‘You’re making all this up!’ sneered Waldron.

‘I’m just trying to work out if there’s something you’re actually capable of, you see; something simple you could be paid to do. No matter how minor it might be, of course, it would make you an accessory and you know what the penalty would be.’

Waldron attempted bravado. ‘You don’t scare me, Inspector.’

‘I’ll leave it to the public executioner to do that.’

The gravedigger stumbled slightly as if he’d just been hit by something. His bluster vanished. He was in police custody and they were determined to make him face serious charges. There’d be no fine to pay this time, nor even a short sentence. The shadow of the noose had suddenly fallen upon him.

‘I want to be alone,’ he said, sitting down again.

‘Very well,’ said Marmion, ‘but I’ll be back.’

‘Don’t hurry. I got thinking to do.’

Maud Crowther went from one extreme to another. When she found the flowers on her doorstep, she was touched. The bouquet was both an apology and a romantic gesture. Having put them in a vase, she kept looking at them every time she came into the living room. She’d decided that she’d been too hard on Waldron. Perhaps he deserved a second chance, after all. Joe Keedy then arrived at the house. Invited in, he told her that the man who had tried to woo her with a bunch of flowers was now in police custody and was suspected of having some involvement in the murder of Cyril Ablatt. In the short term, he was being detained on lesser charges. If she was expecting to see him, she would be disappointed.

Her revived affection for Waldron changed in a flash to hatred. He’d promised her that he’d put his criminal past behind him. Thanks to her, he’d solemnly sworn, he’d turned over a new leaf. For a time, Maud had believed him but Keedy’s visit splintered her illusions. When she gazed at the flowers now, it was not with a fond smile. Seen in the cold light of reality, they looked as if they’d been stolen from a grave in the cemetery. They’d be much more appropriate there. Waldron had cheated her. His romantic gesture was nothing more than an act of theft. She grabbed the flowers, yanked them out of the vase and thrust them at Keedy.

‘Give these back to him,’ she said, tartly, ‘and tell him that I never want to lay eyes on that ugly face of his.’

‘I need to ask you about some bloodstains on his trousers, Mrs Crowther.’

One glance at her told Keedy that the question was redundant. Horrie Waldron was no longer part of her life and she refused to have anything more to do with him. It was pointless to stay. Keedy thought it unlikely that she’d know anything about the bloodstains. Waldron had been compelled to wear a suit whenever he called on her. She set standards. He lived up to them for a while. But it was all over. Maud Crowther didn’t wish to be linked with a criminal in any way. Their romance had crumbled into oblivion. How it had actually begun in the first place, Keedy could only guess. It still seemed bizarre to him. As he left the house, he took away more than a bunch of dripping flowers. He knew for certain that Horrie Waldron had no claim whatsoever on Maud now. It was something he could use to apply pressure on the prisoner.

From her point of view, Keedy saw, there was an element of relief in the decisive break from Waldron. Their secret meetings would no longer be in danger of discovery. While Maud would regret ever getting involved with him, she would have the satisfaction of knowing that they’d never be caught together now. It prompted Keedy to think of his friendship with Alice Marmion. That, too, was fraught with danger. If it ever came to light, her father would be deeply hurt. It might severely damage Keedy’s professional relationship with him. Yet that situation could not continue indefinitely. He and Alice would reach a point where they either decided to go their separate ways or were ready to make a proper commitment to each other. If the latter were the case, they would have to be honest with her parents.

Keedy reflected on his personal problems all the way to the Weavers Arms. It was not yet open for business but Stan Crowther was outside on the pavement, supervising the men who were unloading a delivery of beer from their dray. The landlord gave Keedy a cheerful welcome and took him inside the pub.

‘Before you arrest me for selling watered beer,’ he said with a grin, ‘I’m in the same boat as every other publican. It’s a wartime necessity.’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘it’s one more reason to hate the Germans.’

‘Have you found out who the killer is yet?’

‘No, but we’ve made an arrest. Horrie Waldron is in custody.’

Crowther gasped. ‘You’re not charging him with the murder, are you?’

‘He’s being held on lesser charges at the moment. Waldron was arrested because we found bloodstains on his trousers that we believe he was wearing on the night of the murder. In fact,’ said Keedy, ‘that’s what I wanted to ask you about. You told me that Waldron was away for a couple of hours that night and that he came back looking much cleaner than usual.’

‘Ha! That wouldn’t be difficult.’

‘Did you, by any chance, notice any blood on him?’

‘The pub was full, Sergeant. I didn’t look at Horrie’s trousers.’

‘But he was wearing the same clothes he had on when he left?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied Crowther. ‘It’s more or less all he has. I don’t think he’s got a tailor in Savile Row somehow.’ His chortle was replaced by a frown. ‘But I don’t reckon that he’s your killer, I really don’t.’

‘Can you suggest any other way he got that blood on his trousers?’

An innocent question brought a look of guilt into Crowther’s eyes. He took a step backwards and licked his lips before mumbling an answer.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t.’

Claude Chatfield was interested to hear of the latest interview with Waldron but disappointed that it had yielded no definite result. He was desperate to have some positive news to release to the press. Marmion cautioned against an announcement that they had a murder suspect in custody. They needed much more proof that Waldron was involved in some way. Keedy had been sent off in search of it.

‘We need a breakthrough,’ said Chatfield, impatiently.

‘It’s bound to come in due course, Superintendent.’

‘I still think there’s a connection between the two crimes. I know that you don’t believe that, but there’s a similarity that can’t be ignored.’

‘I beg to differ,’ said Marmion. ‘And even if they are linked, Waldron is certainly not a common factor. He may be implicated in the murder but he has no reason to attack Father Howells. I doubt if Waldron’s ever been inside St Leonard’s church. Besides,’ he continued, ‘witnesses who saw the attacker run away from that lane say that he was moving at some speed. That rules out our gravedigger. He’s not fast enough. When he tried to outrun Sergeant Keedy at the cemetery, he was soon overhauled.’

‘What about your other suspect?’

‘Eric Fussell can be linked to both victims, sir.’

‘How did his name get into the curate’s address book?’

‘He declined to answer that.’

‘Do you think that he could run fast?’

‘He’d certainly outpace Waldron,’ said Marmion, ‘though I didn’t take him for a natural athlete. Also, of course, he’s a very careful man. He’d never take the risk of attacking someone at a time when he might be interrupted. And why would he be out late at night? According to Fussell, he and his wife prefer quiet evenings at home.’

‘Did you believe him when he told you that?’

‘Frankly, I treat everything he tells me with suspicion.’

Chatfield nodded and looked down at some notes about the librarian. The two men were in his office and the morning’s newspapers stood in a pile on his desk, each one open at the page on which the superintendent was mentioned by name. After he’d read through the information that Marmion had provided him, he looked up.