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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Home Front Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
'Edward Marston is a master of his craft.'Daily Mail December 1917. Ada Hobbes arrives on a frosty morning to clean the house owned by Dr Tindall, a surgeon at the Edmonton Military Hospital. She is shocked to find the blood-covered body of her employer sprawled across the floor. He has been hacked to death. Detective Inspector Harvey Marmion and Sergeant Joe Keedy arrive to a horrific scene. Someone enjoyed killing him, without a doubt. Their investigation takes them far out of London and on the trail of a very different Dr Tindall, one who was not the respectable local doctor everyone thought he was. Marmion and Keedy will need to sift through a number of likely suspects to find the killer behind this gruesome murder.
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Seitenzahl: 416
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Orders to Kill
EDWARD MARSTON
To my wonderful son, Conrad
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
December, 1917
Days began early for Ada Hobbes. It was just past four o’clock in the morning when she let herself out of her house and felt the first blast of an icy wind. Head down and teeth clenched, she began the long walk over frost-covered pavements that did their best to bring her crashing down on the stone slabs. But she was far too watchful and sure-footed to slip and fall. Now in her fifties, Ada was a short, skinny woman, wrapped up in a moth-eaten fur coat that had been through three generations before it had reached her. The scarf around her neck also covered her mouth and her hat was pulled down over her face. Though she looked frail and defenceless, she was quite the opposite. Scarred by loss and tested by recurring misfortune, she had survived both. Ada was a fighter.
To reach the offices where her working day started, she had to walk the best part of two miles, leaving the drab, cheerless, overcrowded district where she lived before arriving in a more affluent area. Her destination was an imposing Victorian residence converted into offices by an insurance company. Those who worked there expected three things on their arrival. They wanted their waste-paper baskets to be empty, their desks to be polished and fires to have been laid in their respective grates. Ada never let them down.
She was quick yet thorough, cleaning each office in turn and leaving it spotless. After putting everything away, Ada went on a final tour of the building to make sure that nothing had been missed. Then she picked up the envelope on the hall table and slipped it into her handbag. There was no need to count the money. Her employers trusted her enough to give her keys to the property and she trusted them. Ada was soon letting herself into a house less than a hundred yards away and tackling another set of offices. Tireless and methodical, she went through the same routine. A second envelope was dropped into her handbag.
Her third assignment that morning was her favourite. It was in a detached house that stood in a tree-lined avenue. Ada only had to satisfy the needs of one person this time instead of whole groups of them. Her employer was specific. When she entered the house, she found his instructions awaiting her. After making a mental note of them, she bustled along the passageway, went into the kitchen and through into the room beyond it. Expecting to find all that she needed, she reached for a sweeping brush. Then she realised that there was an unexpected visitor in the room.
Opening her mouth in horror, she staggered back against the wall, then slid down it until she hit the floor and passed out.
CHAPTER TWO
No sooner had they arrived at Scotland Yard that morning than they were sent out again. Inspector Harvey Marmion climbed into the rear of the police car with Joe Keedy. It sped away from the kerb and dodged through traffic.
‘Where are we going?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Edmonton.’
‘Why?’
‘We’ll find out when we get there.’
‘Didn’t Chat tell you anything?’
‘It’s a gruesome murder, Joe. That’s all we need to be told.’
‘We always get the messy cases,’ complained Keedy.
‘That’s because we usually solve them.’
‘There’s more to it than that. Chat has been throwing his weight around ever since he got promoted and we are his main targets. Other detectives get nice, easy, open-and-shut cases involving batty old women who commit suicide with an overdose of pills. The moment a severed head or a mutilated body is involved, we get lumbered with the investigation.’
‘I don’t see that as a punishment,’ said Marmion, easily. ‘In his own peculiar way, Superintendent Chatfield is paying us a compliment. And you must never sneer at batty old women. When people are driven to kill themselves, they deserve our sympathy. It may seem small beer to you, but it involves motives far more complex than those that make someone commit murder.’
‘That’s a fair point,’ conceded Keedy.
‘Remember it.’
‘What’s the name of the murder victim?’
‘George Tindall.’
‘What did Chat say about him?’
‘Very little.’
‘He must have given you some details.’
‘He told me the one thing that was important.’
‘What was that?’
‘Tindall was a doctor.’
Keedy was shocked. ‘Somebody murdered a doctor?’
‘So it seems.’
‘That’s terrible. At a time like this, we desperately need people like him.’
‘He worked at the Edmonton Military Hospital.’
‘Then he was doing a vital job. Wounded soldiers sent there have the most appalling injuries. The wonder is any of them survive – yet they do, somehow.’
‘That’s because of the medical team.’
‘They’re real heroes in my book.’
‘I agree, Joe.’
‘I take my hat off to them.’
He was speaking metaphorically. In fact, he kept his hat on at its usual jaunty angle. Even though wrapped up in his winter wear, Keedy contrived to look smart. Marmion, by contrast, was as untidy as ever in crumpled clothing that never seemed to fit him properly. After a couple of minutes staring out of the car window, he turned to Keedy.
‘As for batty old women, there’s something you should remember.’
‘Is there?’
‘When you finally marry our daughter,’ said Marmion with a grin, ‘you’ll become part of the family.’
‘So?’
