‘Morning, Charlie,’ he said. ‘Sorry about what happened yesterday.’
‘No need to explain,’ Redfern told him. ‘I’d have done the same in your shoes, Fred. When I mentioned a murder, you thought it might be your friend.’
‘And it was, unfortunately.’
‘I know. I saw it in the paper.’
‘But I shouldn’t have left you in the lurch like that. It was wrong of me. I’ll make up for it by working much longer this evening.’
‘Please yourself.’
‘Fancy a brew?’
Redfern laughed. ‘Ever known me refuse?’
Hambridge filled the kettle. His boss, meanwhile, took off his coat and hat, hung them up, then looked at himself in the cracked mirror on the wall. He smoothed his hair back with a flabby hand and stroked his chin, disappointed that his beard refused to grow beyond a certain point. When he turned back to Hambridge, the latter took an envelope from his pocket and held it out.
‘You’re not handing in your notice, are you?’ joked Redfern.
‘I might be, Charlie.’
‘I thought you liked working here.’
‘I love it.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Read it for yourself and you’ll find out.’
Redfern took the envelope from him and extracted a letter. His brow crinkled as he read it. Hambridge was a good carpenter and a loyal employee. Redfern didn’t want to lose him. He tried to sound cheerful.
‘This may come to nothing, Fred.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘I’ll tell them my business will collapse without you.’
‘That’s what I was going to ask you, Charlie. I need a favour. Will you speak up for me at the tribunal? It might help.’
‘Try stopping me.’
Redfern put the letter into the envelope and gave it back to him. It was a summons to appear before a military tribunal. Like thousands of other men of a certain age, Hambridge would have to seek exemption from conscription. If he failed to do so, he would either be forced to join the army or face imprisonment.
‘I’ve heard about these bloody tribunals,’ said Redfern, airily. ‘They’re made up of ordinary men and women so it should be easy to pull the wool over their eyes. You’re a skilled worker, Fred. You’re needed here.’
‘I’m not going to fight,’ said Hambridge, reaching for an arresting phrase. ‘I refuse to be an instrument of slaughter in khaki uniform. It’s morally repugnant to me and an infringement of my individual liberty.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed his boss. ‘It’s too early in the morning for big words like that. Where the hell did you get them?’
‘To be honest, I borrowed them from Cyril.’
Redfern suppressed a smirk. ‘Well, they’re no use to him now, are they?’
‘He taught me another thing to say as well.’
‘What was that?’
‘I’ve got to remind the tribunal about William Pitt.’
‘Who, in God’s name, is he?’
‘He was the prime minister donkey’s, years ago,’ explained Hambridge. ‘They called him Pitt the Younger because his father had run the country before him. He was known as Pitt the Elder.’
‘You’re confusing me already, Fred.’
‘Even you must have heard of Napoleon.’
‘Oh, yes — what about him?’
‘Well, when we were trying to raise an army to fight against him, Pitt said that Quakers were exempt. He respected our beliefs. Thanks to Cyril, I’m going to make that point at the tribunal.’
‘What if they still say you’ve got to go in the army?’
Hambridge stuck out his jaw. ‘Then they’ll be wasting their breath.’
Harvey Marmion walked into Shoreditch library and doffed his hat. The atmosphere was sombre. All the staff had heard about the murder of their colleague and so had the majority of their readers. They moved about quietly and conversed in subdued voices, and not only because loud noise was forbidden. Marmion had the feeling that one of the assistants had been crying. Her eyes were pools of sorrow and she kept sniffing. Surprised to see him, Eric Fussell hid his displeasure behind a token smile. He invited the inspector into his office and the two of them sat down. Marmion noticed the pile of newspapers in the wastepaper basket and the pair of scissors on the desk but he made no comment.
‘I hope that you’ve brought good news,’ said Fussell, hands clasped.
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Oh dear — that’s disappointing!’
‘I’m here to clarify a few details,’ said Marmion.
‘I’ve already told you anything that’s relevant. There’s nothing else that I can add, Inspector.’
‘I believe that there is, Mr Fussell.’
‘What does it concern?’
‘It concerns an application made by Cyril Ablatt. Information has come into my hands suggesting that, when Mr Ablatt considered a job elsewhere, you refused to give him a reference.’
The librarian was indignant. ‘That’s not true at all.’
‘In view of the fulsome way you described him to me, I did find it rather odd. The only reason I could think of you blocking his chance of promotion was that he was too valuable a member of your staff to lose. Is that the case, sir?’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘So why didn’t you support his application?’
‘There was no need for a written reference, Inspector,’ argued Fussell. ‘The job was in Lambeth and I happen to be friends with the librarian there. I made a point of telling him what an excellent choice Cyril would be. I praised him to the skies.’
‘Yet somehow he didn’t get the post.’
‘There was a very strong field, Inspector.’
‘Really? That rather contradicts my information.’
Fussell was annoyed. ‘May I ask from whom it was obtained?’
‘I wish I knew, sir. I received an anonymous letter.’
‘Then I should ignore every word in it, Inspector,’ said the other, scornfully. ‘If someone doesn’t even have the courage to sign his name, then he or she can’t be taken seriously. It’s obviously the work of someone trying to get me into hot water.’
‘And why should anyone do that, Mr Fussell?’
‘We all make enemies unwittingly — even you, I daresay.’
Marmion laughed. ‘I don’t have to make enemies unwittingly, sir. I already have them in their thousands. The moment you join the police force, you’re hated by every criminal in London. It’s an occupational hazard.’
‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’
‘We’re targets for mindless hatred.’
‘That must be a constant problem.’
‘You learn to ignore it.’
‘I’m not sure that I could, Inspector. As for that post in Lambeth,’ Fussell continued, ‘I fear that Cyril’s chances were imperilled by his circumstances. Now that conscription has been brought in, he’s more than liable to be called up. That must have been taken into account at the interview. Nobody wants to appoint someone then lose them to the army.’
‘But there was no such thing as conscription when he went after that job last year,’ Marmion reminded him. ‘It was all of eight months ago. Politicians were still fighting over whether or not to bring in compulsory service. This country has never needed it before. It was a huge break with tradition.’
‘Regrettably, it was a necessary one.’
‘That’s immaterial. The point is that it was not a factor in the interview at Lambeth. It shouldn’t have tipped the scales against him — whereas the lack of a glowing testimonial from you certainly would.’
‘I told you — I gave him strong verbal support.’
‘So you preferred to use your influence behind the scenes.’
‘Nobody could have done more.’
Marmion had grave doubts about that claim. He made a mental note to seek confirmation from the librarian in Lambeth. He could see why Ablatt had wanted to move from Shoreditch library. According to the anonymous letter, there was a lot of unresolved friction between him and Fussell. At his first encounter with the librarian, Marmion had sensed that that was the case. The primary reason for going to Lambeth, however, had been the fact that Caroline Skene lived there. Ablatt was ready to endure longer journeys to and from work in order to be closer to the woman he loved.