Dance of Death (4 page)

‘He and his friends were among the first to sign up when the war broke out. Unfortunately, my brother was injured at the Battle of the Somme and invalided out. He keeps talking about going back to the front again one day,’ said Alice with a sigh, ‘but that’s another story …’

Holding the letter to catch the best of the light, Paul tried to make out the words again. The handwriting was neat and, by screwing up his eyes, he could read most of the letter. Replying to it, however, was a more taxing assignment. Crouched over the kitchen table, he worked slowly and laboriously. His first two attempts were so bad that he scrunched up the pieces of paper and threw them hard into the bin. Paul gave up all hope of writing properly. Through his blurred vision, the words looked like childish squiggles. As a last resort, he began to use large, decisive capital letters, explaining the problem with his eyesight. The words came much more easily.

It never occurred to him that he would live to regret writing them.

Because he was tetchy at the best of times, it took very little to provoke Claude Chatfield’s ire. He was always simmering. When he found something that really annoyed him, he became uncomfortably loud and extremely animated. All that Marmion could do was to stand there and listen.

‘It’s disgraceful!’ cried the superintendent, pacing his office to work up a head of steam. ‘As if the police don’t have enough to do, we’ve had to rush men over to a village near Enfield to guard the remains of that Zeppelin. Sightseers have descended on the place in thousands by bus, train and car, and they all want souvenirs from the wreck. It’s repulsive. Human beings died in that crash but people show no respect. According to one report I’ve had, they tried to lift the tarpaulin to gloat over the charred bodies. Can you imagine that?’ he howled. ‘In the end, soldiers had to remove the corpses to a tiny corrugated iron church and stand guard over them. If they hadn’t been stopped, I dare swear that some of the vultures would have hacked off parts of the bodies and carried
those
away as souvenirs.’

‘To some extent, sir,’ ventured Marmion, ‘it’s understandable.’

Chatfield rounded on him. ‘Don’t tell me that you
approve
.’

‘Far from it – but you have to look at the circumstances. We’ve suffered any number of air raids in London but this is the first time we’ve been able to strike back. The Zeppelin is no longer invincible. That’s something to celebrate. No wonder people want to get their hands on a piece of the wreckage.’

‘Well, I think it’s deplorable.’

‘It’s an enemy aircraft, sir. They feel entitled to revel in its destruction.’

‘They shouldn’t revel in the death of the crew.’

‘That’s human nature, I’m afraid,’ said Marmion. ‘War has coarsened all of us. The public loves to hear about German casualties. Suddenly, they have a chance to see some of them. It’s dreadful, I know. Like you, I deplore what’s happening near Enfield,’ he went on, ‘but, with respect, the fate of the Zeppelin crew is not really our concern. The murder of Simon Wilder should be our priority.’

Chatfield came to a halt. ‘Don’t presume to lecture me, Inspector.’

‘I was just giving you a gentle reminder, sir.’

‘Well, it’s a totally unnecessary one.’

‘Then I take it back.’

‘It’s too late for that.’

After shooting him a look of displeasure, Chatfield walked behind his desk and lifted up the report that Marmion had brought. As he read through it, his anger slowly abated and he even managed a grunt of admiration. At length, he put the paper aside and turned his gaze on his visitor.

‘You always did know how to dress up a report,’ he said.

‘I wanted you to have enough detail for the press conference, sir.’

‘Are you absolutely
certain
that the victim is Simon Wilder?’

‘We are.’

‘When he was butchered in that alleyway, he was less than half a
mile from his home. What was he doing there?’

‘That’s something of great interest to us, sir. Even as we speak, our men are calling on every house in a wide circle around the scene of the crime.
Somebody
must know why he happened to be in that part of Chingford at that late hour.’

Chatfield glanced at the report again then fired an unexpected question.

‘How would your son react?’

Marmion was taken aback. ‘Paul? What do you mean, sir?’

‘He’s a soldier. He’ll have been coarsened more than any of us. What will be his response to the shooting down of the Zeppelin?’

‘He’ll be very glad.’

‘Won’t he be rushing over to Cuffley? That’s the place where it actually came down. Doesn’t he want to be part of the grisly crowd that’s keen to wash their hands in the blood of the enemy?’

‘My son has seen enough dead bodies already, Superintendent, and he’s watched how degraded men can become by war. The hordes over at Cuffley are not the only souvenir-hunters. German soldiers have collected the most macabre trophies from fallen British soldiers.’

‘I know. I’ve heard the stories.’

‘They’re horribly true.’