‘For a start, Ellen and I will be happy.’
‘And?’
‘Imagine what may happen in due course.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You may one day have a batty old woman as your mother-in-law.’
War had changed Ellen Marmion’s life completely. It had imprisoned her in a routine that she did not even notice at first. Her day began with making an early breakfast for her husband and herself. After waving him off, she washed the plates and cutlery in the sink and left everything to dry on the draining board. She then did a sequence of chores that never varied. When she had finished, she took down the framed photograph of her son from the mantelpiece and began to rub it with a duster even though it was gleaming. Ellen then had her long, daily, ruminative stare at Paul.
Mixed emotions stirred inside her. Pride was uppermost. Dressed in army uniform, Paul was smiling at the camera, glad that he had joined up in a moment of patriotic fervour. He was the wonderful, confident, happy-go-lucky son his mother had adored. But unfortunately he no longer existed. Paul had been one of thousands injured at the Battle of the Somme and shipped back to a hospital in England. Temporarily blinded, he also had afflictions that seemed worryingly permanent. The cheerful extrovert of the Marmion family had become morose and confused. He could not understand why so many of his close friends had been killed in action while he had crawled away alive from the battlefield. Paul felt guilty and bereaved in equal measure.
The family was warned that it might take him a long time to adjust to home life, but he showed no inclination even to try. Ellen made allowances for him but even her patience was tested. Instead of getting better, her son got steadily worse, revealing a nasty streak she had never seen before and behaving in ways that shocked her. Her husband was away from the house for much of the day and her daughter, Alice, no longer lived at home. For the most part, therefore, Ellen was left alone to cope with Paul and his increasingly dangerous moods.
Then, suddenly, he disappeared without a word of explanation. They had no idea where he was or what his intentions were. Marmion organised a search for their son, but it was fruitless. When they did finally discover where he might be, Paul had vanished before they got there. Looking now at the dutiful son she had once loved, she felt the photograph was like a ton weight in her hands.
When they arrived at the scene of the crime, the detectives were relieved to see that they would not be hampered by a large and intrusive crowd. That would certainly have been the case if they were somewhere in central London with people swarming about. Instead, they were in a quiet avenue of detached properties. Standing outside the one owned by George Tindall was a burly uniformed police officer. When he saw them approach, he raised a hand.
‘There’s no need to introduce yourselves, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen photos of you and the sergeant in the newspapers many times.’
‘Our fame is spreading,’ said Keedy with a smile. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Constable Fanning, sir.’
‘Are you on your own?’
‘No, sir, I’m with a colleague, Constable Rivers.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Marmion.
‘He’s in the house next door,’ said the other, indicating it. ‘When we got here, Mrs Hobbes was in quite a state.’
‘Who is she?’
‘The cleaner.’
‘Why did Dr Tindall need a cleaner? A house this size would surely run to a servant or two.’
‘That puzzled me as well.’
‘Who raised the alarm?’
‘Mrs Hobbes did – when she recovered, that is. She was so upset by what she saw, she fainted. When she came to, she remembered that there was a telephone in the house.’
‘Yes, that would be essential for a doctor. The hospital might have needed to summon him at short notice.’ Marmion flicked a hand. ‘Go on with your story, Constable. Tell us why you took her next door.’
‘We needed to get her out of there, sir. She was shaking like a leaf and who could blame her? I’ve seen gory sights in my time, but nothing to touch this. I’d warn you to be prepared.’
‘I’m grateful for your warning,’ said Marmion, ‘but it doesn’t apply to the sergeant. He used to work in the family undertaking business and often saw dead bodies in a deplorable condition. He learnt to take everything in his stride. Nothing unsettles him.’
‘Well, it unsettled me, sir,’ admitted Fanning.
‘Then you’d better stay out in the fresh air.’
‘Where is the victim?’ asked Keedy.
‘He’s in the room at the back,’ said Fanning. ‘Go through the kitchen.’
‘Thank you.’
Marmion led the way into the house, pushing open the unlocked front door. He went along the passageway to the kitchen, then stopped in front of the door to the room off it. He studied it warily.
‘Perhaps you should open it, Joe,’ he suggested.
‘Is that a challenge?’
‘No – but you’ve got a stronger stomach than I have.’
‘You’re not going to faint, are you?’ teased Keedy.
‘Get on with it.’
Grabbing the handle, Keedy opened the door and looked inside the room. George Tindall lay sprawled on the floor in the remains of his pyjamas amid a jumble of brushes, mops, buckets and other cleaning paraphernalia. Blood was everywhere. The victim had been tied up and gagged before being hacked to death. Marmion forced himself to look and wrinkled his nose in disgust. Keedy ran his eye over the multiple injuries.
‘Someone enjoyed doing this,’ he said.
Thanks to a cup of tea and the kindness of the neighbours, Ada Hobbes was feeling much better. She was sitting in the lounge next door with Stanley and Enid Crowe, an elderly couple who had been shaken by news of the murder. Standing by the door was Constable Rivers, a tall, thin, willowy man who kept shifting from one leg to another. Ada kept apologising to all three of them for causing so much trouble.
‘I’m ashamed of myself for passing out like that,’ she said. ‘I always prided myself on being able to cope with any problem.’
