He reminded himself of the reassuring words that Cyril Ablatt had often used. They would not be common criminals. They would be prisoners of conscience, martyrs to a just cause and an inspiration to others. Leach was young, fit and able to withstand the rigours of imprisonment. What he did not know was whether Ruby would be waiting for him when he was released. If she were, he could cope with anything. If not, his time behind bars would be continuous torture. His conscience might be salved but his hopes of a happy marriage would be dashed. A life without Ruby, he felt, was quite meaningless.
Unable to make up his mind, he tried to recall the days when he and his three friends had their regular meetings and committed themselves to an agreed cause of action. It had all seemed so clear then. Though she had misgivings, Ruby had supported his decision. The right path had been chosen. Ablatt’s death had introduced an element of panic into the situation. Leach had been convinced that he was also in jeopardy. A second brutal attack had intensified his fears but at least it had brought Ruby back to him. Her love, however, might be conditional on his accepting her father’s advice about joining a non-combatant corps. How could he keep her without losing the respect of his two friends?
When he’d had problems in the past, he’d always been able to turn to Ablatt, whose clarity of thought was a godsend to Leach. Since he could no longer rely on him, he decided to call on Ablatt’s father instead to see if he could draw strength from another source. After completing his round, therefore, he drove to the cobbler’s shop and pulled the horse to a halt outside. He could see Gerald Ablatt through the window, bent over a last as he mended a shoe. Leach let himself into the little shop and was met by a strong aroma of leather and polish.
‘Good morning, Mr Ablatt,’ he said.
‘Oh hello, Gordon,’ said the cobbler, looking up.
‘I saw that the shop was open when I drove past yesterday.’
‘Yes, it’s business as usual.’
‘How are you?’
Ablatt’s head rocked from side to side. ‘I’m as well as can be expected,’ he said. ‘Everybody has been very kind. Cyril’s aunt spent a lot of time with me, then my cousin, Mrs Skene, popped in yesterday. I’m never alone.’
‘That’s good.’
‘What about you?’
‘Oh,’ said Leach, ‘I’m all right, I suppose. Well, no,’ he corrected, ‘to be honest with you, I’m not. I don’t really know what to do. Cyril would have guided me in the right direction. Without him, I’m a bit lost.’
‘I feel the same,’ said Ablatt with a wan smile. ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘I can’t bother you with my problems, Mr Ablatt.’
‘But I’d like to help. Pretend that I’m Cyril.’
The cobbler was so calm, friendly and steadfast that Leach was persuaded to confide in him. He explained the quandary he was in and how he could see no compromise that would satisfy all parties. Ablatt listened to arguments that his son had put to him many times and he felt a nostalgic glow.
‘Well,’ he said when Leach had finished his recital, ‘we both know what Cyril would have told you. He’d have said you must be true to your conscience. Nothing could be simpler than that.’
‘What if I lose Ruby?’
‘I think she’s more likely to admire you for your principles.’
Leach was unsure about that but he felt oddly comforted by the visit. His difficulties paled beside those of Gerald Ablatt, who, having lost his son in a foul murder, would have to endure an inquest and a family funeral before going back to live alone in an empty house. Leach thought about the slogans there.
‘I’m glad they caught the man who painted those words on your wall.’
‘Yes — so am I, Gordon.’
‘It was a rotten thing to do. At least you know he won’t be back.’
‘He might not be,’ said Ablatt, ‘but somebody else came in the night with a paintbrush. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw what he’d done.’
Leach was aghast. ‘Was someone else mocking Cyril?’
‘Oh, no, it was nothing like that. He did us a favour. The whole wall had been painted white and those cruel words have disappeared. There are some good people here,’ said Ablatt, thankfully. ‘I’m sorry I had to lose Cyril to find that out.’
Harvey Marmion returned to Scotland Yard to hear about the arrest and questioning of Horrie Waldron. He, in turn, told Joe Keedy about his visit to Lambeth to see Caroline Skene. They were both keenly aware that they possessed information relating to the murder that they hadn’t passed on to the superintendent. Chatfield knew nothing of Caroline’s existence and the relationship between Waldron and Maud Crowther had also been kept from him. The detectives hoped that they could solve the crime without having to reveal everything to their superior. Should he find out that they’d deceived him, they’d be hauled up before the commissioner.
‘It’s a chance we have to take,’ argued Marmion. ‘I gave my word to Mrs Skene that her friendship with Ablatt would not become common knowledge.’
‘And I did the same to Mrs Crowther,’ said Keedy, seriously. ‘Though I’d never break that trust, I did pretend to Waldron that I was going to, if only to provoke him. He went berserk. I charged him with resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. That gives us enough reason to hold him in custody while we dig deeper.’
‘I’d like to have a go at him myself.’
‘He’s not very cooperative, Harv.’
‘The Waldrons of this world never are.’ He winked at Keedy. ‘I’ll appeal to his finer instincts.’
‘Horrie doesn’t have any.’
‘Mrs Crowther obviously thinks that he does. I fancy that another visit to her might pay dividends, Joe. Acquaint her with the plight that her admirer is in.’
‘She’ll disown the old bugger on the spot.’
‘Only if she thinks he’s guilty of murder, and the evidence for that is far from conclusive. I’ve brought the trousers back with me, by the way. There’s no doubt in my mind that they’re spattered with blood — but did it get there during the murder of Cyril Ablatt?’
‘It’s possible. Chat, of course, thinks it’s highly probable.’
‘He’s eager to get the case wrapped up so that the press will say more nice things about him. But he’s enough of a detective to know that we need more evidence or — praise God that this happens — a confession out of Waldron.’
Keedy chuckled. ‘You’re more likely to get a volcanic eruption.’
‘I’ll remember to wear a tin hat.’ Marmion seemed to drift off into a world of his own for a few minutes. When he emerged from his daydream, he was surprised that Keedy was there. ‘Off you go, then. Talk to Mrs Crowther first, then call at the pub. Her son told you that Waldron had returned there that evening with the same clothes he had on when he left. Ask him if he noticed any bloodstains on the trousers.’
‘What will you be doing?’
Marmion adopted a fighting pose. ‘I’ll be going three rounds with Horrie Waldron,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Want to place a bet on the outcome?’
Alice Marmion pointed out that it was not too late to change her mind but Vera Dowling was adamant. She didn’t wish to go to tea at Hannah Billington’s house that afternoon, though she was looking forward to hearing every last detail about the visit when her friend came back. After loading the lorry, they were having a brief rest. Alice was excited at the thought of the visit to a grand home. It would be a one-sided treat. Alice would never dream of inviting Hannah to tea at her own house and especially not at her digs. She’d be too embarrassed to show the older woman the place where she lived. Hannah had seen it from the outside when she dropped Alice off there but she had no idea how poor the accommodation was. Vera, curiously enough, had a better room in a larger house and she’d pressed her friend to join her there, but it was an offer that Alice had politely turned down. Had she been sharing accommodation with Vera Dowling, there was no way that Keedy would have been able to make contact with her the previous night. Indeed, the evolving friendship with him would have been virtually impossible.