‘He’ll have seen terrible sights,’ said Marmion, reaching for his tea. ‘It won’t be easy to get them out of his mind.’
There was an uncomfortable silence as they ate their breakfast. When she eventually broke it, Ellen found another source of anxiety.
‘I’m praying that Alice doesn’t go over there as well,’ she said.
‘There’s no danger of that, surely.’
‘There might be, Harvey. She mentioned it yesterday. A couple of her friends in the WEC went off to France as dispatch riders. That could be dangerous.’
‘They’ll be kept well behind the lines, love.’
‘I don’t want our daughter following Paul over there. Talk to her.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing!’
‘Alice won’t listen to me.’
‘Did you listen to your mother at that age?’
She smiled. ‘If I had, then I probably wouldn’t have married you.’
Marmion grinned then forked the last piece of fried egg into his mouth. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, he suddenly accelerated, swallowing his food, draining his cup in a series of gulps and getting to his feet. He went out into the hall and reached for his hat and coat off the peg. As he put them on, he gave a sigh.
‘The war has been a disaster for us,’ he said. ‘We’ve lost a sizeable number of men to the army and all of our best horses are serving in cavalry regiments. This murder would have been so much easier to solve if I could call on more detectives.’
‘They didn’t all volunteer. Some of them like Joe Keedy have stayed.’
‘Oh, I think he was tempted to enlist, Ellen, but he felt that there was important work to do on the home front. Also, of course, endless months in the trenches would play havoc with his social life. Joe is a ladies’ man and there aren’t many available young ladies in the war zone.’
‘You know quite well that that wasn’t the main reason he didn’t join up.’
‘It wasn’t,’ said Marmion, winking at her. ‘He couldn’t resist the privilege of working with me. That’s why he stayed. Mind you,’ he went on, chortling, ‘after being forced to spend the whole of last night keeping a brick wall under surveillance, he might be wishing that he was in the army, after all.’
Keedy was annoyed with himself. He’d not only been distracted when the midnight artist had first appeared, he’d accidentally contrived to rescue the man from a beating and to assist his escape. Once he realised what had happened, he and Mansel Price had scoured the streets but there was no sign of the fugitive. It was wrong to blame the Welshman. He deserved credit. While Keedy had had shelter and a degree of comfort in someone’s front room, Price had spent hours crouched in a doorway. It enabled him to attack the man before he had time to paint anything else on the wall. The situation was not irretrievable. Keedy had the abandoned ladder and the tin of white paint. On the lid of the tin was a sticker with the name of the shop where it was bought. By first light, he’d sought help from the nearby police station. Two uniformed constables were put at his disposal and a third was waiting to take the paint back to the shop to see if anyone could remember to whom it was sold.
The long trudge began. It reminded Keedy of his days in uniform when he sometimes spent an entire day knocking on doors. Having seen the direction in which the man had run off, he had a measure of guidance. While Keedy carried the ladder, the policemen went down either side of the street at the same time in search of its owner. In the first twenty minutes, they got a negative response on every doorstep. Then they saw a postman coming towards them. Keedy caught his attention and beckoned him over. When he identified himself as a detective, he got instant cooperation.
‘Is it to do with this murder?’ asked the postman, breathlessly.
‘It could be.’
‘Then I’ll help all I can.’
‘We’re trying to find the owner of this ladder,’ said Keedy.
‘It probably belongs to Bill Prosser. He’s a window cleaner. You’ve already come past his house. Did you try there?’
‘We’ve knocked on every door in the street. The window cleaner had an alibi for last night. He’s not our man.’
‘Then it must belong to someone else,’ said the postman, thinking. ‘There aren’t many people with a ladder that size. In fact, the only other one I can think of round here is Robbie Gill.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘It’s the next street on the left, Sergeant — number thirteen.’
Keedy’s hopes rose. ‘That could be unlucky for Mr Gill.’
Thanking the postman, he and the two policemen walked to the address given. Since there was no knocker, Keedy used his knuckles to rap on the door. After a delay of a few seconds, he heard someone coming. When the door was unlocked and opened, a stringy man in his forties came into view. There was bruising around his eye and his unshaven cheek was grazed.
‘Mr Gill?’
‘That’s me,’ said the man, gruffly.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy and I’ve come to return your ladder.’
Gill resorted to bluff. ‘Oh, you found it, did you? Thank you very much, Sergeant. It was stolen yesterday. I’m so glad to get it back.’
‘Why is that, sir? Did you intend to paint slogans on other walls?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do,’ said Keedy. ‘Apart from anything else, you assaulted a police officer last night and I take exception to that. You’re under arrest, Mr Gill.’ He parked the ladder up against the front wall of the house. ‘I’ll leave this here. You won’t need it where you’re going.’
Well fed and eager to take up the reins of the investigation once more, Marmion arrived at Scotland Yard and went straight the superintendent’s office. Chatfield was poring over the map of Shoreditch.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marmion.
‘Ah, you’re here at last, are you?’ observed the other, making it sound as if the inspector was late rather than an hour earlier than his designated starting time. ‘It’s going to be another long day. We should have the post-mortem results soon and, with luck, we might get a response to our appeal for witnesses.’
‘It hasn’t happened so far.’
‘That was because the details in the Evening News were very sketchy. It’s different with this morning’s editions. The papers will carry a photograph of the victim and description of the route he would have taken home from that meeting. It will also tell them much more about Cyril Ablatt. And another thing,’ he said, folding the map up. ‘The killer will read the reports. He’ll start to panic.’
‘I beg leave to doubt that, Superintendent. I think he’s a cold-hearted swine who might enjoy the publicity he’s aroused.’
‘That’s arrant nonsense.’
‘Is it?’ retorted Marmion. ‘He deliberately left the body where it could be found. Doesn’t that tell you something about him? Many killers go out of their way to conceal their handiwork in order to delay discovery. Why dump the corpse in a lane when he could have hidden it in the woods or buried it somewhere?’ He remembered Horrie Waldron. ‘He might have buried it in a cemetery, perhaps. Who would think of looking for it there?’
‘You’re being fanciful, Inspector.’
‘I don’t think so, sir. When he put the victim there, the killer was making a statement. He wanted us to know.’
‘What I want to know is how we catch the devil.’
‘We stick to procedure, sir. We gather evidence, sift it, follow every lead and maintain relentless pursuit. If we get help from witnesses, all well and good, but we shouldn’t rely on anyone coming forward. My men went from house to house in the area yesterday and they didn’t pick up a snippet of useful information. Shoreditch was asleep when the corpse was moved. Nobody saw or heard a thing.’
‘I remain more sanguine.’
‘Then I hope your optimism is justified. Coverage will be extensive. We gave them plenty to bite on at the press conference.’