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself,’ said Enid Crowe. ‘It must have been a terrible shock for you. Simply hearing about it has frightened the wits out of me.’
‘That goes for me as well,’ confessed her husband.
‘Besides,’ said Rivers, taking a step forward, ‘you deserve praise for what you did. As soon as you recovered, you had the presence of mind to pick up the phone and call the police.’
‘You did the right thing bringing Mrs Hobbes here, Constable,’ said Crowe.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You’re welcome to stay as long as possible, Mrs Hobbes,’ said Enid.
Ada gave her a smile of thanks. She had only been cleaning Dr Tindall’s house for a month or so. Like her, the neighbours could not understand why anyone would want to kill such a decent and dedicated man. Ada looked up at Rivers.
‘You will catch whoever did this, won’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied, confidently. ‘We’ll catch him, Mrs Hobbes, and when we do, he’ll pay for this crime with his life.’
While they waited for the Home Office pathologist to arrive, Marmion and Keedy searched the house for information about its owner. Even in the study there was little of real use. Drawers in the desk had been left open, showing that someone had been there before them to remove items such as a diary and an address book. All that they could find was correspondence relating to patients at the hospital. It was when they went into the master bedroom that they had some insight into what had happened. As they opened the wardrobe, Keedy gasped in admiration at the suits hanging up inside.
‘These are top quality,’ he said, opening a jacket to read the label.
‘Why did he have so many?’ asked Marmion. ‘Two is enough for anyone.’
‘He lived in a different world from us.’
‘Yes – and on a far better income.’
Breaking away, he walked slowly around the room and looked carefully at everything. Marmion stopped beside a landscape painting on the wall. He scrutinised it for over a minute.
‘What do you think of this, Joe?’ he asked.
‘I hate it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s so dull and uninteresting.’
‘It’s also completely the wrong colour for the room. It doesn’t match anything. You can see from what is in his wardrobe that he was a man with taste, yet he puts this unsuitable painting in here. There must be a reason for that.’
‘What is it?’
‘Who knows?’ said Marmion. ‘Perhaps it’s hiding something.’
Lifting the heavy frame carefully off its hook, he revealed a safe set in the wall. Keedy stepped forward to grab the handle and discovered that it turned easily.
‘It’s not locked,’ he said, opening the door and peering inside. ‘And the safe is empty.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘That could be the motive behind the murder. Dr Tindall was burgled. Perhaps he made the mistake of catching the man in the act.’
‘There wasn’t only one man,’ explained Marmion, lowering the painting to the floor. ‘It would have taken two of them to overpower him and truss him up like that. In any case, he was not killed here because there’s no sign of a struggle. The butchery took place downstairs. Why did they choose there?’
Keedy shrugged. ‘Search me.’
‘And there’s another thing that puzzles me.’
‘What is it?’
‘When we examined the body, I noticed that Dr Tindall was wearing a wedding ring. What happened to his wife? Why aren’t her clothes in the wardrobe?’
‘Perhaps she died.’
‘Then why aren’t there any photos of her on display? If she died before her time, he would surely want to preserve her memory. Yet there’s not a single photo of Mrs Tindall anywhere. I find that weird.’
‘Maybe the burglars took all the photos away.’
‘Why?’ asked Marmion. ‘What possible interest would photos hold for them? They came to kill him and helped themselves to the contents of the safe while they were here. That is how it looks to me, anyway.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘All of a sudden, this case has become a lot more interesting.’
CHAPTER THREE
Before the conversation could continue, they heard a car pulling up outside the house. They crossed to the window and saw a short, stubby man coming up the drive.
‘It’s the pathologist,’ said Marmion. ‘I’ll handle him, Joe. You go next door and take a statement from Mrs Hobbes. With luck, she’s had time to recover and may be more coherent.’
‘Right,’ said Keedy, following him out of the bedroom and down the stairs. ‘Will you want to speak to her yourself?’
‘There’s no need. Just remember to be gentle with her.’
‘I will.’
As they reached the hall, the pathologist was coming through the front door.
‘Good morning, Harvey,’ he said, cheerily, ‘and the same to you, Sergeant.’
‘Good morning,’ said Keedy, going past him. ‘You’ll have to excuse me.’
‘Joe has gone to interview the poor woman who found the body,’ explained Marmion. ‘We’re surprised that she didn’t have a heart attack.’
‘Is the victim in that bad a state?’
‘You need to brace yourself, Tom.’
‘Nothing will shock me,’ said the other with a chuckle. ‘I’ve just come from examining three people who were killed when a German bomb landed on their house. It’s frightening to see what tons of rubble can do to the human body.’
Thomas Harrison was a middle-aged man with a puffy face and a habit of lowering his head so that he could look over the top of his glasses. He and Marmion knew each other well. They went through to the kitchen. When the pathologist put his bag down, Marmion opened the door of the room where the body lay. Harrison remained calm.
‘That’s what I’d call a comprehensive murder,’ he said, quietly. ‘The killer certainly went to extremes.’
‘We believe that two people might have been involved.’
‘Your guesses are usually right.’
‘They’re based on instinct.’
‘That comes with experience,’ said the other, studying the corpse with a practised eye. ‘It’s about the only virtue of getting older. Ah, well,’ he went on, taking off his coat. ‘I’d better get busy, I suppose.’ Marmion was about to reply when he heard the telephone ring.
