‘Let’s talk about your friends, then,’ he said.
‘My friends wouldn’t hurt me.’
‘I know that.’
‘I have good friends.’
‘Tell me about one of them — Eric Fussell.’
The patient’s face puckered. ‘Who?’
‘Mr Fussell is a librarian.’
‘Oh yes … I’ve met him.’
‘His name is in your address book, Father Howells.’
‘Is it?’
‘Does that mean he’s a special friend of yours?’
‘No, no, I hardly …’
The words died on his lips as he dozed off again. Marmion waited for over a quarter of an hour but the curate remained asleep. The interview was over. At the suggestion of the doctor, they withdrew into the corridor. Keedy came over to them.
‘Did you learn anything of interest, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘I’m not altogether sure,’ said Marmion.
Percy Fry had been glad to note an improvement in Nancy Dalley. She was no longer weeping into a handkerchief over the death of her nephew. She looked much calmer and more composed. Fry’s wife, Elaine, had spent most of the day with her and he could see that it had taken its toll on her. Having driven his boss home on the cart, he took his wife back to the forge. Wearing a fur hat and with a thick shawl over her shoulders, she sat beside him as the cart rattled through the streets.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked her.
‘It was a bit of a trial.’
‘You didn’t have to go, love.’
‘She needed me.’
‘Well, it certainly helps us. Without you there, Jack would have to stay with Nancy and I’d have to run the forge on my own. Don’t enjoy that.’ He shouted at two boys who tried to get a lift by hanging on the back of the cart. ‘Little devils!’ he said, flapping the reins to make the horse go faster. His voice softened. ‘Shouldn’t blame them, really — I used to do that when I was their age.’
Elaine’s mind was elsewhere. ‘I’m worried about her, Percy.’
‘I thought she looked better.’
‘It’s hurt her deep down. It’s as if Cyril was her son.’
‘Well, he might have been her son-in-law,’ said Fry. ‘According to Jack, he went out with their daughter but it didn’t last long. Nora met and married that nice chap we met at the wedding.’
‘Nora’s coming down to London by train tomorrow so I won’t have to be there. She’s going to stay with her mother until the funeral.’
‘Did anyone else turn up today?’
‘Only Mr Ablatt,’ she replied. ‘He’s as wounded as Nancy but he’s much better at hiding it. He told us that one of Cyril’s friends had called in the shop today. He was touched by that.’
‘It must be terrible for him — living on his own, I mean.’
‘He’d rather be on his own than have his sister there.’ She brought up a hand to cover a yawn. ‘Nancy is very tiring to be with.’
‘You’ve done your share, love. Have a rest.’
Traffic was thickening so he needed all his concentration to drive the cart, making sure that the wheels didn’t get caught in any of the tramlines. They drove on through the dark until they finally reached the forge. Fry tugged on the reins and the horse slowed to a halt. A gust of cold wind made him shiver. Jumping down from the cart, he walked around to the other side to help his wife get off but she ignored his outspread arms. When he looked closely at her, he saw that she was so fatigued that she’d fallen asleep. He had to carry her up to the living quarters above the forge.
On the drive to Eric Fussell’s house, Marmion was reflecting on his fractured conversation with the curate. The man was clearly bewildered and in pain. When he talked to him, Marmion had suffered pangs of guilt at having to disturb him. What the patient most needed was rest. Being questioned about what had happened to him had obviously upset Father Howells. Yet it had to be done. While he was full of compassion for him, Marmion was simultaneously suspicious. He had the feeling that the curate hadn’t been entirely honest with him and he couldn’t understand why. Was it possible that he was shielding someone out of misguided loyalty? If so, who was it? And why had Father Howells denied a close association with the librarian when he’d taken the trouble to make a note of his home address? What really puzzled Marmion was the way in which the patient had conveniently dozed off again when put under slight pressure. Was he genuinely asleep or only pretending to be so?
When he confided his suspicions to Keedy, the sergeant took them seriously. Marmion had a sixth sense with regard to honesty. He always seemed to know when he was being told the truth, a half-truth or a downright lie. It was a skill that Keedy hadn’t yet mastered. He hoped that it would come with more experience. The car turned into the street where the Fussells lived. They owned a small end-of-terrace house in a good state of repair. The car grunted to a halt outside and the detectives got out. They walked to the front door.
‘What are we going to do, Harv?’ asked Keedy.
‘Get him to do most of the talking.’
Marmion used the knocker and got an instant response. The door was opened by Fussell who’d been checking his appearance in a mirror before leaving the house. When he saw the detectives, he removed his hat and, after trading civilities, he invited them in. His wife was in the living room but a nod from Fussell sent her off into the kitchen. He didn’t offer his visitors a seat. The room was small but cosy, with a settee and two armchairs occupying most of the space. The wallpaper had a floral pattern and there was a collection of china animals on the mantelpiece.
‘We’ve just come from the hospital, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that Father Howells has regained consciousness.’
‘That’s good news,’ said Fussell, stiffly, ‘but did you really have to come here to tell me that when you’ve got much more important things to do?’
‘I thought you’d be interested, Mr Fussell.’
‘I am.’
‘After all, you went to the hospital yourself earlier today.’
Fussell concealed his shock well. ‘How do you know that?’
‘You were seen there, sir.’
‘Yes,’ said the other, airily, ‘I went to visit a friend of mine who contracted pneumonia. He was so poorly that I wasn’t allowed to see him.’
‘Our information is that you asked after Father Howells.’
‘He was the friend you went to see,’ said Keedy, ‘and, as you well know, it’s not pneumonia that he’s suffering from.’
‘What drove you to go there, sir?’
‘And why do you need to lie about it?’
Fussell realised what had happened and turned defence into attack.
‘Did you have me followed?’ he demanded. ‘By what possible right did you do that, Inspector? It’s outrageous.’
‘We felt that you were not telling us the truth, sir,’ said Marmion.
‘I had nothing whatsoever to do with Cyril’s murder yet you keep pestering me about it. I did not — let me repeat that — I did not attack Father Howells the other night, yet you feel that you have grounds to deploy someone to follow me.’
‘As a result, you were exposed as a liar.’
‘I simply went there to see how an acquaintance was doing.’
‘He’s an acquaintance now, is he?’ noted Keedy. ‘A moment ago, he was a friend with pneumonia.’
‘I’ll be complaining about this to your superior.’
‘I shouldn’t bother, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘Superintendent Chatfield was happy to sanction the surveillance and it proved something that we believed from the start — namely, that you and Father Howells are closer friends than either of you will admit. Why is that, Mr Fussell? Is it pure accident that your name found its way into his address book?’
‘I refuse to answer that question, Inspector. First thing tomorrow, I’ll be in touch with my solicitor to complain about police harassment of an innocent man.’ He glared at Marmion. ‘Do you have any concrete evidence pointing to my involvement either in the murder or in the assault on Father Howells?’