The man was singing a hymn to himself as he strolled along the road. When he turned down a lane, he had to walk along a dark corridor between the gardens of the houses on either side. Having used the route so often, it never occurred to him that he might be in jeopardy. He was therefore completely off guard when someone leapt out from his hiding place, knocked off the man’s hat and clubbed him viciously to the ground. Blood was everywhere but that didn’t satisfy the attacker. He was there to kill. He managed to get in a few more heavy blows before he heard someone coming down the lane.

‘Hey!’ yelled a voice. ‘What’s going on?’

Abandoning his victim, the attacker ran off at speed into the night.

Attempted murder was Marmion’s alarm clock. It woke him up early and sent him off to Scotland Yard in the police car dispatched to collect him. It took him the whole journey to come fully awake. He expected the superintendent to be there before him but had not counted on Chatfield being quite so animated at that time of the morning. Almost as soon as he entered the building, Marmion was pounced on.

‘He’s struck again,’ announced Chatfield.

‘Who are you talking about, sir?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘The driver gave me no details.’

‘The man who killed Cyril Ablatt has a second victim.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s because the modus operandi is identical in both cases. He lurks in a dark lane in Shoreditch and uses a blunt instrument to smash someone’s head in. Amongst the things found on the victim was a leaflet advertising that fateful meeting of the NCF. In short, he’s Ablatt by another name. My first impulse was right,’ said Chatfield with a self-congratulatory smile. ‘The man we’re after has a grudge against conchies.’

‘It seems to me that you’re making hasty assumptions,’ said Marmion.

‘There’s too much similarity for it to be a coincidence, Inspector.’

‘Perhaps you’d let me make up my own mind about that.’

On the walk to his office, the superintendent gave him the relevant facts. A man in his late twenties was attacked in a dark lane the previous night. Before he could kill his victim, the attacker was interrupted and ran off. Help was summoned and the wounded man was rushed to hospital. He’d sustained serious head injuries and was in a coma but he was still alive. His condition was described as critical. From information in his wallet, he was identified as the Reverend James Howells, a curate at St Leonard’s in Shoreditch High Street. A letter from his father, found in his pocket, showed that his family lived in York. Chatfield had rung the police station in the city and asked them to inform Mr and Mrs Howells that their son was in hospital as the result of a murderous attack. The superintendent had also sent word to the vicar of St Leonard’s.

‘It all fits together,’ he said, almost gleefully.

‘I don’t find a violent attack a subject for celebration, sir.’

‘We’ll catch him this time. The victim has survived.’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion, guardedly, ‘but we don’t know how much he’ll remember if and when he recovers consciousness. If there’s been excessive brain damage, he may be able to tell us nothing at all. And even if he makes a good recovery, he may have no idea who tried to kill him.’

‘He must have. I’m counting on it.’

‘Then there’s a question of motive, sir. Just because he had that NCF leaflet in his pocket, it doesn’t mean that he supports their cause.’

‘There’s no other conceivable reason why he should have it.’

‘I can think of one,’ said Marmion. ‘He wanted to use it as the basis of a sermon. That’s what the vicar of our church did. He stood in the pulpit a couple of Sundays ago and denounced those who refused to take part in what he called a holy crusade against the Germans. The Reverend Howells may be of the same view.’

‘That’s nonsense.’

‘You’re resorting to guesswork, Superintendent.’

‘The facts speak for themselves.’

‘Well, they don’t convince me,’ said Marmion, as they turned into the office. ‘The two incidents could be entirely unrelated.’

‘But the second is a mirror image of the first.’

‘I dispute that, sir. What we have now is an ambush in a dark lane. Whereas, in the first instance, we had someone killed elsewhere then dumped during the night. That’s a critical difference.’

‘You may be forced to eat your words, Inspector.’

‘Then I’ll do so in all humility — but only if I get concrete proof.’

Chatfield was peevish. He hated it when anyone challenged his theories. He had a particular aversion to being contradicted by Marmion. Walking around his desk, he lowered himself into his chair.

‘Do you recall the visit you made to Ablatt’s father?’ he asked.

‘I recall it very well, sir.’

‘He talked about his son’s passion for religion and you saw all those books about Christianity in his room. It was in the first report you gave me.’

‘I tried to be as comprehensive as possible.’

‘Did you ever ask which church Ablatt and his father attended?’

‘No, sir, I didn’t. Sergeant Keedy and I just let Mr Ablatt talk.’

‘Take a look at a map of Shoreditch, Inspector. The most likely church would have been the closest to the house. Do you agree?’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘That would be logical.’

‘Then he was a member of the congregation at St Leonard’s,’ said Chatfield with the deep satisfaction of someone who’d just made a decisive point in a debate. ‘It therefore follows that Ablatt must have known the curate very well. My feeling is that they were birds of a feather.’ He bared his teeth at Marmion. ‘Do you still think there’s no connection between the two crimes?’

Ellen was thrilled to see her daughter for the second time in a week. She liked to think that Alice had come specifically to see her, even though her daughter went straight upstairs to her bedroom to retrieve various items she needed. Alice didn’t even have time for a cup of tea. She bundled the things into a bag.

‘Have you ever thought about having a lodger?’ she asked.

‘I feel as if I already have one, Alice — it’s your father.’

‘I’m serious. We’re always looking for accommodation for refugees. Most of them come with families or friends but we do get the occasional person on their own. All they want is a roof over their head.’

Ellen was upset. ‘I’d never let anyone have your room.’

‘But I don’t need it any more.’

‘You may want it back one day when the war is over.’

‘No,’ said Alice, firmly. ‘I’ve moved out for good, Mummy. That’s no reflection on you and Daddy. I loved it when I lived at home. But everything has changed now and you’ll have to get used to it.’

‘It’s too early to be so certain about that.’

‘I don’t think so.’

Ellen refused to accept the inevitable. She still nurtured the hope that her daughter would, in time, begin to yearn for the comforts of home and return to live in the family house. She put a maternal hand on Alice’s shoulder.

‘Let’s talk about it properly when you’re not in such a rush.’

‘There’s no point. My mind is made up.’

‘Where will you live after the war?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll find somewhere. For the moment, I’m happy enough with the place I’ve got, even though the landlady is very strict. However,’ she said with a laugh, ‘I’m much better off than Vera. Her landlady is a real dragon.’ She gave her mother a peck on the cheek. ‘I must be off. Goodbye.’

Ellen eyed her shrewdly. ‘Has something happened, Alice?’

‘The war has happened. Our lives can never be the same again.’

‘I didn’t mean that,’ said her mother. ‘Ever since you’ve been in the house, you’ve been smiling to yourself as if you have some sort of secret. It reminds me of the time when you were at school and had your first boyfriend. You came home with a grin on your face but you wouldn’t tell us why.’