‘Do what you have to do, Tom,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to answer that.’
Going quickly back to the hall, he picked up the receiver.
‘Hello …’
‘Can I speak to Dr Tindall?’ asked a crisp, male voice.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I’m ringing from the hospital. He was expected here over an hour ago.’
‘Yes,’ said Marmion, heaving a sigh, ‘I daresay that he was. I have bad news, I fear. It’s my sad duty to tell you that he won’t be able to come today – or on any other day, for that matter.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I am Detective Inspector Marmion of the Metropolitan Police Force. I’m investigating the doctor’s unexplained death.’
Keedy was pleased to meet Stanley and Enid Crowe and grateful for the way that they had looked after Ada Hobbes. The cleaner seemed to have recovered well from her grim discovery and was eager to answer any questions. She explained what had happened when she entered the house, scolding herself for passing out.
‘I should have been more careful,’ she admitted.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Keedy.
‘Well, whenever I’ve finished cleaning the house, I collect an envelope from the hall table. My money was in it. I should have noticed that the envelope wasn’t there today. If I’d done that, I’d have been warned something strange had happened. Dr Tindall was very particular, you see. He’d never have left the house without putting my money on the table.’
‘How often did you go there?’
‘Twice a week.’
‘Didn’t he have a servant who could have done what you did?’
‘Dr Tindall was a very private man. He preferred to live alone.’
‘It’s true,’ said Crowe, intervening. ‘He moved in next door almost three years ago. His wife died and he wanted to get away from the house where they lived. Yet, strangely enough, that is not what he did. He brought her with him. There were photographs of his wife everywhere.’
‘She was beautiful,’ said Ada. ‘I should know. I had to polish the frames every time I came. That was always on his list of instructions. There was a photo of him and Mrs Tindall on his desk in the study.’
‘Well, it’s not there now,’ said Keedy.
‘Really?’ She was scandalised. ‘Do you mean that it’s been stolen?’
‘Probably.’
‘That’s dreadful!’ exclaimed Ada.
‘Let’s go back to your job there. Who cleaned the house before you?’
‘It was Kathy Paget, who is my sister. She had arthritis but kept going until the pain was too much to bear. Kathy knew I clean offices not far away. She asked me if I’d like some extra work. I told her I did so she spoke to Dr Tindall, and he took me on.’
‘We remember Mrs Paget,’ said Enid. ‘We used to see her hobbling up the drive. I’m surprised Dr Tindall didn’t recommend something for her arthritis.’
‘He wasn’t that kind of doctor,’ Crowe reminded her. ‘He was an orthopaedic surgeon.’
‘I’m still trying to understand how he managed without a servant or two,’ said Keedy. ‘Who did his shopping? Who laid the fire? Who prepared his meals?’
‘He was quite capable of making his own breakfast, Sergeant. That seemed the only meal he ever had at home. The hospital made great demands on his time. I know that he often ate there. Sometimes he even stayed the night at the hospital.’
‘In all the time we’ve known him,’ added Enid, ‘he only once accepted an invitation to come here for dinner.’
‘Yes, it was a rather awkward occasion.’
‘Why was that?’ asked Keedy.
‘There was the age gap, for one thing,’ said Crowe. ‘We were at least thirty years older than him. I am a retired bank manager and he was a highly qualified doctor. We didn’t talk the same language.’
‘He just sat there in silence most of the time,’ recalled Enid. ‘The only thing he really talked about was his late wife.’
‘That’s another thing I should have spotted,’ said Ada, slapping her knee. ‘Her photo was missing from the hall table. It had pride of place there and was the first thing he saw when he came into the house. It should have been the first thing I saw as well when I let myself in, but I didn’t. Dr Tindall would never have moved that photo from the table.’
When Alice Marmion and Iris Goodliffe set off on their beat, a steady drizzle was falling. It was one of the few times when they were grateful to be wearing their uniforms. One of the setbacks of joining the Women’s Police Force was that their dark blue jackets and ankle-length skirts were very unbecoming. It was something that Iris complained about regularly, fearing that no man would look at her twice because of the way she was dressed. Proud of her hair, she hated wearing a hat that all but obscured it completely. She was glad of it now.
As the drizzle turned to rain, they stepped into a shop doorway for shelter.
‘Do you think this will turn to snow?’ asked Iris.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Alice.
‘When I was a little girl, I prayed for a white Christmas. Now, I’d hate it.’
‘Why?’
‘We’d be sitting targets for snowballs.’
‘The city has to be policed, Iris.’
Alice was an attractive young woman with an air of vitality about her. Though she sorely missed the children she taught before the war, she felt that she was doing a more important job now. It meant that she, her father and her fiancé were all in the same profession. Iris envied her. Big, chubby, and decidedly plain, she wished that she had some of Alice’s good looks and assurance.
‘Have you had many Christmas cards?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘Quite a few.’
‘I don’t suppose …?’
‘No, we haven’t had one from Paul, but we never expected to. We had no birthday cards from him either. We don’t even know if he’s still alive.’
‘He must be. You said that he was very fit.’
‘He used to be, Iris. He joined up with the rest of his football team for which he played. He loved exercise of every kind. One of the sad things was that the war squeezed most of the energy out of him.’
