’
‘It’s not true!’ exclaimed the man, thumping the table. ‘I’m Herbert Wylie.’
‘Then you should know that Mrs Armadale doesn’t wear spectacles. She told us how particular her lodger