‘How
is
Paul?’

Marmion was surprised by the considerate tone in which he spoke. Ordinarily, Chatfield only mentioned the inspector’s family in order to discomfit him. There was genuine interest in his question this time and Marmion was touched. He was reminded that the superintendent was a family man himself and had four children, though he had no son of an age that made him liable to conscription.

‘He’s … getting better, sir,’ said Marmion, guardedly.

‘One reads terrible things about shell shock.’

‘Paul is learning to cope.’

‘I wish him well.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

After a brief foray into Marmion’s private life, Chatfield reverted to being the peppery superintendent who was always respected but never liked by those of lower rank. The return to normality pleased Marmion. He always felt uneasy when Chatfield talked to him as a human being rather than as a colleague who needed to be kept firmly in his place. They discussed the report line by line and the superintendent made a few small adjustments.

‘I like to face the press well prepared,’ he said.

‘That’s to your credit, sir.’

‘Unfortunately, I don’t expect to get the publicity we need. We have sixteen newspapers in London alone and details of this murder should be on the front pages of every one of them. But it’s not going to happen, is it?’

‘No, sir, the shooting-down of that Zeppelin will be the main news.’

‘I hope they pour contempt on those ghastly souvenir-hunters.’

‘We’re dealing with one ourselves,’ said Marmion, grimly.

Chatfield was checked. ‘Are we?’

‘Yes, sir – the killer wanted keepsakes from his victim and I’m not just talking about his wallet, watch and wedding ring.’

‘Quite so,’ said the other, face darkening. ‘You were right to give no details of the mutilation in your report. There are times when information is best held back from the press. Apart from anything else, it would distress the widow beyond bearing. Thank heaven that Mrs Wilder doesn’t have to view the body.’

‘But she’s eager to do so.’

Chatfield was startled. ‘I can’t believe that.’

‘She more or less insisted, sir.’

‘When she heard what had actually happened, I thought she fainted.’

‘It’s true,’ replied Marmion, ‘but she recovered very quickly. Mrs Wilder wanted proof that it really was her husband who was murdered. She’s clinging on to a pathetic hope that it might just be someone else.’

‘And she really wants to put herself through that ordeal?’

‘I advised against it, sir, but to no avail.’

‘She’s going to have the most awful shock.’

‘A neighbour will be with her to offer support.’

‘I saw the corpse, remember. That face of his was like something out of a nightmare. I strongly urge Mrs Wilder to reconsider her decision.’

‘It’s too late, Superintendent,’ said Marmion, looking at his watch. ‘My guess is that the lady will be arriving at the morgue with Sergeant Keedy at any moment.’

Joe Keedy had lost count of the number of times he’d had to catch people who collapsed when they viewed the corpse of a loved one. It was not only women who let out a shriek of horror and lost consciousness. Apparently strong men had also been overcome by emotion. Keedy had once had to catch a vicar whose wife was the victim of a hit-and-run road accident. A person who’d seen many dead bodies in the course of his work fell into Keedy’s arms when confronted with the corpse of the woman he’d married. The sergeant felt that he would need to be alert yet again. Having recovered from the initial shock, Catherine Wilder had revealed an inner steeliness that was quite at variance with her appearance. She had not merely asked to see the body of her husband, she had demanded it as next of kin. The arguments put to her by Marmion and Keedy had been swept aside.

As they entered the morgue, Keedy had the consolation of knowing that most of the wounds would be kept hidden from her. All that she would see was the eyeless face of her husband. The worst excesses of the attack would remain beneath the shroud. It was a source of relief to him. He was then struck by an idea that might lessen the torment even more. It brought him to an abrupt halt. Catherine Wilder was impatient. Arm in arm with Grace Chambers, she fretted at the slight delay.

‘Don’t stop on my account, Sergeant,’ she said.

‘I thought you’d like a moment to prepare yourself.’

‘I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’

‘Then let me make a suggestion,’ he said, indicating a door to his left. ‘Your husband’s effects are in here. It’s only his clothing, I’m afraid. Anything of value was taken away.’ When she gave a nod, he opened the door. ‘This way, ladies …’

He let them go into the room before following. When he spoke to the man on duty behind the counter, the latter disappeared for a short while. He returned with a large metal box, placing it on the counter and waiting for an order. Catherine hesitated. Grace had to squeeze her arm to produce a request.

‘Please open it,’ said Catherine.

The man spoke gently. ‘I’d better warn you what to expect.’

‘Just open it.’