‘At least he didn’t come back with hideous injuries,’ said her friend, ‘or with a limb missing. On my way home last night, I saw that soldier who lost both of his legs. He was sitting in his wheelchair, trying to play the accordion. I put sixpence in his hat.’
‘Paul hasn’t reached the stage of begging yet – I hope not, anyway.’
‘It must feel odd, not having him home for Christmas. How do you cope?’
‘We pretend he’s there.’
Alice was fond of her colleague but, as a rule, she kept her very much at arm’s length. Aware how desperate Iris was for a closer friendship, she usually refused any invitations to go out together in the evening. Today was different. Alice suddenly felt a pang of guilt at the way she treated Iris and she felt a need to atone for her behaviour.
‘We have a day off tomorrow,’ she said.
Iris laughed, ‘You don’t need to tell me that.’
‘Do you have any plans?’
‘No, Alice. I’ll probably end up working for my father.’
‘You can’t waste a day off by serving in a chemist’s shop.’
‘It’s better than sitting at home and moping.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Alice. ‘I still have presents to buy. Why don’t we go to the West End for the morning?’
‘Yes, please!’
‘We can go around the department stores. You are always saying you’d like to cheer yourself up by buying a new dress. Get one tomorrow.’
‘I will,’ said the other. ‘Thank you so much, Alice.’
‘It’s not often we have a day of freedom. Let’s make the most of it.’
‘We will.’ Iris hugged her. ‘You’ve just given me the most wonderful Christmas present.’
During his career, Marmion had attended many murder scenes. The majority had been in isolated locations where contact with Scotland Yard was impossible. This time it was different. He had access to a telephone. When the initial phases of the investigation were over, therefore, he felt able to ring Claude Chatfield. Predictably, the superintendent was critical.
‘Why didn’t you get in touch with me earlier?’ he demanded.
‘There was a lot to do, sir.’
‘I need to release information to the press.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said Marmion, ‘and I’ve taken the trouble of drafting a statement for you. Do you have pen and paper at hand?’
‘Of course, I do. I’m sitting at my desk.’
‘Then here it is.’
Reading from his notebook, Marmion dictated the statement slowly so that the superintendent could write it down. He could hear grunts of approval from the other end of the line. When he had finished, he closed his notebook.
‘You’ve got the salient facts there, sir,’ he said, ‘but we’re not giving too much away. I do not want newspapers speculating wildly about this case. It’s far more complicated than they’ll imagine.’
‘Who discovered the body?’
‘It was a cleaner by the name of Mrs Hobbes.’
‘I suppose she was a gibbering wreck.’
‘Then you are quite wrong, sir. The lady is very resilient, according to Sergeant Keedy. Mrs Hobbes was able to give him a clear account of what she discovered and provided useful details about the victim.’
‘How will she bear up under pressure from reporters?’
‘I’d rather keep her name out of it altogether. After taking her statement, the sergeant got our driver to take her home. It was the least we could do for her. Mrs Hobbes was helpful – and so were the next-door neighbours, a Mr and Mrs Crowe. We can hide the cleaner from the howling mob from Fleet Street, but it will be impossible to do that for the neighbours. They will be fair game. Sergeant Keedy warned them to say nothing whatsoever about Mrs Hobbes.’
‘That was a wise move.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s time for details, Inspector,’ said Chatfield, fussily. ‘What have you found and what have you and the sergeant deduced?’
After clearing his throat, Marmion gave a fuller account of what had happened since they had been there, telling him what the pathologist had said and how the body had now been removed. Chatfield got a clear, concise, measured synopsis. What he was not given were a few things that Marmion preferred to keep to himself.
‘Where’s the sergeant now?’ asked the superintendent.
‘He’s making door-to-door enquiries, sir, to see if anyone heard anything unusual during the night.’
‘What time did the murder take place?’
‘Tom Harrison couldn’t give a precise time. His guess would be somewhere between midnight and four o’clock.’
‘Did the doctor have any known enemies?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping to find out.’
‘He sounds like a strange fellow. Why live in a house entirely on his own? It is a rather spartan notion of life, isn’t it? You’d expect him to have servants, surely.’
‘Dr Tindall lived for his work, sir.’
‘I live for mine but that doesn’t mean I punish myself. My wife and I could not manage without a maid. One is entitled to some luxuries.’
Marmion said nothing. Unlike the superintendent’s wife, his own would have been insulted at the idea that she could not cope without help. Ellen made light of the drudgery involved. She did what most mothers in London did and accepted her lot.
‘What’s your next move?’ asked the superintendent.
‘I’m going to the hospital where he worked,’ said Marmion. ‘His colleagues deserve to know more than I’ve told them over the phone and I want to find out exactly what sort of man Dr Tindall really was.’
‘In a word, how would you describe him?’
‘Mysterious.’
When she was offered a lift home, Ada Hobbes at first turned it down but Keedy had insisted. He knew that people who had witnessed horrific sights could not simply shrug off the memory. Though she seemed calm enough, the cleaner would be haunted by the event on the long walk home. As she sat beside the driver, Ada realised that it was the first time she had been inside a car since her husband’s funeral. An untimely death had once again earned her the bonus of a lift.
