Keedy whistled in surprise. ‘This room makes mine look like Aladdin’s cave.’
‘It is rather bare,’ agreed Marmion.
‘Where are the paintings, the knick-knacks, the personal items?’
‘He didn’t need those, Joe.’
‘Most of us have something to look at.’
‘Perhaps he chose to look inwards.’
Marmion sifted through the books on the table. When he picked up the Bible, nothing fell out of it. The Reverend James Howells was patently not a man who spent much money on himself. They opened the wardrobe to find very little inside apart from some shirts, socks, underclothes and a pair of trousers.
‘He seems to have lived like a monk,’ said Keedy. ‘This whole room reeks of self-denial.’
Marmion grinned. ‘I’m surprised you know what self-denial is, Joe.’
‘I don’t.’
‘They tell me it’s good for the soul.’
‘Thanks for the advice.’ Keedy drew back the curtain to look at the bed. On a shelf supported by a wall bracket were shaving equipment, a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Getting down onto his knees, he peered underneath the bed then reached for something. ‘This might be interesting.’
‘What have you found?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Can you manage, Joe?’
‘I think so.’
Keedy stood up with a small cardboard box in his hands. When he set it on the table, they examined the contents. There were letters from Howells’s father and from fellow clergymen with whom he’d studied. There were some family photographs, and a pile of sermons written in a neat hand with various words underlined. Of most interest to Marmion was a small address book. As he leafed through it, he saw that most of the people listed in it lived in Shoreditch and were, presumably, the curate’s parishioners. His parents’ address was there, as were those of relatives and friends in York. One name jumped out of the address book at Marmion.
‘Eric Fussell is in here,’ he said, curiosity stirring. ‘Yet he doesn’t live in Shoreditch, so he’s unlikely to attend services at St Leonard’s.’
Keedy looked over his shoulder. ‘I see what you mean. He lives in Lambeth.’
‘That raises a question, Joe.’
‘Yes — how did your favourite librarian make his way into the book?’
Mansel Price first heard about the attempted murder when he saw it emblazoned across the front of the newspaper stall at the railway station. Too mean to buy a copy, he instead went to a nearby wastepaper bin and retrieved one discarded earlier. He read it on the way to the bakery. Gordon Leach let him in by the side door.
‘Have you heard, Mansel?’ he asked.
‘I’ve been reading the details on the way here.’
‘It’s scared me rigid.’
‘Well,’ said Price, contemptuously, ‘it doesn’t take much to do that, does it?’
‘Aren’t you afraid you might be next?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘We could be targets.’
‘I don’t believe that. But just in case anybody does come after me,’ said the Welshman, slipping a hand under his coat, ‘I’ll be ready for him.’
He pulled out a knife and thrust it at Leach, making him jump back.
‘Steady on, Mansel! That’s dangerous.’
‘If anyone attacks me, I’ll cut his balls off.’
‘Put that thing away before someone gets hurt.’
Price slipped the knife back into its sheath. ‘You knew this Father Howells, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Leach. ‘Some of us go to church.’
‘I’m a chapel man myself, though I haven’t seen the inside of one since I left Wales. Anyway, I’m usually working on a Sunday. Need the money.’
‘James Howells was a nice man. Thank heaven he survived!’
‘We don’t know that he did,’ said Price, realistically. ‘The paper says he’s still in a coma. He may never recover. That’d be two murders in less than a week.’
Leach was unnerved. ‘We need police on patrol at night around here,’ he argued. ‘It’s the only way to make sure there isn’t a third victim.’
‘If you expect the police to protect you,’ said Price with rancour, ‘you’ll wait till the cows come home. They don’t have the men to spare and they couldn’t care about us, anyway. Sergeant Keedy couldn’t even catch a man about to paint a wall. What chance has he got of arresting a killer?’
‘Fred trusts him.’
‘Don’t listen to Fred. He thinks well of everybody.’
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. When Leach opened it, Ruby Cosgrove threw herself into his arms. After hugging her for a moment, he eased her inside and closed the door.
‘What’s brought you here, Ruby?’ he asked.
‘When I heard the news, I just had to come.’ Seeing Price for the first time, she broke away from Leach. ‘Hello, Mansel.’
‘How are you, Rube?’
‘I’m terribly upset by what I heard.’
‘It wasn’t Gordon he banged on the head — it was only Father What’s-is-name.’
‘We know him,’ she emphasized. ‘Gordon and I saw him in church last Sunday. He was so friendly. Father Howells was going to marry us.’
Price sniggered. ‘I thought you were after this three-day licence.’
‘No,’ said Leach, firmly. ‘That’s out of the question now. We don’t need it any more.’
‘You mean that you and Gordon are not going to get married, after all?’ Price shook his head. ‘I wish the pair of you would make up your bleeding minds.’
‘Watch your language, Mansel,’ warned Leach. ‘I won’t have you swearing in front of Ruby. As for the wedding,’ he continued, shooting Ruby a nervous glance, ‘our plans are not definite at the moment.’
‘Yes, they are,’ she said, decisively.
Leach gaped. ‘Are they?’
‘That’s unless you’ve changed your mind, Gordon.’
‘No, no,’ he said, happily. ‘I’m dying to get married.’
‘Then we leave the date exactly as it was,’ she explained. ‘We’ll have to ask the vicar to take the service, of course, but I’m sure he’ll agree to that.’
‘Wait a minute, Rube,’ said Price, hands on hips, ‘there’s something you’re forgetting. Me and Gordon will be hauled up before a tribunal soon. Fred Hambridge has already had his summons. We’re the next in the queue. How can you walk down the aisle with Gordon when he’s likely to be locked up in prison with me? We’re conchies. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic with me, Mansel Price.’
‘Then don’t plan for something that can’t possibly happen.’
‘But it can,’ she insisted. ‘My father explained it to me. There’s a way for Gordon to stick to his principles without being imprisoned.’
‘No, there isn’t.’
‘He can join a non-combatant corps. They never have to take part in a battle and sometimes they don’t even leave this country. You’d be safe, Gordon, and I’m sure we’d get permission from your commanding officer to go ahead with the wedding in the summer.’ Squeezing his hands, she smiled lovingly at him. ‘Isn’t that the perfect solution?’
Leach could sense that Price was simmering with rage. He played for time.
‘Let me think it over, Ruby,’ he said, tactfully.
On his third visit to Shoreditch library, Marmion took Joe Keedy with him so that he could get the sergeant’s opinion of the librarian. When they arrived, Eric Fussell was in a meeting with his deputy so they had to wait. It gave them the opportunity to scour the shelves. Keedy was fascinated by an illustrated guide to angling.
‘It must be years since I got my fishing rod out,’ he moaned. ‘I used to love sitting in the sun on a riverbank when the fish were nibbling.’
‘You go fishing every day in this job,’ said Marmion with a grin. ‘If you use the right bait and remain patient, you always catch something in the end.’
‘The trouble is that it’s usually small fry, Harv — petty thieves and so on. I’d rather just toss them back into the water.’