‘Do as Mrs Wilder asks,’ added Keedy.

The man lifted the lid of the box to expose the blood-soaked suit, shirt, tie and underwear of the deceased. When he lifted the items out, they could see that even the shoes and socks had been dyed red. But it was the coat that upset Catherine the most. It was the stylish jacket of a suit made by an expensive bespoke tailor. Worn by her husband, it
had fitted him perfectly and given him a slightly raffish appearance. It was the suit he wore for special occasions but he would never put it on again. There were so many slits and holes in it that it was little more than a pile of rags. As Catherine tottered, Keedy moved in closer to her but she somehow found the strength to remain standing. It was Grace who averted her eyes and began the retch.

‘Do you recognise it as your husband’s clothing, Mrs Wilder?’ asked Keedy.

‘Yes, I do,’ she croaked.

‘I’m so sorry that you had to see it in this condition.’

‘My husband was not merely killed, he was … slaughtered.’

‘The attack was indeed very severe,’ he said, nodding to the man to put everything back in the box. ‘Shall we continue?’

‘No,’ said Catherine, raising a palm.

‘But you came to see the body.’

‘I’ve seen what was done to it, Sergeant, and that’s more than enough. I can identify my husband by his clothing. I can’t bear to see anything else.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Take me home, please.’

Keedy was content. His strategy had worked.

Ellen Marmion walked slowly along the pavement with her son beside her. Paul could see just well enough to be able to go out alone now and to dispense with the white stick with which he’d first been issued. When he learnt that his mother had to visit the shops, however, he took advantage of her company so that he could go to the post office. It meant that he could keep his arm in contact with hers as they strolled along. His confidence was boosted by the fact that he was, in effect, walking normally.

‘I never thought that Colin was interested in girlfriends,’ she said.

‘He wasn’t until we went abroad,’ he replied. ‘But the rest of us all had someone back home who wrote to us and who sent us her photograph. Colin was the odd man out. He met Mavis on his last leave and, suddenly, he couldn’t stop talking about her. He realised what he’d been missing.’

‘I’m glad that he met someone but I do feel sorry for her.’

‘Mavis will miss him badly – and so will I.’

Colin Fryatt had been Paul’s best friend. They’d been inseparable at school and in the years beyond it. They’d played in the same football team, sharing the same excitements and disappointments. Driven by a collective surge of bravado, all eleven of them had enlisted together because it meant that they could serve in the same regiment. Paul had watched the rest of the players dying off one by one. When Colin was killed in action, Paul was not far away from him on the battlefield. Blinded by the explosion, he’d crawled under fire to his friend, relieved him of his beloved mouth organ then blown it with all his might to attract attention. He was eventually rescued by stretcher-bearers. The instrument had saved Paul’s life.

‘I’m so glad you were able to reply to the letter,’ said his mother.

‘I made myself do it. The only thing I couldn’t manage was her name and address on the envelope. You put that on – thanks, Mum.’

‘It was no trouble.’

‘I’ll be able to do things like that for myself soon.’

‘Yes, Paul, I’m sure you will.’

It was a fervent hope rather than a statement of belief but Ellen hid her doubts from him. She’d been told how important it was to keep up his spirits. Mavis Tandy had written to ask if she could meet Paul and, in his reply, he’d agreed. Ellen had reservations about the idea. When her son had first gone off to war, he left behind a girlfriend who
was devoted to him. She and Paul seemed an ideal couple. On his first leave home, they’d even talked of getting engaged. He then returned to France and saw action at last. It had a searing effect on him. On his second visit home, he was a different person, surly, uncommunicative and prone to drunkenness. He kept picking arguments. All of the tenderness vanished from his romance and it quickly turned sour. Instead of getting engaged to him, his girlfriend had been frightened away. Ellen had been deeply hurt.

‘Do you think you did the right thing, Paul?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You don’t
have
to see her.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, she’s a complete stranger.’

‘She was Colin’s girlfriend. I feel that I already know her.’

‘Perhaps you should wait until you’re … properly on the mend.’

‘Mavis knows what happened to me,’ he said. ‘She said how sorry she was. All that she wants to do is to talk about Colin. What’s wrong with that?’

His mother could not find the words to tell him. Her worry was that a visit from Mavis Tandy might bring back all the things that haunted him. She and Marmion had done everything to take his mind off the war and, in particular, off the death of his close friend. It would all be brought vividly back to life now. Ellen was also concerned for the young woman. Paul was so changeable and liable to such explosions of anger that she didn’t want Mavis to see her son in that state.