Keedy had warned her to say nothing to her friends and neighbours about her experience that morning. If she spoke freely about it, he said, she would make herself a target for press interrogation. Ada took his advice. When she arrived home in a car, she was bound to arouse curiosity. She therefore rehearsed the explanation she would give to everyone. Inside the vehicle, she felt safe and comfortable. When she was dropped outside her home, however, she felt her legs give way slightly.
Reality had caught up with her.
Keedy worked his way along one side of the avenue, knocking on each door in turn and explaining why he had done so. Ordinarily, a couple of detective constables would be doing the repetitive chore, but manpower was limited at Scotland Yard. Keedy was not dismayed. He felt that he could do the job quickly yet thoroughly. When he reached the house on a corner, he used the knocker firmly. Moments later the front door opened and an elderly, white-haired woman gave him a hostile glare.
‘We don’t buy anything at the door,’ she said.
‘I’m not selling anything, I promise you.’
‘Then why are you bothering us?’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Keedy of the Metropolitan Police,’ he said. ‘There’s been a serious incident in a house further up the avenue and we’re anxious to see if anyone can help us.’
‘Which house was it?’
‘Number twenty-three.’
‘That’s Dr Tindall’s house,’ she said in alarm.
‘Do you know the gentleman?’
‘We know of him. He works at the Military Hospital. My husband and I look up to him.’
‘Well,’ sighed Keedy, ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that again.’
‘Why not?’ Seeing the look in his eye, she gasped. ‘Has something happened to him?’
‘His body was taken away almost an hour ago.’
‘Do you mean that he …?’
‘Yes, I do. You’ll now understand why I’m keen to find out if anyone heard anything unusual in the middle of the night.’
‘Dr Tindall?’ she said. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Did you hear my question?’
‘Yes, I did, young man, but I’m not the person to answer it. I sleep like a log, but my husband doesn’t. You need to speak to him.’ She raised her voice. ‘Ronald!’ she yelled. ‘Come here at once, Ronald! It’s the police.’ She whispered to Keedy. ‘You’ll have to speak up. He’s deaf in one ear.’
Deafness was clearly the least of his afflictions. When he finally appeared, the old man was shuffling along with his spine so bent that his head was almost level with his stomach. One blue-veined hand was holding a walking stick. His other arm was in a sling. He peered up at the visitor through watery eyes.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘I’ll explain later,’ said his wife. ‘Tell him what you told me.’
‘I told you lots of things, Mary.’
‘Tell him what you heard last night.’
‘I hear all sorts of things,’ he said to Keedy. ‘I have strange noises in my ears. There is nothing they can do. I have to live with them.’
‘But you heard a particular noise, Ronald,’ prompted his wife. ‘You went to the bathroom and heard it very clearly.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember it now.’
‘What exactly did you hear, sir?’ asked Keedy, leaning closer to him. ‘You were in the bathroom, you say. Which side of the house is that?’
‘It’s around the corner,’ replied the woman.
‘And what was this sound your husband heard?’
‘It was a loud, nasty, rasping sound.’
‘Yes,’ said the man, taking up the story. ‘I’m not completely deaf. I heard it clearly. I mean, they should not have been out there at that time of night. It was against the law. They had no respect for other people.’
‘Who didn’t?’ said Keedy.
‘The two of them.’
‘What my husband heard,’ explained the woman, ‘was the noise of two motorbikes. I do not think Ronald imagined it. When he opened the bathroom window, the sound was just beneath him. Then it suddenly stopped. If he says there were two motorbikes just around the corner, then there were.’
Keedy smiled. He had learnt something useful at last.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Edmonton Military Hospital had begun life as an infirmary for the adjacent workhouse. An iron fence stood between them. The outbreak of war in 1914 had brought huge numbers of casualties in its wake. Edmonton was one of many districts in London that soon acquired a military hospital into which an endless stream of wounded soldiers were taken. Built in Silver Street, it comprised a cluster of sizeable buildings supplemented by a series of large huts, hastily constructed in the grounds to house additional patients. When he was driven through the entrance, Marmion noticed the two red crosses painted on the gates.
The police car pulled up outside the main building and the inspector got out.
He turned to see an ambulance coming in through the gates. It was moving slowly, as if the driver was anxious not to shake up the wounded soldiers he was carrying. Marmion wondered from which battleground they had come. He felt a pang as he thought about the time when his son had been ferried back from France to a military hospital. He hurried into the building and was soon being conducted into the office occupied by the person in charge of the hospital.
Major Howard Palmer-Loach was a square-jawed, straight-backed man of medium height with a neat moustache decorating an impassive face. When Marmion introduced himself, the major shook his hand and motioned him to a chair.
‘This is terrible news,’ he said. ‘Dr Tindall was a brilliant man. More to the point, he was indefatigable and worked more hours than anybody else on my staff. As a result of his death, we’ve had to cancel a number of crucial operations.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘He’s irreplaceable. There’ll be a lot of tears when the word spreads.’
‘What sort of man was he?’ asked Marmion.
‘The best kind for an emergency – committed and eager. When the war first broke out, he spent six months working in a field hospital in France, getting to grips with the scale of the horrors of war. I was lucky enough to get him shortly after we converted this place into a military hospital.’
‘How many patients do you have here?’
