‘You know that I do. I want it more than anything else in the world.’
‘Then we should be man and wife sooner rather than later.’
‘Everyone I know has been married in a church.’
‘That’s the ideal place, I agree,’ he said, ‘but you have to look at the situation we’re in. The law says that I should be called up. One way or another, we may be separated. We must face facts. I may not be able to marry you in the summer. If we have a wedding with this special licence, we can not only be together,’ he stressed, ‘but I’ll be exempt from conscription. Married men are not liable to be called up.’
Ruby looked at him but it was not in the usual adoring way. For the first time in their long courtship, there was doubt in her eyes. While she loved him enough to marry him, she had the strange feeling that she was not only being deprived of the joy of a church wedding; she was being used as an escape route.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Joe Keedy was late arriving at the place where they’d agreed to meet. His diversion to Maud Crowther’s house had taken time. When he finally turned up, he found Harvey Marmion waiting for him in the car. On the drive to the photographer’s studio, they were able to compare notes. Keedy went first, talking about his encounter with Waldron and of his unexpected discovery that so repellent a man could, inexplicably, arouse romantic interest in a woman. He spoke about her with admiration. Maud had struck him as someone who’d worked hard all her life and retained more than a vestige of her once handsome features as well as her natural buoyancy.
‘What did she mean, Joe?’ asked Marmion. ‘When she told you that it wasn’t what you might think — what was she trying to say?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps they just play cards together.’
‘Oh, I fancy there’s more to it than that,’ said Keedy with a smile. ‘I could tell from her tone of voice. When I first mentioned Waldron’s name, she flared up and called him a good-for-nothing. As we went on to talk about him, however, she slowly mellowed and referred to him with real affection.’
‘It could still be an innocent friendship.’
‘Then why are they both so anxious to keep it secret? Waldron was scared stiff in case Mrs Crowther’s son ever found out about it. In the son’s place, I certainly wouldn’t be happy. I don’t mind admitting it. If my mother ever got involved with someone as revolting as Waldron, I’d be very upset.’
‘It’s not a fair comparison,’ Marmion pointed out. ‘Your father is still alive so your mother is not a widow. If a woman is on her own after years of having a man about the house, she could get very lonely. It may be that Mrs Crowther sees things in Waldron that eluded your sharp eye.’
‘It was my sharp nose that turned me off him. He stank to high heaven.’
‘Digging graves is not the most salubrious occupation.’
‘I can only think that he cleans himself up before he calls on her.’
‘That’s a matter between the two of them, Joe. The question remains. Do we or don’t we treat him as a suspect?’
Keedy pondered. ‘We keep his name on the reserve list.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘It’s because he could have been away from the Weavers Arms long enough to visit his lady friend and to commit a murder. Waldron may not be very bright but he has a low animal cunning. It all depends on when Cyril Ablatt was killed.’
‘Post-mortems can never be that precise,’ said Marmion, sighing. ‘The best they can do is to give us an approximate time. I’ve sent someone to find out when Ablatt actually left Devonshire House yesterday. That will give us a rough time frame in which the murder occurred. However,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘from what you’ve told me about Waldron, I’m not sure that he’ll ever get off a notional reserve list of suspects.’
‘I still think we should keep probing, Harv.’
‘We will, I promise.’
It was Marmion’s turn to deliver a report and he recounted details of his visit to the library. Keedy was interested to hear that he’d taken such a dislike to Eric Fussell. As a rule, Marmion was a very tolerant man, able to work effectively with nauseating superiors like Superintendent Chatfield and to give most people the benefit of the doubt. Yet, in the short time they’d been together, he’d obviously taken against the librarian.
‘I’m not entirely sure why,’ he admitted as he tried to work it out. ‘There was just something about him that nettled me. He looked genuinely shocked when he heard about the murder, yet the moment I described Ablatt as a librarian, he pounced on the mistake. Even the death of his assistant couldn’t keep his self-importance at bay. Incidentally,’ continued Marmion, ‘he’s had a brush or two with Horrie Waldron. When he’s drunk, he reckons, the gravedigger could be very dangerous.’
‘I can verify that,’ said Keedy. ‘I wouldn’t like to have an argument with him when he’s got a spade in his hands. He’s a very strong man.’
‘He’s obviously capable of bludgeoning someone to death but I don’t accept that he’d have the brains to plan the murder. Someone else would have to do that. Waldron might simply be the hired killer, working for another man with a grudge against Ablatt.’
‘Do you have any idea who the other man could be, Harv?’
A name trembled instantly on Marmion’s tongue and he spat it out.
‘It could be someone like Eric Fussell.’
Having started work early that morning, Mansel Price was due to finish by mid afternoon. Before he’d left the train, he’d cooked himself a meal then wolfed it down in the privacy of the galley kitchen. When he came off duty, he was astonished to see Fred Hambridge waiting for him on the station platform. Though the carpenter knew his friend’s shift pattern, he should have been working himself at that time. Price could not understand why he wasn’t beavering away in his workshop. Hambridge had a newspaper under his arm. Spotting the Welsh cook, he ran across to him.
‘Hello, Mansel,’ he said. ‘Have you heard?’
Price’s face went blank. ‘Heard what?’
‘About Cyril.’
‘What about him?’
‘I can’t tell you here. Let’s go outside.’
They picked their way along the crowded platform towards the exit. Once outside in the street, Hambridge took Price by the elbow and led him to a quiet corner further along the pavement. He opened the newspaper to show him the headline.
‘This is the early edition,’ he said, giving it to him.
Price saw the front page story in the Evening News and gasped in horror.
‘Is this our Cyril Ablatt?’ he asked, incredulously.
‘I’m afraid so, Mansel.’
‘I just don’t believe it.’
‘It’s true. My boss was the first who told me about it. Then this detective came to my house to ask me all sorts of questions about Cyril. I was too upset to go back to work. It must be years since I cried but I don’t mind telling you that I cried my eyes out earlier on.’ He pointed to the headline. ‘Now we know why he never got to my house last night.’
Price was hypnotised by the newspaper report. It contained few details but the significant one was the name of the victim. He noted that the detective in charge of the case was an Inspector Marmion. Eventually, he thrust the paper back at his friend.
‘Does Gordon know about this?’
‘He’ll know for certain by now because the police will have told him. I warned him earlier on when my boss said there’d been a murder last night but I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure that it was Cyril. No doubt about it now.’
‘I’ll kill the bastard who did this!’ vowed Price.
‘No, you won’t,’ said Hambridge, a calming hand aloft. ‘You don’t believe in killing anybody. That’s why you’re a pacifist.’
‘I’ll make an exception for this man.’
‘I felt the same at first, Mansel, but it’s not our job to get revenge. We must let the police hunt him down.’
‘Well,’ said Price, venomously, ‘at the very least, I’ll be dancing outside the prison when they hang the swine. It’s awful. Who would do such a thing?’