‘What did you think of the press coverage of the murder?’ asked Marmion.
‘I haven’t had time to look at it properly.’
‘Your staff clearly read some of it. There’s a sense of gloom out there.’
‘It doesn’t stop us from getting on with our jobs, Inspector.’
‘That’s very commendable.’
‘The real headache will come when it’s time for the funeral,’ said Fussell, composing his features into something faintly resembling grief. ‘We all feel duty-bound to go, of course, but someone has to run the library. There’s going to be a clash of loyalties.’
‘In which way will you be pulled, sir?’
‘Oh, I’m the captain of the ship. I have to remain on the bridge.’
The man’s pomposity grated on Marmion. Having said on two separate occasions that he revered Ablatt, the librarian couldn’t even make the effort to attend his funeral. It was difficult to know if — in staying away — he would be acting out of guilt or indifference.
‘You’ve got plenty of time to arrange cover,’ said Marmion. ‘The funeral won’t be for some time. As yet, we haven’t even had the inquest. I would have thought that you had an obligation to be there.’
‘I also have obligations to Shoreditch library,’ Fussell retaliated.
‘It’s your decision, naturally.’
‘Indeed, it is.’
The emphasis he put on his reply showed that he had no intention whatsoever of paying his respects to a junior colleague he professed to like and admire. It was further indication that the information in the anonymous letter was accurate. Marmion looked down at the wastepaper basket. It had been empty the previous day. It was now filled with newspapers. Yet the librarian had asserted that he’d had no time to study the press coverage of the crime. Marmion was riled by Fussell’s amalgam of complacency and spite. He probed more deeply.
‘You never really liked Cyril Ablatt, did you?’
‘I held him in the highest regard.’
‘Then why did you scupper his chances in Lambeth?’
‘Pay no attention to that letter. People will say anything to discredit me.’
‘I’m giving you the right to defend yourself, sir.’
‘I don’t need to do that,’ said Fussell, disdainfully. ‘My record speaks for itself. I’ve made this place the success that it is.’
‘That wasn’t what Ablatt thought, was it?’
‘He never fully understood library administration.’
‘Yet he had a diploma in the subject,’ said Marmion, ‘and he’s learnt a great deal under your tutelage. That being the case,’ he went on, measuring his words, ‘the critical report he compiled about this library deserves to be taken seriously. My first impression was that you ran this place extremely well. Ablatt didn’t think so, did he? You must have been hopping mad when you read it.’
Marmion had touched a raw nerve. Facial muscles tightening, Fussell was visibly wounded. Whoever had sent the letter to Scotland Yard had been well informed about what went on inside Shoreditch library.
Joe Keedy was still not showing any fatigue after his long night awake. With a new alibi to check, he called at the Weavers Arms when it was still closed and had to be let into the pub by the side door. Stan Crowther wagged a teasing finger.
‘I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘we’re not open. I can’t even serve a copper.’
‘I’m not here for the beer, Mr Crowther.’
‘I daresay that my mother could rustle up a cup of tea.’
They went into the bar where Maud Crowther was seated at a table with a ledger opened out in front of her. When she saw Keedy enter she was alarmed, but his face was impassive. He gave no hint of the fact that he’d already met her and offered his hand when her son introduced them.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Crowther,’ he said.
She shook his hand. ‘Hello, Sergeant Keedy.’
‘My mother likes to check the books now and then,’ said the landlord with a grin. ‘She doesn’t trust me to get my sums right.’
‘Someone has to keep an eye on you, Stanley,’ she declared.
‘When you ran the pub, I didn’t interfere.’
‘No, you were too busy losing your good looks in the boxing ring.’ She glanced up at Keedy. ‘You may not believe this, Sergeant, but Stanley was quite handsome when he was younger. Look at him now.’
Crowther guffawed. ‘I don’t think he can bear to. I’ve got the kind of ugly mug that frightens kids and old ladies. Anyway,’ he said, leaning against the counter, ‘what are you after this time, Sergeant?’
‘I want to ask about a customer of yours,’ said Keedy.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Robbie Gill — he’s a plumber.’
‘He tries to be, you mean. Robbie doesn’t know one end of a pipe from the other. I don’t understand how he stays in business.’
‘Was he in here on the night that Cyril Ablatt was killed?’
‘You don’t think that Robbie is a suspect?’ asked Maud in amazement. ‘Because you’re on the wrong track if you do.’
Keedy’s gaze flicked to her. ‘Why do you say that, Mrs Crowther?’
‘I know him, that’s why. He hasn’t got the courage to kill a mouse.’
‘It’s true,’ agreed Crowther. ‘If Mother wasn’t here, I’d tell you that Robbie Gill was as soft as sh-’
‘That’s enough of your bad language, Stanley,’ she scolded.
‘Have you ever met him, Sergeant?’
‘Yes,’ replied Keedy. ‘I arrested him earlier this morning.’
They were both very surprised at the news. Keedy gave them a highly edited version of events, omitting the fact that he’d failed to catch Gill when first given the chance. Mother and son could rustle up very little sympathy for the plumber. He came to the pub regularly but was not popular there.
‘On the night when the murder took place,’ said Keedy, ‘Mr Gill claimed that he spent an hour or so here. Do you remember seeing him, Mr Crowther?’
‘Yes,’ returned the landlord. ‘He was in at his usual time.’
‘He mentioned playing darts with Horrie Waldron.’
‘That’s possible. I didn’t actually see him because the place was crowded but Horrie was definitely here. They could have played darts.’
‘In other words, Mr Gill has an alibi.’
‘He’s not your killer, Sergeant. Look elsewhere.’
‘I never thought much of the man,’ Maud put in, ‘but I think even less of him now that I know what he did. Painting those things on a wall was so sneaky.’
‘That’s Robbie for you,’ said Crowther, moving away. ‘If you’ve finished with me, Sergeant, I need to fetch up some crates of stout from the cellar.’
‘Go ahead, sir. Thank you for your help.’
‘Mother will make you that cup of tea, if you like.’
‘No need,’ said Keedy, ‘I have to be on my way.’
He waited until Crowther had left the bar and shut the door behind him before turning to Maud. She stood up and kissed him.
‘It was so kind of you not to give me away. I can’t thank you enough.’
‘I told you that you could trust me.’
‘My heart stopped beating when you walked in.’
Keedy smiled. ‘Yes, I had a bit of a shock myself. However, I won’t bother you any longer. I’ll be on my way.’ He paused at the door as he recalled something. ‘Actually, I do have a question for you, Mrs Crowther.’
‘Be quick about it. Stanley will be back soon.’
‘When a certain person came to see you two nights ago …’
‘Name no names, Sergeant.’
‘Was he carrying a spade at the time?’
Maud was flabbergasted. ‘A spade?’
‘He had one with him when he left here, it seems.’
‘Well, he certainly didn’t bring it to my house,’ she said with a rush of anger. ‘If he’d dared to do that, I’d have hit him over the head with it. That certain person came as an admirer — not as a gravedigger.’
Eric Fussell had made the mistake of underestimating his visitor. The librarian thought that he could treat Marmion with the same condescension that he used on his staff. It only served to deepen the inspector’s dislike of the man. Marmion was polite but ruthlessly persistent. He kept pecking away at Fussell until he began to see cracks in his well-defended facade. Cyril Ablatt had decided that the library could be run much more efficiently if a series of changes were made. Without telling Fussell, he discussed his ideas with the other assistants and got almost unanimous backing for them. He then stayed behind one evening to type up a report that contained some scathing comments about the librarian’s methods. When it was given to him, Fussell had been infuriated.