‘Our total bed complement is one thousand. Soldiers are sent here in pieces. We try to put them together again. Many manage to survive but we have our losses as well. It is not only physical wounds that need treatment, of course. Our patients usually come with mental scars.’
Marmion said nothing but an image of Paul had popped into his mind again.
‘On the telephone,’ recalled the major, ‘you talked of an unexplained death.’
‘Dr Tindall was murdered.’
The major gulped. ‘How?’
‘Unnecessary violence was used.’
Choosing his words with care, Marmion told him what they had found and how the safe had been emptied. He was careful not to release too much information. Palmer-Loach shook his head in disbelief.
‘Why pick on George Tindall, of all people?’
‘I intend to find out.’
‘It makes no sense. He didn’t have an enemy in the world.’
‘That’s what we’ve been told.’
‘Can I help in any way?’
‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘I’d be grateful if you could tell me more about him and what sort of work he did here at the hospital. The more information we have, the more able will we be to understand him. We know that he was still grieving over the loss of his wife, and it appears that he had almost no social life. Is that true?’
‘I’m afraid so, Inspector. It was strange, really. He was a handsome, intelligent man with great gifts. Most of the nurses here adored him yet he hardly noticed them. As for what he did here,’ said the major, rising to his feet, ‘I suggest that you come and see for yourself. Dr Tindall was the heart and soul of this place.’
The prospect of going to the West End next day had lifted Iris Goodliffe’s spirits. She could not stop thinking about it. Even when a ragged old man made a filthy gesture at her before scuttling away with a cackle of delight, she was neither upset nor annoyed. Iris walked on happily with her friend at her side.
‘The rain has stopped,’ said Alice.
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘You didn’t notice when you stepped in that puddle either.’
‘Who cares about that?’ said Iris with a giggle. ‘I was too busy thinking about the dress I’m going to buy tomorrow. What colour should it be?’
‘What colour would you like?’
‘My mother always said that I looked best in blue but I’m not sure. Besides, I’m wearing navy blue all day long. I want a change.’
‘Then I’d suggest a shade of green.’
‘Really? That’s a bit … daring for me.’
‘Why?’ asked Alice. ‘You could carry it off easily. Green is a colour that would cheer you up whenever you looked at yourself in the mirror.’
‘What about red?’
‘That might be going too far.’
‘I’ll try on every colour of the rainbow,’ said Iris with another giggle, ‘then choose the one I fancy.’
‘Yes, that’s the right attitude.’
‘What about you, Alice?’
‘Oh, I’ll be looking for a new dress as well.’
‘You could get away with any colour.’
‘Joe doesn’t think so. He hates it if I wear anything with beige in it.’
‘Why?’
‘He says that it makes me look like my mother.’
‘What a cheek!’
‘Joe claims that it’s the kind of colour you wear to hide behind.’
‘That shows how much he knows about dresses,’ said Iris.
‘I told him that the best colour is the one we feel most comfortable in. We dress for ourselves – not for someone else’s benefit.’
‘What did he say to that?’
It was Alice’s turn to giggle. ‘I’m not telling.’
‘What will you be looking for tomorrow?’
‘I simply want something to catch my eye.’
‘Will it be a dress for a particular occasion?’
‘Not really,’ said Alice, shaking her head.
‘Then we’re going to the West End for different reasons.’
‘Are we?’
‘Yes, I’m on the lookout for something special,’ confided Iris, ‘because it will be for a special occasion.’
‘And what occasion will that be?’
Iris clicked her tongue. ‘As if you need to ask me, Alice Marmion. It’s for your wedding to Joe Keedy.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘I am invited, aren’t I?’
Having recorded the old man’s testimony in his notebook, Keedy soon found people who could corroborate the evidence. Once he turned the corner into the next road, he spoke to other witnesses roused from their sleep by the sound of two motorbikes. None could give him an exact time, but the general feeling was that it was somewhere between midnight and three o’clock in the morning. That was good enough for Keedy. It fitted in with the timescale given by the pathologist.
Marmion had been right, he accepted. There were two people involved. They had driven at low speed as far as the corner of the road, switched off their engines and parked their motorbikes. The pair had then turned into the avenue and walked along until they reached Tindall’s house. Keedy had no idea how they had got into it, but he believed he knew why the killers had not driven up to the victim’s doorstep. The sound of two noisy engines might have awakened the neighbours and even Tindall himself. Once they had done what they had planned to do, he decided, the couple had walked back to the place where they had left their motorbikes and roared away at full speed.
There were lots of questions still to be answered but Keedy nevertheless allowed himself to feel optimistic. He felt that he had picked up a trail.
As he led the way out of his office, Major Palmer-Loach turned to his companion.
‘Have you ever been to a military hospital before, Inspector?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact,’ replied Marmion, ‘I’ve been inside two. The first was Royal Victoria in Netley, when we went to visit my son.’
‘Where was the other?’
‘Endell Street.’
The major’s face darkened. ‘The Suffragettes’ Hospital,’ he said with a note of disapproval. ‘I don’t think I could put my trust in a place run entirely by women.’
‘Its doctors have a good reputation and I’ve never been anywhere that was so spotless. What I liked was the way they’d introduced a lot of colour to brighten the hospital up.’
