After a second wash, the bloodstains were still there.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
London was never allowed to forget that there was a war on. Apart from the fact that uniformed soldiers and sailors were always visible on the streets, there was the accumulated bomb damage. Emergency services were kept at full stretch. They were on duty that evening as a fleet of Zeppelins came up the Thames, cruising at ten thousand feet like a flock of giant eagles in search of prey. Laden with bombs, they’d come to inflict another night of terror on the capital. They had, however, been spotted and aircraft from the Royal Flying Corps were dispatched to intercept them. London was treated to a thrilling exhibition of aerial combat, with the smaller, faster and more manoeuvrable British planes trying to fly above the airships in order to bomb them or to get within machine-gun range. The dark sky was a kaleidoscope of bright flashes and sudden explosions. The sound of bullets and destruction reverberated across the heavens. When a Zeppelin blew up with spectacular effect, it scattered debris over a wide area.
The noise could be heard all over the capital. Percy Fry was holding the reins as the horse pulled the cart through Bethnal Green, reacting nervously to the clamour in the sky. At the end of the working day, he was giving Jack Dalley a lift home. The blacksmith looked upwards.
‘Listen to that, Perce,’ he said. ‘The Huns are back.’
‘Those bloody Zeppelins are a menace.’
‘They just keep on coming.’
They’d taken the cart because they had to deliver a gate they’d repaired for a customer. Fry intended to pick his wife up at Dalley’s house to drive her back to the forge. He listened to the pandemonium with foreboding.
‘It sounds as if it’s getting closer.’
‘Keep the bombs away from us,’ said Dalley, staring upwards. ‘We already have enough misery to cope with in our family.’
‘I hope that Elaine has been able to help.’
‘I’m sure she has, Perce. All that Nancy needs is someone to be there with her. To be honest, I’m glad that my brother-in-law went back to work. Having Nancy in his house all day was dragging him down.’ He glanced across at Fry. ‘It’s very kind of your wife to take over, especially when she’s not in the best of health.’
‘She’s bearing up, Jack.’
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘There’s not much he can do, really,’ said Fry, resignedly, ‘and it’s far too expensive for us to keep going back to him and trying new medicine. Elaine never complains. She grits her teeth and gets on with it. Having to help someone else is good for her in a way. It takes her mind off her own troubles.’
‘When there’s a death in the family, you need all the help you can get.’
‘Count on us, Jack.’
‘Thanks.’
As they picked their way through the streets, the distant commotion gradually diminished. The air raid seemed to be over and people were left to assess the damage, take the wounded off to hospital and douse any fires caused by incendiary bombs. The Zeppelins had retreated, still hounded by the British aircraft. Everyone knew that they’d soon be back. War now had an immediacy that was unthinkable in the early days of the conflict. Having invaded Belgium and penetrated into France, the enemy was now striking boldly at the very heart of Britain.
‘How many more of our soldiers will have to die before it’s all over?’ asked Fry, pulling the horse to a halt to let traffic go past at a junction. ‘It seems as if it could go on for ever.’
‘I blame the politicians,’ said Dalley, resentfully. ‘They didn’t put enough soldiers in the field at the very start. They were caught cold. Conscription should have been brought in a year ago. The only way to beat the Germans is with more men.’
‘It’d help if we had better weapons and equipment as well.’
‘What worries me is this poison gas they use. If it doesn’t kill our lads, it blinds them and sets their lungs on fire. What happens if the Germans find a way to drop it in canisters over London?’
Fry pulled a face. ‘I’d hate to find out, Jack.’
They continued to discuss the war until they eventually turned into the street where Dalley lived. Bringing the cart to a standstill, Fry got down onto the pavement and followed the blacksmith into the house. When they went into the front room, they saw Nancy Dalley on the settee with Fry’s wife beside her, one arm around the stricken woman. Elaine was a pale, gaunt, almost skeletal creature with frizzy grey hair and large, staring eyes. Yet she was putting someone else’s needs first. Both women were glad to see their respective husbands. Nancy got up and sought comfort in Dalley’s brawny arms. Before he could ask her how she felt, the door opened and Caroline Skene entered with a pot of tea on a tray.
‘Oh,’ she said, smiling at the newcomers. ‘You’re back.’ She put the tray on the table. ‘I went to Gerald’s house to see if I could be of any use but he wasn’t there. So I came here instead.’
‘And you’re very welcome, Caroline,’ said Dalley, turning to indicate Fry. ‘You remember Percy, don’t you?’
‘Yes, we met at your daughter’s wedding. Nancy has been showing me the photos of it.’ She gave a nod. ‘Hello, Mr Fry.’
‘It’s nice to see you again, Mrs Skene,’ he said with a half-smile. ‘And if there’s another cup of tea going, I’ll be happy to drink it.’
Harvey Marmion took control of the press conference that evening. Though he sat beside the inspector, Claude Chatfield was content to take on the role of an observer. Joe Keedy was seated on the other side of Marmion, always willing to learn from him the art of keeping reporters at bay. The trio of detectives had a lively audience. Hot on the heels of a murder there’d been a vicious attack on a clergyman. Everyone assumed that one man committed two crimes. Marmion disillusioned them.
‘It’s both foolish and misleading to link the two incidents as a certain newspaper has already done,’ he warned, looking around the upturned faces. ‘Granted, there are surface similarities. Both victims were young men who suffered bad head injuries, but there the resemblance ends. Cyril Ablatt was killed and mutilated at some unknown spot then brought to the place where his body was later found. In short, gentleman, we are looking for a killer who is both cautious and calculating.’
‘And who has so far run rings around you, Inspector,’ said a voice.
Marmion smiled. ‘Thank you for that vote of confidence.’ There was general laughter. ‘The second attacker is very different. He takes chances. He struck when other people were still about — one of them actually interrupted him — so he failed in his purpose. That suggests to me that he’s impulsive. Unlike Cyril Ablatt’s killer, he doesn’t plan carefully and bide his time. If you still think that we should be hunting one and the same man, ask yourselves this. If you had murdered someone and had the police in full cry after you, would you be reckless enough to commit a second crime in a place, and at a time, when you couldn’t guarantee escaping unseen? People who get away with a murder tend to cover their tracks. They don’t come back within days to take foolish risks.’
‘Why was James Howells the target, Inspector?’ asked a reporter.
‘I was coming to that. Look closely at the two victims. If they were both the targets of the same man, you’d expect them to have a lot in common, but that’s not true at all. They knew each other, of course. But they are a world away from being twins. In fact,’ said Marmion with emphasis, ‘the differences between them are far greater in number and in scope than any similarities.’
He gave a character sketch of both men, comparing the lives they led and the values they held. Keedy watched the reporters, slowly revising their reflex opinions about the second attack and recording the inspector’s phrases in their notebooks. Marmion had won them back. He not only convinced them that the first investigation had made some significant advances, he persuaded them that important steps had already been taken to apprehend the man who attacked Howells. In the space of fifteen minutes, he’d ensured that Scotland Yard would have kinder headlines in the morning papers.