‘Cyril and I were friends,’ she confessed, head down. After a few seconds, she raised her eyes to him imploringly. ‘Please don’t tell my husband.’ she said. ‘It would hurt him beyond bearing. It would be cruel. Is that why you came, Inspector? Are you here to speak to Wilf?’

‘No, Mrs Skene,’ he replied. ‘I’ve no need to see him at all.’

‘Thank God for that!’

‘What happened between you and Cyril Ablatt is none of my business. The main reason I came is to tell you that … a dreadful crime has been committed.’

She shuddered. ‘What sort of crime?’

‘Mr Ablatt was murdered.’

For a moment, he thought that she was about to collapse. Her mouth fell open and she emitted a strange, muted cry of agony. With an effort, she somehow managed to regain her composure. Taking out the handkerchief tucked under her sleeve, she held it in readiness. Marmion gave her time to adjust to the horror. As a husband with a belief in the sanctity of marriage, he couldn’t approve of what she’d apparently done but neither could he condemn it. Caroline Skene was patently a woman in despair. Moral judgements were irrelevant. He just wanted to alleviate her pain. For her part, she was pathetically grateful for his discretion and forbearance. She’d never had dealings with a Scotland Yard detective before and found him unexpectedly considerate. His soothing presence helped her to recover enough to speak.

‘What happened?’

‘I’ll spare you the full details,’ he said. ‘Suffice it to say that the body of a young man was found in Shoreditch last night. Items found on his person identified him as Cyril Ablatt. His father has confirmed the identification.’ A hand shot to her heart. ‘I offer you my condolences, Mrs Skene. I suggest that you don’t read the newspapers for a while.’

‘Is it that bad?’

‘The killer used unnecessary violence.’

She shuddered again. ‘How did you find that photograph?’

‘We had to break the news to his father,’ he explained. ‘While we were at the house, we asked if we might look at his room so that we might learn a little more about him.’ He held up the photo. ‘This fell out of the Bible.’ He offered it to her. ‘Would you like it back?’

‘No, no,’ she cried, recoiling from it. ‘I should never have had it taken.’

‘Mr Ablatt clearly treasured it.’ He slipped the photo into his pocket. ‘Would you like me to destroy it, Mrs Skene?’

She was overwhelmed by his kindness. ‘Would you?’

‘There’s no reason for anyone else to see it.’

‘Thank you!’

The problem of discovery might have been solved but the far greater one of her intense grief remained. She could feel it already biting away at her like a greedy animal. Her lips began to tremble and tears formed. Having delivered his message, Marmion felt that he should withdraw quietly but there was an investigation in hand and Caroline Skene had information about the deceased that nobody else could give him.

‘When did you last see him?’ he asked, softly.

‘It was … weeks ago.’

‘Did you know he was involved with the No-Conscription Fellowship?’

‘Yes, Inspector — he mentioned that he might join it.’

‘What else did he tell you?’

‘He said very little about things like that. We just … enjoyed being together.’

‘I understand.’

She gave him a shrewd look. ‘I don’t think that you do.’

‘That may be true, Mrs Skene.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve no wish to intrude into your privacy but there are some questions I must ask.’

She braced herself. ‘Go on.’

‘Did your husband harbour any suspicions about the two of you?’

‘Oh, no!’ she exclaimed.

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Wilf is not a suspicious man. If you met him, you’d realise that it would never even cross his mind.’

Marmion glanced at the framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed the couple arm-in-arm on their wedding day. At the time, Wilfred Skene had been a tall, angular young man with a neat moustache and dark, wavy hair. His wife seemed as blissfully happy as he did. Though a dozen or more years had passed since the event, she had not aged significantly.

She was adamant. ‘He doesn’t know and he must never find out.’

‘I’ve no intention of telling him,’ said Marmion. ‘Let’s turn to Cyril Ablatt. Did he ever mention any enemies to you?’

‘Cyril had no enemies,’ she replied with a sad smile. ‘He was a lovely young man and he got on well with everybody.’

‘That’s hardly borne out by the facts, I fear. Anyone who declares himself to be a conscientious objector is bound to attract criticism. As you may know, someone painted abusive words on the wall of his house.’

‘He told me about that. He said he’d simply turn the other cheek.’

‘You have to admire his bravery.’

‘He was brave and good and honest,’ she said, effusively. ‘He didn’t deserve this. It’s wicked, Inspector. Cyril wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘So what reason could there be to kill him?’

Her face was a study in hopelessness. ‘I don’t know.’

She was still trying to absorb the impact of the devastating news. Marmion felt that it would be harsh to put any more pressure on her. At the same time, however, he sensed that she knew things about Ablatt that might be relevant to the inquiry. This was not the moment to search for them. She needed a breathing space. After dabbing at her eyes, she put the handkerchief away.

He rose to his feet. ‘I’ll see myself out, Mrs Skene.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And thank you for being so … well, you know.’

‘I told you. I didn’t come to pry. However,’ he went on, ‘I believe that you may later think of things that might be of use to the investigation. Anything we can learn about his character and movements will be helpful.’ He took out his wallet and extracted a business card. ‘This has my number at Scotland Yard,’ he said, slipping it into her hand.

‘We don’t have a telephone,’ she bleated.

‘There’ll be one at your local police station. If you tell them that you wish to contact Inspector Marmion with regard to the inquiry, they’ll put you in touch with me. Anything — anything at all that you tell me,’ he emphasized, ‘will be treated in the strictest confidence.’

She didn’t seem to have heard him. ‘I’d like to be alone.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Skene,’ he said, moving to the door. ‘I’m sorry to bring such bad tidings but, on reflection, you may find that hearing them from me is preferable to reading them for the first time in the newspaper.’

Leaving the room, he opened the front door and let himself out. On the drive back to Scotland Yard, he found himself wondering about the true nature of the relationship between a mature woman and a young man. How had they first met? What had attracted them to each other? When had they moved on to a degree of intimacy? Was their friendship a pleasant diversion or did they hope for a future together? What had impelled her to take such dangerous risks? Why was nobody else aware of the romance? As the questions multiplied in his mind, there was one that dominated all the others.

What other secrets had Cyril Ablatt kept so carefully hidden?

Joe Keedy’s visit to the police station was productive. He not only met and interviewed Mansel Price, he was able to use the duty sergeant’s local knowledge to advantage. When he confided that he needed to maintain surveillance on the Ablatt house that night, the sergeant recommended the nearby home of a pair of elderly sisters. They’d been burgled recently and would welcome the presence of a policeman to guard their property during the small hours. The front room of their house, Keedy was assured, would give him a good view of the wall that had been daubed with white paint. He was very grateful. If he’d had to knock on doors in search of a place in which to hold his vigil, there was always the danger that he might alert the artist. Since he (or she) was almost certainly a neighbour of the Ablatt’s, it would be ironic if there was a forewarning from the police. Staying with two old ladies obviated the danger of inadvertently coming face to face with the very person he wished to apprehend. It was a piece of good fortune that partially atoned for the evening out that he’d had to sacrifice in the interests of solving a murder