‘I don’t question their medical expertise,’ said the other. ‘It’s their political opinions that I can’t stomach.’
‘If a female doctor has the skill to save my life, I wouldn’t care two hoots about any political opinions she held. You should have this conversation with my daughter,’ added Marmion, smiling. ‘Alice would enjoy locking horns with you.’
‘Does she work at Endell Street?’
‘No, she’s in the Women’s Police Force. But she has a friend who works as a doctor there and who took us both around the hospital. I was impressed.’
‘I hope that you’re equally impressed with what you see here.’
The major took him down a main corridor, acknowledging staff and patients alike with a curt nod. Marmion was struck by how many people were about. Legless soldiers were propelling themselves in wheelchairs and those with one leg used crutches to manoeuvre themselves along. A blind man was being led by a nurse as he took his first tentative steps. Some of the soldiers wore pyjamas and dressing gowns but a few were in saxe blue suits made of a lightweight flannel material. Marmion noticed their bright red ties.
‘We try to get them outside whenever we can,’ explained Palmer-Loach, ‘but this weather is far too cold. Many of those who are convalescing will soon move on and make way for a new batch. They keep coming and coming.’
‘They must be so relieved to be on British soil again.’
‘Most of them are, Inspector, but there are some who wish they’d died in action. A Blighty Wound is not always a form of escape. When you are paralysed from the waist down and blind into the bargain, your future is going to be bleak. We have had more than one patient begging to be put out of his misery. It was another important aspect of Dr Tindall’s work here.’
‘What was?’
‘He knew how to talk to men who felt they had nothing to live for,’ said the major. ‘It was extraordinary. He somehow gave them hope. It took time in some cases, but he usually succeeded in the end.’
They paused outside a ward and Marmion was able to glance inside. Rows of beds ran down both sides of the ward and all were occupied by patients with what appeared to be serious injuries. Some were almost invisible beneath heavy bandaging. A doctor was making his rounds with a nurse at his elbow. There was a sense of order about the scene. A faint smell of disinfectant lingered.
‘Dr Tindall operated on some of these men,’ explained the major. ‘They’re going to be horrified when they discover they’ll never see him again.’
‘He was obviously popular here.’
‘That’s an understatement, Inspector. He was revered.’
‘We need to get in touch with his next of kin,’ said Marmion. ‘His neighbours told us that he had no children. What about his parents? Are they still alive?’
‘Yes, they live in the north of Scotland somewhere.’
‘Do you have an address for them?’
The major nodded. ‘It’s in my office.’
‘Did he ever speak of relatives – brothers, sisters, cousins?’
‘No, he didn’t. If they exist, he saw them as irrelevant. As soon as he came into the hospital, he only talked about one thing and that was the care of his patients.’
‘You make him sound as if he was a paragon.’
‘In some ways, I suppose that that’s exactly what George Tindall was.’
Marmion looked him in the eye. ‘Then why did someone want to kill him?’
If Ellen Marmion wished to hear the latest news, she did not need to buy a newspaper. All she had to do was to visit the grocer’s shop. Geoffrey Biddle, the grocer, kept abreast of current affairs. He seemed to pick up information that nobody else had access to and enjoyed passing it on to his customers. Biddle was a tall, skinny, red-faced man in his fifties with a bald head that looked as if it had just been polished. He had a quiet, confiding manner and a habit of tapping the side of his nose.
‘Is there anything else you need, Mrs Marmion?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘How about sugar?’
‘We’ve got enough to last until next week.’
‘It might be safer to get more while you can,’ he warned. ‘German submarines are causing havoc with our food imports. They seem to be sinking our ships at will. Everything is going to be rationed soon. Sugar will be on the list.’
‘But we can’t do without it, Mr Biddle.’
‘Coal has already been rationed. Sugar may be next, then meat, then butter, then something else we need. The Germans are trying to starve us to death, Mrs Marmion.’
‘I thought our convoys were getting through.’
‘Then where are our food supplies? Whenever I try to restock my shelves, I buy smaller amounts than usual. Lots of items are just not available. If things don’t improve, everything will be rationed. We will have long queues of people getting more and more impatient. I dread it.’
‘Perhaps I’d better have some more sugar, then,’ she decided.
‘Good thinking.’ He took a packet from the shelf and put it on the counter. ‘Is that the lot, then?’
‘I think so. How much do I owe you?’
‘Let me see.’ He added up the figures and showed her the bill. ‘Check it, if you like.’
She smiled. ‘I know you well enough to trust you, Mr Biddle.’
After putting the bag of sugar into her basket, she paid the grocer and left the shop. Ellen did not get far before she recognised someone coming towards her. It was Patricia Redwood, a fleshy, middle-aged woman who belonged to the same sewing circle as Ellen. The two women had been friends until Paul Marmion had insulted Patricia’s daughter, Sally, then gone on to pester her. It had destroyed the friendship between the two older women.
‘Good morning,’ said Ellen, politely. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, and I’ve got some good news to pass on.’
‘Oh?’
‘Sally has met a young man,’ said Patricia, proudly. ‘That’s an achievement when so many lads have gone off to war. Norman would have done the same, of course, only he damaged a hand in an accident. He’s just what Sally needs. Norman works for that printer in the high street.’
‘I know the one.’
