Free Instrument of Slaughter by Edward Marston Page B

for a short time,’ said Marmion. ‘The sergeant is very resilient. He manages on far less sleep than the rest of us.’
    ‘I’m still not convinced that it’s the best use of his time.’
    ‘It could be, sir.’
    ‘The man may not even show up.’
    ‘That’s a possibility we have to allow for.’
    ‘Do you think he’s in any way associated with the crime?’
    ‘It remains to be seen, sir. But even if he’s not involved in the murder, he’s guilty of another crime – libel. What he wrote about Cyril Ablatt is both insulting and untrue.’
    ‘You can’t libel the dead, Inspector.’
    ‘The young man was alive when those harsh words were painted.’
    Chatfield was dismissive. ‘That’s immaterial,’ he said, flicking a hand. ‘Before he acts as a nightwatchman, what will the sergeant be doing?’
    ‘I’m sending him off to the cemetery to speak to Horrie Waldron.’
    ‘Is he that gravedigger?’
    ‘He is indeed, sir.’
    ‘Good,’ said Chatfield, rubbing his hands together. ‘That’s the one positive lead that you’ve managed to uncover. This fellow fits the picture I envisage of the killer. He knows Ablatt well, he loathes conscientious objectors, he has a record of causing trouble and, I’ll venture, he’s often sufficiently inebriated to throw off all inhibition. There’s no need to send Sergeant Keedy. It’s a job for a uniformed constable. He can arrest Waldron and bring him in for questioning.’
    ‘I’d strongly advise against that, sir.’
    ‘Use your eyes, man! He’s a prime suspect.’
    ‘He’s certainly worthy of investigation,’ said Marmion, coolly, ‘but we have no evidence to arrest him. Besides, we don’t want to alert him to the fact that we harbour suspicions about him or he’s likely to be thrown on the defensive. A heavy-handed approach would be a mistake.’
    ‘There’s a history of friction between him and Ablatt, leading to that incident at the library. Isn’t that what Leach told you?’
    ‘Yes, sir, but he also told me that Waldron spends most of his free time in a pub. How would he even
know
about yesterday’s meeting at Devonshire House or be aware of Ablatt’s movements after he left Bishopsgate? I’ll wager that he’s sometimes too drunk to remember what day of the week it is. This murder involved calculation and I don’t believe that Waldron is capable of that.’
    Chatfield was checked. ‘Please yourself,’ he said, patently annoyed at the rebuff. ‘You’re nominally in charge of this investigation. If and when it emerges that this fellow
was
indeed the killer, I hope that you’ll have the grace to apologise to me.’
    ‘I’ll do so on bended knee, Superintendent.’
    ‘Sarcasm ill becomes you.’
    ‘Put it down to lack of food,’ said Marmion, getting up again. ‘After I’ve had breakfast, I’m sure that I’ll feel much better. As for Waldron,’ he added, ‘I promise you that – if he
is
guilty – he won’t slip through our fingers.’
     
    Abney Park cemetery was much more than a burial ground. It was also an arboretum, a place of architectural interest and a vital green lung in the urban sprawl of Stoke Newington. Horace Waldron never noticed the vast expanse of trees and shrubs. Nor did he pay any heed to the magnificent gates, the Egyptian lodges and the Gothic chapel. His gaze was fixed solely on the earth he had to shift in order to accommodate a new guest. Waldron was a burly man in his late fifties with an unsightly face, pitted with age and reddened by alcohol. His clothes were grimed beyond reclaim and his cap sat precariously on the back of his head. When he arrived for work that morning, he carried a spade over his shoulder. Putting it aside, he first stepped behind a large gravestone so that he could urinate against it with a measure of privacy. After spitting on the ground, he was about to start work when he noticed the dried bloodstains along the edge of his spade. He cleaned them off under the tap beside the